To Hell in a Handcart. Richard Littlejohn

of restaurants from scratch.’

      ‘So what’s your point? How do you know we won’t have a Romanian or a Kosovan restaurant on every High Street in ten years’ time?’

      Mickey laughed. ‘Don’t hold your breath. OK, so some are genuine, I’m not denying that. But there’s a fair share who have just come to take, not give. Beggars, pickpockets, all sorts. We’re talking organized criminal gangs from Eastern Europe. Interpol know who they are. The Branch know who they are. And what does Old Bill do about it?’

      ‘What are they supposed to do, Mickey? It’s the government letting them in.’

      ‘Yeah, OK. But the chief constables bleat about lack of resources, yet they’re never short of money – or “ree-sorsis” as they always call it – when it comes to those poor sods on the M4, just trying to get to work, visit their gran in hospital, who knows? They crawl for ever at about 5 mph, then the moment they find themselves out of the woods they’re nicked for doing more than 15 mph, pulled over, random breath-tested, tyres checked. How much does all that cost?’

      ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you,’ Andi interrupted. ‘Mum got a ticket the other day. A foot over a zigzag line, outside the chemist’s, picking up her prescription.’

      ‘Bastards. There you go,’ said Mickey. ‘Yet at the same time, there’s gangs of bandits heading for the West End with rail tickets paid for by the good old British taxpayer. And even if they are caught, they get a slap on the wrist and a pound from the poor box.’

      ‘That’s not the police, Mickey. That’s the courts.’

      ‘Accepted. But there’s never any leniency when Muggins in his Mondeo gets another three points on his licence, a thousand-pound fine and another few hundred quid on his insurance. We’re letting off real villains and at the same time turning as many decent folk as possible into criminals. That wasn’t what I joined the police for. And you know what really pisses me off?’

      ‘Go on, you’re going to tell me anyway,’ Andi chuckled.

      ‘I know most of this is the fault of the politicians. But there are plenty of Old Bill who not only go along with it, they abso-bloody-lutely love it. From the Black Rats in the jam-sandwiches to the fast-track fanny merchants at the top. That’s why I’m well off out of it. Now do you believe me?’

      ‘Every time, lover.’ She squeezed his hand and smiled. It was a while since they’d been away as a family and nothing was going to spoil this holiday. ‘You all right?’

      ‘I’m fine. Sorry to bang on, love. It’s just, you know, every now and then.’

      ‘Sure, I know. And I’ll tell you something. I’m glad you’re out of it, too. I wasn’t certain how you’d be, at first. There were a few difficult days, you know.’

      ‘Yeah, I’m sorry. It took me a while, that’s all.’

      ‘It was bound to. I did understand. If I got a bit agitated sometimes, it was only because I was worried about you. After the, well, you know, after that, after you were shot, not knowing whether you were going to make it. Then not knowing if you’d walk again. Or work again. Not that that mattered. I’d have got a job, we’d have been all right, really we would.’

      Mickey squeezed her hand back. Funny, they didn’t talk about it much at home. Too painful, maybe.

      They weren’t like those couples who were always talking and touching for fear of what might happen if they stopped. They didn’t need to. So much between them went unspoken.

      But he found it easy to talk to Andi in the car. It wasn’t that he dreaded eye contact. He adored eye contact with her, especially when they were making love. Conversation came easier when he was in the motor, that’s all.

      Maybe it was a legacy of all those stakeouts, all those long nights in smelly squad cars, full of stale burgers, flatulence, boredom, anticipation and, yes, fear, real fear. He never knew whether the target would be tooled up, how he would react. He’d been trained, programmed, honed, briefed, but when push came to shove, fear and adrenalin kicked in.

      And when it happened, there was farce and fuck-up, too. Like on the night he stopped the bullet which nearly killed him.

      ‘We don’t need to import criminals. We’ve got enough scum of our own,’ Mickey reflected, as the traffic again ground inexorably to a standstill.

      It was a routine stakeout. Mickey and his colleagues from the armed response unit were parked up outside the Westshires Building Society in Homsey, north London.

      They’d been in this situation dozens of times, acting on information received that rarely came to anything. For once, it was game on.

      Chummy strolled round the corner and into the building society, wielding a shotgun, blissfully unaware that the police were lying in wait, courtesy of a friendly, neighbourhood grass who offered him up over Guinness and Jameson’s in the back bar of the Princess Alexandra in exchange for a bit of leeway on a handling charge he was facing in the not too distant.

      Challenged by armed officers inside the building, the robber turned and ran. Mickey and two other firearms officers chased him through an industrial estate and onto the railway line.

      He was a big lad, out of Seven Sisters, strapping, gangling, six foot tall, and, still clutching the shooter, he ran, ducking and weaving through the parked cars, dodging between the railway carriages.

      The police got lucky when he caught his left size-twelve Timberland mountain boot in a badly maintained bit of track, snapped his ankle like a Twiglet and could only crawl underneath a derelict wooden goods van, which hadn’t moved since Dr Beeching.

      Trapped, frightened, fuelled by cocaine, he started firing. He wasn’t much of a shot and Mickey and the lads fell back on their training, took cover and followed procedure, which was to lie low, not return fire and wait for the negotiator to arrive.

      The temptation, the natural inclination, was always to storm the blagger and stick a shooter up his nose. But as a specialist weapons officer, Mickey knew to play the long game, the waiting game. It usually worked. Only very occasionally did someone get hurt.

      When it went wrong, it went horribly wrong. Mickey had been on the Libyan Embassy siege when a gunman started firing out of the window into St James’s. He was only yards away from WPC Yvonne Fletcher when she went down.

      The bastard who fired that fatal shot got diplomatic immunity and walked free. It still riled Mickey all these years later.

      He had been in Tottenham, too, the night PC Keith Blakelock bought it at Broadwater Farm, hacked to death, his head severed and paraded on a pole.

      In the railway siding, Mickey had bided his time, even though five minutes seemed like a lifetime in these circumstances. Then he saw one of his colleagues, Jimmy Needle, leap up and start to run in the direction of the embankment. Two young boys had wandered onto the line from the nearby playing field to see what all the excitement was about and had stumbled straight into the line of fire.

      As Needle ran towards the boys, the blagger, Lincoln Philpott, he was called, panicked and loosed off a couple of shots.

      By this time Mickey was on his feet. Philpott fired wildly and inaccurately, blasting anywhere. Mickey felt a sudden, almost dull, thud in his back, then a burning, piercing sensation, like acute kidney pain.

      The next thing he was lying face down, paralysed in agony. One bullet had ricocheted off a carriage and thudded into Mickey’s lower back, smashing his discs.

      I can’t feel my legs, he thought. For some reason the first thing that came into his mind was that old hospital joke.

      ‘Doctor, I can’t feel my legs.’

      ‘That’s because we’ve had to cut your arms off.’

      Mickey, despite the pain, smiled inwardly. They say that from adversity comes humour. Something like that, anyway. And Mickey spent his life trying to see the funny