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Memorial
By Joodiff
"Are you all right?" Grace murmurs hoarsely to Frankie, her face haggard with emotion, unshed tears already bright in her eyes. Frankie can't speak, but she nods curtly and tightens her grip on the older woman's arm. And they stand under the grey afternoon sky in the little staff car park, slightly apart from the small knot of civilians dressed in their best formal clothes. There's the usual rumble of London traffic, all the normal city sounds, and yet it seems as if a bubble of silence has fallen on this place. It's empty – cleared of all the vehicles that normally use it – and despite everything, somehow it has become, just for a few minutes, a sacred sort of place.
And then they hear the sound of marching feet from the far side of the ugly, utilitarian building. Dozens of feet, falling in perfect time with one another. There is something awe-inspiring about the sound. Grace feels it. Frankie feels it.
Into sight they finally come, marching four abreast, Boyd at front right, Spencer Jordan at rear right. It's a sea of dark dress uniforms, of silver buttons and coloured medal ribbons. White gloves, peaked hats and traditional police helmets. It's many bodies moving as one, an expression of power, of dignity. Of respect.
They are all there. Every single officer from the CCU itself, and every officer from the support staff. And they are marching for one of their own. Because they choose to.
At the rear, Spencer gives the command, voice ringing clear and loud, "Parade, left turn."
On this day, on this one day, they would give any group of Sandhurst cadets a good run for their money, so precise are they, so committed to what they are doing. At the back, Spencer is the last man to wheel, keeping the formation as perfect as it could possibly be.
"Parade, slow march."
And as one, they drop to ceremonial speed, boots clashing loudly on the asphalt.
Grace has a lump in her throat, and she doesn't attempt to stop the tears that are now trickling down in earnest. She hears a stifled sob from Frankie, but she can't take her eyes of the men and women marching slowly past. Not one of the parade darts a look left or right, they march with heads up and eyes front, as they were all taught to do as cadets.
"Parade, halt."
The sound of marching feet ceases instantly, leaving only the heartbeat of the city.
"Parade, right turn. Parade, attention."
There is silence. Grace hears no order to salute, but as one perfectly disciplined being, they do so, white palms of gloves outwards, facing the memorial stone let into the dingy concrete wall of the building.
Detective Sergeant Amelia Silver, 1975 – 2004.
They hold the salute respectfully, and everything is still and silent. Grace can hear Frankie choking back her sobs, but all else is quiet. Every arm snaps down at the same moment. Constables, Detective Constables, Sergeants… every last one of them, regardless of rank.
Coldy eerie, the single bugle in the silence. The Last Post, a traditional metaphor for sadness and defiance.
Grace is crying properly now, and she's hugging Frankie too tightly, because just maybe two can be stronger than one.
The last notes die away into the overcast afternoon, and it is Boyd who steps forward to read the secular, memorial words that Grace herself has written. His voice is strong, his tone is measured, but his eyes are dead. He is a man doing what he must, a man who carries the weight of everyone's pain on his shoulders because that's what the gleaming red crowns on his epaulettes mean he must bear. And no-one asks who there is to carry his pain.
The words said, he falls back into line, becomes once again part of the single uniformed body. And Spencer gives the order to march. And march they do – marching as one for their fallen comrade.
It's all they can do. And it has to be enough. Because nothing they can do can ever undo the tragedy.
And Grace cries and Frankie cries, and the parade marches slowly back out of sight, still in perfect formation.
-oOo-