The Beast

©Copyright Keith Wright 2022

 

 

Six police officers were working nights, with one having reported sick earlier in the day, and they sat around a large table in the parade room listening attentively to Sergeant Grosvenor's briefing before they headed out into the unknown. Two policewomen and four men were in various stages of dress, some with ties off, others with jackets on the backs of chairs, fixing belts around them with all their gear, and clipping radios onto their apparel. All were under the age of thirty-five apart from the Sarge and old Frank Walker, who had been there that long was seen as something of an old sweat. He always saw the negative; he had become jaded over the years. The big sin.

Thankfully, Sergeant Lee Grosvenor had not succumbed, so he was pretty open-minded about how the community should be policed. Working nights were always special in the police; no matter how long you served, there was always an edge. Anything could and would happen in the early hours; it was a different environment, and an air of danger was palpable during every call they were dispatched to attend. Paradoxically, the tiring night shift had a sprinkle of energy that slowly fell invisibly on those with a badge working the streets. It gave a buzz to everything they did. Perhaps it was the cloak of darkness, or maybe it was the buds of fear that tickled the pit of the stomach. Nights were a crazy time and overlaid with danger hiding behind the unknown.

Sergeant Grosvenor read from a clump of A4 papers using his gold-rimmed spectacles, which he would periodically look over the top of, to address his team and subliminally check their attentiveness. He was old-school and preferred printing documents rather than reading straight from a screen. Old habits die hard.

'He's struck again, by the way.' Sarge said, removing his glasses, anticipating a reaction from the shift.

'You're kidding?' PC 1842 Eddie Taylor was a former marine and still bore the tightly cropped crew-cut hairstyle and tattoos on his forearms, which he was self-conscious about, as they were not exactly works of art.

'The Beast lives. I'm surprised the press hasn't picked up on it yet.' Frank said.

'They will, don't worry about that. It's only a matter of time before we read about "the Beast" in the local rag, and then, no doubt, the Nationals.' Sergeant Grosvenor said.

'Is it the same description?' Eddie asked.

'Surely not.' Wendy Brazier shook her head. 'It doesn't make sense.'

'It is indeed a similar description to the others, believe it or not.' Sarge said. 'A wild man with a blackened face, no eyes, sharp teeth like talons, and devil bumps or small horns on his head.'

'This is getting beyond a joke.' Eddie said. 'No bloody eyes. I don't get it.'

'I guess they just haven't seen the whites of his eyes, I don't know.' Sergeant Grosvenor said.

'It scares the bejesus out of me.' Wendy said.

'It must be someone dressing up.' Frank observed. 'It's some nut job, early for Halloween.'

'Was it a robbery again?' Eddie asked.

'Yes, he stole a watch and cash, as usual.' Sarge confirmed. 'And even though they were handed over with no trouble, he punched the living crap out of the victim unnecessarily. Broken nose and fractured orbit area of the skull. You know, the eye socket. It is a nasty one. I think CID has finally been alerted to the series. He's gaining mythological status out on the streets.'

'Why? Why do all that damage? It's as if the theft is incidental, and it is the assault that he does it for. It must be anger, or he's some sadistic bleeder.' Eddie observed.

'There's one thing: he will be able to tell you the time. He must have half a dozen watches by now.' Frank shrugged out a laugh.

'Eight, actually.' Sarge said. 'Last night's attack makes it eight robberies with violence in total.'

'Where was this one then, Sarge?' Wendy asked nervously, chewing on her pen top. The whole thing unnerved her.

'Hang on, don't tell us, Sarge. Let me see if I can tell you.' Eddie said.

'He needs to get his crystal ball out.' Frank laughed.

'I've been on that course, haven't I?' Eddie said.

'What, the Sherlock Holmes course for beginners.' Frank said, and they all laughed.

'No, the Crime Pattern Analysis course. Crime mapping, if you like.' Eddie said.

'It's all mumbo-jumbo to me.' Frank shrugged.

'The FBI uses it. Anyway, it's better than nothing, isn't it?'

'Attention everyone, Eddie, is now a Special Agent in the FBI.' Frank said lamely. An observer might deduce that Frank was a little jealous of Eddie, perhaps seeing shadows of what he once was, inadvertently mocking what he had now become.

'Hang on, Frank, let's hear him out.' Sarge didn't like a negative approach to things. New ideas stopped the team from going stale, so long as they weren't too outlandish, he was happy to encourage them.

'Well, I've inputted the offences so far, and if I'm right, he would have done the next one somewhere near the Butlers Hill area? Am I right? Sarge. Is that where it happened?'

'Wow. Bloody hell, give this man a medal.' Sergeant Grosvenor said.

'I knew it! Where was it, then?'

'Goodall Crescent. Butlers Hill, as you said.'

'Yes! He shoots, he scores.' Eddie punched the air.

'More importantly, where might he strike tonight, Eddie?' The Sarge asked. Those present exchanged glances as Eddie tapped into the laptop.

'If I'm right, it will be between midnight and 3.30 am somewhere on Ruffs Estate. Watnall Road end.'

'Good luck finding someone with a watch there. They haven't learned to tell the time yet.' Frank said.

'Okay.' Sarge looked thoughtful.

Eddie was not backwards at coming forward. 'Why don't you pair me and Callum up just before twelve, and we can set up on the estate. If it's quiet, I appreciate if it's bedlam; we can't do it, but it's worth a pop, Sarge. Or have CID got something planned?'

'Not as far as I am aware, Eddie. It will be after the pubs have closed, so, okay, do it. Cover the High Street first and then make your way up to the estate. I might come up and join you if I am free.'

***

So it was that at 1.30 am, PC Eddie Taylor was plotted up on Laughton Crescent, and his colleague, Callum, was on Knoll Avenue on the south side of Ruffs Estate. The estate was well known to the police and always had pockets of activity at all hours of the day and night, so it was easier for them to blend in, particularly as they had changed into casual civilian clothing. Eddie was sitting in his car with the windows down and listening to the sounds of the night, occasionally chuffing on a roll-up. With a backdrop of cars intermittently whooshing along the main road behind him, he heard two domestic disputes with men and women effing and jeffing after a night on the ale, one inexplicably loud bang, the sound of a garage door either opening or closing and the screeching of tyres somewhere apparently off the estate. He also heard the white noise from the earpiece inserted deep into his left ear, which would soon herald the news he had hoped for. There was no sign of the Sarge as yet.

'Standby, Standby.' Callum said, and Eddie sat up in his seat, suddenly alert. He could tell by the whispery voice that something of interest was happening.

'What is it, Cal?' Eddie tried to control the surge of adrenaline that was coursing through his veins.

'Male person all in black. I saw him briefly around the back of one of the houses on Knoll. He should be heading up your way, Eddie.'

'Ten-Four.'

'I'll come up to you, Eddie.'

'Yes, yes.'

Eddie heard the offender before seeing him - coming through the gardens, hedge jumping at quite a pace; maybe he knew he had been seen? As he cleared the final hedge on Laughton Crescent, Eddie took him out with a tackle from behind. Despite Eddie having the advantage of surprise, the suspect was a handful and momentarily got the edge on Eddie when he saw what it was he was fighting with. Eddie recoiled as he saw, as everyone had described, a thing with a black face, black eyes, and some rounded lumps on the hairless, shiny black scalp. His teeth were sharp and pointed, and it was only by a whisker that they did not sink into Eddie's wrist as the entity snarled and thrashed around. Thankfully, a puffing and panting Callum joined him and grabbed an arm, and for a moment, they had the upper hand, but they were losing their grip. He was incredibly strong, and the two feared losing him. He countered everything they tried, and what should have been the simple task of getting the handcuffs on was proving extremely difficult. He used moves that implied a knowledge of martial arts and evaded every attempt to lock him up in a hold.

'Stop resisting!' Eddie shouted breathlessly.

All he got in return were the grunts of effort as he wriggled and pulled and thrashed away from the click of the handcuffs.

Unbeknown to the two officers, Sergeant Grosvenor had booked out two radios and had been monitoring their radio communications on a separate channel, and out of nowhere, his heavy bulk landed on the offender, and finally, the three of them were able to get the handcuffs on to the suspect after they got him face down. The Sarge rammed the offender's grotesque visage into the concrete pavement.

Eddie turned the robber over, and in the yellow light of an ageing lampost, he could make out a heavily tattooed face, with barely any skin showing, eyeballs tattooed black, and teeth filed to a point. What the large bumps were was a mystery; some inserts under the skin, he surmised.

'Get the hell off me.' He growled.

'The beast speaks.' Eddie said.

'I ain't no beast.'

'Well, my friend, you put up a pretty good impersonation of one, and by the way, you are nicked. As well as being weird as hell.'

'What for?'

'You know what for. Eight robberies in the Hucknall area. You made it easy by making yourself the most recognisable man in all of bleeding Christendom.'

The two conveyed the handcuffed prisoner to the local nick, and Sarge followed in his car. As soon as they booked him in he asked for a phone call. There was someone he needed to speak to urgently. A solicitor? No. Someone from his dim and distant past whom he had to call if he was ever in a dire emergency.

***

The ginger-haired Callum used the suspect's keys to twist the Yale lock of 23 Nabbs Lane. It was a search to look for property or evidence relating to the offence for which 'the beast' was arrested. The animalistic suspect was ensconced in a cell back at the station. Callum was in his tabard and scruffy jeans, and Eddie in a Beanie hat and puffa jacket.

Furnishings were sparse, and it was apparent that the occupant lived alone. There were just the basics: television, battered settee, chair, and a coffee table with all sorts of trinkets on top of it. A pizza box lay on the kitchen work surface next to a clump of watches and a couple of necklaces.

'Bullseye!' Callum said as Eddie hurried to join him in the kitchen.

'He's had it.' Eddie said on seeing the treasure.

'Yep.'

The two officers high-fived. It was a good result, and the CID would be happy chappies. The Beast would be caged at last.

They carefully put the stolen gear into a brown paper evidence bag and continued the search in case further evidence was hidden elsewhere on the premises. A wooden picture frame was face down on a sideboard in the living room. It was a double frame with hinges in the centre, somewhat styled like a book. Eddie gasped as he lifted it. On one side was a picture of a handsome young special forces soldier on parade. On the other side was a hideously burned face of the same chap still in uniform being given some sort of medal. The disfigurement of the poor chap was life-changing. His nose and ears were burned off, and his skin was mottled and discoloured with hardened sinew evident in places where the skin had gone. He seemed to have no hair under the black special forces beret.

'Oh, my God. The poor bastard.' Fell out of Eddie's mouth.

'Shit!' Callum said as his eyes fell upon the sobering images.

'This bloke…this low-life robber has suddenly gone from zero to hero. Jeez.' Eddie shook his head.

A man appeared in the doorway. 'More of a hero than you might imagine, officer. At least, I suppose you are police officers and not burglars.'

Eddie turned around and saw an exquisitely smart soldier in uniform. He was top brass by the looks of him.

'Colonel George Jackson.' He offered a hand and stepped over the threshold into the small living room.

Eddie suddenly felt hot and shook the senior army officer's hand, 'Sir.' Followed by Callum, who also did a little bow simultaneously. He didn't know why; it just seemed like the natural thing to do. The man had an enormous presence. A military bearing, and there was more scrambled egg on the man's peaked cap than Callum had for breakfast.

'I didn't catch the name?' The colonel asked.

'I'm PC Eddie Taylor, and this is Callum Green, sir.'

'Pleased to meet you, chaps. Chaz is the guy's name. He rang me from the cell block, hence my appearance here. I probably owe you an explanation.'

They sat down, Callum on the armchair and Eddie beside the colonel on the settee.

'Chaz was a member of special forces, 23 SAS Regiment.'

'I failed the test, sir.' Eddie said. 'I'm ex-Navy, sir, Royal Marine Commando.'

'Good man! I thought you had a good bearing to you, soldier.' Colonel Jackson said, smiling.

Surprisingly, Eddie suddenly felt emotional. To hear himself being called soldier again took him by surprise. 'Glad to see you take up another honourable position as a police officer.' The colonel added.

'Thank you, sir.'

'Listen, I won't keep you, gentlemen, but I am responsible for Chaz. I'm his guardian angel if you like. I've been fearing this sort of thing for a while now.'

'What happened to him, sir, are you allowed to say?' Eddie asked.

'Not only am I allowed to say, but it is imperative you know exactly what happened to him. Afghanistan 2009, Helmand Province, Lashkar Gar, an upturned burning squaddie bus. Chaz saw the deadly predicament the men were in, saved three soldiers and lost his soul.'

'Damn.' Callum winced.

'Quite. After his sad discharge from the army and the initial visits from colleagues, things went quiet for a couple of years, but when an old mucker called on him, he was horrified to see what had happened.'

'What?'

'As you can see from the photo, the poor young man had lost his nose and ears in the fire and – well, you've seen the picture, his face never grew the skin back; it is just hardened tissue, stiffened discoloured sinew. He never showed up for his graft appointments, and nobody asked why. So what do you do with that appearance? I'll tell you. At least I'll tell you what Chaz did. You don't leave the house in broad daylight and you buy a big motorbike so you can hide behind a full-faced helmet.'

Eddie nodded along. It was all starting to make sense.

'Then you get in with some bikers, Hells Angels, and you realise there is a way to mask your frightening appearance.' Colonel Jackson said.

'How?' Eddie asked.

'In Chaz's case, he chose to make himself even more horrific, this time on purpose and on his terms. It was his way of regaining control, I would imagine. He filed his teeth, had the whites of his eyes tattooed, and had some lumps put on his scalp; well, you've seen him. He became 'the Beast,' as you described him. He told me on the phone from the cell block that it was what you called him. It hurt him.'

'Sorry, sir, that was me. I didn't know. I would never have said that if -.' Eddie said, feeling ashamed.

'I know. The point is the whole experience and, latterly his dysmorphia has taken a toll on the man's mental health, and I fear he needs sectioning under the Mental Health Act. It saddens me to say it. But he has become feral, and in altering his appearance, he seems to have lost all sense of who the real Chaz is or was. It is tragic.'

'That is awful. I really can't imagine what the guy has gone through.'

'No one can.' The colonel said.

Eddie sighed. 'The decision to put him up for sectioning is above our pay grade, I'm afraid, sir. You will probably need to talk to one of the bosses in CID. He's done some serious damage to people. Grievous bodily harm charges are on the cards, and he's lucky he hasn't killed someone. He's facing quite a bit of prison time.'

'Prison will kill him. He won't make it. He will kill and eventually be killed, I would strongly suggest. He won't come out alive.' The colonel appeared thoughtful. 'I would like to see him, Eddie, if I may. Tonight.'

'Sure, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I can't see a problem with it.'

***

The colonel hadn't smoked a cigar for over three years, but he was in the solicitor's interview room in a police station in the middle of nowhere, lighting up a fat one. He had insisted on the solicitor's consultation room as he knew Chaz would not talk if CCTV cameras were in the room. The door opened, and the young constable, Eddie, stepped inside. He had changed back into his police uniform. 'Hello, sir. Are you ready for me to bring Chaz in?'

'Yes, at your convenience, of course.' The colonel smiled graciously.

'Do you want a drink? Tea, coffee?' Eddie asked.

'No, thank you.'

'I'll get him, then.' Eddie seemed slightly hesitant and paused at the door. He turned. 'Sir?'

'Yes.'

'I've been having a chat with him, Chaz, I mean, and exchanging a few stories, swinging the lantern, you know. And I wanted to apologise to him.'

'Excellent. He would like that, I'm sure.'

'Yes, but -'

'But, what?'

'As I came away he said he wanted pasta tonight.'

'Did he?'

'Yes, I'm a bit concerned.'

The colonel seemed thoughtful for a moment and nodded to himself. 'No need. It's fine, bring him in, and thank you for the heads up.'

Both soldiers knew what the reference to pasta tonight meant without alluding to the coded message. Chaz had given a fellow veteran, someone he thought might help him complete his task, a warning of his intention. Maybe he would look the other way?

After a few clunks and clanks of a cell door and some inaudible muttering, there was another knock at the interview room door.

'Hello?' The colonel shouted in response.

For the first time, 'the beast' smiled as he saw Colonel Jackson, and he shook his hand warmly. This turned into a sort of fist-clenching embrace between the two strong men.

Eddie was smiling, too. 'Are we okay to be left on our own, Eddie?' The colonel asked.

'Are you sure, sir? I mean, remember -'

'I'm sure. I would much prefer it, to be honest. If you don't mind.'

'Um. Yes. I don't see why not. You would if you were a solicitor; it was just that other thing, but are you okay with it?'

'I am, thanks.'

'Okay, well, I will be at the custody desk. Give me a shout when you've done, sir.'

'No problem at all.'

Eddie closed the door behind him, and Chaz sat opposite the colonel.

'Sixty-eight regular steps and note-shoes left outside cell doors, which could be a hazard, sir.'

The colonel smiled. 'Sixty-eight steps to the custody desk?'

'Yep. Five seconds to get from there to here. It could be six, no more, though.'

'Old habits die hard, eh, Chaz?'

'I guess so, sir. Thanks for coming. I'm sorry about my appearance, but I got a bit lost. I guess I look a bit different nowadays.'

'A bit?' They laughed. 'You look beautiful to me.' The colonel said. He tapped at the desk. 'I've been trying to see you for months, Chaz.'

  'No need. I'm fine.'

'Are you, though?'

'Can you get me out now or have I got to wait for court in the morning?' Chaz asked expectantly.

The colonel noticed that Chaz's demeanour had changed slightly since he last saw him. Chaz kept gritting his teeth together and growling for a second or so. It was like a habit or a Tourette's type of thing. No wonder they called him the Beast. It was unsettling, that was for sure.

The colonel took a long breath and wrung his hands as he rested his elbows on the desk. 'This is a tricky one because of the violence, Chaz. You've gone a bit far this time, champ.'

'I just didn't piss about, in and out, you know the drill boss.'

'Yes, but soldier, you are a highly trained killer. And they say the violence was mostly unnecessary. Is that right? Because, you know, that's not cool.'

'I hardly touched them, sir. Why, what's up with them?'

'Some nasty ones, I'm afraid; broken skulls, all sorts.'

'Oops.'

'Yes. Oops.'

'How have you been coping?' The colonel asked. 'Or is that a stupid question?'

'Shit.'

'I thought so. Sorry to hear that, Chaz.'

'It's like having a bleeding great spider crawling over your face that you can't shake off. It sends you fucking mental. I can't stand my appearance, so I just avoid mirrors.'

'It can't be great seeing how you look now, but I suppose much of it is by design. I mean, it kinda works for a freakish biker persona.'

'It's not that I can see myself now, sir, when I look in a mirror, that's not the problem. It's that I see myself before it happened; it's in my mind. I know it plays tricks on you, and it's weird. Anyway, It's easier to avoid mirrors. It's a bit of a blow to see my old self, you know.' Chaz sneered and gritted his pointed teeth, growling again. The colonel didn't react.

'I see. That never crossed my mind. Not easy, I wouldn't imagine.'

'Why would it be? We signed on the dotted line, so tough shit for me, I guess. It's just the curse of – you know, back then.'

'Indeed. Have any of the lads been in touch?' The colonel asked.

'Yeah, they've been great.'

'Really?'

'Yeah. Only one of them hasn't been so great.'

'You surprise me, who's that?'

'Me. I've not been great, I'm afraid. I've pushed most of them away. Kicked off or acted up in some way. Not turned up. All that shit, you know. I don't know why. Maybe I don't want to be a burden.' Chaz did the growling thing again.

'They don't see you as a bloody burden, man. Nor do any of us.' The colonel said.

'It's okay. I appreciate their support, but I prefer to be on my own. Even the bikers steer clear mostly nowadays. I may go on a ride once a month if I'm in the mood. Mostly, I'm not.'

'What are we going to do with you, Chaz?'

'It's too late for me. I'm the worst thing a human can be in society – a casualty of war.'

'A hero, more like, and don't forget it.'

'Thanks, but that doesn't stop Mum's tears of horror every time she sees me, does it?'

'I spoke to her last week. She rang me. She is worried about you.'

'She always was. It's what Mum's do. You know what she is like.'

'She cares, Chaz.'

'It's better this way.'

'Chaz-'

'Anyway, enough of all that, did you say you can't sort this one for me?'

'I don't think I can this time.'

Chaz clasped his hands and rested his pursed lips against them. He looked thoughtful, and tears seemed to draw to his eyes. 'I don't suppose I can have pasta tonight?'

'Now, come on, Chaz. None of that talk.'

'We both know if I go to prison even for six months, I will never come out again. So what's the point?'

'But pasta?' Both men knew the hidden meaning of the phrase.

'For the Regiment as well as me, sir. Death before dishonour and all that.'

'That's the Marines, not the boys from Hereford, you know that. Theirs is "who dares wins."'

'Yeah, well. I dared, and I lost. And as for the pasta, I dare if you dare.'

'You're a big boy, Chaz. I can't tell you what to do. We both know how it works.'

'Will you do it, sir? I promised mum I wouldn't, that's the problem.'

'Chaz-'

'I wouldn't ask normally, but for old time's sake. For- well, you know what for.'

'Chaz.' The colonel sighed, grimacing at the dichotomy facing him.

'You want me to beg, is that it?'

'Of course not, but-'

'I asked, I can't do anymore. You refused. Okay.' He shrugged.

'That's not fair.'

'Life's not fair, sir. Funny, I say that a lot.'

The two men stared at one another. There was a deep affection. It was as if they could read each other's minds. Chaz gritted his teeth and growled again. He slammed the table and shouted, 'for Christ's sake!' It was the first time there was any indication that he was aware that he was doing it. The colonel closed his eyes and sighed once more. A surge of emotions swirled within him. The poor man was trapped in a living hell. He didn't deserve this torture.

'You sure, Chaz? Serious?'

'What do you think? I don't say stuff I don't mean, certainly not to you. You're the only one I can ask.'

'Sixty-eight steps, you say?'

'Sixty-eight. Maybe five seconds to get to the room, after the initial shock of a second or two.'

'I should give Mum a call, Chaz.'

'Please don't, sir. She has been through enough. I used to be her little angel; now I'm bleeding satan. Please, sir, honour and all that. I wouldn't ask, but it's my last chance, or I will have to break Mum's promise, and I would hate to do that. Don't make me, sir.'

Chaz's arguments were strong, but there was something else, something only the two of them shared. A special bond. Unspeakable but made of granite. The colonel stood and withdrew his pistol from the shoulder harness under his tunic. 'Stand up, soldier.'

Chaz, 'the Beast' quickly stood.

'Stand at the table's edge as if we were walking out. Look sharp.'

Chaz was quickly set and breathing hard.

'Atten- hut! The Beast complied, standing rigid, his back to the colonel. His sharpened teeth were gritted in a contorted grimace, and the sinews visible in his cheeks rose as they tensed.

  ‘Chaz.’

  ‘I know. Just do it.’

'Thank you for your service, soldier.'

'See you on the other side, bro.'

Tears were rolling down the cheeks of both heroes, and the colonel positioned himself beside the former SAS soldier. He raised his pistol to point at the side of Chaz's head.

'On the count of three.' The colonel said curtly.

'Yes, sir.'

'One, two -' The colonel didn't wait for three; he didn't want flexing to take place and to cause him to bloody miss. As Chaz's body fell to the floor, the colonel immediately dropped to one knee to put the gun in Chaz's hand. He then lay at the side of him, and nine long seconds later, the door burst open, and Eddie gasped as he saw Chaz, now deceased, and the colonel both on the floor, both with a hand on the gun. The colonel was staring up at him, his face fraught with tension.

'Bloody idiot went for my sidearm!' He said.

***

Colonel Jackson knew what to expect. He had run the Military Police for a spell during his fast track to colonel, so he was no stranger to investigative procedures.

His statement to CID detectives took four hours as he explained the intricacies and mechanics of how the prisoner had grabbed his pistol as they embraced. With Eddie corroborating the 'pasta tonight' comment, which was code for suicide, and also seeing the end of the 'struggle' with the colonel on the floor as he burst in, it seemed a tragic accident. The Crown Prosecution Service would deal with it, although the Chief Constable had already been contacted by both the head of MI5 and the Home Secretary. No charges would be pressed; they just needed to go through the motions. The colonel was freed without charge. It was just the end of a tragic set of circumstances. Eddie had been frightened that he would be in trouble for not taking the gun from the colonel, but it had never occurred to him that he might be armed. The colonel told him not to worry. It would all be 'squared off.'

As the two said their farewells in the car park of the police station, they were both dog-tired. Eddie was in his police uniform, complete with helmet.

'Can I ask why it took you nine seconds to get to the room when it should have taken a man like you four or five?' The colonel asked Eddie.

'I didn't think you'd realise. I – um, I guess I'm getting slow in my old age, sir.' Eddie gave a knowing look, and a brief stoic smile flitted across his face.

'Thank you, soldier.'

The colonel opened the door to his Jaguar motor car, and Eddie took hold of it as the senior officer flopped into the driving seat and pulled the seat belt around him.

'Incidentally, sir, I have been looking into Chaz's act of heroism all those years ago.' Eddie said.

'I wouldn't expect any less.'

'I see you knew him quite intimately.'

'I sure did. I was his captain back in the day. And as I'm sure you have figured out, I was one of those poor sods that he single-handedly dragged from that burning bus in Afghanistan. He never flinched despite having to crawl through fire to get to us. He was an extraordinarily brave man. It matters not that it was a long time ago, but I owe him my life.'

'A brave and heroic man, no doubt.' The two paused in momentary thought. 'And the other thing, sir.' Eddie said.

'Other thing?'

'He was your brother, wasn't he? I only realised when I saw his name on the custody record. Chaz Jackson. He was your brother.'

George blew out a gasp of air and looked Eddie square in the eyes. 'Yes, he was my brother, and I was proud of him. I'm going to see Mum now, to break the news.'

'My condolences, sir.'

'Thank you.'

George Jackson gripped the steering wheel and seemed to be overcome with emotion as he remembered those days in a different time when they played in the yard and on the streets. They had nothing, apart from each other's backs and a vow to always be there to help one another when needed.

'Have a safe trip, sir. All the best.' Eddie smiled. The two shared the knowledge as they might a secret bond. They both knew the score and trusted one another's judgment and discretion.

'All the best to you.' The colonel gave him a casual salute, and Eddie smiled and closed the car door. As the car reversed and paused before pulling away, Eddie returned the salute but in a more disciplined way. Swift and smart. It was immaculate, apart from the tears that had appeared from nowhere on the constable’s cheeks.

Eddie felt different somehow as if he had been a part of something bigger. Whatever it was, it felt sad, but more than that, it somehow felt right.