Free End of the Road (The Rozzers) by Diem Burden

 
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER ONE
     
     
    The sun had dipped below the horizon. The sky turned a sharp orange as darkness spread out across the desolate plain. Overtaking us in the distance was the black outline of a familiar Gazelle helicopter as it flew back to the nearby Army Air Corps base.
    I glimpsed a sign for Stonehenge, which marked the halfway point. We’d soon be back in camp, showered and dressed and out to Andover town centre with its pubs and girls.
    As the alcohol took hold of hungry men drinking too quickly, the debate between Pizza and Donk over the advantages of computers versus plant equipment became more and more animated.
    Pizza was the baby of the group, a young, funny lad of about eighteen years of age who had earned his nickname on account of his poor complexion, and had never once challenged it. That was the kind of guy he was.
    “Nah,” said Donk. “You dunna want none of that bollocks. Waste a-fucking time, computers.”
    Donk was hilariously proud of being called Donk, which we all knew was short for ‘donkey’. Built like a horse, he naively believed he’d earned the moniker on account of the size of his penis. He hadn’t; it was because he had a very long face which vaguely resembled that of a donkey. We never had the heart to correct him.
    “Construction’s where the money’s at,” Donk continued. “With the qualifications you’ve got, just top ’em up with a trucker’s licence on your pre-release course. Get a fucking top job anywhere in the world with those quals, mate.”
    What Donk was saying made perfect sense, and the free, month-long course given to all army leavers meant I could gain a qualification in almost anything I wanted. I had just twelve months to decide, and putting my name down for the course was another reason I had to make a decision about my future soon.
    “A mate of mine took a course in London with computers,” said Pizza, undaunted. “Did the lot, he did, and got loads of certificates at the end.”
    “And become what? A fucking secretary ?” scoffed Donk.
    “He’s right though, Dave,” said Cat. “Like it or not, computers will be everywhere in the next few years. Could be useful to have computer skills; never know where it might lead.”
    Corporal ‘Cat’ Stevens was a newly qualified truck driver who had enthusiastically jumped at driving that day, although the unexpected beers had made him wish otherwise. Cat was my top drinking partner; everybody liked Cat and boy could he drink.
    I sighed. “You’re probably right, Cat, but computers? I mean, what am I gonna do with a shit-load of computer certificates?” In comparison, a trucker’s licence had merit – it was a real qualification.
    “How about the Old Bill ?” asked Cat. “My mate’s in his first year with the Manchester lot, loving every minute of it, apparently.”
    I stared at Cat, speechless. The police? Me?
    “Dave a Rozzer ?” laughed Donk. “Could you seriously see him as a cop ?” He had a point; I had broken a fair few laws in my time and I hated the sight of blood.
    “Get stuffed, you ginger prick,” I said good-naturedly, as I turned and stared out of the window at the emptiness of Salisbury Plain. I listened absent-mindedly as the argument continued, and felt the warmth of something that had been missing from my life for several years creeping over me – job satisfaction.
    It was early September 1988, shortly after my twenty-third birthday. I remember it well because on that day a seed was planted, a seed that should never have seen the light of day. That seed only needed a slight amount of nurturing to begin its life, and that nurturing came from the most unexpected of places, as indeed did the damned seed.
    Apart from the sergeant, all the guys in the cab were my regular drinking buddies. We lived together, worked together, fought together and socialised together. We knew each other inside out, and probably would have died for each other if war had come our