A Domestic Incident

Introduction: Before I start, I present to you a brief note about the terminology used in provincial police forces in the UK. At the bottom of the pile are the workers like me. We are Constables, although in reality every officer no matter the rank holds the 'Office of Constable'. Above us is the Sarge and above that is the Inspector who is always called the 'boss'. In London which is like a different country they have strange things called 'Guv' or 'Skipper', but no-one outside the Met really knows what these are. The boss is the lowest rank addressed as 'Sir' or M'am. That's M'am, to rhyme with jam not marmalade. Ladies are never called 'Madam', unless they are running a brothel.

Above the boss is the 'Chief' (Chief Inspector) and then 'Super' (Superintendent). Above those are probably some others but don't worry; you'll never be so far away from a criminal to see any of them -- except when a TV camera is around. But even then you'll still never get to speak out loud in their presence.

Things are not as they are usually depicted on TV. The boss never bellows for instant arrests, no uniformed officer stands gazing with a vacant expression in the corner of an interview room. No suspects are ever interviewed while stacking boxes in a warehouse, doing the laundry or even walking along the road. Neither are they gathered around with random witnesses at the end of an investigation to discuss who really committed the crime. All these things are fabrications of someone's infertile imagination.

There is a fair mixture of people in the job; some can be dicks and some are friendly old sages. But most of them have qualities that makes them valuable in some circumstances. Amongst them I've known international class athletes and people who could and would rebuild your car on their day off -- for free.

None that I knew were ever shot and I never even saw a member of the public with a gun who wasn't a farmer.

So, are we sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

+ + +

A long, long time ago I had a crazy girlfriend.

Carol was nuts, had absolutely no sense of decorum and would say the sluttiest things in the most inappropriate situation to get a reaction. Then the reaction would likely turn out to come from herself. She was extraordinarily good looking. Long flowing brunette hair and a flashing smile from bedroom lips that would light up a room, slightly larger-than-hand-sized breasts that trembled and jiggled mercilessly when she walked and a slim waist that emphasised the swing of her hips. My God, that ass. That's what I remember the most about her. Oh, and the good crazy times of course.

* * *

I met her during what had been (until that point) a long and tedious night-shift.

Nothing had been happening in the big outside world and the hours were dragging. It's a lame and stupid old cliché but true: Officer Rain was on duty. Bad weather sends everyone home, even the criminals. Right then the streets were desolately quiet. No vehicles and certainly no pedestrians were to be seen. Even my cop car was hidden, and I was hiding inside it. My colleague Jo was alongside me curled up, and like me trying to become fast asleep. I've slept with a lot of policewomen, and I think I'll leave that thought right there.

The lights and windscreen wipers were off but the engine burbled quietly in the back-ground, keeping the power on for the radio and the fans that were slowly losing the battle to clear the condensation from the windows. The rain drumming on the roof was the loudest sound to be heard.

There's a time in such a shift when an officer has a limited number of choices. I could have announced "Fuck, it's quiet tonight." That would have caused the radio to give us a call, without a doubt -- and also earn me a punch on the ear from my workmate for being such a damn fool and tempting fate. Instead I did what any intelligent cop would do in the circumstances. I reclined my seat and shut my eyes.

There was precious little to be gained by driving endlessly on a quiet shift, the bosses may not yell for speedy arrests but they do scrutinise the fuel bills and if I drove around in fruitless circles for 10 hours only to put hundreds of miles on the clock there'd be uproar. So accepted practice was to park up somewhere and just don't make it obvious. Above all else don't get your open, drooling mouth photographed and published in the national press.

So we both lay like coiled springs. Not the sort of springs ready to bound into action, but more like springs that are gently unwinding. Working flat-out, literally.

An opportunity for deep meaningful thoughts, for example on the anatomy of starfish. They have their mouths in the middle of their bodies, right? But when mermaids use them as bras why do they need strings to hold them on when they can obviously attach themselves?

Or what chairs would look like if our knees bent the other way. Whether a red-neck could collect paws from dead grizzlies on the grounds that he has the right to bear arms?

Or whether they always send a seasoned detective to serious cases of assault? (You can say the last one out loud).

As the great philosopher Winnie the Pooh once said, 'Sometimes I sits and thinks, sometimes I just sits.' Yes, there are some boring times to be had.

The water streaming unchecked down the windows would have limited my view, if there had been anything outside to see. However I'd parked the car in a dark, secluded spot, deep inside a derelict industrial unit where even the scrap metal thieves had long ago exhausted all opportunities for profit. No 'citizen journalist' was going to find me easily.

The best scenery would have been within the car but the darkness took care of most of that as well.

The sight of Jo's muscular rear stretching her uniform trousers to bursting point would have been both splendid and enticing had I been able to see more detail, however given that even the glow from the radio screen had been further diminished by a sheet of paper folded over it to reduce the glare on tired eyes, imagination was the order of the day. The ingenuity of the bored copper; if the designers of radios are unable to include a display dimmer we'll improvise one.

Jo was a fit lass and could run further and faster than many people including me and that pair of gluteus maximuses (or is it maximae or perhaps maximii?) had a lot to do with it. It was a rare day when I could get motivated enough to start running but she took exercise seriously and had a hot body to show as a result.

The compulsory annual training days of bleep-tests and practising authorised restraint methods were all made worthwhile by the sight of Jo in skin-tight Lycra pants and crop-top that revealed a taut belly. A neat pair of boobs modestly contained and restrained, it was the kind of sight that keeps a guy warm on a miserable wet night.

In the darkness Jo's wash-board stomach was facing away from me and I couldn't even make out her incredible thighs that were tucked up on the seat. Only the round outline of her butt with its intriguing shadows could be distinguished. Within touching distance but completely out of reach.

I toyed with the very tempting idea of stroking that glorious rump, running my fingers around and gently into the warm shadows.

I decided against it. I knew of a detective with a broken nose who one day had the bright idea to slide his hand underneath her ass when she was about to sit down. I wonder if he thought that it had been worth it.

There was nothing between us; she hadn't even had to say anything to put a stop to any nonsense of that sort. Her comments and body language was sufficient, and she had told me that her taste was for rugby players. I knew of at least two such characters who played for the national team who were reputed to have spent time with her. Nobody asked her for details, none were ever offered. That's just the way it was, like her severe haircut that gave her a somewhat intimidating persona. Stylish, but practical.

Never mind, there was a certain amount of entertainment in fantasising about a strong lady with a pelvic floor like a cigar cutter.

I'll just get on with the story...

As it always seemed to be, parking the car up and settling down for forensic examination of the insides of eyelids had a stimulating effect on the paper-dimmed radio. Just as unconsciousness was being established, it blurted out our call-sign. We had a 'domestic dispute' to attend. I may as well have tried the 'it's quiet tonight' method, it couldn't have been more effective. Fucking domestics. What a waste of time and effort, the only call that increases when people spend more time with each other doing nothing.

Christmas is a nightmare in particular, with a stream of calls just when every officer is trying to take family time off themselves. The season of drunkenness and ill-will. Nice turkey wasn't it? Pass the roasting dish so I can whack you on the head with it. Then the police may send a nice young man who has never even had a proper girlfriend to hand out marital guidance.

Jo heaved herself up into more of a perpendicular position and adjusted her seat with a sigh of resignation. My view of her awesome backside was replaced by a more conventional angle while I took the call; we were only a few yards from the main road and were soon on our way. Traffic was non-existent so there was little point in even 'lighting up' the blues, we were at the address which was in a nearby down-market part of town within a couple of minutes. A 'sink' housing estate, mostly populated by third-generation unemployed with few skills except for a comprehensive knowledge of how to complete welfare claim forms.

There were a few options for life choices of course; I'll always remember one encounter I had with a young lad walking with his mother, "When I grow up I want to be a drug dealer like my dad."

I had looked at the woman with a raised eyebrow but she wasn't scandalised by this less than lofty ambition, indeed she had a pragmatic approach to life, "Well, there's nothing else to do around here." Sometimes you realise that there's just no hope.

I learned later that the lad was sent to prison, obviously for something he hadn't done - like not wearing gloves.

He was reunited in that fine establishment with many of his friends, including those who hadn't won medals in the estate Olympics. That was a competition with events like 'running whilst carrying a television', and 'throwing training shoes over the telegraph wires'.

The house with tonight's problem was easily spotted. It was the only one with the lights blazing and a woman standing in the doorway waving at us. There were no old cars on bricks in the front lawn, awaiting their final and inevitable journey to the junk yard. That's always a good sign.

With her smeared make-up running down her face in the rain and wearing a drenched and too-short nightdress, Ms. Sullivan told us a tale of woe that we'd both heard many times before. Her boyfriend was drunk and had threatened her with a knife. She was the official tenant and she wanted him out.

I found it difficult to concentrate. There wasn't really much purpose in her wearing the nightdress - her rack was distractingly visible through the soaked and transparent fabric and pink nipples were cold and erect, so I'll correct that. There were at least two points to her wearing it. She was slim and petite; I could see that she was petite because of the way I towered over her, I could see she was slim because of the way her nightie clung to her hips. The part of her hips that were covered by the nightie, obviously.

Her pussy was partially visible from beneath the hem. I decided that bending down to inspect the underside of her body would possibly raise the sort of complaint that headquarters wouldn't appreciate, so tried to restrict my attention to her upper half. Which was okay.

I didn't realise it at that time, but I had just met Carol.

* * *

Was boyfriend still there? Of course, he was in the kitchen. So we entered the house, automatically noting the state of cleanliness.

The cleanliness is the first and most important thing about any call in that type of area; first impressions count. Take a deep breath before entering. Avoid any dog turds on the carpet, politely decline the polite offer of tea from a chipped mug and remember to wipe your dirty feet on the way out so you don't spoil the footpath.

I'm being unfair. Unlike some other properties which were disgusting, this place was actually clean and tidy. Someone had been making an effort with a mop.

The subject of the complaint was sitting up on the kitchen work-surface and protested to us that he was making himself a cup of tea (it's always tea). His beloved girlfriend was making up a story. There was a smell of beer about him and he was talking loudly about how unfortunate his life was. Of course he hadn't threatened anyone with a knife.

In order to protect his identity I'll call him Bob. That's not his real name, so I suppose I could have called him 'Not-Bob'. Which would be stupid.

He seemed reluctant to get off his perch so I made an executive decision, caught hold of his ankle and hauled his sorry arse down to the floor. He landed upside-down on the hard tiles and the steak knife that he had been sitting on fell with a clatter alongside him. Within a couple of swift seconds the loving boyfriend found himself well and truly nicked. Jo chanted the relevant statutory twaddle while I fastened handcuffs on him in the approved fashion practised in those annual sessions. Soon he was safely placed in the rear of the car and we were on our way to the station.

There was an unwritten rule between Jo and I that we took it in turns to deal with prisoners whenever we were partnered together, so she got to be the arresting officer with this one and I returned to Ms. Sullivan to take her full written statement. When I arrived back at her house she answered the door, but I was somewhat disconcerted by what I found.

Her hair was ruffled as if she had rubbed it with the towel that she was now holding. Her face was now clean of any make-up. Blonde hair, freckles and green eyes set wide apart, she was quite pretty. More confusingly she had lost the nightie and was now undressed.

In the all-together, in her birthday suit, totally lacking in the textile department.

She didn't appear to care that she was indecent, and even wrapped her towel around her hair in a turban style. Her freshly-shaved undercarriage was now freely available for inspection, I no longer had to bend down for a sneaky glimpse.

She was slim with no sign of any untoward bulges. What she did have in the way of bulges was just perfect. A perfectly round butt, perfectly perky breasts.

Well trained as I was to keep my eyes on her face, I made sure that I burned the vision of her protruding portions into my retinas. When I was sure that I had memorised sufficient detail, I produced the paperwork that had to be completed.

She invited me to take a seat while I noted the details. The sofa looked almost new, so I sat down to take down her particulars. Followed of course by her statement. An old joke of course that should be below my dignity, but clearly isn't. Particularly as she didn't have much in the way of particulars to take down.

She looked around in a distracted fashion, then took the towel from her head and wrapped it around herself. Not over the top of her boobs like you might expect, but around her waist like a bloke.

She sat on the towel at the other end of the sofa while I tried to concentrate on writing down her account of the fight. After an hour or so of surreal scribbling I was done. I indicated where she should sign, she leaned over to take the papers and carelessly brushed her nipples against me in the process. Eventually, reluctantly, I packed up and left.

Is that an anticlimax? Whatever, that's what happened (as in, no climax) on that particular night.

A couple of hours back at the station clearing up the paperwork consumed the remainder of the shift and I more or less forgot about Ms. Sullivan with the pop-up thermometers. Yeah, right.

* * *

A few days passed and the stormy weather had cleared. It was a daytime shift so I was by myself when another routine call came my way; a non-injury road accident. We only 'pair-up' as routine on night shifts, during the day we go out single-crewed.

It wasn't on a main road and the speeds involved were obviously low, hence no-one was hurt. Nevertheless the two cars had crumpled in the manner favoured by the retailers of replacement body panels and thus had to be towed away. There was an atmosphere of bored disappointment amongst the spectators who had run from their homes in the hope of seeing dead bodies -- but at the very least spilled blood. A dozen or so hopeful rubber-necks remained to witness the life-changing moment when the wrecks were dragged onto the recovery trucks, such was the lack of excitement in their lives.

The two drivers were resigned to the fate of their motors. It wasn't clear who was at fault; one car had tried to pass through a narrow space between two parked vehicles and clouted the other one which was doing exactly the same thing in the opposite direction. Why can't people drive their cars like they push their carts in the supermarket? After you. No I insist, after you my good sir. My pleasure, thank you greatly, what a dashed fine fellow you are.

Then everyone goes home with a load of shopping, a loaded credit card and a reasonably good temper.

The drivers of the damaged cars were standing forlornly and I went to take their details. Not a big deal, there would be no court proceedings for this. The insurance companies could sort out the bills in due course.

While I was speaking to the first of the drivers, two tow trucks arrived with their flashing beacons adding drama to the scene and the road was finally cleared. The onlookers drifted away and the man who had driven the other car was nowhere to be seen. There he was -- gone, disappeared like a fart in a hurricane.

I searched around the neighbouring streets but there was no sign of him. No worries, I had already taken his details and run a check on the vehicle, I just needed his insurance details. The owner of the car was local, a lady by the name of Carolina Sullivan, no known 'form'. so I went straight round to the address.

When I reached it, the house seemed familiar. It was where Ms. Sullivan with the sticky-out thermometers lived. I should have been paying a bit more attention earlier, I hadn't even recognised the man. I would definitely start paying attention right now.

I banged on the door with the confidence that several years in the job gives. In the background I hardly noticed the inevitable ripple of curtains along the street. It seems that sometimes a cold wind blows when I knock on a door. She answered looking as cute as ever with her blonde hair brushed out.

Now nobody ever accused me of being a Prince Charming. What a creep he was, danced with a lady all night and couldn't recognise her afterwards. Without her shoe to offer around for size, she could have been anyone. What the hell did he spend his time looking at, her cleavage?

So yes, I managed to recognise her with her clothes on.

Ms. Sullivan had an eye for what suited her; tight pants and a T-shirt showing the distinct outline of a bra and panties. Contrary to previous experiences, she clearly did possess those items of apparel.

I spoke to her about the car, she obviously knew who the driver had been. He was her boyfriend, who she was now back in a relationship with. A depressing story of most of the 'domestics' that I ever had involvement in. We spend hours locking them up, they spend minutes getting back together again.