3 SEPTEMBER 2013 – 718 WORDS
CHARACTER:
Greg – The Watcher.
CHARACTER:
Greg – The Watcher.
The Watcher
Greg’s shift began at eight o’clock. For nearly twelve hours the eyes of Nottingham. Nothing will escape his gaze, as he continually scans the thirty-six monitors before him, now in full colour. Authority depends on him.
Three spontaneous fights at twenty-two-ten, a little early, and just two patrols. It’s his call. Not Hockley. He’s enjoying that one. ‘Broadmarsh and Shakespeare fights in progress’ and in moments black and orange uniforms join in. ‘Ambulance to Shakespeare Tesco’ crackles back. Greg repeats the message ‘Ambulance to Shakespeare Tesco’. ‘On our way. ETA two minutes’ comes the reply. Another voice says ‘Copy’. Zooming into Castlegate, Gregg stays a little too long. Twenty-three-fifty-five a dogging in progress. Five watching. A woman down on Friar Lane at its junction with Spaniel Row. An Indigo driver calls ‘I’m not leaving the bus. Assist please’. Every word comes with a premium, especially on Friday and Saturday nights. Two other women stagger into the road and as they try to lift their companion they fall on top of her. Three passing men, then others, join in, and soon there is a growing pile of bodies. Had Greg been wired for sound he would have been deafened by the Indigo’s horn, which brought two constables running from Beastmarket Hill. Soon one of them, her face buried deep into her lapel radio, is shouting ‘Assist Friar Lane Spaniel now. 134’. Gregg knows the code. A man down. Bugger the rest. He turns four cameras onto the scene. What started with a drunk, then became a lark, is ending a tragedy. A man running away, two following, towards Maid Marian Way. Suspects, even though he does not have a clue as to what is really happening. Keep tabs on them at all costs. One orange jacket bent over another, one arm waving would-be helpers away. One leans across and shouts. Greg can see fury on the lips. He’s that close. The constable looks up, pleading it seems, and he makes out the word ‘Help’, then she beckons the man in. He seems to take charge. The pile of bodies fast disappears and a young woman bent double is screaming silently at Greg, into camera NG1FL2. The policewoman pats her downed colleague and leaves him with the helping passer-by and goes to the young woman who started it all. Friar Lane already awash with blue flashing lights and a chorus of sirens, which Greg thinks he can dimly hear in his roof-top eyrie above the City’s Central Police Station. He listens to the calm talk. A woman is dead, a constable stabbed and it’s only a minute to midnight. ‘Still time for more’ thinks Greg, as he takes a sip of his cold coffee. ‘Suspects going into Lenton Road from Castle end’ says Greg in his monotone voice and a reply ‘Read you. ETA one minute’ comes from the police helicopter. He follows the exchanges to their conclusion, adding words of his own as and when he sees the suspects on the all too few cameras in The Park. ‘Suspects onto Park Road. Close off Lenton Road’. Another voice says ‘Harlaxton covered’, then another ‘Turning back to Lenton Road. You have them’. Other voices ebb in and out like lapping waves upon a beach. ‘Confirm we have them’. ‘Copy’. On a Park Road camera Greg watches the three men, now cuffed, as they are bundled into the back of a police van. He logs the time: twenty-four-twelve. That quick.
Three spontaneous fights at twenty-two-ten, a little early, and just two patrols. It’s his call. Not Hockley. He’s enjoying that one. ‘Broadmarsh and Shakespeare fights in progress’ and in moments black and orange uniforms join in. ‘Ambulance to Shakespeare Tesco’ crackles back. Greg repeats the message ‘Ambulance to Shakespeare Tesco’. ‘On our way. ETA two minutes’ comes the reply. Another voice says ‘Copy’. Zooming into Castlegate, Gregg stays a little too long. Twenty-three-fifty-five a dogging in progress. Five watching. A woman down on Friar Lane at its junction with Spaniel Row. An Indigo driver calls ‘I’m not leaving the bus. Assist please’. Every word comes with a premium, especially on Friday and Saturday nights. Two other women stagger into the road and as they try to lift their companion they fall on top of her. Three passing men, then others, join in, and soon there is a growing pile of bodies. Had Greg been wired for sound he would have been deafened by the Indigo’s horn, which brought two constables running from Beastmarket Hill. Soon one of them, her face buried deep into her lapel radio, is shouting ‘Assist Friar Lane Spaniel now. 134’. Gregg knows the code. A man down. Bugger the rest. He turns four cameras onto the scene. What started with a drunk, then became a lark, is ending a tragedy. A man running away, two following, towards Maid Marian Way. Suspects, even though he does not have a clue as to what is really happening. Keep tabs on them at all costs. One orange jacket bent over another, one arm waving would-be helpers away. One leans across and shouts. Greg can see fury on the lips. He’s that close. The constable looks up, pleading it seems, and he makes out the word ‘Help’, then she beckons the man in. He seems to take charge. The pile of bodies fast disappears and a young woman bent double is screaming silently at Greg, into camera NG1FL2. The policewoman pats her downed colleague and leaves him with the helping passer-by and goes to the young woman who started it all. Friar Lane already awash with blue flashing lights and a chorus of sirens, which Greg thinks he can dimly hear in his roof-top eyrie above the City’s Central Police Station. He listens to the calm talk. A woman is dead, a constable stabbed and it’s only a minute to midnight. ‘Still time for more’ thinks Greg, as he takes a sip of his cold coffee. ‘Suspects going into Lenton Road from Castle end’ says Greg in his monotone voice and a reply ‘Read you. ETA one minute’ comes from the police helicopter. He follows the exchanges to their conclusion, adding words of his own as and when he sees the suspects on the all too few cameras in The Park. ‘Suspects onto Park Road. Close off Lenton Road’. Another voice says ‘Harlaxton covered’, then another ‘Turning back to Lenton Road. You have them’. Other voices ebb in and out like lapping waves upon a beach. ‘Confirm we have them’. ‘Copy’. On a Park Road camera Greg watches the three men, now cuffed, as they are bundled into the back of a police van. He logs the time: twenty-four-twelve. That quick.
When Greg steps out it is still dark. His breath thickens and clouds in the cold air. Nearly eight o’clock on a Sunday and Nottingham is already coming to life. Green and red buses pass him as he walks past the Theatre Royal onto Market Street and down to Old Market Square. The first Tram of the day glides by. Friar Lane still cordoned off, two CPOs stand guard and disgruntled passengers wonder where they can catch their bus.
Tuckers Café on Friar Lane is closed, so never a bacon roll on a Sunday. The only reason he doesn’t like the shift. Snow the forecast said and the first flakes begin to fall as he walks towards The Meadows. He turns up his collar and smiles. Bed and Judy beckon.
©Robert Howard
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