The Service (2/3) By Joe Hakim

(1/3), (2/3), (3/3).

I climb into the car. Carter's never been out there in this uniform, doing this job. The little scrote-bag wouldn't last five minutes. He'd be eaten alive. I put the car into gear and slowly accelerate out of the garage. As I leave the perimeter and the relative safety of the station, that familiar feeling fills my stomach once again. For some reason, you look at The Orchard in a totally different way once you've put the uniform on. It's like you're wearing a different mindset. You're not one of them anymore, and the run-down, overcrowded, disintegrating estate you're driving around suddenly becomes an alien environment.

It's already dark, and the lights begin to come on inside all of the apartment blocks and houses. People are shutting themselves in for the night, hiding from the scum who come out and take control of the streets. They live in fear - everyone lives in fear - of the gangs. They roam around like locusts, stealing or destroying everything they can.

Things have gotten so bad that the rest of the stations in The Orchard refuse to operate at night. We're the only one left, and that's what makes us so important. That's what makes us essential, because if we go under, who will people turn to? The car I'm in has a silenced engine and dimmed lights, but the fact that I'm the only vehicle on the streets negates any attempt at stealth. But the punks know we don't fuck around; we don't go down without a fight. If anyone wants to take me on, they better be prepared.

The first couple of kilometres pass without incident. The silence, although unsettling to begin with, allows me to drift away into a reverie. I think about getting back to the station and smoking a cigarette and drinking a coffee. I think about the new television I've just bought. Just as I start to think that this is going to be a piece of piss, I see movement out of the corner of my eye, and then something lands on the bonnet and shatters.

Flames spread all over the car, and I pull the steering-wheel sharply to the left and the car hits something. Jerking forward, I bang my head on the wheel, stunning myself. I hear them milling about around the car. There could be a couple, or there could be as many as twenty. Composing myself, I fumble around for my baton. I'll have to get out of the car to assess the damage, and that's what they're waiting for. I open the door and wait for the inevitable attack. The first one rushes towards me, trying to take me on face to face. He hits me in the stomach, so I swing the baton and feel it connect with a thump. Someone next to me hits me in the face with a blunt object, breaking my nose, so I drop down low and sweep my leg around, catching their knee.

I immediately leap up and onto my second assailant and start to pummel their head into the ground. The fire on the bonnet of my car casts enough light to see the face of the person I'm hitting. It's a young girl.

Continued...Next Page (3/3)

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