The alcohol had beaten him down. He’d concealed it from his fellow officers and from the post-traumatic stress counsellor, but not from his wife. You’re a different man when you drink, Jack. He hadn’t grasped what she meant by that. But something was amiss. He knew that. He just didn’t know what to do. He knew some people found it simple to quit the grog, but not him. Although he was trying.
Sally was attractive and Erica had been gone for six months. The rubbish on television and those online streaming services went out of their way to place sex on some kind of pedestal, present it as some kind of mystical experience that surpasses all things, all desires. He tried to avoid the shows, but they lured him and stirred up desires and thoughts that would have him seek out the Sally’s of this world and their smiles. But his wife still ruled his heart.
Back to the people. Orange man had vanished. Jack looked up. No orange dot in the sky. He brushed his hand through his hair and stood up. Orange people, orange dots, crazy world. Better get back to work.
As he headed back towards the office, he passed the orange man. He was talking to the man with the large placard. Now, that would be an interesting conversation.
* * *
“You’re a bit of a goose,” orange man said, his nose inches away from the placard. He scratched the text with his fingernails.
“Why’s that?” Placard man took a step back, trying to get the placard out of reach.
“What do we need to repent from?”
“Your sins.”
Orange man laughed and pushed placard man. He lost his balance and tumbled into a garden bed. Orange man got some mean looks from two passers-by who stopped to help placard man up.
Placard man stood, and removed the placard, and thanked those who had helped him up. He looked at orange man.
“You still here?” Placard man dusted debris off his trousers. “Cowards like you normally rush off.”
His rescuers still stood beside placard man, so orange man let his temper simmer. He couldn’t afford to bring attention to himself.
“Well, at least I’m not an idiot walking the streets with a large billboard advertising my stupidity.”
The man smiled. “I will pray for you.”
What a strange and passive response. Orange man walked off.
4 - Hello Doc Cop
Jack stared at the words on the report he was writing. He was in a reflective mood. Writing captured words, produced a permanent record, preventing words heard and not heard floating off into an invisible realm. Erica told him God has a record of every word spoken. If that was the case, there must be a lot of worried people around.
He looked at the screen, at the words he had struggled with. Still some gaps, but he’d drafted most of the initial crime report. Tiredness did things to him. But he needed to capture his thoughts. The walk had cleared his thinking, but only a little. Tiredness continued to come in waves. He saved and closed the report.
Cath’s report was already in the case folder. She was probably sound asleep with the air con on full. Jack should get home, but there was no rush. He was tired, so tired, but the only thing that excited him about home was bed and sleep. Nothing else. He needed company, and here people were. Besides, he had his appointment with the Doc Cop. After that, nothing but another lonely evening. Maybe he could seek out Sally-Anne and use the orange man or the orange dot in the sky as an excuse for a conversation. Such a visit could brighten up his day, brighten up his life. He knew where she lived—that wasn’t hard for a policeman to find out.
He looked at the time on his computer: 9:25 am. To the Doc Cop, then the coffee spot. He pushed his chair back a bit too abruptly and startled some fellow officers.
Doc Cop wore a white shirt with silver heart-shaped cuff links, and black trousers with fine white polka dots that reminded him of a star-filled night. No orange dots, thank goodness.
She ushered him over to the couch near the large bay window.
“You drinking, Jack?” she asked as she settled into her comfy lounge chair next to the couch, a clipboard on her lap.
Straight into it. Jack moved on the couch, uneasy. “Why do you ask?”
“Just the redness under your right eye.” She touched under her eye. “A bruise?”
“It is.” Jack rubbed under his eye. “A bruise.”
“Sorry. That was a bit insensitive.”
Still insensitive as she viewed her notes as she spoke. She flicked through some papers and looked up at Jack. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m trying to find cracks in your demeanour when I shouldn’t be.” She shook her head. “I’m rushed. Big workload.”
“Last night’s shooting won’t help.”
“Maybe it’s time I saw a Doc Cop. And I’m considering getting into yoga.” She placed her hands face up and forward and gave a hum sound, the perfect imitation of a guru.”
So she knew the name they’d given her. He knew she meant well. It was twelve months since he pulled the trigger on that man, and six months since his separation. He’d been looking for cracks in his demeanour too.
Jack touched his face again. “It is a bruise. Tried to get some youth out of a stolen car the other night. They speed off on some loose gravel. I got a pebble under the eye. Suppose I was lucky.”
“You were.”
“I do drink. I did. Too much. But I did it in the privacy of my unit.” He hadn’t told her this before and wasn’t sure why he was telling her now. Maybe her openness brought it out. And the voice telling him he needed a drink was getting pushy. Nagging. He hadn’t noticed before. The nagging voice reminded him of the body he saw that morning. The voice told him the memory could be washed away.
“Do you think your drinking is a problem?”
“It was. Three months. I’ve been dry for three months.”
“Why the change of heart, not keeping it under wraps? I mean, you hid it pretty well.”
He pressed his lips together before responding. “A heaviness. A desire to unload, but I’m not sure what I want to unload. I think it’s been building up from when I first joined the force to now. Being a first responder to a number of horrific incidents—those images sometimes drop into my mind. And there’s quite a collection. I can push them away with the alcohol. I’ve been staying away from the grog and making progress, but the images still come and go. I think that’s the key, letting them go—getting them out of my head.”
Doc Cop nodded, letting him talk.
