The Vacant Casualty by Patty O'Furniture Page A

take me as an example,’ he said. ‘But here’s my advice. Take no shit from no one, and refuse to believe what anyone says unless they’ve got cast-iron
proof to back it up. Beat the crap out of the strong and threaten the weak mercilessly, then toss them a few crumbs of relief afterwards for the illusion that you wouldn’t fuck them over next
time. Don’t trust your boss. Screw the system, and fuck being trustworthy except by your own twisted code – will you
stop
?’
    Bradley braked sharply then came to a slewing halt in the middle of a car-park clearing in the centre of the woods.
    ‘That’s good,’ said Sam, puking out of the window. ‘You’re doing well. I’ve never . . . I’ve never praised someone while puking before,’ he added.
‘And I guess I’m all the more impressed for that fact.’
    As Bradley went up ahead to the encampment on the top of the hill, Sam decided to remain seated on a tree stump in the woods, claiming he wanted to check for emails on his phone while still in
signal, but in fact (as would have been clear to anyone more experienced in life than Bradley), he had been badly caught short and was nervously watching passing traffic for an opportunity to take
an undetected toilet break in the woods.
    As Bradley neared the crest of the hill, he was braced by a quickening breeze, and coming closer to the top he found that the grasses swept in the high wind like gentle waves. The treeline
parted, the bright sky broadened massively about him, and here, far away from the duties to which he was accustomed, and the life he knew, he suddenly and unexpectedly saw the beauty of the
landscape as if for the first time, which quite took his breath away.
    ‘Oh, it’s you, you twat!’ said a voice.
    He turned and saw a middle-aged hag in thick boots trudging up the hill towards him.
    ‘Saracene Galaxista,’ he said. She stopped and he saw the reason for her bad temper and stooping gait. ‘Let me help you with that,’ he offered.
    ‘Oh, go on, then,’ she muttered, and handed over the twin pails of milk she was carrying. ‘Maybe you’re not that bad, despite being a pig. I’m only one of the order
of Sisters of Galaxista. We’re just over here.’
    Bradley soon had cause to regret his largesse. For some reason when he made the remark it felt like holding open a door for a lady, a marginally meaningful gesture. Where had he assumed her to
be taking the milk to – a meeting with him upon this random tussock? In fact, it turned out to be the camp a quarter of a mile away over some decidedly squelchy uplands about which Mrs
Detective would certainly have something to say when it came to the effects on his Marks & Spencer brogues.
    That is little, however, compared to the effect that it had on his state of mind. A hangover which had been largely in retreat now made huge gains in important areas of head pain, nervousness,
weariness, self-hatred and weakness to suggestion, and after Bradley had planted the milk down he passed out for a couple of minutes leaning against a goat, only waking to discover that Sam had
caught up with him.
    ‘You were crying in your sleep,’ said Sam. ‘That
is
a bad hangover.’
    ‘Where’s she gone?’ said Bradley. ‘Why is it wherever I go, I only get to talk to you?’
    ‘That’s the spirit.’ Sam punched him in the leg. ‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘that if I’m going to be stuck in this village or town, or what have you for
the next few days, I’m probably going to need whatever sustenance I can get to keep me going. I’m assuming you’ve never smoked weed?’
    Bradley smiled as though this were a trick question, because to him the idea of a policeman taking drugs of any kind was a genuinely amusing idea – like a nun going to the toilet. It
simply didn’t happen. Meanwhile the woman they were there to interview came back from a nearby tent, smiled briefly at Bradley, turned her back on him and started a mumbling conversation with