Chewing the opium

The Commissioner of Police drove the sleekest, lowest, longest BMW you have ever seen. You could have put a card table in the back. It was gorgeous, black, with tinted glass. And Sir Richard Rees-Edwards, ‘Greasy Dick’, had it all to himself. He didn’t even have a chauffeur. At least, he did, but no way was the guy going to get to drive this beast.

“Sir Richard.” Jake accosted him as the Commissioner walked towards his car, glimmering in the wet night, a black-on-black reflection against slick tarmac. “We’ve got a bit of a disaster. Can you help? Please?”

Sir Richard looked at his watch; he could see Jake was trembling. “What’s the matter, son?”

In spite of being scared and distracted, Jake noted how well groomed the Commissioner was in a tailored camel-hair jacket and silk tie. Jake also couldn’t help but notice that the Commissioner had the most incredibly hairy ears. They had been shaved, but not for a day or two and the black stubble was growing right into the ear cavities.

 “It’s the hospital Emergency downstairs. My wife’s had a terrible accident . . . and these . . .”

“These?”

“People . . . these people dressed as . . . as clowns with plastic machine guns . . . they arrived in an ambulance and held the place up?”

“Plastic machine guns?”

“And huge frogs’ hands.”

“Listen, mate, I don’t what the fuck you’re on, but I don’t have time for this . . .”

“It’s true.” Jake pointed down to the hospital Emergency on the other side of the road. Sure enough, there were four guys dressed in clown and monster outfits standing at the desk, pointing guns at a group of patients, including one woman who was lying across several seats and in obvious distress.

“Jesus Christ,” said Sir Richard. He placed his antelope-hide brief-case on the ground and craned his neck forward to see better. “What the hell do you suppose they’re playing at?”

“Can’t you do something, Sir Richard?” Jake was panting in desperation.

The Commissioner studied Jake for a moment. “Don’t I recognise you?”

“Er . . . possibly.”

A smile formed on Sir Richard’s mouth. “Wasn’t it your lovely. . . ?” 

“That’s her down there.” Jake pointed.

Sir Richard craned his neck again. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Do something. Please.”

Sir Richard reached for his phone. He speed-dialled a number and spoke : “Brian, Dickie. Listen, do me a favour and get a couple of guys over to the Emergency at the hospital opposite Police Headquarters. There’s a bunch of goons . . .  what? What do you mean, not again? . . . are you serious . . . you’ve gotta do something.”

Sir Richard suddenly pulled the phone away from his ear.

“What?” said Jake.

“Hung up on me, the bastard. Said the goons come here regularly. Can’t be bothered with them any more.”

“That’s . . . that’s preposterous.”

“What was your wife’s name again?”

“Excuse me?”

The Commissioner of Police produced a diary in the shape of a chequebook and, using his brief-case as a writing surface, began making a lengthy entry. Jake looked over his shoulder to see what he was writing. His pen was a narrow, elegant ball-point in lapis lazuli with gold edging and he wrote in a neat hand, joining all his letters and giving a generous loop to his ‘g’s and ‘l’s.

“Clarissa, or something wasn’t it?”

“Clare.”

“That’s it.”

Jake was both stupefied and panicked. He shouted in the Commissioner’s ear, “Do something, for God’s sake.”

“Look, mate, I’m the Police Commissioner, not some dumb-shit sergeant with truncheon and a pair of hand-cuffs.”

“But what about my wife?”

“Clare. I remember. Lovely girl.”

“You cannot be serious.”

Sir Richard opened his car door. “Give the goons a minute. They’ll get bored and piss off.” He placed his briefcase carefully on the passenger seat, settled himself comfortably behind the wheel of his BMW and, with nothing more than the sound of wet tyres, the sleek creature insinuated itself into the sparkling darkness of the city night.