Pablo is a hardworking, upstanding, professional police officer, proud of his long marriage and lovely family. Through decades of quiet dedication and single-minded devotion, he has achieved all the usual successes one might strive for in life, both with his family and career. Close to retirement and to sitting back and enjoying the fruits of a successful marriage and career, a malicious, spurious complaint at work should cause no material consequences on his life, but, it starts a domino effect, and before long, he finds himself shockingly dismissed, divorced, without a home, but with a criminal record. The story explores a convoluted, tragic journey of divorce, rich with emotion, loss, betrayal, revenge and confusion. Along the way, it explores the dynamics of what makes relationships weak and vulnerable, or strong and resolute. It’s not a miserable story, but one of resilience, hope, and true love. It is told with immense depth of feeling, insight, humour and faith, and there are many truly surprising twists and turns as the story unfolds.
Pablo is a hardworking, upstanding, professional police officer, proud of his long marriage and lovely family. Through decades of quiet dedication and single-minded devotion, he has achieved all the usual successes one might strive for in life, both with his family and career. Close to retirement and to sitting back and enjoying the fruits of a successful marriage and career, a malicious, spurious complaint at work should cause no material consequences on his life, but, it starts a domino effect, and before long, he finds himself shockingly dismissed, divorced, without a home, but with a criminal record. The story explores a convoluted, tragic journey of divorce, rich with emotion, loss, betrayal, revenge and confusion. Along the way, it explores the dynamics of what makes relationships weak and vulnerable, or strong and resolute. It’s not a miserable story, but one of resilience, hope, and true love. It is told with immense depth of feeling, insight, humour and faith, and there are many truly surprising twists and turns as the story unfolds.
Til Death We Do Part.
By
Bruno Beeches
Chapter 1
Pablo walked up the short path to the front door. It was a ground floor maisonette on a small mixed estate that used to be council housing. It was a very quiet neighbourhood. The tiny front garden was overgrown with grass cascading over itself from a potential height of eighteen inches, yellowing, and going to seed already. The front window was large but obscured on the inside with a combination of curtains and a blanket. It was broad daylight, and the sun was out on this warm early summer’s day. He stood at the front door and observed dull creamy paint peeling off the wood like bits of old dry onion. He noticed the remnants of a door knocker. The plate was there, but the hinged knocker was long gone. He looked at an electric doorbell buzzer which was hanging by a black wire on the door jamb, with a lonely tail of a red one hanging loosely beside it. That obviously wouldn’t work.
He knocked on the door window with his knuckles. Not too hard. He didn’t want to sound aggressive. As he awaited a response, he pondered the state of the place. Addicts’ homes were usually like this. Neglected. Really neglected. The extent of neglect was in direct correlation to how long since someone who actually cared about the place had lived there. Addicts spared no money or effort to look after themselves, let alone somebody else's property. This was one of the side effects of their addiction, where the reward system of the brain had been hijacked by drugs. Things that normally made people feel good didn’t work for the brain that was in thrall to heroin. He felt a little apprehensive, as always in this situation, not knowing quite what to expect. There was no response. He knocked again, this time a little harder.
A few moments later the door opened slowly and slightly. The occupant appeared cautious and wary, as expected. Pablo looked at the half a face partially hidden by the door. It was murky behind him. A lot of addicts blanked out windows with curtains or blankets all day long. They didn’t want the world looking in on them, and they didn’t want to look out on the outside world. That was a part of their escape. A young man with pale skin and shabby clothes answered the door, squinting into the bright daylight.
“Yes?’’ he said nonchalantly, using the door as a shield.
“Mark Foster?” Pablo said it like he was asking, but to him it was really a statement. He recognised the half of the face he could see. He had seen his picture many times on the daily computer intelligence screenings.
“Who wants to know?” Mark answered, waiting for Pablo to state his business, and sounding not a little apprehensive. Pablo handed him a business card which he politely reached out for, opening the door a little more to do so.
“Pablo Pinkerton”, He replied. I’m a local police officer, but what I do is very different from what you’re used to Mark. I work with addicts to get help with their addiction. Can I come in and explain how it works please?”
Pablo stated his role as succinctly as possible, always trying to make it sound relevant before the potential client had a chance to reject him. He always sneaked their first name in too. That came across as friendly. He wouldn’t conduct a conversation on the doorstep. If they weren’t willing to let him in, he'd try another time when maybe they would. Of course he tried to look as relaxed and non-threatening as possible, always wearing casual non-uniform clothing.
Mark replied rather cheerfully
“I’ve heard of you. you’ve been to see some of my mates.”
Pablo liked to hear that. It made the initial breaking of the ice so much easier. He knew he was already working with quite a few of Mark’s associates, which helps, but even when there was no prior link, he was always surprised at how readily he was allowed the opportunity to state his case to these drug-addicted criminals. They tended in general to be withdrawing private wary people, shy of exposing themselves to the world at large. To mainstream society, they were not exactly invisible, but they definitely weren’t a part of it. They were on the periphery, or in the underbelly, with their bad habits and undesirable lifestyles. They were not regarded kindly or with understanding. They were after all mostly criminals. For Pablo however, they were his work, and he saw them foremost as unfortunate people. To him, they were a complex challenge. He was surprised that over the past two years, he had only been refused entry on just two occasions. He had found to his surprise that after he had come to know them better, he didn’t dislike them at all. He disliked their criminal activities, and he had no time for their addictions, but he didn't dislike them as people. They were really just like any other group of people; some smart, some not; some humorous, some not; some friendly, some not. After he had learned their stories, usually about messed up neglected or abusive childhoods, he actually felt quite sorry for them.
Mark opened the door more fully and retreated into the house.
“Come in,” he said brightly.
Pablo stepped inside, slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. Inside the narrow hallway was clutter; discarded clothes; bags; shoes; a bicycle. There was a stale smokey smell in the air. The place desperately needed some fresh air. He was always circumspect on entering an addict’s home. There was usually more than one person there. In their own way, they were quite a sociable bunch. They didn't work, so they had a lot of time to kill each day, and spending it with like-minded associates made that easier. Additionally, they had to be in a small reliable coterie to ensure a reliable constant source of the drug of their choice. They mixed freely with their own kind. Pablo liked to know who exactly was there. Some addicts or their associates were anti-police, and as he operated alone, he had to watch his own back.
Mark led him into the lounge where he sunk into a dingy armchair at right angles to, and on the other side of the sagging sofa. The sofa directly faced a large TV screen which was blaring out some dispute between two enraged people in a courtroom setting. It was only by visiting other people’s homes that Pablo had any idea what day-time TV was like. He was always respectful inside someone else’s home, of course, but he also seriously disliked competing with the noise of a TV when talking, and from what he could tell, such programmes were often on just for the sake of it. Now that he was there, it was unlikely that anyone was going to pay much attention to it anyway. Before mentioning the TV, he took in as much visual information as he could about the other fellow in the room. He was sitting in an old armchair to the right of the sofa. He looked to be of a similar age to Mark, but he didn't look emaciated like Mark did, which meant that he wasn't probably too much into heroin, yet, if at all. Pablo didn't recognise him, which was unusual. His research was extensive and he usually recognised subjects and their acquaintances before he was introduced to them. The lad looked relaxed, his face resting on one hand, studying him. Pablo didn’t get the feeling that he might be a threat. He looked very directly at him and said “Hi”.
“Hi,” the lad said back. Somehow that was enough for Pablo to discern that he was feeling curious, rather than threatened. And Pablo was after all very good at reading body language. That came from twenty years of police work, bringing up four children, and being married to a woman of very few words. The only place for Pablo to sit was on the sofa, with Mark on his left and the other lad on his right. He didn't prefer to sit with one on each side. That was not a strategically strong position in case anything kicked off. He instinctively weighed up the risks according to his police training; Size of potential combatants, likely skill levels, overall physical fitness, likelihood or evidence of weapons, level of agitation or intoxication, any apparent injuries or disabilities , environment, mood etc. He saw no warning signals in particular, and according to his intuition and experience, he didn’t consider himself at any particular risk. He would have to look out for spent needles left lying around and maybe blades too. He couldn't remain standing. That would not be conducive to generating the kind of relaxed non-threatening atmosphere he needed in order to achieve the best outcome of this meeting. Mark was not known to be violent. Both lads were relatively lightly built, and he himself was highly trained in the art of self defence techniques, and so, as he weighed things up, he was comfortable that he wasn't taking any undue risks by staying, and sitting. He sat down on the sofa, and rather sunk into it. He was a little concerned that he wouldn't be able to leap up particularly rapidly if he had to, but he forced his face to look relaxed, not concerned. He maintained peripheral vision to his right as he addressed Mark to his left.
“Mark, would you mind turning the TV off for a while please?”
As usual, there seemed to be some surprise when he asked this question. Presumably the TV went off so rarely that it was a bit of a shock to the system.
“OK” Mark muttered as he fumbled for the remote, which seemed to be buried somewhere down the side of his chair. Pablo looked directly at the lad to his right.
“I don’t think I know you do I?” he queried.
The lad smiled. “Don’t you? Well I am just a friend of Mark’s.” A predictably coy response.
Pablo just smiled back at him and left it at that. With the poor light in the room, Pablo’s eyes were taking time to adjust. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, natural light was being blocked out, and the single dull dirty light bulb that hung drably from the centre of the ceiling gave a low light. The glass coffee table in front of the sofa was adorned with no end of clutter; opened beer cans; used coffee mugs; spoons; tobacco pouch; roll-up cigarette papers; fag stubs; lighters; a bong; scraps of folded papers; crisp packets; scrunched up sweet wrappers; a few coins; no obvious weapons.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Mark enquired brightly.
“Thank you for offering, Mark” Pablo replied, “ but I’m fine thank you’.
He wasn’t normally offered anything, but in any case, he never accepted offers of food or drink inside client’s homes. Apart from the unlikely event of something being spiked, the usual absence of hygiene was enough to put him off. “Well” Pablo commenced, “is it ok for me to discuss police matters about you in front of your friend here?”
“ No problem,” Mark said, smiling. This didn’t surprise Pablo. He well knew that the drug-taking fraternity were actually quite close, and they all seemed to know each other’s business, which is why people like him tried to tap people like them for intelligence on others.
“Ok, I’ll explain to you what I’m here for. As you well know Mark, my colleagues stop you regularly to check for drugs or stolen items. Sometimes you get arrested. Over the years you’ve been in and out of court, with various penalties imposed. Sometimes you’re on probation. Sometimes you’re not. But what you definitely are, is stuck in a vicious circle. It’s my job to help you break that cycle if you want to, but only if you want to. I can’t force you to do anything, but on the other hand, if you cooperate with me, I can help you get help, and it will take a lot of the heat off you from my colleagues.”
“You talking about MEND ASS?” Mark queried.
Official bodies tended to shorten titles to acronyms, but this acronym had obviously been given a slightly comical twist. It was actually ENDDAS which stood for End Drug Addiction Services.
“That and a few other things Mark. If things went well, I might even be able to get you some training which could lead to a job.”
Pablo realised that talking to someone like Mark about work was about as realistic at this time as talking about pigs flying, but he threw it in anyway. He wanted to sound as potentially helpful as possible. Addicts always needed quite some encouragement to try engagement.
“I’ve tried MEND ASS before. It didn’t work.” Mark used a tone that made it sound like there was no point in going on.
“Yes I know that Mark, but nobody succeeds the first time. It often takes a few attempts.”
He didn't want to get into statistics, which were really rather depressing, but some addicts did eventually succeed, but it was probably more to do with where they were at mentally the time of engagement than anything else. They really needed to be totally fed up with the complications of their life to have any chance of success in rehabilitation. This sometimes happened when a close friend of theirs died from an overdose, or perhaps when they finally realised how close to death they were.
“Do you mind if we go through your story Mark so I better understand how you came to be where you are today? Then we’ll be more able to determine what could really help you.” Pablo had been very surprised when he first started this role, at how easily addicts opened up to him. It was partly due to his easy-going nature and that he seemed trustworthy, partly due to his years of police experience in interviewing people, and it seemed, partly due to the fact that most addicts liked to tell their story. Perhaps it was because no one normally took any interest in them. He had found that each one was quite different despite a lot of common background threads. He wanted to get Mark to open up personally. That would help build rapport. It would also undoubtedly demonstrate that whereas Mark claimed to have tried with ENDDAS and failed, he would be able to present the case that he hadn't tried hard enough or for long enough. It was well known that clients fell out of the system for the most trivial reasons, and that they really did benefit from having a mentor to encourage them keep re-engaging, and it was the process of falling off the wagon, and getting back on that worked in some cases, eventually. Of course, some would suffer fatal overdoses in the meantime. Addicts who were cleaning up were more vulnerable to an accident than consistent users. They didn't always seem to grasp that if they had been clean for a while, their tolerance levels would have lowered, and a previous safe dose could now be fatal. A lot of overdoses were because of this effect. Sometimes of course, it would simply be down to bad luck; a batch of heroin was far stronger than usual, or had been diluted with a toxic substance. Users never knew how much a product had been cut, or thinned out, with something like talcum powder, chalk dust, or worse. They were always dicing with their lives. From a police perspective, if addicts were in treatment they committed a lot less crime, and that’s why Pablo was paid to do this work.
Mark’s mobile rang. The ringtone was some raucous pop song. He answered it but said nothing other than a few 'yeah's and a few 'no's, and then put the phone back in his pocket. Word had probably gone out that Mark had a visitor, and someone was ringing to see if things were ok.
Pablo spent about half an hour chatting with Mark, getting to know his pathway through various childrens’ homes peppered with occasional short stays with foster parents, and the journey of substance abuse. The important thing was that Mark was willing to receive help. Pablo had outlined the process and what the goals would be. He finished by reminding Mark that he would be monitoring his progress with the other agencies, and would be dropping in on him unannounced regularly, to see how he was getting on.
“You ok with that Mark?”
“No problem.”
He seemed genuinely pleased that someone was interested in helping him. Pablo stood up and they shook hands. As he left he took one more good long look at the other lad. He didn’t want to forget his face, and then he saw himself out. As he re-emerged into the bright daylight, he was dazzled by the light as he took in the quietness and pleasantness of the estate. It was a sedate cul-de-sac with the houses built around a huge empty green. He thought to himself that you don't see that kind of waste of space any more on new estates. They really cram them in now.
The freshness of the air delighted and relieved him. When he was a kid, this would have been called a council estate, but these days that wouldn't really apply as a lot of these sturdy pragmatic but rather plain houses and maisonettes had passed into private ownership. He walked back to his car, trying to look reasonably anonymous, his shoulder bag hanging over his shoulder. A bag that contained a few essential props, like a gas canister, a retractable baton, and a set of handcuffs, just in case things ever turned nasty. He was a big muscular man, well able to handle himself, and he carried an air of confidence about him which reflected his training, experience and self-belief. But he also believed in not tempting fate; Hence the hidden weaponry. He also always wore a thick stiff leather coat; much less chance of being pricked by a stray abandoned used needle. He had been doing this job for about two years, and he loved it. It was right up his street. It was challenging, interesting, independent, and he felt that it made excellent use of his interpersonal skills, and the rare success story made it really rewarding.
A toddler on a bike with stabilisers wobbled towards him. He stood still and pulled himself back against an old privet hedge to allow the toddler to pass.
“Sorry” a young podgy mother said as she walked briskly behind the toddler, fag in one hand, mobile phone in the other.
“No problem” Pablo replied pleasantly, smiling at her. It interested him that for so many families on this estate, life went on so normally. Yet, one or two here diced with death itself on a daily basis, and they were the sons and daughters, brothers and sisters or cousins of some of these families. Mark was local to the station where Pablo had his own office, so he drove straight back there. As he entered the building the stark contrast hit him. Orderly, clean, with personnel dressed smartly and cleanly in uniforms or suits. Generally he spent very little time in his office. To be honest, he felt it was an unnecessary luxury. He could access his files on any computer throughout the force. He opened up the computer system and wrote about Mark whilst the information was still fresh in his mind. He kept meticulous records of visits, and made comprehensive notes of what he had learned from meetings before things slipped out of his mind. He didn't make any notes whilst with a client. That would seem too police-like, and would probably worry them, so he had to exercise his memory instead. One of the many things he liked about this role was the lack of paperwork. He only made notes as he wished, and he only had to make one written report per month to his district commander about progress. Bliss. And he enjoyed writing his reports anyway. He was proud of the amount of work he did, and the rapport he was building with his client group.
He phoned Cathy at ENDDAS
“Hi Cathy. Got another one for you.”
She sounded a little bemused as she answered.
“Which one this time?”
“Mark Foster.”
“Mark Foster” she slowly repeated as she entered his name into her system.
“Mark Foster, Mark Foster, there he is. We had him for a few months in two thousand and six. Looks like we had him on a script, but he kept using, so he got binned.”
“Ok” Pablo simply replied. “Well, if you can book him in for a triage, I’d be grateful, and I’ll do my best to help keep him engaged this time.”
“Ok” she agreed. “Give me his mobile and we’ll contact him for an appointment. I’ll let you know when it is.”
“Cheers.”
He felt that this inter-agency cooperation was such a good step forward. The police could do a lot to help channel addicts into the programme. Enddas provided the expert counselling and chemical alternatives to street drugs, namel Subutex or Methadone scripts. The users wouldn’t need to commit so much crime to pay for their drugs and they would get healthier. It was a win-win situation. The client would have to submit to weekly counselling sessions preceded by urine tests to ensure that they were not then still using heroin. The Subutex was a blocker, deleting any effect heroin would normally have, and Methadone was a safer alternative to heroin, which under their supervision, would be prescribed in smaller and smaller doses over a suitable period of time, in the hope of weaning them completely off. Not surprisingly, the vast majority of addicts went for the Methadone option.
There was a tap on his door as a familiar face peeked through the doorway.
“Ok to come in for a mo’ mate?”
“Of course Steven. It’s good to see you mate. Come in.”
He and Steven had worked together on response a few years earlier, and had got on really well. Steven was a younger officer, but he was mature and sensible beyond his years. Pablo thought he looked a little grey and tired, but he didn’t say anything.
“Still enjoying cosying up to the criminal fraternity?” Steven enquired mischievously.
“Loving it mate. Nobody gives me any hassle, and seriously, it is a worthwhile role. You know that.”
Most fellow officers regarded Pablo’s role with suspicion considering that it involved such close liaison with high-profile offenders. They didn’t consider it a role for a police officer, but Steven was one of the few who saw it’s value. He himself had lost a nephew to a heroin overdose a few years earlier, so he was particularly sensitive to these issues.
After some banter and small talk, Steven got to the point.
“Pablo, have you seen Jack Bruges yet?”
“Give me a chance mate. He’s only been out for a couple of weeks, but he is on the list. Anyway, surely he’s POU?”
The Prolific Offender Units had been introduced about four years earlier at the same time as Pablo’s role was devised. Their role was to deliver a major part of the new offender management programme. They were multi-agency units comprising staff from the health authorities, the probation service, and the police service. Ordinarily these organisations were not geared up to communicate with each other, with an ingrained reluctance to share borne out of fear of reprisals under the data protection act. However, now the very government was directing them to talk to each other and to share information under the auspices of reducing crime. This was about breaking glass walls between different organisations, and encouraging them to let down their barriers for the greater good. It took a big push from government at high levels within these organisations to bring about a sea-change in attitudes, but it was a sensible and useful step forward.
“No, he’s not. He’s just released on licence, which means he’s pretty much free as a bird.”
“He sees probation.”
“Big deal.”
He gave Pablo a look that reflected his disparaging view of probation.
“Ok. So what’s your beef with him?”
“He’s pushing hard drugs into the comp’ where my daughter goes. My missus is livid, and I promised her I’d try to do something.”
“Fair enough buddy. I’ll make him a priority. I remember nicking him once quite a few years ago for an assault. He was a right arse in front of people, but when you got him on his own, he was like a different bloke, quite reasonable really.”
“Thanks mate.”
They shook hands affectionately, and Steven left looking a little happier than when he had walked in. Seeing him reminded Pablo of the overdoses. Over the past two years, he’d had five. And in fact none of those five had actually engaged in the process of rehabilitation. They were simply people who had accepted his occasional contact, but who were not ready yet to engage properly. He had built up some rapport with them, but was still trying to persuade them to try something remedial. His very first client was a lad handed over to him by his predecessor. A lad called Jo. He was just about to finish a prison sentence for possession, and a placement in a residential rehabilitation centre had been earmarked for him. All Pablo had to do was visit him in prison to sell him the scheme. This he tried his very best to do, but it was like talking to a brick wall. Jo couldn't see how lucky he was to be offered a place like that, which really was like gold dust. He generously said he'd think about it. Pablo tried to get across the seriousness of his choices; either to try to get or stay clean, or go back to the old ways, which were fraught with danger. Jo didn't get it. It was so frustrating. He was released without taking up any help from Pablo. Just two days later he was found dead in a public toilet with a needle hanging out of his arm. The tolerance reduction effect.
Then there was Emma. A young lady who through no fault of her own had been passed from institution to institution as a child and had never really known love or proper parenting, and like many others from a similar background, had never learnt her self worth, or how to self-discipline. In time she drifted into alcohol and drug abuse, and soon spiralled into heroin abuse. One sad day she unwittingly took a dose too strong for her, and it put her to sleep like a terminally sick animal. Then there was Brian, a guy aged about forty who resided in a doss house occupied solely by drug addicts and alcoholics who had all been taken off the streets. Pablo visited him regularly there, but he could not squeeze even a tiny amount of optimism into him. Brian was so disillusioned with life. Heroin blocked out the hopelessness and the penetrating sense of total loss. Once upon a time, he had been a 'normal' guy with a home a family and a respectable job. The marriage breakdown and the loss of family life was the start of the complete crumbling of his life, which in a few short years brought him into this miserable shameful existence. He was deeply embarrassed and humiliated, and he regularly 'accidentally' overdosed, but each time so far, someone had called an ambulance, and a shot of adrenalin bought him yet another chance of life. Pablo would challenge him about this brinkmanship, but this guy was genuinely past caring. He looked Pablo straight in the eye, and said without passion or regret,
“I don't care what happens.” He really didn't.
The day arrived when the ambulance was called too late to save him.
The next casualty was just like the first. A man in his late twenties called Steve who was really popular and full of life, and criminally active. He was a heroin addict, but a decent spell inside prison cleaned him up. On his release, he was apparently determined to stay clean, and it did seem to his family that he possessed the strength of character to see that commitment through. Unfortunately shortly after his release, it was his birthday. Well, you can't refuse a little treat on your birthday can you? Trouble was, the old tolerance issue again. His birthday meant a very special journey, to meet his maker.
Finally there was Robert, the thirty five year old cocaine addict. He had been arrested so many times that he regarded himself as mates with all the local old-bill. And he was a very personable co-operative guy. It's just that he had to mug people to pay for his habit. And he'd had this habit for too long. His heart protested and he died of a heart attack whilst out pushing his bicycle up a hill one sunny afternoon. Thirty five years old, but his heart had been worn out by the repeated hyper stimulation by drugs.
These things sharpened up Pablo's act. He had to do what he could. It really was a matter of life or death.
I enjoyed getting to know the character of Pablo and found him to be sympathetic and engaging. His character was well-developed. On the other hand, the character of Delilah was totally off-putting, which may have been by the design of the author. I did find the plot itself entertaining; however, I was frequently bored with the tedious notes from Pablo to Delilah that all seemed to say the same thing about his unrequited love for her. I did like the story of Pablo’s being charged for inappropriate interaction with a client and found that to be a timely issue within the pages of the book. Delilah’s reaction to it was not totally unexpected. The surprise came later in the book when Roger was acting as Pablo’s defender in his case. My mouth literally hung open at that part. The character of Tim, Pablo’s staunch defender and good friend, was not well-developed enough for me to comment much on him, but his loyalty to Pablo did make him likable. Other likable characters included Rebecca, Pablo’s attorney, and Stella, a dance partner. The dances that Delilah and Pablo started attending seemed to be a bridge between the two of them, so I liked reading about them and how much fun they seemed for the couples. There were parts of the book that were very real to me, like their daughter Sarah moving out and the way the couple spent Christmases with families. Sad, but still very realistic. I did not like the marriage counselor at all as she seemed to take Delilah’s side from the beginning and had little to offer in the way of positive advice or encouragement. One of the central parts of the book was that Pablo was working on an addition to their home, and that seemed to keep him totally occupied during the hard days when he was awaiting his court hearing. This cemented the fact that Pablo worked hard at whatever task he was given to do, even his commitment to his failing marriage. The plot flowed at times and bogged down at others, like the poetry from Pablo and the journal entries from Delilah. I later realized the reason for them, but they were a bit over the top for me. All in all, the book was entertaining but not completely engaging at all times.