“Stop it,” Johnny growled.
“What? Just keeping them on their toes.”
One of them looked around, spotting the car, then theyallraised their walking sticks and shook them like a group of angry villagers with pitchforks. Taylor let out a satisfied hum.
Johnny punched Taylor’s knee. “For fuck’s sake, Tay. Look what you’ve done. Oh God, what’re they?—”
Two broke away from the group and headed straight towards them, sticks held high and brilliantly bleached false teeth clattering in their mouths.
“Shit, they’re closing in,” Taylor said, throwing the car into reverse.
What followed was a maelstrom of multi-coloured walking sticks swinging wildly, and as Taylor backed the car away he realised he had totally underestimated the speed of the elderly.
One of them smacked the car bonnet. “Oi!” he shouted, rolling down the window. “Put those down, you daft old?—”
“Taylor!” Johnny snapped, driving his fingertips into Taylor’s knee. “Turn the fucking car around. You arenotpissing off the locals before we’ve even got to the nick.”
Taylor scoffed. “I amnotpissing them off, they’re pissingmeoff.”
“Taylor,” Johnny growled, voice growing low. His wolf flashed behind his eyes, pupils growing wide and dragging Taylor in. “Stop it.”
Taylor blinked, sucking in a breath. “Alright, chill out,” he said, backing all the way to the end of the road. “Don’t use your alpha bullshit on me, JP.”
He threw an arm behind Johnny’s chair, pulling onehellof a corner reverse before finding another track that ran parallel with the main road. It was quieter, with allotments running alongside it.
“Is this place even real?” Taylor said, refusing to look at Johnny as he slowed the car and let it coast again. “Why does this town even have its own division? It doesn’t need a fucking police station.”
They drifted past several more bungalows, most of which had immaculately groomed lawns and perfectly pruned hedges.There must be a gardener. Or maybe even a whole army of gardeners.
Johnny sighed, rubbing his chin. “I guess we’re about to find out.”
Well, they found the police station in all its Victorian-style glory. It had that weird new-old feel with its red brick, lead flashing and a sprinkling of oppression thrown in for good measure. An oldy-worldy drop lantern with POLICE emblazoned in blue stuck out from the side, with wrought iron railings running alongside a ramp all the way up to the dark wood door.
Taylor whistled as they drove around the side and into the private carpark.
“This is a film set, right? There’s no way this is actually a functioning police station.”
Johnny shrugged, “Looks better than West Newton. There’s a space there.”
Taylor parked up, still feeling self-conscious about his beloved Ford Focus as he nestled it between the police cars.
All three of them. Old, like something from a nineties cop show, and all eerily pristine as though they’d never seen a car chase in their lives.
“Is this it?” Taylor said, shutting the car door as quietly as he could. “Three cars for an entire division? I bet they don’t even have a shifter run. Or showers. Fuck, is there even a custody block? I didn’t see one. Did you?”
Johnny tugged him to the front of the car, his fingers resting on the small of Taylor’s back as they looked up at the police station. “It’s going to be fine, Tay.”
Taylor ran his tongue along his bottom lip, chest rumbling quietly. “Okay,” he said, picking a piece of cereal out of his back tooth. “Let’s do this.”
The heavy wooden door groaned as he pushed it open. “Hello?” he said, coughing as a cloud of dust hit his nose. The waiting room was also film-set-esque, with its metal framed benches, umbrella bin and looping coat rack. There were no coats or umbrellas, or any staff for that matter.
Johnny stepped in behind him and ran a finger over the old-fashioned oak counter, sneezing when it came away in a thick layer of dust. He wiped it across one of the benches. “I don’t think it’s manned,” he said, dipping behind the reception desk. “There isn’t even a computer. And is it that a… is that a fucking rotary phone?”
Taylor coughed again, shuffling between the benches and towards an open door at the far end. “Shit,” he said, pitching forward as he tripped over something wedged across the doorframe. He frowned and ran his foot over it, revealing a leather-bound book, no, atomewith the words ‘William Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, ed. 1873’ embossed in discoloured lettering.
Taylor smirked, because it was pretty fitting given that the British justice system was worth about as much as a doorstop.
“Come on,” Johnny said, tugging at his elbow.
