Free East of Innocence by David Thorne

Friend of yours.’
    ‘Let’s keep this on a professional footing.’ This man is nobody’s fool; he has already guessed that our relationship goes deeper than simply lawyer–client.
    ‘As you like.’ Hicklin leans back in his chair, looks me over. ‘Well, professionally speaking, your client, Mr Gabriel Bruce-bloody-Lee McBride has, tonight, started a small war of his own, outside Liquid nightclub.’
    ‘Doesn’t sound like him.’
    ‘No?’
    ‘He’s a soldier, not a hooligan.’
    ‘Ex-soldier. Yes, well. At the moment I’ve got two confirmed hospital cases, and numerous cuts and bruises. A lot of pissed-off people. Two or three fairly impressed bouncers.’
    ‘I’ll give you ten to one he didn’t start it.’
    Hicklin picks up a pen, holds it between two hands, nods. ‘And I wouldn’t take those odds. Because I’d agree. Got a witness, see. Tells me a group of lads found it amusing he was missing a leg. They’d been drinking, thought they’d have some fun with him. You can probably guess the rest.’
    The Gabe I know, trained though he is in numerous, creative methods of disabling opponents, would have let any insult ride. Things would not have escalated into a brawl; he would have walked away. But, not for the first time this week, I have to question just how well I know Gabe nowadays.
    ‘I’ll be honest, I’d hate to see what he’s capable of on two legs. I watched the CCTV.’ Hicklin chuckles. ‘The whole nick watched it. Could have sold tickets. Man’s an overnight celebrity.’
    There’s a twinkle in Hicklin’s eye and I instinctively know he is on Gabe’s side; that here is a policeman who goes by his experience and gut rather than the book. I relax.
    ‘So he banged a few heads together,’ I say. ‘Got that established. You going to charge him?’
    Hicklin nods, gets down to business. ‘We’ve got the witness. We’ve had a look at your friend’s war record. We’ve got no axe to grind. My youngest is in the Paratroopers.’
    ‘Which leaves us where?’
    ‘We’ll bind him over, if you’ll agree to keep an eye on him. Keep him out of trouble.’
    There’s a knock on the door.
    ‘Ah, that must be Rambo now,’ says Sergeant Hicklin.
    Apart from a minute sway, Gabe looks as fresh and sober as if he’s appearing for a job interview. He grins at me, nods to Sergeant Hicklin. Behind him is a young constable with the come-on swagger of the young and power happy. Gabe pauses in the doorway and the constable shoves him from behind. I get up from my chair.
    ‘Tell your constable he touches my client once more and I’ll be filing a complaint before his shift is finished.’
    Hicklin sighs. ‘Sit down, sit down. Constable Dawson here’s got a lot to learn. Hormones, the latter stages of puberty. I apologise on his behalf. Happy?’
    I sit down, push out a chair for Gabe.
    ‘I’ll stand,’ he says.
    ‘At ease,’ says Hicklin, first signs of irritation. ‘Christ’s sake. We’re not nicking you. Got those papers, Dawson?’
    Dawson hands him a stack of sheets, kicks my chair leg as he passes. I frown at Hicklin, who shakes his head, looksto the ceiling: God help me. He flicks through pages, then shoves two sheets across the table to me.
    ‘Sign these, get your friend’s signature, then do me a favour. Foxtrot Oscar, as they say in the Army.’
     
    Gabe doesn’t talk much on the way home, and I cannot tell whether it is because he is still too drunk to talk or simply too ashamed. We drive through the dark streets, empty apart from one or two swaying shirtsleeved men unwilling to admit that the night is over and that tomorrow is already upon them. Yellow streetlights paint Gabe’s face as we drive.
    ‘Couldn’t have just walked away?’
    ‘He says. When’s the last time you turned the other cheek?’
    He’s got a point.
    ‘You need to talk to somebody.’
    ‘We’re talking.’
    ‘You know what I mean. This isn’t you.’
    Gabe rouses himself, reaches forward and