Free The Enemy Within by James Craig Page B

breast pocket of his Belstaff jacket and held it in his hand, arm outstretched. ‘Business is just too good. I think I’m going to have to make the move.’ He gave a not-so-apologetic shrug. ‘It would be irrational to do anything else.’
    Irrational? ‘But you only joined the police a year or so ago,’ Carlyle observed.
    ‘And look where it’s got me.’ Waving the joint in front of his face, Dom gestured towards the gaggle of grim-looking locals on the far side of the bar, who were studiously ignoring the two young coppers, muttering darkly into their pints of best bitter. He lowered his voice. ‘Standing here, in some total shithole, in the middle of nowhere, drinking shit lager.’
    ‘Fair point.’
    ‘We’ve been sold a pup, sunshine,’ Dom laughed. ‘Taken to the bloody cleaners!’
    Carlyle could hardly disagree. After all, this was not what they had signed up for. It was not what they had gone through basic training for. He himself had expected to be pounding the streets of west London by now, chatting to shopkeepers, giving truants a firm clip round the ear and helping little old ladies across the road and maybe, on a good day, nicking the odd villain. Dixon of Dock Green made flesh, with youthful aspirations of graduating to The Sweeney. Instead, he was a paramilitary robot in the middle of someone else’s fight. Would Regan and Carter have put up with this crap? he sometimes wondered. Would they fuck.
    ‘And, anyway, the alternative is very appealing. Unlike this, it’s easy money,’ Dom mused.
    ‘There’s no such thing,’ Carlyle grumped.
    ‘Okay, well it’s easier money. And you’re not doing some bastard politician’s dirty work to boot.’
    ‘True.’
    Dom looked at him closely. ‘So, if I do it, you’d be interested, then? It would be good. We make a good team.’
    Nah. ‘I’ll think about it.’
    Dom gave him a mock hurt look. ‘Not exactly biting my hand off, are you?’
    ‘We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it,’ Carlyle yawned. The booze had kicked in and he was beginning to feel sleepy. But, even in his wearied state, the young constable knew that his friend’s plan was a non-starter. If Dom did leave the police for the private sector, good luck to him. But Carlyle would not be joining him. However ambivalent he felt about drugs that would simply be a step too far.
    ‘It’s a firm offer.’
    ‘Sure,’ he smiled. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘Good,’ Dom grinned. ‘Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I’m off for a quick smoke. Then I’ll get the drinks in.’

ELEVEN
    Stepping outside the Queen’s Larder into the cold night air, Dom yawned. Zipping up his jacket, he pulled a box of matches from the back pocket of his jeans. Sticking the blunt between his lips, he struck a match, shielding the flame from the breeze as he lit up. Tossing the spent match in the direction of the gutter, he inhaled deeply, holding in the smoke as he walked round the side of the pub and plonked himself down in one of the white plastic seats in the otherwise deserted beer garden.
    Peace at last.
    Reluctantly releasing the smoke, he watched it disappear into the sharp night air. Marvin Gaye’s ‘What’s Going On’ started playing in his head and he began humming along. Taking another drag, he thought about Natasha, an adventurous Dutch girl that he’d met in a bar on the Fulham Road. That was less than a fortnight ago, just before he’d left London to come on this ridiculous caper. It felt like a lifetime ago. While he was dodging bricks, Natasha had been heading for Greece, in search of sun, ouzo and some nice local boys to corrupt. He flicked through the dates in his head; she should be due back in London quite soon. The thought made him smile. Would they manage to hook up when he finally got back to civilization? Maybe. Maybe not. Even if they didn’t, there would be someone else. That was the great thing about London, there was always someone else.
    Not like this dump. What’s