I do not own the 28 days/weeks later series. I would be very rich, and it would have been very different if I did. But I don't. I only own Cassandra.
"Whew" The first word isn't so much a word is a low whistle coming through the headset and into my ear. Its the kind of sound that implies whatever inspired it was something awe inspiring or surprising enough to be impressive. Hopefully impressive enough to make the end of my shift somewhat less mind numbing.
"What you got Philips?" I ask before anyone else can, setting the butt of the gun into my shoulder, half expecting and hoping for a visual to go with the words he is about to speak.
"Drunk and disorderly in progress at the pub."
That, according to the multitude of responses, was exactly what we were hoping for. I hear a small chorus of yeah's and alrights, a woho, fight! a small series of bets, and even a complaint that they couldn't see anything, in the time it to me too switch positions so I could actually get a view of the pubs entrance is well.
I find that last statement to be true is well. I can see the pub, but whatever is going on must be inside still because no one is out in front of it. That's mildly disappointing, and I'm not the only one who thinks so.
"Come on man, tell them to bring the bastard outside, if there gonna rough him up at least let us watch."
The reply we get makes us all shut up. "Its a her." The idea that the first drunk and disorderly in the district is a woman apparently is enough of a shock to our expectations that we forget how to talk, at least for a few seconds.
Than we remember the ability in earnest. The call goes up for details, like whether it is just one woman or two? Is there hair pulling? Clothes ripping? Kissing, please let there be kissing? Is she pretty? What's she look like? What are her dimensions? The kind of questions you would expect from a bunch of bored soldiers, or soldiers in general.
He ignores the idea of answering them individually, instead just recaps the situation we still can't see which is enough to satisfy some, and disappoint others.
Apparently whoever this woman is she consumed enough for the bartender too cut her off, something that wasn't very appreciated, and lead to an argument, but no violence. She was told to go back to her room, which also lead to the current problem apparently.
She had her ID when she came to the pub, because she had to have it scanned to prove her age before she could even begin ordering drinks, but it seems somewhere in the course of the evening she lost it. A fact that came to the light after she almost threw up in a trash can, and now she won't tell them her name and they can't figure out where she's housed.
The only thing they can get out of her is that she hates soccer players. The rest of the men find that terribly amusing, but it leaves me rather silent, with a growing smirk. Well damn... I suppose that's one way to do it.
I'll give the woman credit, if she really has so much trouble in paradise I suppose that getting so drunk the MP's have to put her in detox for the night might seem like a good idea. Which is probably what they are going to do, take her to lock up to sleep it off. They kind of have to with the fact her ID is missing.
which I find that a little strange. With the lack of currency at the moment they are just monitoring purchases by putting them on your ID for now, to pay back later when the financial system gets back on its feet, that means EVERY PURCHASE has to be scanned. So how did she keep drinking with no ID, unless... clever girl.
My respect for her determined level of craftiness gets sidetracked by the conversation still continuing about the mystery woman in the pub. The accent speaking gives away exactly who it is, a southern boy by the name of Higgins, and one who can't understand what the problem is because he thought all British broads were into soccer players.
My response to that earns quite a bit of amusement from the rest of the guys. "Well why don't you ask her Higgins, Who knows, maybe she's into pig farmers, girls do love a man who can treat his animals right after all." I even go so far is to say it in a butchered southern accent too, making the poor guys embarrassment that much worse. Not that I'm too concerned, I mean I did do it on purpose
All in all, considering when this conversation started I was hoping for it to lift some of the boredom, I'd say it did. Now finally my time is up, my shift watching empty streets is over, and I pack up my stuff, setting up the area for the next guy. A mixed African Spaniard named Alvarez.
I got more important things on my mind at the moment, and is my replacement comes into view I offer him a smirk and a 'enjoy the conversation, its a good one tonight' I had to the stairs. however my radio chatter isn't quite done for the evening, it just gets switched to a private one. "Flynn, you got eyes on this thing?" I ask, knowing if anyone has a decent view its that fly jockey in his helicopter.
"Why? What you gonna give me?" Is the answer I get back, and it makes me stop my steps a little and chuckle. "Shit, what you want? Booze? Lessons in that trick your wife loves so much? Higgins pet pig for a few hours?!"
"...You are a sick son of a bitch Doyle, you know that?" This time the chuckle is a genuine laugh. "Yeah yeah yeah, so you got eyes or not? They take her too detention yet or what?"
"Yeah, their walking her out now. Why? You know who she is or something." I shake my head just out of habit is reach the bottom of the stairwell and reenter the night air. "Not really..." I shoot back, pressing one finger too the ear piece well the other fishes for my cigarettes. "But if I'm right I will soon. I'll let you know." Right now I got a trash can too find.
WooHoo! Look at that, I made a Doyle chapter! Huzzah! So progress is being made, and it looks like we are one step closer to the official meet and greet. Peave a review and let me know what you think please.