#noisywrites

You eye the rearview mirror, looking at the pile of uniform on the backseat. Your hi-vis coat and flat peaked cap, your vest too with the rest of your gear. Body cam, radio, handcuffs and baton - anything and everything that could protect you. There’s a reason it’s thrown back there, because you’re likely safer without it all, funnily enough. If he sees you rolling up to his house in all your gear then he’ll shut down for certain.

Another two miles and you finally reach the entrance to the long narrow driveway that leads up to the farm. It stretches on for what feels like forever, tall unkept hedges lining the track, the realisation hits you that he likely won’t see you approaching. He knows that this is on the cards, but not exactly when to expect it, or even why - he falls into the percentage that doesn’t believe he needs help. He isn’t stupid, his morals are still intact and he knows what is right and what’s wrong, but his psyche is what’s questionable. Whether he’s still all there, as sharp as a whip like he once was, you can only take so many bullets before your head starts to try and protect itself.

You’ve taken on far worse - so this old man doesn’t scare you.

One thing is clear as you pull in front of the house, that despite how you feel about him, you won’t let it show. He’s been back a few years now, you had met him a few times in passing while patrolling, had only been newly promoted when he came home from his last tour - never getting to deal with his antics personally while on duty but knowing enough to know that you’d definitely cross paths with him sooner or later. Whether that was at the station or in the back of a police car.

While you only know half his story, your mind has pieced together the rest, as right or wrong as that is. That personal military connection from your past makes you sympathetic, hollows you out, because you don’t have to imagine what this man has done and seen. You feel like you’ve lived it, because you grew up on the receiving end of screams and pleas from your father as he fought his night terrors. As he clawed his own skin off because he was hallucinating gas-attack burns and watching in terror as he strangled your mother while they both slept because his body had re-wired itself to be in defence mode even when it didn’t need to be.

You remind yourself to be cautious, even if you do feel sorry for him, if he’s even half capable of the things your father did - he’s still a danger, to himself and those around him.

The house is weathered, ivy crawls across almost the entire expanse of it. Swallowing it whole. It must have been built hundreds of years ago, and it shows, looking as old as you assume it is. There’s debris surrounding every inch of land within fifty metres. Old tractors and trucks, rusty tin roofing propped against low brick walls that are all half knocked over. Piles of rubbish and burned bonfires strewn about. It looks abandoned. Lost to time itself. The silence consumes it, despite the animals that you know inhabit this place, there isn’t a single sound. Not from a cow or sheep or chicken, deathly silent the whole place is.

“Can I help you Officer?” The sound of his voice startles you despite how softly he speaks.

The sheer fact you’ve allowed yourself to be distracted by the state of the place proves what you’d already been telling yourself, you can be cautious and still be kind.

You turn your gaze to the front door of the house, seeing him standing there, filling the entire doorway almost in both length and width. He’s as tall as he is wide these days.

There’s a softness to his eyes, the wrinkles of his crows feet jutting up with the roundness of his rosy cheeks. His flannel shirt is unbuttoned to reveal a grimy off-white vest that pulls tight over his stomach and the shirt sleeves are rolled up above his elbows to reveal the dark hair wrapped over his thick arms. You have to admit, he’s aged well, you dare say he looks a lot less scary like this. A lot less terrifying than you remember him to be.

“Forgive my intrusion, Mr Price-“

“John will suffice love” he smiles without his teeth “what can I do for you?”

He talks over you, squashing down any authority you might have thought you could leverage over him - even in uniform. You move yourself closer whilst still maintaining some distance, still reserved in what little trust you might put in this man, you won’t feel totally sorry for him, yet.

“I was hoping we could have a little chat, John” his first name sits weirdly in your mouth.

He watches your lips closely, you notice.

“Are we not chatting right now?” There’s a sly smile that paints his lips, while his demeanour is calm there’s a light behind his eyes that you recognise well. He’s calculating. He’s sizing you up.

You step closer, if it’s games he wants, then you’ll play along, let him think he holds all the cards here. You paint a wide smile, adding an over exaggerated laugh for good measure.

“Well I suppose you got me there” another two steps closer. “I just mean something a little more causal” Another step closer until you’re close enough that you have to tilt your chin to meet his eyes. There’s the glint of something in them, a flash of red in the light blue of his irises.

His smile creeps back over his teeth. “I like things causal” He folds his hands into his front pockets, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. He makes a clear point to adjust the front of his jeans with the leverage of his hands inside his pockets, you do your best to not react, to not let him know you noticed. You fix your eyes to his.

It’s then that John notices something, probably from eyeing your chest more than you would have liked him to. “Aren’t you supposed to wear your body-cams for house calls like this sergeant?” He shows no shame in the way he starts to step out from the doorway, hands still firmly rooted in his pockets.

You tilt your chin to hold his gaze as he steps nearer, you won’t step back or shrink away. “I didn’t think it was necessary” you watch the way his expression contorts, “not for the nature of this house call”

As good as he’s been at falsifying this calm and soft demeanour so far, you see something crack in him right then. He searches your eyes, weighing you up, he doesn’t like not being on the in. His whole life he’s been the inside man, the man in the know, but civilian life had taken that away from him. Ripped it away from the tight grip of his calloused hands, he’d fought so hard to keep ahold of it, but his decisions were made for him.

After a minute he hums, it’s deep in the back of his throat, thoughtful. John suddenly turns on his heel toward the house, only managing a step inside before he turns back to you “come on in” once again in that soft tone, the one that may or may not be the real John Price.

★・・・・・・★

Some weeks later

The screen hurts your eyes. Maybe it’s not how close you sit to the monitor or how many hours you spend staring at it, maybe it’s the stress. Writing up notes on each complaint that comes through about John, each welfare check call, every report about his behaviour and demeanour, it seems endless.

The growing rapport you share with Price is swallowing you whole. The visits becoming more and more frequent, sometimes a few times a week - and the duration of them grows longer too, often hours at a time spent up at the farm.

You had tried to flag your concerns to the Chief, trying to set up some kind of care worker arrangement for Price instead, someone that can actually spare the hours to speak to the veteran. Instead the Chief tells you to put up and shut up, that you’re more than capable to handle Price, it’s why he can’t understand your reaction when he tells you that he’s assigning you as Price’s liaison officer. Maybe he expected you to jump up and down and clap your hands, instead you just stared at him, unable to think of any probable reason why you would be given such a task.

Why should you have to worry about juggling babysitting Price on top of your already packed rota of patrol shifts, managing a small team and a backlog of admin that you never seem to be able to get on top of?

You find Price is on your mind even when you’re not running around cleaning up his messes. He’s charming, undoubtedly - but you know to be weary. You don’t blame him, of course, anyone that’s seen and done the things that Price had has every right to be rotten and terse and mean, you just think he needs more support then you can offer.

Him masking with a falsified charm a few hours at a time with you will be more detrimental to him, he needs someone better trained in mental health, someone that can get to the bottom of his behaviour problems and help him understand why he is the way he is and how he can work to get better. You’re unqualified, more used to reprimanding avid drug and alcohol abusers who are newly released or have ASBOs, that’s your job as a liaison officer - merely checking up on folk, keeping them on track, John is a whole different kettle of fish in comparison.

The only reason you’re here in the first place is stupid, it all started with a disagreement over parking. Something as simple as that had escalated into a verbal argument that led to Price threatening a man’s life. In a small town like this, that caught people’s attention. People know Price, they know what he’s been through and they know he’s sick, so they don’t want to get him in trouble. The man he’d assaulted was more shaken than anything, his victim statement highlighted that he didn’t want to press charges but he wanted to make sure Price was well. After all, he didn’t come to town much, suppose he didn’t need to. So it raises alarms that when he does drag himself to town he can’t help but cause disturbances.

The conversations you and he have are always about something different, but they all circle back to the same thing.

Incident #257 - rock thrown through paper shop window. Incident #342 - knife pulled on civilian during verbal altercation. Incident #451 - parking illegally, blocking access. Incident #528 - drunk and disorderly. Incident #284 - verbal threats of violence. Incident #162 - intimating a witness.

The list went on and on in the space of just a few weeks. Nothing was too alarming, not when it wasn’t on paper, speaking to the witnesses and victims and Price himself always made everything seem okay, no one feared for their life or wanted him arrested, they just want to make sure he’s okay. He keeps getting away with it because of who is, because of what he’s sacrificed, it’s unfair and borderline corrupt but in a small town like this it’s overlooked. You do agree he doesn’t present a real threat, not yet at least, but if things start escalating then there will be trouble - and you know that’s certain from personal experiences.

A reoccurring theme you find is that these people must really care for him, genuinely, because they’d surely let him get away with murder at this point.

By the time you make it to the farm your migraine is already in full force, too many hours spent typing up notes no one will bother to read. It throbs at the back of your head, thumping away behind your eyes. Price notices something is off immediately.

“You’re quiet” he says, staring at you over the lip of his mug as he sips loudly at his coffee.

You shrug your shoulders, fingernails scratching against the mug in your hands as you try to think of something to say. You bite your tongue to withhold the sarcasm, you’d learnt he’s inept in that way, it rarely lands.

“Got a headache that’s all” you steal a glance and his eyes pierce yours, he’s always intense, even if he isn’t trying to be.

Your eyes drift from him, toward the photos lining his walls, to one in particular just before the wall stops and curves round toward the stairs. Men in uniforms, identical but worn differently, some dressed up and some dressed down, different kinds of gear. From left to right, a handsome young black man, a younger Price, a rugged man with a Mohawk and then on the end a giant of a man with a balaclava. You have to squint to try and see the finer details, but you can tell they must be at a base somewhere, in the Middle East probably, the backdrop looks sandy and barren.

The sound of the bottom of Price’s mug hitting the counter loudly draws you back to him. He moves a step or two from where he had been leaning his hip against the worktop and stops to crouch and look through the cupboard under the sink, rattling through an orange plastic box that used to hold Jacob’s crackers. Then he’s crossing the kitchen over toward where you’re sitting at his dining table, two unassuming white pills cradled in his outstretched palm.

You’re quick to frown. “That’s the dodgiest thing I’ve ever seen John” your expression remains flat while he laughs to himself, eyes crinkling.

“Get it down ya, it’s just ibuprofen” he insists, dropping the pills into your outstretched palm “do you think I’m daft enough to drug a copper?” Maybe he’s trying sarcasm on for size.

You smile, something strange “well John I’m not sure I know you well enough to come to a conclusion on that” The irony of swallowing the pills around the words with your cup of tea, is deafening. You trust that he in fact wouldn’t do something like that to put you in danger, his threat level is no where near that, it’s the whole reason you can be here so comfortably.

“Well too late now isn’t it” he returns to his own mug, downing the remainder of it.

It’s been two hours of just talking, you’ve added some new self help leaflets to the pile that lays exactly where you’d left them the last time you were here, on the dining table.

“Yeah suppose it is” you finish off your tea and stand, heading closer to Price to deposit your mug in the sink, he never lets you wash it yourself. You turn toward him and fold your arms, this is the point where the two of you just stare. Weighing each other up, wondering who’ll say goodbye first. It’s always Price.

“Well” he starts, clearing his throat. “Same time next week?” It’s hopeful, you gift him a sorry look and he frowns.

“I’m really busy next week, work is crazy” you rock back on your heels, this is the first time you’ve seen him disappointed.

“You can’t even spare an hour?” The way he says it unnerves you, almost like he feels entitled to you. It sends a shiver up your spine.

You sigh. “Not really, if I’m honest, my whole week is packed” you shuffle on your feet, uncomfortably.

He suddenly steps closer, startling you, if only slightly. “What if I came to your place?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think that’s a good-“ “why?” He’s quick to cut you off, tone shifting, as does the expression on his face. “Because it’s unprofessional” you’re too quick to answer back, it’s a clear admission, and hardly a false one.

He looks taken aback, surprised that you’ve said such a thing, he clearly wasn’t expecting it. A long beat of silence.

“Why?” He doesn’t let you answer “because they’ll think you’re a bent copper?” His chest heaves “it’s not illegal is it? Huh? To be friends with a copper” his words slur the quicker he talks. “This is my job John” it’s quick from your lips, too quick for you to catch, you watch as he bristles. “So you’re going to tell me you’re only here because you have to be?” he sighs your name, it’s pained, you’ve confirmed his suspicions.

He starts to back away but you reach for him, catching his arm. His skin is hot to the touch. “I’m here because I care” there’s a beat of silence, it’s drawn out and John doesn’t turn back to look at you. “I’m here to make sure you’re okay John”.

He turns suddenly, sharply, crowding you back. “And why would you do that?” It’s through gritted teeth, he doesn’t trust that what you say is completely true, you don’t know if it’s right or wrong yourself.

“Because I think you’re a pained man who doesn’t know what to do with that pain”. You watch his face turn in confusion. “You need some help John” your breathing is shallow, exasperated from the proximity, he’s so close that if you took a deep enough inhale your chests would touch.

He searches your eyes, dissecting you under the scrutiny of his stare. “I think you should go” it’s all he says before he hurls himself away, he’s through the kitchen and out the back door before you can even blink.

You make sure you’re out of there before he comes back.

★・・・・・・★

It’s late when you arrive home. The street lights bathe you in a dark amber glow and it does nothing in the way of helping you see better. The lights are probably as old as you are.

While the headache seems to have disappeared, a heaviness sits there in its wake instead, weighing you down. It feels like you’re blinking slower, reacting slower, there’s barely enough strength in you to shut your car door properly. Somehow you manage to make it to the front door, keying the lock a few times before you get it right.

It’s unclear when you fall asleep, but it’s soon enough that you don’t even manage to cook dinner or have a shower - or even lock the front door behind yourself.

Headlights illuminate the side of your car and spread up the pavement and onto the brick wall of your block of flats as a truck pulls into the parking space beside your car. Without any real care the occupant opens their door, watching with glazed eyes as it slams into your door, a horrid discoloured mark now there when he shuts the door after climbing out the truck. Your car is a pale silvery blue, easily marked by the dark rusted paint of the truck, it’s hard to tell what colour it once was, now it’s a dark greenish brown colour.

He doesn’t make a sound, dark eyes watching as he drags two gloved fingers over the mark on your car, flecks of silvery paint scratched away by gloved fingernails.

He lets some time pass, standing beneath the amber glow of the streetlamp, staring up at the set of windows he now knows belong to you. He’s in no rush tonight, or any night for that matter, he’s got all the time in the world. He rolls up the thick material of his mask and fishes a fag from his pocket, it’s gripped between his teeth as he cups one hand around the end and lights it, he smokes it all the way to the butt as he stares up at your window. The bitter lick of the burnt taste hits the back of his throat.

Once he’s satisfied himself he opens his truck door and tugs his mask back down with his free hand, again letting the door slam into your car again, gloved fingers poking at even more flecking paint - he likes the way the streetlight makes the painted bones on his gloves look like nicotine stained wallpaper. He thinks of his mum. He remembers the house he was dragged up in, all the walls looked like that.