Screwtop Thompson

6. The Good Cop

The first time he came into the room I thought he had a rather preoccupied look about him. It was as if his mind was fully engaged in trying to solve some formidable problem, one that had been imposed on him by powers beyond his control. He paid no attention to me, although I was the only person present, and instead paced around the floor, moving from one corner to the next, until eventually he arrived back at the door. This he opened, glancing briefly outside before closing it again.

“Alright,” he said, finally breaking his silence. “I’ve only got a few minutes, but if we’re quick we should be able to get all this settled before he comes back.”

“Before who comes back?” I asked.

Only then did he look directly into my face. I saw that he was a tired, pale man, obviously overworked, wearing a shirt and tie (no jacket), his blue eyes regarding me through a pair of heavy spectacles. He remained standing for several long moments, then settled down in the chair opposite mine, at the other side of the desk. After removing his glasses, he leant forward and rested his head in his hands.

“You’re not going to be difficult, are you?” he sighed.

I said nothing.

“Because if you’re going to be difficult it makes things very difficult for me.” He raised his eyes to meet mine. Without his glasses they seemed weak, and gave him a sad, vulnerable appearance. “I only came in here to see if I could help matters along, but if you’re going to be difficult there’s very little I can do. Don’t you understand it would all be so much easier if you let me help?”

He continued gazing across at me, his whole face appealing for me to accept his offer.

“Well,” I said. “What is it you want to do exactly? To help.”

His look brightened. “I want you to trust me.”

“Why?” I enquired.

After a short pause he replaced his glasses and smiled. “Because I’m your friend.”

♦

The second time he came into the room he winced when the door clicked shut, as if the sharp sound was an intrusion, jarring the senses unnecessarily. Then he crept to the chair opposite mine and sat down, quiet as a mouse.

“Shouts a lot, doesn’t he?” he ventured.

I was about to ask, “Who does?” when he put his finger to his lips and frowned.

“It’s alright,” he said. “There won’t be any shouting while I’m here, you can rely on that. Your ears can enjoy a well-earned rest. We’ll have a nice gentle talk, just the two of us, and you can tell me all about it.”

I shrugged. “There isn’t much to tell.”

This brought another smile to his face, a broad, open smile of kindness and understanding. “Yes, I suppose that’s how it must seem from where you’re sitting. A barrage of questions, questions, and more questions until eventually you feel as if there’s nothing left to say. But let me ask you something. Have I asked you any questions?”

“None to speak of, no.”

He held out his hands, palms upwards. “Well then. Not once have I shouted at you, or criticised you, or demanded to know anything. Like I said before, I simply want you to trust me, to think of me as your friend.” He reached into his pocket and produced a bar of chocolate, which he passed across the desk. “Here you are. Expect you could do with a bite to eat, couldn’t you?”

“Yes, thanks,” I said, unwrapping the chocolate and breaking off a chunk. “I have been here rather a long time.”

“Three or four hours?”

“At least.”

“That is a long time,” he agreed, puffing his cheeks out. “Yes, the waiting must be the worst part. The interminable waiting. Never knowing what’s going to happen, and always wondering who’ll be the next person to come through that door.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I said. “To tell the truth.”

“Really?” he asked.

“Really,” I replied.

“Well, I’m sure you will very soon.” He stood up and glanced at his watch. “Look, I’ve got to go now, but I’ll be back shortly, I promise. In the meantime I’d keep that chocolate hidden if I were you.”

♦

The third time he came into the room he looked deeply troubled. He was carrying a steaming hot towel which he tossed to me before going over to the wall and leaning on one elbow, eyes closed, his fingers pressed hard against his brow. He maintained this stance for well over a minute. Meanwhile, I made full use of the towel, running it over my face and head, and breathing deeply as the vapours entered my pores. When at last he spoke, his voice was grave.

“I’m dreadfully sorry about this, dreadfully, dreadfully sorry. That man can be such a beast at times. A monster. Nonetheless, you must understand that he’s only doing his…”

All of a sudden he broke off, and I looked up to see that he was staring at me with a startled expression on his face. He came forward and gave me a closer look, then slumped down in the chair opposite mine.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Never better.”

“Not feeling rough?”

“No, not at all.”

“Well then you’d better let me have the towel back. I’m afraid everything has to be accounted for these days. You know how things are. Nice and refreshing, was it?”

“Yes, thanks,” I replied. “A great comfort.”

My words seemed to perk him up, because he quickly rose to his feet and walked around the room saying, “Good, good. A great comfort. That’s very good.”

Then he halted in his tracks and turned to face me again. “The trouble is that it’s likely to get worse.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, yes, much, much worse. And of course there’ll be little I can do about it because I won’t be here to speak up for you.”

“But I thought you said you were going to help.”

“Well…yes,” he stammered. “I am going to help you, yes I am. But I can only do that…”

“When you come back,” I interrupted.

“Er…yes, that’s quite right. I can only help you when I come back.”

♦

The fourth time he entered the room he was sweating profusely. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and his tie had come loose. Under his arm he carried a sheaf of papers, which he hurriedly laid out on the desk, glancing at me from time to time and adjusting his glasses when they slipped down his nose.

“Dear oh dear,” he said, breathing heavily. “Looks like we have an administrative problem. Can you remember what time you were brought in?”

“I wasn’t brought in,” I replied. “I came of my own accord.”

“What!” he said, plainly taken aback. “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?”

“I thought it was the best course of action under the circumstances.”

He put his hand to his head and began pacing round in an agitated manner.

“Have you any idea what goes on here?” he demanded. “In this very room?”

“Well,” I answered. “Nothing most of the time, from what I’ve seen.”

“Nothing!? Nothing!? How can you say that after what you’ve been through? Hour after hour of interrogation, verbal abuse and the ever-present threat of physical violence, and you call that nothing!”

“But there’s only been you here,” I said. “And you were kind enough to give me a bar of chocolate.”

He stood stock still, stared at me for several seconds, then marched out of the room.

♦

When he came back I noticed he had changed his shirt. The new one was ironed, crisp and white, and his tie was knotted perfectly at the centre of his collar. He was also wearing a stiffly pressed jacket.

“Sorry about all that earlier,” he said, taking the seat opposite mine. “Staff shortages.”

“Thought so,” I said. “You’re the good cop, aren’t you?”

To my surprise he reached over and slapped me hard across the face.

“Silence!” he barked. “We will ask the questions!”