Brian always had a fag hanging from his mouth and one behind his ear for when that one was no good anymore. He was an ‘old sweat’. I was posted with Brian a lot. My Supervising Sergeant’s words were, ‘He’s there to pull you back from jumping head first into things you don’t have a clue about’.
Brian’s reply was: “We can do it, but, it’s not really a crime – it’s probably just a couple arguing in their house and neighbours have rung the police. You’re not gonna’ get a body out of it sunshine…”
All said with a roll-up fag stuck to his bottom lip.
‘A body’ was an arrest; a prisoner – we were judged on the number of people we arrested.
“I’m really surprised they put it out on the radio really. Bloody domestics, we’re not social workers!” Brian continued.
“We’re not doing anything else though Brian, are we?” I said.
I wanted to experience exactly what a ‘Domestic’ was.
After a bit of wrangling, Brian eventually agreed that I could accept the call. We slowly made our way there. No blue lights or fast driving. It was just a ‘bloody domestic’ after all.
I walked up the gravel driveway of the large detached house to find a very distressed female standing outside the front door.
“He’s threatening to hit me, I didn’t know what else to do,” she blurted out, tears rolling down her cheeks and snot running from her nose. She was a smartly dressed, thirty-something woman.
“Has he actually hit you love?” Brian asked as he stepped in front of me and took the lead.
“Not yet, but he will, he always does, he’s always doing it…” she said between sobs.
Brian sighed loudly and went to his radio. “Can we have a WPC to this domestic call please. No crime has taken place, but there is a female who is very upset,” he said dismissively down the radio.
An hour later the woman had been talked out of reporting any crime at all and we had all shared a cup of tea with a man who had been threatening to hit her and had most probably done so in the past.