The flashing blue light was right behind him; it filled his rear view mirror,”This cop is in a real hurry”, thought Terry, “he obviously can’t overtake so it’s as well I’m turning here”.
He turned and the police car turned too. “Oh! Fuck, they’re following me!”, he thought as he turned towards home. “I’d better pull over. God, these side streets so are full of cars, I just can’t stop in the middle of the road”. He travelled a few hundred yards before he finally found a suitable place, just at the corner of his own street.
His mind was racing as the thought of all the horrors of prosecution went through his mind. It really had been a demoralising month and this would really put the cap on his depression. He tried to calculate just how much he’d consumed; had it been three or four glasses...
The police car pulled up in the road beside him, blocking the traffic. “At least it’s dark and the neighbours won’t realise it’s me being arrested”, he thought. Then Terry remembered his father’s advice. “Whenever the police stop you”, he’d advised in his strong south Walean accent, “always, take the initiative, get out of the car and confront them like.  Don’t allow them to tower over you as you sit in your car; it only encourages the sense of their own power, like”.
There was a problem with this advice as, given Terry’s height, like his father’s, a policeman was likely to tower over him whether he got out of the vehicle or not.  It was too late to act on his father’s advice as a woman police officer was already standing over him, peering through the car window. She asked him to get out of the car and secure it, then to take a seat in the back of the patrol car.
The police driver was on the radio reporting in and asking for assistance. Terry sat in the back and heard the automatic lock clunk shut. Looking around, he thought about the short time it had taken from having an enjoyable dinner with friends and celebrating the birthday of Joanna to being locked into a police car awaiting further instructions.
The radio conversation stopped and the woman officer turned to the driver and said, “We’re going to have to arrest him, right?”.
“It seems like it”, came the response.

The woman officer turned and faced Terry and said, “We haven’t got a breathalyser in the car, nor

can we get hold of one immediately. Consequently we’re going to have to arrest you and take you to the local police station for a breath test. It is therefore my duty to caution you, you don’t have to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence against you”.
The driver turned around and faced Terry. It was the first time he’d seen the man’s face. He was young, probably in his mid twenties, with short blond hair and fashionable wire-rimmed spectacles. By his stern and faintly menacing voice it was clear that he was out to get his man.
“Exactly how much did you have to drink?”, he asked in a staccato voice, looking directly and severely at Terry through his mean glasses, “not that you’ll be honest about it of course, no one ever is. You were driving in an erratic manner, doing 60 miles per hour up the High Street. It’s possible to smell the alcohol on your breath, so that’s the reason we’re going to have to take you in”.
“There’s a shortage of breathalysers”, added the policewoman, “the force can’t afford many of them.”
With that they headed for the police station.
It was a short journey that took them back along the road Terry had just travelled. It glittered with lighted shops and pubs and was still busy with people. He noticed a group laughing and saying goodbye outside his favourite Chinese restaurant and hoped that they hadn’t had too much to drink. He thought about the policeman’s accusation about speeding. He had probably been driving faster than the speed limit, but it would be impossible to drive at 60 miles an hour down this road.  Why was the man so incandescent, it was certainly an exaggeration but what could Terry do about it?
Terry searched all his pockets for indigestion tablets. “Oh! Why did I clear them out?”, he thought to himself. “Perhaps they’d have helped to reduce the smell on my breath...or would they?  Probably not, otherwise Rennies could increase their market share enormously. Acid indigestion can catch you out, and so can the Police. Rennies will take your breath away. Why on earth did I finish off that bottle of wine in my usual way...
The car had stopped at traffic lights., and then began to move as the lights changed. “Yes, that’s it”,

thought Terry, “when I was entering the High Street I went through the lights at amber. In fact I accelerated through them and he must have been right behind me. Had that made him furious? He ought to get out more”. They were pulling into the police station, a building so frequently observed by Terry as he passed by every day on the way to work. “If you’d just like to follow us we’ll get you sorted out, sir”, said the policeman as he released the lock on the door.
They passed through a reinforced doorway and entered a cold, forbidding passage, then turned to the right into a stark, badly lit room. On the left wall was a small window that looked out on to the duty desk in the adjoining room. The brighter light from that area spilled out into this forbidding space and spotlighted a middle-aged man sitting on the basic wooden bench that skirted the walls. The man looked rather ordinary, not like a criminal at all. He had greying hair, dark eyes and a sad mouth. His waxed jacket and corduroy trousers gave him the air of a country gentleman down on his luck.  His appearance was an unusual one for the heart of the city, as though he’d wandered into the conurbation in error, chasing urban foxes perhaps. Would they arrest him for that? I wouldn’t have thought so. They looked at one another quizzically as though each was wanting to ask the same question about the reasons for their incarceration, but neither of them spoke. Ending up in this somewhat Kafkaesque room at the end of an ordinary working day seemed altogether bizarre and it looked as though this companion in crime thought so too.
“If you’d like to sit here for a while”, the woman officer said in a rather casual manner, as though Terry had some choice in the matter, “it seems that the duty officer is busy and that we’re also having problems with the computers tonight”. She then sat down beside Terry while the policeman disappeared through the door into the station office.
She looked at him through her round, simple glasses, her brown eyes enlarged by the lenses. She had removed her cap and her light-coloured hair was pulled back tightly into a bun.  This didn’t flatter her, it only served to emphasise her rounded cheeks and small mouth. She was certainly plain and this was not helped by the plumpness of her short body. He could see now that she had to squeeze

herself into the regulation blue trousers and he rather suspected that if she stood up and turned around he would see a rather Rubinesque rear. Terry wondered if she was lonely, for she certainly gave the impression that she faced an unhappy life alone.
“Where do you work?” she asked.
“At the university”, he replied.
“Oh! I graduated from there four years ago, I read history but only got a two-two”, she confided.
“Yes, so many of us have to bear the stigma bravely”, he replied, “what made you become a policema... officer?” He wondered whether the slight incoherence in his diction was a result of booze or fear. She would, he guessed, attribute it to the former.
“Well, I did a teacher-training certificate but didn’t enjoy teaching, so I thought I’d try this... It’s not working out too well, my local inspector really dislikes me and shows it, so I’m considering doing probation work next. I’ll have tried all the social services by the time I’ve finished”. She smiled at him quickly and rather sadly.
Though she was talking to him sweetly he felt unsure whether this was for official or personal reasons. He was obviously not to be left alone, though he couldn’t exactly see why. To get him under observation he supposed though suicide was far from his mind, though he did have a belt and a pair of shoelaces to hand.  There was a long silence and Terry noticed that the walls and ceilings were painted a bluish grey, in fact he realised that all the areas he’d seem so far were all in the same colour. It created for an anonymous enclosure, intentionally designed, he imagined, to decrease any sense of self.
The man in the waxed jacket was now called into the station office. Why didn’t he need a minder like him? Terry and the police woman were now alone in this dispiriting environment and silence surrounded them again.
“What exactly happens if I’m convicted?” he eventually asked, more for the want of occupying his mind than for the information itself.

“Well, you’ll have to appear in court and, depending on the level of alcohol in your blood you’ll be fined and banned from driving.”
He thought about what could happen in the following hours. He’d have to tell his boss, his parents... he’d be classed in everyone’s mind as a drunk. If only he’d not had that extra glass of wine, but it was just like him to finish things ”I’ve paid for it so I’ll finish it.” Perhaps next time he’d think again though he somehow doubted it.
“It looks as though they’re ready for us now. Please follow me”
“Rubenesque was too polite” he thought to himself as he followed her towards the door. It was unlocked from the other side and they continued into the charge-room. This was a large space, rather like an open-plan office with an enormous curved desk in the centre. Behind this sat two sergeants on high stools, each of them facing their own computer screens. These were hidden within blue-grey metal containers, presumably to prevent damage from violent guests. The sound of someone shouting incoherently could be heard coming from one of the adjoining rooms. This added to the sense of disorientation.
“What is your surname?” asked the desk sergeant giving him a quite charming smile.
“Edwards”, he replied honestly.
“Your first name?”
“Terrance”
She was a round-faced a woman in her mid-forties. She was not thin but was well-proportioned and attractive. She had a welcoming smile that she used to good effect, for Terry already felt more at ease than he done in the past hour or so. Her hazel eyes and auburn hair and dark complexion gave warmth to her pleasant demeanour. Her natural charm seemed oddly out of place in this building. He felt she could have used her undoubted skills in, say, a tourist information office or as a hotel receptionist.
She continued asking a whole series of questions in her pleasant but business-like manner and then

looked him up and down a number of times while continuing to type.
Terry must have looked puzzled, if not alarmed, by this for she said in a rather mischievous way, “Don’t worry, I’m just typing a description of you for our records”
“Oh!” he said, and she gave him a knowing look.
“What’s the charge?” she asked the policewomen, “tell me slowly for you must remember that I’m no typist but I have to use the keyboard to input the information.”
The policewoman related the circumstances to the station sergeant, and continued, saying that they had stopped Terry as he was driving erratically, driving at 60 miles an hour down the High Street. She continued to relate the rest of the events that had resulted in the interview they were having. Then she turned to Terry and said, “We are not going to proceed with any charges for the driving offence, but we believe that you were driving with a blood alcohol level in excess of that permitted by the law and that will be the charge brought against you. It’s a drink and drive charge.
The station sergeant then intervened and said, “Terry, I’m obliged to tell you that you are entitled to see a solicitor and to make one phone call of your choice. Do you wish to do so?”
“Can I contact a solicitor, now, before I take the breath-test?”
“No. But you may afterwards. You should also sign here, and here, to conform that I’ve informed you about your rights.  You can take this booklet, it explains what you’re entitled to in more detail. I think they’re ready for you now.”
She turned to a middle-aged, balding man in uniform who had suddenly appeared at the desk. “Bill, will you please take Terry and introduce him to the machine?”  Turning again to Terry she pointed to one of the rooms off the main area. “If you could go with Constable Cronin...” The shouting from the distraught man continued to echo around the area and was ignored by everyone. Terry and the policewoman followed Constable Cronin towards the room; it felt as though he was going to the gallows. The room was so small it was overcrowded with the three of them inside. Along one of the walls of this windowless space was a large machine.  It was standing on a table and consisted,

essentially, of a large metal box with a small display screen. It had a tube at one end. At the side of it was an open compartment full of transparent plastic mouth-pieces.  Each was individually wrapped and sterile, it reminded Terry of the wrapped headphones handed out on aircraft, though he really couldn’t think why he made that connection; perhaps he was drunk.
Bill Cronin began to explain the intricacies of the machine to the initiate in a slow methodical and deliberate manner. Terry wasn’t sure whether this was a part of the rights to which he was entitled or just that the constable was fascinated by the contraption. When the description finally came to an end, Constable Cronin turned to him and said, “”I’m sorry about this sir, but we’ll have to wait for the machine to warm up before we can proceed any further, it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. In the meantime I’ll take the opportunity of asking you a few questions”.
He proceeded to read out the document in front of him. “I must ask you to declare whether you have done any of the following actions since you were first charged with the offence. Have you smoked a cigarette, taken a mouthwash, eaten anything..?”
The list went on for a while and Terry dutifully said no to all the questions. After finishing the list the constable began to read the introductory remarks and the same sequence of questions once again. Terry replied in the negative to all the questions once more and the Kafkaesque analogy came to his mind once again. Or was it perhaps a time warp that would continue until he finally woke up in some lesser-known corner of a parallel universe. Finally Constable Cronin stopped reading, turned and pressed a few buttons. Then he addressed Terry again, “It’s almost ready now sir, it’s just making a test run to ensure that the readings are accurate, if you’d like to sit down for a while...”. He pointed to a tube-framed chair against the wall, “The limit for the test is thirty four.  You will take two tests, the lowest of which will be the one that decides what action will be taken next”.
Terry sat down, frustrated by all the delays. He began to despair of the police organization of the country. If this wasn’t a delaying tactic, just think how many crimes go undetected while the constabulary are waiting for their breathalyzers to warm up and computing systems to be repaired.

His constant companion, the sad policewoman, sat beside him. She muttered something about “not being too long now” but he was finding the unreality of the situation ever more stressful. His sense of despair was exacerbated by the activity of Constable Cronin who continued to hover over the machine with a piece of paper in his hand as though trying to work out how the thing should work. Surely thought Terry, it couldn’t be so infrequently used that no one was familiar with its operation?  Perhaps the problem was with Constable Cronin himself, perhaps handcuffs and two-way radios gave him the same trouble; he was obviously just not good with ‘contraptions’.
The tension and fear mounted within Terry as the waiting went on. He’d been in the police station for over an hour and a half by now and the party at the restaurant seemed like days away.
“I think we’re ready now sir, if you’d like to stand up, come to the breathalyzer and blow into here.” He raised the pipe at the side of the machine rather as though he was about to pull a pint of beer.
“Do I breathe in here?” asked Terry, pointing to the opening at the top of the pipe.
“No”, said the constable, “in here” and pointed in a vague direction to the side of the pipe.
This didn’t seem at all logical but Terry stood and blew at the side of the pipe. This caused a very vigorous reaction from Constable Cronin.
“What are you doing, are you trying to fool with me or something?” he demanded angrily, losing all pretence of politeness. “You breathe in here” he cried, pointing to the opening Terry had identified originally. “Now try again, take a deep breath and don’t stop blowing until I say so”.
“Here goes,” thought Terry, “shouldn’t my whole life pass before me?”. He breathed into the tube for what seemed like an eternity. However, he stopped before Constable Cronin had given his command.  That didn’t please the man, but it was just enough puff for the machine to register that the sample had been taken satisfactorily.
Terry watched with mounting fear until he saw the breathalyser display the result on the screen. It registered nineteen.  Terry felt the cloud of panic above his head disperse into the atmosphere but he tried not to show his relief. Constable Cronin had now seen the result too. “Nineteen!, nineteen!”, he

to stir again in the bottom of his stomach. What were they doing now he wondered; he was innocent so why wasn’t he being let go? He decided that he’d go and search them out if they didn’t come back after another ten minutes. He checked his watch.
Then suddenly he thought that they may even be observing him, surely another Kafkaesque reaction. Perhaps they were testing the machine again to see if the readings were in some way inaccurate, but the sergeant had concluded the process hadn’t she? Perhaps the arresting officer was trying to get a conviction for the speeding accusation, but surely he’d burnt his boats on that one? Was it just that they were proving their macho police personas in order to show that they could always make life difficult if they so desired.
In the enclosed solitude he began to appreciate what it’s like in more oppressive regimes.  Perhaps even in here, when getting a conviction is thought to be essential for whatever reason. The policewoman had told him while they’d waited in the outer office that they had their efficiency quotas and were in trouble with their superiors if they didn’t attain them. Apparently they each had to meet set targets to prove they were acting effectively. They were obviously angry tonight because they had wasted two hours of their time in failing to get a conviction. They had made the wrong call in deciding to go for a drink/drive offence when they could have got at least some credits for the speeding accusation. This was scary stuff. When the ten minutes were almost up the policewoman entered the room and closed the door behind her. “We’re ready to go now”, she said. “I just have to give you this slip. You have to bring back to the station within seven days along with your driving licence and insurance documents”. She handed him the piece of blue paper as he stood up. They moved towards the door that was suddenly opened by the arresting officer. “You were driving erratically”, he said emphatically as he led the way out of the building to the police car, ”we didn’t arrest you at random” he continued in what seemed to Terry a rather defensive way. “But I always drive erratically” replied Terry as he left the building and breathed in the cold night air. He felt a huge, liberating sense of relief and pleasure.

“Humph!” was the response of the policeman as he opened the car door; “it’s quite possible that you’ll find that you’re really over the limit once you’ve waited a few more hours”.
So the waiting around may really have had everything to do with trying to gain a conviction thought Terry, but for now he didn’t really care whether it was the case or not.  He was free. He didn’t have to face a magistrate or tell his boss or face a driving ban. It was over.
They sped back up the High Street, turned the corner and stopped at his own vehicle. He got out of the police car.  “Goodnight” he said, but there was no response for either of the car’s occupants. Then they accelerated away into the night. “Off to fill their quota”, thought Terry.
                                                                                    (c) Richard Biddiscombe 2009 .

They sped back up the High Street, turned the corner and stopped at his own vehicle. He got out of the police car.  “Goodnight” he said, but there was no response for either of the car’s occupants. Then they accelerated away into the night. “Off to fill their quota”, thought Terry.
                                                                                    © Richard Biddiscombe 2009