Fallen Duty

1

No matter what happened to her, London always looked beautiful.

Deep in the old, ragged scars and craters caused by gunfire and bombs, plant life flourished. It was as if the shrubs were reclaiming the ground. The lush foliage allowed sunlight to filter through, so the ground danced with light and shade. Birds sang and gulls screamed as they swooped and circled the sky above the river.

Declan Cahill appreciated the vista as he walked slowly along the South Bank of the River Thames, his arms behind his back, enjoying the winter sun’s fading warmth. He breathed in deep the river breeze. It didn’t smell too bad anymore.

Other than the birds, there wasn’t much else to see. But that wasn’t unusual these days. Not since the riots. He soaked up the peace and quiet. Most of the residents of London had either gone, or they were at work in the factories. It was just what he needed to clear his head and re-familiarize himself with the geography of the area.

Tonight would be different, though—the peace and quiet would be ruined because it was Halloween. Cahill was already dreading it. Not just the madness of Halloween night, but the thought of pulling on his brand-new patrol officer’s uniform. The last year had been one of the hardest in his life. But at least now he could return to duty.

He shook his head. Stopped by an ivy-covered derelict pub that was once called The Old Thameside Inn, and rested his elbows on the railings. Looking out over the filthy brown river, his gaze was drawn to the rubbish flowing by, until a screaming gull startled him as it dive-bombed the flotsam and jetsam for scraps of food.

Cahill felt the thirst come over him, the familiar pang lancing through his guts like adrenalin, causing him to start salivating. Smacking his lips, he circulated sour spit around his mouth, then popped a mint in and started sucking. A grim look appeared on his tough, tanned face. Shaking his head, he spat the white sweet far out and down into the fast-flowing water. Then he pulled out a slim pewter hip flask from his inside pocket and took a slug of the fiery Irish whiskey that lived in there. The grimace left his face as the spirit lifted him. Just a little drop now and then would help him get through it.

A bang! ruptured the peace. A gunshot. He had heard that noise too many times to mistake it for anything else. As the sharp crack echoed into silence, the sun seemed to hide behind a passing cloud, and the birds scattered in fright.

Cahill’s instincts kicked in. His heart beat strong and steady. His hearing and vision sharpened as he scanned the surroundings, searching for danger, trying to see where the gun fire had come from.

There they were. Gangbangers. They burst into view just a hundred yards ahead of him, and he immediately recognized them from their colours and how they were dressed. The Nail Dem Crew took off and sprinted west, toward Southwark Bridge, their rubber soles slapping on the concrete. Cahill chased after them—following the danger, as always. He needed to find out what they had done.

Movement caught his eye as he ran. Cahill just managed to lurch to his right as a man with black skin staggered from an opening to his left. He was dressed just like the gangsters, but he was clutching his left upper arm, blood seeping through his fingers, dripping onto the path.

Call the cops! The wounded black man stumbled forward into Cahill’s arms.

I’m a cop. Cahill laid the man on the ground, wondering why a gangbanger was so keen to want the police involved.

He shrugged and pulled out his phone to dial 999. It looked like his first duty in over a year had started early.

2

One year earlier...

Cahill was seriously in need tonight as he strode through the crowds, and it wasn’t just for a drink, either. No, that would be for starters. What he really needed was a line or two of something far more powerful. And after that, he would indulge himself with a night of pleasure.

He loved it here in the alleyways of Soho, where the whole place sparkled like a black diamond in the moonlight. The streets were damp from a recent downpour, and bustled with punters looking for chemical relief from the tedium of their existence.

He smiled to himself as he went. It wouldn’t be long until he could medicate his own pain away. Not long until he could blank out all those thoughts he didn’t want in his head.

You could get it all here—sex, drugs, booze, and contraband of every description. The rows of dingy shops displayed their illegal wares on filthy tables out front, while the traders called out the prices to the passing tide of customers, like grocers selling potatoes. He enjoyed the aromatic smells as he passed each stall, his desires coming to the boil.

London had changed beyond recognition. He had policed her streets long before the riots, so he knew exactly how she used to look, but he had been away a long time. He had been away, working undercover when she fell. When the struggling walls of the dam could no longer cope with their burden. He wished he could have been there. Maybe he could have made a difference. Even one man could have helped to bolster the thin blue line.

His smile dropped as he remembered the aftermath of the riots. Only the working classes had suffered. Not the rich. No, they had been shrewd and strategic, as always. They had seen it coming, and had moved out and created business hubs in the surrounding green belts, all buying a slice of heaven in the country, having been handsomely compensated by the Company.

The Company has a lot to answer for. But even he could see his own hypocrisy, because the Company paid him his wages.

This global organisation had identified an opportunity to make trillions of dollars from the fall of the once-great capital. A conglomerate of dozens of companies from around the world, so complicated in structure that it was simply known as the Company.

The Company had indeed rebuilt London after the riots. Yes, they were benevolent indeed. He laughed to himself as he thought about the hundreds of factories, like the Victorian workhouses of old, that had been built so the poor could toil in them to pay for their own existence.

Then there was the next problem—the gangs. They refused to work, and they became strengthened in numbers, welcoming the droves of refugees from the factories.

The gangs prospered, and the dark corners of London became pitch black.

With the advent of the London Police District (LPD), a new type of law and order was founded. Its job was to take control of the so-called factory zone. This private police force had a specific task, and that was to ensure that the workers worked, and the gangs were kept at bay.

It was a thankless but necessary task, and one Declan Cahill was damn-good at. But then, he should have been. He’d been at it for twenty years now, and his work was everything to him and his worst enemy at the same time. It was the job that had cost him everything.

Cahill couldn’t help it. It was his eternal shame. And only his vices kept his memories suppressed. Her beautiful smile was always a thought away, followed by the terrible pain.

After they lost their little girl, his wife lost him completely to his work.

Wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just one of those things. Little Isabelle’s heart didn’t develop properly, and she didn’t survive her birth. The hole in her heart was so tiny, it was missed. Just one of those terribly sad things.

They buried Isabelle and tried to get on with their lives. For Cahill, that was immersion into work, volunteering for every case he could get his hands on. For his wife, Jasmine, it meant slipping deeper into depression. And at the time she needed him most, he wasn’t there.

Their marriage crumbled around them. Cahill was at his peak at work, taking down the bad guys, whilst Jasmine was at her lowest, taking down pills to end her pain, and eventually her life.

His mind pushed through the agony that took him to that graveside for the millionth time. He felt his eyes stinging and his nose running. He tried to focus on the two headstones before him. Overwhelmed, he collapsed into the dirt, his knees sinking into the mud the reality soaking into his body and punching him in the guts.

His initial answer was to run even further away. But the undercover program found him. It was just what he needed, and he found he could seek solace in the luxury of living the life of another person. One that didn’t have the horrendous guilt his real identity carried.

This had been perfect for him, and he excelled in the role. He was a good operative, one of the best, and he enjoyed years of success in the field. The bad guys never saw him coming.

It wouldn’t be forever, though, because even the best of the best needed to slip back into their own identity, even if it were just to keep their sanity. His psychologist thought the same, and recommended that he take a break.

He kicked and screamed because he loved his job, but management had spoken and there was no changing their mind. It was for his health and safety, so he had no argument.

He didn’t want to go backward, only forward. And because London Police had changed after the riots, there was something new out there for him.

The newly formed London Police District gave him the opportunity to start fresh. It would do Cahill nicely.

The LPD welcomed Detective Sergeant Cahill with open arms, and was glad to have his tenacity and experience on their side. Posted initially on the South Sector, he was a relief detective supporting the patrol officers. But his results soon meant he was promoted to the Central Crime Squad. He began to reclaim his old life, shrugging off the shroud of his undercover life, letting this invisible armour trail behind him. But with that protection gone, the old burden of guilt once more began to engulf him. His old scar throbbed and ached as if his heart had been broken all over again, taking him once more to that wet graveside.

So now he sought his regular escape and left the main drag, slipping into an even darker, smaller street, the noise fading as he went deeper into her bosom. He started to salivate, and swallowed down the juices as he got closer to his goal.

Mickey’s bar was like every other bar in Soho. It could get you what you needed—booze-filled oblivion, the thrill of cocaine, or the euphoric blanket that is heroin. Whatever your poison.

Anyone over five-foot-ten-inches tall had to duck to enter Mickey’s. Once through, you took the worn stone steps down to the bar, where you would usually find Mickey himself—a sixty-year-old ex-heavyweight boxer with a nose as flat as a pancake, and ears puffed like perfect cauliflower florets. A truly hard man. Perfect to run the joint.

Cahill pushed the door open and ducked as he entered. The familiar and comforting smell of stale booze, dirt, and smoke hit his nostrils as he descended the stone steps, his eyes adjusting to accept the gloom in this palace of oblivion. It was getting busy as he went to his usual place at the battered bar, the regulars already propping up their own spots. Mickey stared into space as he polished a pint pot with a filthy bar towel. He looked over and nodded at Cahill, and started pouring him a pint of thick black stout. He left it to settle once it was three-quarters full, then pointed to his left, where a stained red velvet curtain was drawn, covering an opening to the right of the bar. Cahill nodded back and approached the bar, where his pint was settling. Ready for the final stage, Mickey topped the glass up and placed it back on the bar.

Cahill grabbed the glass and tipped it up to his eager lips. The stout went down in one go, and a look of bliss sparkled in his eyes as the cold alcohol raced through his body, embracing it like an old friend.

Better? Mickey said.   

Cahill savoured the moment and licked the foam from his top lip.

It will do for starters, Mickey.

The bar owner again gestured to the red curtain.

They’re through there when you’re ready. Tommy is looking after things, as usual, so let him know what you need...Detective. A smirk appeared on his tough old face.

Cahill’s features hardened, and he stared straight into Mickey’s watering, faded blue eyes.

Do you want me to be a detective? Is that what you want?

I’m kidding with you, Declan. You know I’m just playing. Come on!

Mickey recoiled from Cahill’s failure at a sense of humour.

Whatever, Mickey. Just get me another pint. Cahill looked away, smacking his lips at the thought of another alcohol hit. With a whiskey.

Of course, Declan. It’s on me, so it is!

Mickey busied himself pouring another stout, and drew a neat shot of Irish from the bottle behind him.

The devil on Cahill’s shoulder was fully awake now, and as the whiskey flooded into his bloodstream to bolster the pint of stout, it was just the top-up he needed from lunchtime.

He placed a crumpled bank note on the bar and nodded at the bottle of whiskey.

Is that enough for the rest, Mickey?

That’s grand, Declan. Enjoy! Mickey smiled as he placed the open bottle in front of Cahill.

The thought of what lay behind the curtain popped into his head, sparking an aching need in his loins. He knew everything he was doing was wrong, and that he could get in deep trouble for it, and for what he was planning to do. In just a few minutes, he would plunge through the red velvet curtain, get a gram of cocaine and a whore from Dirty Tommy—pimp and dealer extraordinaire—then finish that bottle of Irish until he passed out cold. Tomorrow he would do it all over again. What the hell.

It was time, so Cahill swished through the red curtain that led out back, and found Tommy snorting a fat line of cocaine through a straw from a fast-food restaurant. He saw Cahill, grinned, and waved the straw at him.

Ha-ha! Hello, Dec. I’m loving it! Tommy held his ribs as he laughed at his own joke.

Cahill sneered back. He didn’t really like Dirty Tommy. Cahill looked the scrote up and down. He was exactly how he sounded—a scrawny, dirty, violent drug dealing pimp. He provided the girls in the back of Mickey’s bar. Micky took a cut of all the action. Plus, the girls got their gear, too. So everyone was happy.

What can I do you for? Tommy said.

Gram of the usual, Cahill replied, without engaging in Tommy’s shit joke, and handed him a bunch of crumpled bank notes whilst taking a small paper wrap from the dealer with his free hand. Is Roxy in tonight?

Tommy paused and seemed to be thinking.

No, mate. Sorry, she’s not well. But I’ve got a new girl for you.

New girl?

Cahill liked Roxy. He knew everything about her. If anything ever went wrong, he knew exactly where to find her. But tonight, he needed this bad. Fuck it.

Alexis is a stunner, mate. New to the game, but she’s my cousin’s girlfriend, so I trust her like family.

Which room is she in?

I knew you’d see sense. Go on, enjoy her. She’s in the Honeymoon Suite. First on the right. Tommy smiled and pointed to a corridor of bedrooms.

Cahill was excited. He could feel the delicious buzz of doing something illegal burning in his chest and stomach. He loved it, that anticipation. It was like the undercover work—dangerous and exciting, with the chance that he could get caught at any moment.

He found her in the Honeymoon Suite, draped across a stained bedspread. Alexis was stunning—long blonde hair, voluptuous in red underwear, with matching lipstick.

Hello, sailor, she purred, as Cahill entered the suite.

He smiled and felt himself stiffen. Showed her the wrap of coke, and she licked her lips, writhing on the bed in anticipation of a free line of the goodness.

He noticed Tommy leering through the door from the corridor, watching Alexis on the bed. So Cahill closed the door, depriving Tommy of his voyeuristic pleasure.

Cahill looked at her on the bed. Every part of his body was alive with anticipation. He took a huge gulp of the whiskey and tossed the delighted Alexis the powder.

This was exactly what he needed.

3

One year later...

The LPD’s headquarters was tall, white, regal, and situated in the building that used to be New Scotland Yard, in Cannon Row, on the banks of the River Thames.

The Metropolitan Police had been disbanded when the LPD was formed. Some of those assets joined the new National Police Service (NPS), a joint UK Constabulary that operated around the rest of the country, in the tradition of a British police force—the neighbourhood bobby on the beat. Community-based policing, and a good old-fashioned Criminal Investigation Department.

The rest applied to join something new, a private law enforcement company. Parliament anointed the officers of the London Police District with the powers of a constable, but that was where the similarity ended.

The role of an officer on the LPD was to serve the Company to make sure the factories stayed open. There was a simple command structure—patrol officers, detectives and their sergeants. They all reported to the Company and took their instructions from them, too. On the occasions that crime arrests occurred for conventional offenses such as assault, rape, and murder, the detectives investigated and processed. But then the case was handed over to the National Police Service for prosecution.

Most of their work on the LPD’s four sectors—north, south, east, and west—was keeping the peace on the streets between the gangs, and to respond to disorder and other petty crimes in the factories.

One other thing the Company replicated from the constabularies was the discipline code. However, the Company didn’t like controversy, so the tolerance for misconduct was higher, and the quality of investigation into it was lower.

Sir Stuart Cullimore had been the chief constable for Avon and Somerset Constabulary prior to the NPS, and had been headhunted as director of the LPD. Not for his forward-thinking leadership—because he didn’t have any. He was recruited for his terrible reputation as a yes man.

Sir Stuart, this next case is one of gross misconduct, said Assistant Director Claire Buchannan.

Stuart sat at the head of a large table in the bright and spacious boardroom of LPD HQ. On his right sat the brilliant Claire, destined for director. And on his left, three deputy assistant directors. He looked down his nose at them all, aware that they probably thought he was an arrogant arsehole, but he didn’t really give a shit. If they did their jobs and didn’t embarrass him or the Company, he would tolerate them.

On his left was Amina Azikwe, ex-chief of the South African Police Service; Sabine De La Tour, ex-top Parisian Cop; and Fujio Nakamura from the Japanese National Police Agency.

The LPD prides itself on its diversity. Sir Stuart cleared his throat and read from the sheet of paper before him.

Right. Detective Sergeant Declan Cahill, Central Crime Squad. Okay, the charges are in relation to drug use and prostitution.

Yes, sir, Claire replied, in her cut-glass accent.

It looks pretty straightforward to me. But the decision will be the panel’s, not mine. Sir Stuart smiled his smarmy smile at the panel of three deputies to his left. Is DS Cahill here today?

He’s in the waiting room with his union rep, and he’s very keen to get this over with.

I bet he is, Claire. He’s been suspended for a year. He’s been in rehab, for substance and alcohol issues?

Yes, sir.

Well, let’s get him in here and put him out of his misery. Sir Stuart’s smile was spread across his face like butter, his eyes just slits.

Erm, excuse me, sir. I don’t see this as anything like straightforward. Amina leant forward, smiling back at the director.

She paused whilst Sir Stuart’s buttery grin melted.

The operation to ensnare DS Cahill was flawed, she continued.

Flawed, you say? How does that change what he did! He was arrested at the scene. He had just had sex with a prostitute, and he tested positive for cocaine. Close the case, Deputy!

Sir Stuart felt his cheeks burning. He knew they were bright red, and that pissed him off even more. He stared at the calm and collected deputy.

Partly correct, sir. But we have a problem with the case, in that the undercover officer took as much cocaine as DS Cahill, and she willingly had sex with him. Amina sat back, her arms folded, and glared at her neighbour Sabine.

The prostitute, Alexis, was an officer? Sir Stuart said, in a ginger tone. I didn’t see that in the report.

He felt his self-preservation senses kick in, his mind racing to work out how he could distance himself from this catastrophic fuck-up.

Sabine said, That was my fault, monsieur. Professional standards is my portfolio, and that part was redacted to protect Alexis.

Sir Stuart slammed his hand onto the table. Madame, I don’t know how you did things in France, but this company cannot have such controversy! We do not protect undercovers when they break the law.

Sabine shrugged. Then we are back to square one, Sir Stuart.

Damn it! He sat back down and looked at Claire. Did you know?

Claire looked down at the table. Amina mentioned some irregularities with the case.

Sir Stuart shook his head and stared at Sabine. He noticed a sly glint in her devious eyes. Nothing ever stuck to this bitch. She was made of Teflon.

Fujio raised a hand, and Sir Stuart’s hopes improved, as Fujio was always steady.

May I make a suggestion?

***

Cahill paced up and down the waiting room, wearing a black suit and tie.

Very fitting. The perfect look for a funeral.

The last year had been tough. But rehab had been a gift. He’d needed the intervention. Though he wouldn’t have admitted it back then, he now knew it had been for the best.

Cahill felt his face warm with embarrassment as he remembered what had led to this moment. Then surprisingly, he felt a brief stirring of arousal as his mind saw Alexis open her legs to him. How they rode each other hard, climaxing loudly, riding the crest of their passion and the pulsating pleasure of the powder.

He took himself out of the memory. He didn’t want to, but he needed to leave that shit behind. He shook his head, thinking about how they’d set him up. Dirty Tommy was a grass. He had bought Alexis in, and he’d set Cahill up. No doubt, professional standards had something on the poor prick. But they had reached new depths, paying a prostitute to do their dirty work.

His union rep, Clara Hennessey, sat quietly in the corner, clutching the case file. She watched Cahill pacing the room, and made no effort to calm him.

It shouldn’t be too long now, Mister Cahill. She looked at her watch. It will likely be dismissal for gross misconduct. And I would expect a referral to the National Police Service for prosecution, too.

Thanks for your support, Clara. I’ll look forward to a visit from the NPS.

You’re welcome.

A loud knock at the door broke the spell. Cahill stood to attention in front of the LPD’s director, Sir Stuart Cullimore. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was amiss here. The director looked perturbed. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as people said. Maybe he didn’t like punishing his staff on behalf of the Company. Yeah, right.

Assistant Director Claire Buchannan stood behind the director and addressed Cahill. Clara sat quietly at the side of the room, now looking at her phone.

DS Cahill? Claire said.

Yes, madam. Cahill stood rigidly, his hands behind his back.

Sir Stuart cleared his throat and applied his squinting smile.

DS Cahill, thanks for your attendance today at this disciplinary hearing, and apologies for the wait. However, it is now my duty to deliver the verdict of the panel.

Cahill looked at the three smartly dressed figures lined up on Sir Stuart’s left. He had no idea who they were, and it didn’t look like he was going to be introduced to them, either.  There was a beautiful dark-skinned lady with the whitest teeth he had ever seen, and she beamed a lighthouse smile at him. Second was a cute, diminutive lady, but too serious. And lastly, an emotionless Japanese man who nodded curtly at him.

Cahill’s guts were flip-flopping, and his nerves were beginning to show. Sweat rolled down his head, and for the first time in months, he could have really done with a drink.

It is the recommendation... Sir Stuart said, but Cahill’s mind drifted, thinking about that drink, about anything except his future in the LPD, because he knew it was fucked. "...that for the