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Not that my career as a detective has been exactly stellar so far. I’ve spent three fruitless days on my hands and knees helping with a fingertip search, and on another occasion I traipsed the streets door-knocking in the pouring rain. If I’m lucky I might get assigned to taking initial witness statements, but that’s about as glamorous as it’s got. So far.
Not for the first time, I consider jacking it in. A career change would do me good. Even now, it’s not too late to follow my dream of being a writer.
Except, it probably is. Policing might not set my soul alight, but it’s a steady job and it pays the bills. Right now, that matters. I have bills, lots of them, and more to come, most likely. They need paying, so here I am.
“Boss, I really could do with getting away on time today. My mother—”
“Tough.” Sergeant David Fisher is twice divorced and wedded to the job. Family considerations are alien to him. If it doesn’t involve getting a decent collar or sinking half a dozen pints at the Boltmaker’s Arms at the end of his shift, he doesn’t want to know. “The sooner you get this lot shifted, the sooner you can be on your way.”
“But, Sarge…” I continue, only to be interrupted by the trill of the desk phone.
Sergeant Fisher picks it up. “Front desk.”
There follows a few moments of silence, then, “Right, sir. I’m on it. Ten minutes.” He gets to his feet.
“Boss, can I just—?” I’m determined to make one final effort to get away on time, today of all days.
Sergeant Fisher pauses. “Look, Lowison, either you’re serious about your career or you’re not. If you want to get on, then you’ll put the hours in now.”
“I am serious, sir. I just—”
I’m talking to empty air. The sergeant has already gone, the door swinging closed behind him. He has more important business to deal with than the personal problems of one disgruntled probationary constable.
I sigh and reach for the folder at the top of the pile.
Seven hours later, I let myself into the modest semi-detached house I share with my mother. All issilent. She must already be in bed, though how she got herself upstairs is anyone’s guess
I take off my coat, then peer hopefully into the fridge. I really do need to find an hour or so to do some shopping, but for now I’ll have to settle for a leftover chicken samosa and half a tin of baked beans. I dump both in the microwave, set it to run for two minutes, then trudge up the stairs to check on my mother.
“Is that you?” The thin voice croaks from the front bedroom.
“Yes, Mum.”Who else would it be?I open her bedroom door to peep inside. “How are you feeling today?”
“Not so bad, love.”
It’s a lie. She looks like death warmed up, which isn’t that far from the truth. My heart sinks just a little bit more. The doctor came only this morning and increased her pain relief, but it seems to make no difference. She’s fading fast, though neither of us really cares to admit it.
But she knows. We both know. The truth is staring us in the face.
“Mum, have you thought any more about a hospice?” I sit on the edge of the bed. “Maybe just for a short while, until you pick up a bit.”
She shakes her head. “I won’t be picking up, love.”
Pancreatic cancer is brutal. Barely three months since the diagnosis, and it’s all she can do to get herself out of bed. Her condition has worsened sharply in the last few days, and I worry about her all the time. I hate that she’s alone here at home for what will probably be her last few weeks, while I’m stuck at work, messing about with filing and other such rubbish.
“I’ll get someone to come in and care for you,” I say, not for the first time. “Just a few hours a day, while I’m working.”
“No, love. We can’t afford that. I can manage.” She sinks back against the pillows. “I was just waiting up until you got back, but maybe I’ll get some sleep now. Just a few minutes…”
I kiss her forehead. “I’ll be downstairs.”
Her lips curve in a hint of a smile. In moments, she’s asleep.
I drag myself out of bed just before seven the next morning. I’m not due at the station until two, but I’ve a lot to do before I can go to work. A pile of washing needs to be tackled if my mum is to have fresh bedding. There’s nothing clean and hygienic about terminal cancer. And I should try to prepare some nourishing meals that she can just pop in the microwave. I don’t want her living on Pot Noodles and sandwiches. Then, if I get a move on, I could probably just fit in a quick trip to the supermarket to restock the fridge. And in and among all of that, I want to spend some quality time with her. She never complains, but she must be scared, and lonely.
She’s not the only one. I can’t even bear to think of the weeks to come, how horrendous it’s going to be. How much worse will it get before…?
And after…? What will I do when she’s gone? It’ll be just me, alone.
