Handlebar

The man walks back. Barefoot now. No rubber boots. No hard hat. The road grit bites at his soles, every step leaving a faint smear the morning air can’t quite dry.

It’s beginning to get lighter. Early hours. The sky’s washed pale, a bruised pink at the edges. The stars have gone, swallowed whole, leaving only the emptiness where they were. The air smells faintly of diesel and frost . . . the cold kind that cracks your lips before you notice.

Grief hits sudden and sharp, folding him in half. He sobs . . . not the movie kind, but the raw, choking sort that rakes the back of his throat. His chest feels like it’s caving in, ribs turning to wet paper. Still, he drags himself on, back to the overpass.

Cars hiss past below and around, tyres spraying thin lines of water from the night’s damp. Headlights flare and die as they pass, like brief, indifferent glances. The roads are busy with early starters . . . bakers, drivers, cleaners . . . people on their way to somewhere warm.

He stops at the top. This is where it ends. One last thing.

He stares down, listening to the hum of traffic. It’s steady, hypnotic.

He looks over the railing. It’s high enough.

. . . Thunk . . . Swing . . . Creak . . . Please!..

The word slithers through him. He shudders. He raises a leg, hooks it over the cold metal railing.

But before he can turn to climb, something catches him, hard, yanking him back to the pavement. A flash of navy. The shine of a badge.

A policeman.

He thrashes, desperate, catching the old officer in the nose with a wild punch. The sound is wet, sudden. Blood spatters a grey moustache.

He scrambles up, lunges for the railing again . . . and then the world bites him, pulling backwards in a spasms of pain.

Electricity locks his muscles, tears a shout from him he doesn’t remember making. He hits the ground hard, teeth clicking together.

Another cop’s on him now, knee in his back, cuffs biting his wrists. He pockets his taser and shouts over to the other cop, asks if he’s okay. The old cop is holding his nose, red running through his fingers. He hauls himself to the patrol car, leaning on it like it might steady the years. His breath is ragged, the morning light making the deep lines on his face look like cracks in old stone.

The patient is rolled onto his back. And then, the cops eyes. He sees them. Both of them. And in the pupils, a reflection . . . it’s wrong. He remembers where he’s seen eyes like this before. The hooker from the hospital, the waiting room.

He screams, voice shredding. “You said I could leave!?” The words loop, tangled with sobs and wordless, animal sounds.

The cop laughs. Says he recognises the red uniform. Says they’ll take him back to Sunny Meadow.

The man howls, higher, rawer. “You said I could leave!?”

It takes both of them to shove him into the back seat. The door slams, locking the sound away, muffled but still there.

The older cop, the one with the busted nose, leans against the bonnet, dabbing at the blood with a crumpled paper towel. His breathing’s rough, not just from the scuffle but from years of stale air and cheap whiskey. The other cop stands opposite, lights a cigar, watching the man in the back seat thrash against the cuffs.

Inside the car, the prisoner’s voice is hoarse, muffled through the glass: “You said I could leave… You said…” The rest is swallowed by the engine’s low idle.

The old man winces as he tries to laugh. “That’s it, Andy. I’m done. This time I mean it. I can’t keep up with this shit any more.”

Andy smirks. “You’ve been saying that for a decade.”

“This time’s different. Nose’s busted, knees are shot, lungs feel like paper bags. And the truth? I just don’t want it any more. Not the chases, not the paperwork. Even the good bits aren’t worth the trouble.”

Andy arches a brow. “Good bits?”

The old man grins, teeth pink from the blood in his mouth. “You know. Perks. Free drinks for looking the other way. A little cash for misplacing the right evidence. Nights in the back room with girls who can’t afford bail… or don’t dare say no. The kind of stuff rookies wouldn’t have the stomach for.”

Andy chuckles, shaking his head. “Guess they’ll stick me with some wet-behind-the-ears kid who’ll piss himself at the first sign of trouble.”

“Probably.” The old man spits red onto the tarmac. “But you’ll break him in. Show him the ropes.”

They share a quiet laugh, not friendly, but knowing. The laugh of men who’ve both learned the rules only apply to people without badges.

From across the lot, a voice cuts through: “Anderson!”

His walkie.

Andy straightens, flicks the ash from his cigar, and crushes it under his boot. His hand smooths the ends of his handlebar moustache, like a man checking the last thing in the mirror before heading out.

“Anderson… Copy…”