This is the first and second chapter of a longform fictional piece about the world not too far from now.
Wayne stared at the chiller, watching his own reflection in the glass, swallowing back his fear as the owner Mr Akhtar, forty and worn down like a used paperback, followed his every move from behind the plexiglass on the small monitor that he kept by the register. Life under the weight of someone's gaze was a constant, something that you learned to accept even though it wore you down, made your shoulders slump with the weight of everyone waiting for you to fulfill their idea of what 'his' kind do whenever they venture beyond their neighbourhood. Wayne silently mouthed 'fuck you', almost pantomiming the gesture as he reached in for a two-pint bottle of milk.
Wayne was fourteen, small for his age, a good looking kid who might bloom into handsome, delicately boned with languid brown eyes tattooed with black rings of exhaustion, hair kept neat by his mother, from whom he inherited his features. The parka he habitually wore swamped him even further, but it kept the cold out, something that earned catcalls from the other lads and suspicion from wherever he went. His clothes were clean but worn, and his trainers were always a brand behind what was on the street, but Wayne, whenever his heart felt heavy from the envy and the disdain of his friends and peers enough to ask his mother for the money, he would see her, slumped at the table, steeling herself for the second job she had taken on to put food on the table, the words turned sour in his mouth and he would think of something else to say, or to ask her. Mostly he would go to his room, feeling it better to keep some things to himself.
Wayne held the container down at his side as he slipped his right hand into his parka, shuffling to the counter as Mr Akhtar looked up, not at Wayne but to the entrance. Wayne catches them out of the corner of his eye, afraid to catch their gaze, the stories flooding his whole body with anxiety. For once, for all of the ambient disdain that passed between them, Mr Akhtar with his forty years and Wayne with his fourteen shared the same thought.
Fuck.
Time was, seeing a uniformed officer held a range of reactions: resignation, relief, confidence, concern, alarm. You filtered those reactions through whatever range of experiences and familial attitudes were passed down to you, or whatever you had personally experienced. Ultimately, you held your own opinions on such a subject, but you hoped that somewhere there were policemen who upheld the peace, who would render assistance or see to it that you could entertain the idea that you lived in a world that worked according to principles. That these principles only really worked in places not abandoned to poverty or narcotics was academic, you kept the poor and the ravaged out of your eyeline and you trusted that the police would protect and serve.
By the time the balloons had been taken down and the mayor had taken office, everyone in the city had been relieved of that illusion. Except no one on the corners nor living in the neighbourhood was appreciating the irony either. Because of the people who were now walking into Mr Akhtar's store, planning on picking up drinks and cigarettes for the rest of their shift.
They all wore variations on a standard uniform, black fatigues with pockets for ammunition clips, long sleeved Nomex tees under Kevlar and carbide jackets, ball caps with the corporate logo stitched into the brim and boots that were always buffed to an oily sheen. Hip holsters with ceramic pistols. Their laminated ID tags were hung from lanyards around their necks, swinging as they walked, cocksure and confident. Men and women, different nationalities, oftentimes only ever reflected in their voices when they spoke, weeks of voice training removing their accents until they all spoke in one tone - not kindly authority but the commanding indifference of a cell block rapist. The guns helped secure their authority, far more than the press conference announcing their presence or the half hearted indignation that burnt out in the 24 hour news cycle, restricted to a few bloggers who soon realised that for all their indignation, digital signatures were ignored and denial of service attacks got your house broken into and your wrists cable tied together. Clever rhetoric doesnt stand up to a bullet, no matter how much Mencken you've read.
Greg Kenny and Rachel Guttierez, three hours into a six hour shift:
Greg Kenny, third generation white trash, set free of his genetic inheritance of meth production and venereal disease by sheer willpower and a gift for appropriate violence. Five years in Airborne, washed out for Delta in favour of private sector work, lots of names to avoid indictments and oversight committees but essentially the same supervisors and mission statements. Spent a lot of time either shouting for scared indigenous peoples to keep their hands up or eating steak and vitamin supplements in air conditioned trailers whilst his former army buddies suffered in accommodation that would spark a prison riot. Stood 5'8'', Mens Health cover model body but a face that seemed stuck in vengefully acne'd adolescence and teeth that had been rebuilt thanks to a generous dental plan, so he could smile and not have it look like a New Orleans graveyard. Not that he smiled much. London gave him even less reason to smile.
Rachel Guttiereiz, youngest daughter of a former bantamweight contender, signed up because the options were slimmer than nothing, dying a little inside when she saw her sisters all chasing after dreams as shallow as daytime television would allow them, schools that intended only to prepare them for a world that existed comfortably without them and their ilk. Rachel had taken the opportunity to educate herself as much as she could, and she fought to make her own luck. Did eight years in Los Angeles , commendations and a record relatively light of padded out arrests and grasps at glory, would have stayed there but private sector recruiters haunted county jails as much as they did military bases, and Rachel, she read the papers and participated in the message boards, and she knew where the balance of power lay in her country. The world was what it was, and it was coming to terms with the fact for all its illusions of nobility and decency, its essential truth was that you got as much as you can, as fast as you can and she saw no reason why she shouldn't participate. So, here she was, via Iraq and Afghanistan. Patrolling in another country and drawing a salary and benefits package that was putting her little sister through college and her grandmother in a Florida retirement village.
They had precious little in common, certainly no attraction on either part, but a dedication to the job at hand meant that they had to negotiate some form of working relationship. Mutual respect seemed to be working out for them - Greg had some great stories, and Rachel enjoyed educating him on current affairs as she saw it. They enjoyed their work, and in that was the reason no one wanted to incorporate them into some idylllic version of the world. Their approach to policing remained constant, whether it was Iraq, Afghanistan or Detriot and it was not something that sat easy with anyone but those that it didn't affect. There was none of the empathy and common sense that was the hallmark of the experienced officer, no these were people as certain of their duty as any soldier, the quickest point between A and B being the application of force. Something that despite the rhetoric espoused by the leaders of the free world, was the essential truth of the 'special relationship'.
Mr Akhtar turned away from the monitor, as Wayne clutched the coins in his hand, Rachel browsing the aisles whilst Greg walked towards him, not looking at Wayne, eyes on the chillers behind him. Wayne was in his way and the aisle was too small to make his way around, so he took a deep breath and tried to hold his ground.
Greg, stopped for a second, too tired and removed from the niceties of life to consider how he could just laugh and be gracious.
When life doesn't pull its punches, you learn to hit back with the same amount of force.
Shoving him to one side, Wayne slammed into the shelves, biting into his shoulders and back of his head like an aluminum rabbit punch - retail dirty boxing as the neatly arranged boxes of cereal beat a one bar tattoo and the quart hit the floor, bursting open. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, his breath a ragged sob even as he managed to stay upright, even as he held back the shame and the indignation. Even at fourteen, he knew not to show weakness, but still it was a feeling that took its pound of flesh.
Greg didnt even turn, opening the chiller door and reaching for a Red Bull as Rachel paid for her purchases with the corporate charge card that they all were issued. Mr Wu, looked to where Wayne had righted himself, even though he was just another one of the kids who put years on him from the stress of having to watch them, the cost of security countermeasures that they seemed to take delight in circumventing, resetting all the RFID tags so everything cost a penny, treating it as some glorious sort of play. Mr Wu knew what was coming if the young man failed to restrain himself, because he soaked up the details of the diatribes that his daughter would enliven their dinner conversations with, and he hoped that this wouldn't the point where he could actually have the upper hand in a conversation with his fiercely intelligent, wearisome child, even if it was from beyond the grave.
Wayne stuck his chest out, face tight with rage.
"What the fuck was that?"
Greg, turned, shocked enough to be amused.
"Didn't see you."
Wayne, shook his head, still struggling with the rage but determined that he would keep his chin stuck out.
"Cunt."
Greg flexed beneath his kevlar, rolling his shoulders back, the unconscious uncoiling that Rachel knew preceded some form of action. She left the roll of mints and the softpack of Marlboros on the counter, walking to close the distance between her and Wayne. Not even seeing the split bottle of milk still lying in the puddle from where it had slipped from Wayne's grasp.
She felt her left foot slip, balance gone as her arms flailed, landing hard into Wayne's back as he went forward, his anger now lost to the disorientation of surprise.
Greg went automatic. Reflexes borne of practice, gloved hands finding purchase at his neck, fingers stiff like knives and squeezing. Limp against him before he registered just how fucked this whole thing was.
Wayne felt his head fill with light, his last breath, his last thought as undefined and alive with colours as the crayon drawings his mother still kept on the battered fridge of their flat.
Rachel got to her feet, breathing hard, panicked as Greg stood there, still holding the boy in his hands, feeling him twitch the last few moments of his life away.
"Oh shit, Greg, oh shit. What did you do?"
Greg, his face smooth and devoid of expression, gingerly put the boy to the ground.
The glance Rachel and Greg exchanged was brief, but within it, was contained the collective and individual experiences that came from years of working in volatile, ever evolving environments because whether you were imposing or reinforcing democracy, it helped if you were willing to get your hands dirty.
As one, they turned to look at Mr Akhtar,
Rachel smiled, a bright yet cold grin that otherwise would have had Mr Akhtar revert to a set of manners that had stood him well for the twenty years he had been running the shop, instead it made his stomach lurch and his legs shake. Her hand went to the holster on her right hip
"Excuse me, sir. Would you mind stepping out from behind there?
Mr Akhtar closed his eyes and thought of how he wished he could have told his daughter she was right, of how he wished he could hold his wife for one last time, of one last English summer evening.
He did not hear the shot.
Chapter Two
They worked quickly, Rachel moving to the door. Greg, lowering the body to the ground, almost gingerly. He looked up to see Rachel looking at him, her back to the door. He nodded, and she called into Dispatch. Dispatch patched the call through to Hurt, Greg and Rachel's Shift Supervisor.
Company policy was that if no one saw anything, it didn't happen. Especially in a redlined part of the city.
They worked quickly, Rachel moving to the door. Greg, lowering the body to the ground, almost gingerly. He looked up to see Rachel looking at him, her back to the door. He nodded, and she called into Dispatch. Dispatch patched the call through to Hurt, Greg and Rachel's Shift Supervisor.
Company policy was that if no one saw anything, it didn't happen. Especially in a redlined part of the city.
Redlined boroughs were a mixed blessing if an incident occurred. Redlining being what happened to parts of the country that didnt do as they were told. Not manned borders or searchlights and cement walls, but simply the act of deciding that a particular address is instant refusal on an application form. Mortgage. Employment. Credit. The standardised paths to economic mobility closed off, leaving entire boroughs open to predatory lending. Greg and Rachel had policed these areas before, knowing that whatever happened, these neo-feudal neighbourhoods would enter into a spasms of violence and then fall into a lapsed, wounded silence, the only memorial being collateral damage and wilted flower tributes or doggerel spray painted on a concrete wall. Not that they made a habit of taking any situation to the level of violence, but it happened and their first priority was to protect themselves, then the company.
If someone saw it, then you litigate them into oblivion, pay them off(which was actually useful for tax purposes). Libel chill was unique to the United Kingdom, and it certainly made the infrequent task of collateral damage much easier to circumvent, so any indignation could in turn have the volume turned down to the point that it barely mattered. They had discussed parliamentary enquiries for larger events, and the remains of The Met, mainly upper management and think tank types, were happy to make statements dismissing the matter at hand and then returning to matters of policy. Lessons had been learned after Stockwell 1 and 2.
Eventually the response vans pulled up, and Hurt walked in, a compact, aggrieved little man with a buzz cut and a neat moustache, wearing similar fatigues and equipment to his subordinates, although it looked more like a costume than a uniform on him.
"You too. Out. Reynolds'll do the brief in the car. Whose gun fired?"
Rachel ejected the magazine and racked the slide, handing it out grip first. Hurt took the weapon, and proffered his other hand to receive the magazine, which Rachel furnished him with. He turned and passed it to one of the group of technicians who had followed him in, taking photographs and looking for the CCTV cameras.
Greg, removed his gloves and passed them to Hurt, and walked out, not making eye contact, keen to get away from what he had wrought. An overreaction, but then he had spent his whole career having his nerves finetuned by suicide bombers and insurgents who came bearing gifts.
A car was waiting, he knew that he would be taken care of, as would Rachel.
If someone saw it, then you litigate them into oblivion, pay them off(which was actually useful for tax purposes). Libel chill was unique to the United Kingdom, and it certainly made the infrequent task of collateral damage much easier to circumvent, so any indignation could in turn have the volume turned down to the point that it barely mattered. They had discussed parliamentary enquiries for larger events, and the remains of The Met, mainly upper management and think tank types, were happy to make statements dismissing the matter at hand and then returning to matters of policy. Lessons had been learned after Stockwell 1 and 2.
Eventually the response vans pulled up, and Hurt walked in, a compact, aggrieved little man with a buzz cut and a neat moustache, wearing similar fatigues and equipment to his subordinates, although it looked more like a costume than a uniform on him.
"You too. Out. Reynolds'll do the brief in the car. Whose gun fired?"
Rachel ejected the magazine and racked the slide, handing it out grip first. Hurt took the weapon, and proffered his other hand to receive the magazine, which Rachel furnished him with. He turned and passed it to one of the group of technicians who had followed him in, taking photographs and looking for the CCTV cameras.
Greg, removed his gloves and passed them to Hurt, and walked out, not making eye contact, keen to get away from what he had wrought. An overreaction, but then he had spent his whole career having his nerves finetuned by suicide bombers and insurgents who came bearing gifts.
A car was waiting, he knew that he would be taken care of, as would Rachel.
Reynolds had been one of the local recruits, a former Met detective who had been groomed for the private sector, mainly because she happened to be fluent in what Rachel called 'the language of the Third Way', lots of buzzwords but little substance, ideas recycled by the think tanks and debating societies that helped ease the country down a different path. Any society can form its own language, and Reynolds, a stocky Nordic blonde who hid her university education long enough to use it to power her way into an executive role within the new force. She had never drawn a patrol, instead she appeared only at public relations events and meetings with local authorities, blissfully unaware of the unintended consequences of the new policing approach, merely repeating the same talking points with the watery-eyed zeal of a True Believer. She was holding up a digital recorder, allowing them both to retell what happened, 'in their own words'.
Which would then be edited and reinterpreted, sold as something else entirely. Either blameless tragedy or another pyrrhic victory in the 'war on crime'. There were precious few variations left, not that a generation of journalists raised on recycling press releases or cutting and pasting blog posts had the critical faculties or job security to argue with their veracity. In these times, the truth was what you could edit, and this incident was no exception.
Reynolds told them that they would be taken to a hotel tonight, their uniforms taken to be cleaned and that in the morning, they would be briefed on their press statements and interview responses. Disciplinary action was not at this stage, considered appropriate although some form of punitive action might yet be taken, it would not be considered unreasonable to expect some form of fine or temporary suspension. The company was still fighting off what was left of the unions, protesting at the sale of what was always considered a sacrosanct branch of public service. She told them all this, bar the part about the unions, because Rachel and Greg were not interested in the struggles of strangers, abstract notions of public service or greater good did not enter into their resolute American minds.
At that point, they were not even really listening to Reynolds, thinking about room service and not having to finish their shifts seemed more reward than they deserved.
The hotel was near the airport, award winning and with a staff who were almost Praetorian in their dedication to discretion and service. Greg had been there before, after a messy raid on a meth lab in one of the boroughs, and he was already figuring out what to order from room service and planning on calling his brother to brag about how cool England was. Rachel was still nervous, struggling to get her head around the policy of containment that was de rigeur for the Private Policing Initiative.
There has never been justice, it has always been about who pays, and when you have shareholders to answer to, and long term mission statements, quarterly budgeting reviews and lobbyists who constantly preach your worth to the captive audience of government advisors, the bill always seems to go missing in the post.
Greg sat back and closed his eyes, the perfect citizen for this brave new world we all live in.
Greg sat, showered and shaved in a cableknit sweater and jeans, tan ankleboots and a new haircut. He had done this before, under much more frightening circumstances, immediate pursuit through Kabul or medieval mobs destroying entire towns in order to get their hands on another Company fuck up. By comparision, this was pleasant, almost sedate. Rachel was in the shower, and Greg was tearing into the roast beef on wholemeal, fingers slick with gravy as he shoved a mouthful of fries, Rachel's food was still on the tray, lemon chicken and tagliatelle. Television was on, political debate show live from Birmingham, still discussing Proportional Representation and the continued Corporate Presence. Resentment in every audience member, but skillfully deflected and defused. Rachel had said that there was a nationalised television station once, but that got torn apart by market pressures and a change of government, plans that had been set in place whilst the press had aneurysms over radio presenters making playful jokes with elderly comedic actors. One of Greg's comrades in Airborne called it the Niemoller Effect. No one speaks up for anyone else because they don't like or agree with them, until they realise that they have all been fucked. Greg didnt care as long as he could get Fox and ESPN. Greg was a man who lived life as simply as possible, entirely in the limbic area of his brain, and in turn distorted by the childhood bigotries he absorbed. Perfect for a man who wanted nothing more to shove guns in foreign faces and get paid for it.
Rachel, showering. More to hide the tears and to get the stink off, an olfactory hallucination that went unspoken, growing in intensity as the years and incidents went by. Rachel had seldom been involved in incidents like these, they tended to be the fault of her colleagues than her, she was careful and considered but then she had actually been a police woman, as opposed to a police officer, something that she had learnt about one of the first nights in London, explained to her by one of the last state policemen, paid to provide a training and transition package before he left the country entirely. Initially they had swapped stories, more of hers than his, and she struggled with some of the colloquialisms he used, but a smart guy. Talking about the difference between common law and legislative statutes, about the things he had seen and how slowly it had all slipped away from him, from all of them. Now he was moving out entirely, relatives in New Zealand and he drank like a man in mourning. Rachel pitied him for his sentimentality, because the world had been moving in this direction for a long time, and she felt like a mammal drinking with a dinosaur. Still, she tried to follow due processes, even when no one else did. It wasnt death camps and indefinite detention, it was more creative than that.
She stood underneath the shower head, eyes closed, hot water beating her skull, massaging her aching muscles.
She opened them, turning the shower off and towelling herself dry before getting into clean underwear, jeans and a sweater, similar to what Greg was wearing, but different enough to tell that the personal shopper was a little more outre than Greg's. She stepped into the main room of the suite, and smiled at Greg.
"How long has the food been here?"
Greg, mumbled a glob of vowels around a mouthful of food, and she sat down. Cutting and forking chicken and pasta into her mouth.
"Greg. You're an asshole, you know that?"
Greg, swallowed and looked at her.
"I didnt mean for it to happen, Rach." His voice gone fragile and infantile.
"I know, but all you had to do was step back"
"I know."
"Stop saying I know, Greg. Its fucking irritating."
"I know"
Rachel shook her head, and carried on eating, trying to dampen down her anger with food.
She swallowed, looking at him and preparing to talk to him again.
She almost wished she was still out on patrol.
Greg sat, showered and shaved in a cableknit sweater and jeans, tan ankleboots and a new haircut. He had done this before, under much more frightening circumstances, immediate pursuit through Kabul or medieval mobs destroying entire towns in order to get their hands on another Company fuck up. By comparision, this was pleasant, almost sedate. Rachel was in the shower, and Greg was tearing into the roast beef on wholemeal, fingers slick with gravy as he shoved a mouthful of fries, Rachel's food was still on the tray, lemon chicken and tagliatelle. Television was on, political debate show live from Birmingham, still discussing Proportional Representation and the continued Corporate Presence. Resentment in every audience member, but skillfully deflected and defused. Rachel had said that there was a nationalised television station once, but that got torn apart by market pressures and a change of government, plans that had been set in place whilst the press had aneurysms over radio presenters making playful jokes with elderly comedic actors. One of Greg's comrades in Airborne called it the Niemoller Effect. No one speaks up for anyone else because they don't like or agree with them, until they realise that they have all been fucked. Greg didnt care as long as he could get Fox and ESPN. Greg was a man who lived life as simply as possible, entirely in the limbic area of his brain, and in turn distorted by the childhood bigotries he absorbed. Perfect for a man who wanted nothing more to shove guns in foreign faces and get paid for it.
Rachel, showering. More to hide the tears and to get the stink off, an olfactory hallucination that went unspoken, growing in intensity as the years and incidents went by. Rachel had seldom been involved in incidents like these, they tended to be the fault of her colleagues than her, she was careful and considered but then she had actually been a police woman, as opposed to a police officer, something that she had learnt about one of the first nights in London, explained to her by one of the last state policemen, paid to provide a training and transition package before he left the country entirely. Initially they had swapped stories, more of hers than his, and she struggled with some of the colloquialisms he used, but a smart guy. Talking about the difference between common law and legislative statutes, about the things he had seen and how slowly it had all slipped away from him, from all of them. Now he was moving out entirely, relatives in New Zealand and he drank like a man in mourning. Rachel pitied him for his sentimentality, because the world had been moving in this direction for a long time, and she felt like a mammal drinking with a dinosaur. Still, she tried to follow due processes, even when no one else did. It wasnt death camps and indefinite detention, it was more creative than that.
She stood underneath the shower head, eyes closed, hot water beating her skull, massaging her aching muscles.
She opened them, turning the shower off and towelling herself dry before getting into clean underwear, jeans and a sweater, similar to what Greg was wearing, but different enough to tell that the personal shopper was a little more outre than Greg's. She stepped into the main room of the suite, and smiled at Greg.
"How long has the food been here?"
Greg, mumbled a glob of vowels around a mouthful of food, and she sat down. Cutting and forking chicken and pasta into her mouth.
"Greg. You're an asshole, you know that?"
Greg, swallowed and looked at her.
"I didnt mean for it to happen, Rach." His voice gone fragile and infantile.
"I know, but all you had to do was step back"
"I know."
"Stop saying I know, Greg. Its fucking irritating."
"I know"
Rachel shook her head, and carried on eating, trying to dampen down her anger with food.
She swallowed, looking at him and preparing to talk to him again.
She almost wished she was still out on patrol.
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