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Every Londoner has their manor – a collection of bits of the city where they feel comfortable. Where you live, or went to college; where you work or your sports club; that particular bit of the West End where you go drinking or, if you’re the police, the patrol area around your nick. If you’re a native-born Londoner (and, contrary to what you’ve heard, we are the majority) then the strongest bit of your manor is where you grew up. There’s a particular kind of safety that comes from being on the streets where you went to school, had your first snog, or drink, or threw up your first chicken
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‘Science doesn’t have all the answers, you know.’ ‘It’s got all the best questions, though,’ I said.
The bouncer, a side of meat that I knew for a fact had done time in Wandsworth for various crimes that started with the word ‘aggravated’, at least gave this some serious consideration. ‘I’ve never heard of you,’ he said.
Purdy lumbered over. When you’re wearing a stab vest, an equipment belt, extendable baton, nipple-shaped helmet, shoulder harness, Airwave radio, cuffs, pepper spray, notebook and emergency Mars Bar, lumber is what you do.
It’s officers like Purdy that give the Metropolitan Police its sterling reputation for customer service that makes us the envy of the civilised world.
Sandbrow was at least young and fit, but his face had a sort of routine sandy plainness – as if his creator had been working on him at the end of the day and was looking to make up a quota.
Which was when, had I been a cartoon character, a little light bulb would have gone ‘ding’ over my head.
You don’t get old-fashioned muscle like that in London any more. These days it was all whippet-thin white guys with mad eyes and hoodies.
Regent Street was a slow-moving river of wet metal,
Then she just accelerated away. I’m a young man, I’m fit and I used to sprint at school. But she just left me standing like a fat kid on sports day. I came to a stop at the corner of Brewer and Glasshouse, put my hands on my knees and tried to catch my breath. The diehard smokers outside the Glassblower pub on the corner gave me an ironic cheer. You bastards, I thought, I’d like to see you run her down.
