better be important,” he said on accepting the call, growling as quietly as he could.
“Is that Mustaf a Dogan?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Sorry to call you at this time, but we need you to come in to work ASAP,” said the police officer on the other end of the phone.
“Are you for real?” Muz moaned as loudly as he dared.
“There’s been a critical incident...”
“Yeah, and? There’s a critical incident almost every other day. Why are you calling me?”
Muz could hear the noise in the IBO office through the phone. It sounded as though the room was crowded with people all trying to talk over each other.
“This is serious, r eally serious. We wouldn’t be calling people up otherwise. Just think of the money. It’s a nice little recall,” the officer said.
“I can’t drive. I’ve been drinking,” Muz replied.
It was a lie. He didn’t care about the money. He had just worked twelve days straight, due to having to attend court and aid warnings eating into his rest days.
“How many have you had?”
“Three pints.”
“Is there anyone who can drive you in?” the IBO officer asked, sounding rightfully sceptical of what he was saying.
“At half past three in the morning? You’ve got be joking. What’s happened anyway?” Muz wanted to know.
“Look, don’t worry about the drink, just get yourself in.”
“What? Are you telling me to drive anyway, even though I’ve had a drink?”
“Unless you’re pissed out of your skull, we need you in.”
“It’s that bad?”
“Yeah. It’s a full force mobilisation.”
“Shit... okay.”
“If it makes you feel any better, we’re also calling up off duty officers from other boroughs and neighbouring forces,” the officer tried to placate him.
“Yeah, I feel loads better.” Muz hung up. “I hate this job,” he said to the cat that had jumped onto the bed to see what the commotion was about. The animal blinked at him with blank eyes. All he wanted to know was whether or not he was about to be fed.
Muz slipped from under the duvet as stealthily as he could manage and stumbled around the darkened bedroom, trying to find his uniform in the dirty clothes bin. He had only worn the trousers and shirt the one day for court and it sounded like there wasn’t time to iron a clean set.
Stubbing his toe hard against the corner of the dressing table, he hissed through his clenched teeth.
“What are you doing?” Farah, his wife, asked, as she propped herself up on her elbows.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Muz apologised. He was in for an ear full now.
“Who was on the phone?”
“Work. They’re calling everyone in. I’ve got to go.”
“I’m sick of this,” Farah said angrily, fully awake now. “They can’t treat you like this. They don’t care about you as people, or the fact that you’ve got families.”
Muz dressed even more hurriedly. The last thing he needed right now, was another lecture about how his job was ruining their marriage and alienating him from his daughter.
“I’m going to write a letter to the Borough Commander about this,” she called after him, as he trod moodily down the stairs and put on his boots.
“Bye,” he called up the stairs, opening the front door. “I love you.”
“We’re going to talk about this when you get back. Whenever that might be,” Farah shouted back.
Muz shut the door and sighed to himself.
Driving south down the A1 from Stevenage, he saw all but a handful of other vehicles on the road.
Why was Farah like that with him, he asked himself. She knew it wasn’t his fault. He d id understand her frustration. The job got to him a lot of the time too, but the fact was that he worked for an emergency service and this sort of thing came with the warrant card. He moaned a lot, both at work to his mates and at home, as did all coppers, but if the truth were known, he couldn’t imagine doing anything else for a living. Even only after the four and a bit years he had