SECOND CATCH UP SAMPLER

This sampler appeared on the Black Hearts And Blue Devils facebook page previously. If you have not visited it before, please take a look and follow.

“As you all may have gathered, Black Hearts is about a family of incomers to the Black Country – Blackheath to be precise. If you have read the ‘blurb’ you will also know that at least one of them serves in the police as a sergeant. I’m not giving anything away at this stage when I reveal that Sergeant Lively’s younger brother, Josh, also serves on the same force, as a PC. In the “sampler” from the book below, Josh is looking on whilst his colleague, and station clown, PC Gordon Clark, is unofficially reviewing a new recruit. The action takes place at the station, and the station, in fiction, I have made a building which local readers will be familiar with, to wit the ‘Sir Robert Peel’ public house. I’m not sure how old the structure itself actually is, but it’s been there a long time; possibly originally a farmhouse or coaching inn (?) it used to be known a “1, Rowley Village’. During its history it has served as a blacksmith’s amongst other things. But there is also a suggestion – and hence the name – that it once served as a gaol. However, there’s no documentary evidence to this effect. There are two small ‘cells’ in the cellar, which the owners kindly consented to show me, but they could as well have been places for storage, growing mushrooms, or whatever. Nevertheless, a gift for me. It became the ‘cop shop’ for my ‘wild west’ Blackheath. A picture of the place will appear at the end of this post.

Now, before you read on and forget, can I just ask you all please to follow/like the Black Hearts And Blue Devils page – appreciated. Here’s the sampler:

“The cop shop was busy. Irrespective of the dregs of last night’s drinking deposited in overfull cells, there were three policemen in the front office, two of whom were particularly animated, generating quiet amusement in the third, who masked it in a show of checking over the charge sheets. Josh Lively’s attention was split between paperwork and listening to P.C. Gordon Clark as he gave a new recruit the benefit of his vast experience.

“Well, you do look smart, I’ll give you that. Lose the kepi though. We don’t do caps and kepis out of here.”

“But I thought,” began the new man.

“You thought what?” challenged Clark.

“Kepi for daytime duties, helmet for nights and inclement weather.”

“Ooh, inclement weather is it? We get lots of that round here – rains rocks and bottles sometimes. And a helmet gives you more protection in that kind of shower than a crappy kepi. Got it?”

“I understand what you’re saying.”

“Good, but yes, otherwise well turned out, yes. It’s important to be well turned out,” he preached, “the public look up to us and they respect us. So you don’t go around looking scruffy. Ruins the image, see. Now you might have seen some constables, let’s say in – where was it you come from? Halesowen is it? Yes, Halesowen. In Halesowen it’s Worcestershire Constabulary of course; funny lot…” There was a pause as Clark evidently reviewed some hidden memory, not unpleasant judging by the vacant grin that suffused his features and exposed an even greater expanse of equine-like off-white gnashers. “Where was I?” he continued, setting his face straight after a brief interval of blessed silence, “Oh yes, as I was saying, you might not be used to seeing the smart turnout what’s called for round here. You might have been used to seeing police constables who don’t really make an effort: they might not bull their boots every day, for instance, and think that’s perfectly acceptable; I knew one who only did it if they got scuffed or muddy. Not on though, is it? No self-discipline; wouldn’t last five minutes in the army. Or perhaps they might not feel like changing their collar every day, if it looks clean, and they think that’s perfectly acceptable; after all, who’s to know? I’ll tell ya who’s to know, you do. Like I said, self-discipline. If you can’t discipline yourself, how can you be trusted to discipline others? Jesus, that’s what this job’s all about isn’t it?” Not giving the new lad a chance to express an opinion, the offensive continued, “I’ve come across others who undo their top buttons if it’s warm out, or take off their helmets – or other headgear,” he said with a nod toward the offending kepi, “just for a while, you see; and they think that’s perfectly acceptable. Wrong. What kind of message does it send to the crooks, eh? ‘Can’t cope with a bit of sunshine? No chance of apprehending me then.’ Don’t you agree? I mean, do such failings make for a good copper? What do you say? You must have an opinion. Or do you? Well, what is it then?”

The donkey-faced one finally stopped for breath. The recruit did have his own ideas of course, but whatever they were he was sure that P.C. Clark would twist them into something perfectly unacceptable. He shot a hopeless glance towards Josh, but Josh kept his head down. He had undergone his own rites of passage, and learning to side-step the bullshit from this particular quarter was one of them. He saw no reason to spare the new bloke the same pleasures.

“Don’t look at him,” continued Clark, “when you’re out there on your own, nobody’s going to help you. So, what’s your view on all this then, Mr Salt?”

P.C. Samuel Salt decided to play it safe. “You’re right of course. We should always try to look well turned out and smart. It gives people confidence in us if we have confidence, and pride, in ourselves, and the uniform. That makes for a copper who can be trusted to uphold the law without fear or favour.”

Well put, thought Josh, Abe’s going to love you.

“That’s fine as far as it goes young Salt. But, will a smart uniform and shiny buttons impress the hardened criminal as much as the law-abiding member of the public? Hardly –it stands to reason don’t it? I mean, they might take one look at you with your nice clean boots and polished buttons and think, ‘hello, this bloke looks like a bit of a powder puff. All done up and scared to get his hands dirty, or his shoes.’ You could be inviting trouble.”

Josh could see that ‘young Salt’ was anything but a ‘powder puff.’ His buttoned tunic (fastened all the way to the top with meticulously buffed buttonry of course) was pulled snugly smooth over a powerful looking chest and back which, he had no doubt, enclosed a powerful set of lungs. Coupled with large reddened knuckles and less than symmetrical facial features – in the nose region – that torso told him that this was a man more than passingly acquainted with the not so gentle arts of self-defence. He wondered that Gordon could not see that, because, the way the conversation was going, Josh could see what was coming next; and what was coming next was not going to go the way his older colleague had in mind: P.C. Clark stood two or three inches taller than the new man, and that and age was what he appeared to be relying on; short-sighted in more ways than one.

“I suppose there is a danger of that,” admitted the recruit in his deceptively soft but precise manner, “if any particular hardened criminal was too dense to know what he was looking at.”

If that was a barb aimed at his present interlocutor, it found no purchase in the thick hide of the donkey, who was already continuing afresh.

“Oh, trust me, me boy, they are dense, the lot of ’em. Thick as two short puddings. Most of ’em would do you in if they thought they could get away with it, but the rope’s a sure and certain disincentive. I always like to compare them to dogs you know – vicious dogs; untrained. And you have to train ’em, like a dog. Learn ’em. What do you think then? Could you learn ’em? Eh? Are you up to it?”

“I think so.”

“Good to hear it. So, a practical example.” He picked up a spoon reclining in an empty mug after tea duty. “Let’s say this spoon is a knife,” he said as he slipped it into his pocket, “and I’m a suspicious looking bruiser trying to force open a shop door. So, you go over to question him – come on then, come over – when all of a sudden he’s got this kni…” But all of a sudden, he hadn’t got this kni, nor any other masquerading piece of cutlery, nor control of the situation. Even as the hand left the pocket a sharp chopping action had knocked the pretend weapon to the floor, and the man in front of the pretend villain was behind him and securing him with the classic collar and seat of pants landlords’ chucking out grip.

That move gave Josh a pretty good idea of where Samuel Salt had come by his combat training, or to be more accurate, the type of establishment that had nurtured it. His private smirk turned into an open grin as a red-faced P.C. Clark was steered a few paces towards the door before being gently released. “He had you there Gordon,” he chuckled.

“I wasn’t ready though,” protested the crestfallen tutor.

“No, you weren’t. Sorry for that,” said the young man, “but that’s the whole point, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve been trying to tell me, haven’t you? That you’ve got to be ready for anything. I was listening.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve been paying attention,” said Clark, playing for time while he sorted out his emotions. “That’s very good. But you wouldn’t catch me again.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t, a man with your experience. I certainly wouldn’t want to try that trick on you again. Shake?” The new boy offered his hand…”

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