The Good Policeman

David Flusfeder

The Good Policeman Drove From Carlo’s House.

 

1

 

 

Alice opened the door to the good policeman. She pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. Her hands were dusted with flour.

            I’ve been making bread, she said. This bread machine arrived the other day. I’ve been using it. To make bread. Come in. Is there any news?

            The good policeman sat at the kitchen table, loosened his belt and dunked a milk chocolate hobnob in the tea Alice made for him. Alice sat next to him. She was wearing paint-spattered blue dungarees. Her toenails were painted silver blue. Her fingernails were unpainted and chewed.

            Did you see him? Did you find anything out?

            The good policeman sighed.

Why, he asked, do you think he’s involved?

            I don’t like him. Or trust him.

            Unfortunately the days are gone when we could lock somebody up because we didn’t like them.

            (He didn’t allow himself more than the quickest flash of nostalgia for happier, black and white days, the police force he dreamed of when he was a child.)

            He said he thought your husband had gone abroad.

            He told me that too. He said Barry—a friend of ours—had told him that. I asked Barry. He doesn’t know anything about it.

            You don’t think your husband has gone abroad.

            I don’t know. His passport’s still here. He sent me a postcard.

            May I see it?

            I’d rather you didn’t.

           

Alice looked at the refrigerator. It was awkward for Sergeant Ralph to follow her gaze. He rubbed the side of his neck while he turned his head. Alice

got up and walked to the refrigerator. She stood in front of the refrigerator door, blocking Sergeant Ralph’s view of Heathrow Airport on a dismal day.

            It might be helpful if I had a look at it.

            I suppose so. Did you look around Carlo’s house? There might be some, I don’t know, evidence there.

            I wasn’t invited in.

            Well isn’t that suspicious in itself? You could get a search warrant, couldn’t you?

            I’m going to talk to his probation officer. May I have a look at the postcard please?

            Reluctantly Alice slid away the photograph magnets that held it in place. She passed it to Sergeant Ralph. He looked carefully at the picture of airplanes on a damp runway, then, after making sure the table was dry with a wipe of his tunic sleeve, turned it over, adjusted it with his fingertips so it was perfectly square with the edge of the table. He showed no expression as he examined it. No pity or surprise.

            Is this his handwriting?

            Yes.

            You’re confident he wrote it.

            I’m sure he did. But I don’t know why, He’s been going through a difficult time. May I have it back now please?

           

Alice picked up the postcard and returned it to its place on the refrigerator door.

            Thank you for the tea. And the biscuit, he scrupulously added. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.

            He got up heavily, wiped a few hobnob crumbs away from his tunic into the cup of his hand. He deposited the crumbs in the sink.

She waited for him to leave. He seemed to be looking for something consoling to say, as if he was hoping for a Latin motto or formula of poetry to pop into his head.

            I’ll do what I can. I’ll call by in a few days if that isn’t presumptuous.

            Thank you sergeant, she said. Of course.

            I’m sorry, he said.

            Yes, she said.

            He patted her twice on the arm.

 

 

2

 

 

Alice opened the door to the good policeman. She pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. Her hands were dusted with flour.

            I’ve been making bread, she said. This bread machine arrived the other day. I’ve been using it. To make bread. Come in. Is there any news?

            The good policeman sat at the kitchen table, loosened his belt and dunked a milk chocolate hobnob in the tea Alice made for him.

Alice sat next to him. She was wearing paint-spattered blue dungarees. Her toenails were painted silver blue. Her fingernails were unpainted and chewed.

            Did you see him? Did you find anything out?

She undid several buttons of her dungarees as if unconsciously and the good policeman watched. Her cleavage was revealed, the sides of her breasts. She carried on unbuttoning and her dungarees flapped down, past her navel. She sat forward with her hands on her knees. She opened her lips slightly and half-closed her eyes. The good policeman liked

Alice’s breasts. They were heavy and unsunned and marbled with veins. His wife’s were stringy and brown because of the sunbathing club she belonged to.

The good policeman took hold of

Alice’s shoulders.

Excuse me, he said, I hope I’m not being presumptuous.

He kissed her roughly on the mouth. She stood up towards him…

            A large digital clock shone hazy green mirror numbers onto the top of his scalp. She bit into the side of his neck.

When it was over, she waited for him to leave. He seemed to be looking for something consoling to say, as if he was hoping for a Latin motto or formula of poetry to pop into his head.

I’ll do what I can. I’ll call by in a few days if that isn’t presumptuous.

            Thank you sergeant, she said. Of course.

            I’m sorry, he said.

            Yes, she said.

            He patted her twice on the arm.

 

 

3

 

 

Alice opened the door to the good policeman. She pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. Her hands were dusted with flour.

            I’ve been making bread, she said. This bread machine arrived the other day. I’ve been using it. To make bread. Come in. Is there any news?

            The good policeman sat at the kitchen table, loosened his belt and dunked a milk chocolate hobnob in the tea

Alice made for him. Alice sat next to him. She was wearing paint-spattered blue dungarees. Her toenails were painted silver blue. Her fingernails were unpainted and chewed.

            Did you see him? Did you find anything out?

            The good policeman sighed.

I am sick at heart, he said. Everything looks rotten to me. The world is a dangerous place. Strong people do bad things to weak people and get away with it. I don’t even love my wife.

            Do you have children?

            Once, long ago, we had a little girl that died. We called her Rosemary... I’m sorry. That’s not true. It’s what I used to pretend sometimes, to myself as well as others, to justify my feelings. No we never had kiddies. I’m just sick of everything deep to my heart. I do what I can when I can. Sometimes I pray. Would you pray with me?

            No. I don’t think I would. Did you go to Carlo’s house?

            Does it matter? Really? I don’t think it matters. Do you love your husband? I don’t love my wife.

            I don’t know if I love my husband or not.

            I’m being presumptuous I know but the impression I get is of a weak man.

            Then what does that make me?

            Sergeant Ralph didn’t say anything to that. He gave her a look that was so coldly lascivious that it frightened her. He fetched out a blue handkerchief and rubbed parts of his nose with it. Then he got down on his knees.

           

Alice looked at Sergeant Ralph. He was a bearish man, low centre of gravity, there were dark hairs on the backs of his hands, hair over the top of his shirt and knotted tie. He looked Mediterranean

or Celtic maybe. His eyes were green and bloodshot and filled with woe. His face was crumpled and strong.

            Pray with me. Pray with me please.

            I’m sorry. I don’t want to. Go ahead if you want to.

            It seemed to be a matter of need for him more than want. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. After a while he forgot he was being watched. His mouth moved fast, mostly silent; sometimes he nodded his head to the rhythm of his prayer, made low rumbling sounds. She couldn’t decipher any of them as words. When he was done and he’d opened his eyes again he appeared calmer.

            You said your husband had sent you a postcard.

            He did. Someone did.

            May I see it please?

            I’d rather you didn’t.

            The good policeman wiped his face with his handkerchief and got to his feet.

            To be honest, he said, I couldn’t care less either way. Was it his handwriting?

            Yes.

            Sergeant Ralph looked at the refrigerator door.

Alice didn’t bother to. Look, she said, I’d like to know where he is if it’s possible to find out. I don’t know how to do it on my own.

            Thank you for the tea and biscuit, the good policeman said. I’ll let you know if there are any developments.

She waited for him to leave. He seemed to be looking for something consoling to say, as if he was hoping for a Latin motto or formula of poetry to pop into his head.

I’ll do what I can. I’ll call by in a few days if that isn’t presumptuous.

            Thank you sergeant, she said. Of course.

            I’m sorry, he said.

            Yes, she said.

            He patted her twice on the arm.

 

 

Alice watched the police car go away and then she closed the door. She didn’t know what had happened during the good policeman’s visit, except that Philip had not been found and that Carlo may or may not have been responsible for his absence. There were so many people to feel sorry for, she thought. She refused to be one of them.

           

Alice called up Molly, at whose house the twins had been staying. She asked if they could sleep over one more night. She said she hoped she wasn’t being presumptuous. After she’d hung up she wondered at her use of the word presumptuous. She didn’t recognise it as a word she ordinarily used.