Pounding the beat is a bugger when you are a smoker. In order to maintain your nicotine level, you have to resort to all sorts of subterfuge, particularly on Day Shifts. Now, Night Shift is a different story. There are plenty of places where you can hide up to take the required dosage without risk of being disturbed. On this particular night, I was working the western beat at the bottom of the city, a busy shopping area during the day but a deserted cavern at night. I had done the fronts of my shops, shaking hands with the door handles and poking the beam of my flashlight through the windows. Now it was time to do the backs.
I worked my way slowly up the alley and located a friendly looking garbage can, just about the right height to park my arse on while I devoured a cigarette. I eased down and relaxed; undoing the tight collar of the old-fashioned closed neck tunic we wore on Night Shift. Out came the cigarette case and I lit up. The first drag made me a little giddy, the next restore my equilibrium.
Just then, there was a creak behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see the rear door of an appliance shop opening outwards towards me. A figure emerged backwards, having used his arse to push the door open. I saw the reason why as he emerged. The cheeky sod was clutching a television set.
I waited until he had fully exited and the door had swung back to the wall. Then he turned, and we were face to face, looking at each other over the television set.
"Oh fuck," he said in a resigned tone, "I guess I'm nicked."
Taking full advantage of the situation, I gave him the full works, "You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you say will be given in evidence." It's not too often you get to give 'em the caution as specified by the Judge's Rules, as you are usually engaged in a scrap, sorry, "attempting to subdue" the offender.
"OK squire, turn right and we'll carry this exhibit you have kindly presented me with up to the nick, where formal charges will be laid and you will then be lodged in the cells to await arraignment in the morning. In other words, I've got ya, you prick. March on!"
My prisoner trudged his weary way up the main street, across the Abbey forecourt and up the steps of the station, pausing at the front door. I brushed past him and opened it with a flourish. "Put it on the counter, my man," I ordered. The Station Constable, a grizzled old veteran of many years of Night Shift was behind his desk with his feet in an open drawer, a mug of tea in his hand and a fag drooping from the corner of his mouth.
"Jesus, Taffy, what have yer got 'ere," he said clumping top his feet!
"Well, it's like this, Horace, this gentleman knew you were on duty tonight and was kind enough to volunteer to bring you a tele so that you could watch the soccer game replays."
"That's not bloody funny," my prisoner interjected, "that's why I nicked the set in the first place."
Horace leaned on the counter, pushing his ugly mug into the prisoner's face, "I'll tell you wot, mate, I'll watch the game in 'ere and I'll come and tell you the final score when you are tucked up nicely in your cell."
With my prisoner searched, booked and slammed up in a cell, I was about to leave when a plaintive voice came through the cell portal, "Oy mate, could you ask the copper in the front office to let me know the score when the game's over?"
I threw him a laugh. "I'll tell you what the score is now, mate – six bloody months."
Back in the Front Office, the Station Sergeant had emerged from his usual Two Hour Night Shift Constipation Relief. He looked me up and down and barked, "You've been smoking on your beat, lad. You've got fag ash down the front of your tunic and your top buttons are undone. Get smartened up and back out there. Never mind lurking up the back alleys, get out on the street where real police work is done."
You can't please all of the people all of the time!
