was late November, the beginning of the drier, cooler season in Mindoro, and the lodge was about three-quarters booked, so there was more than enough to keep me busy. We had staff who did the cooking and cleaning, but now and again I helped run the bar, and most days I'd take groups of divers out on our outrigger to the many dive sites that littered the craggy Sabang peninsula, and which most of our guests were here to see. Diving had become something of a passion for me since coming to the Philippines. I'd learned while we'd been in Siquijor and was now a qualified instructor, unlike Tomboy, who couldn't even swim and had to make do with running the shop and doing the books.
In the week after Slippery's death, I took divers out every day, enjoying the opportunity to immerse myself in the island's warm, clear waters and forgetthe torments that were beginning to wear me down. It's easy when you're underwater. It's quiet, for a start. There's no one to hassle to you, and there are enough breathtaking sights amongst the fish-covered reefs and canyons to take your mind off even the largest of troubles. The only problem is there's only so much time you can spend down there before your air runs out and it's time to come back to reality. And reality for me meant remembering Malik as a living, breathing, talking person, and remembering what had happened to him, and my own very indirect part in it.
I couldn't get it out of my head, no matter how hard I tried. One night in the week after Slippery's death, I had a dream. It was an almost exact replica of an incident that had occurred not long after Malik and I had started working together, about four years back. At the time, I hadn't been too sure about my new recruit. A five-foot-eight, slightly built Asian university graduate, who was already shooting up the ranks even though he was barely in his mid-twenties, I'd already come to the conclusion that he was only there to make up the ethnic numbers. So when we did our first op together, a raid on the home of a habitual burglar named Titus Bower, I decided to test my new partner's mettle and see if he was more than just a prime example of affirmative action and Met Police political correctness.
Bower lived in a small, terraced house with ashoebox-sized rear garden that backed onto an alley. I was leading the team sent out to arrest him, which sounds a bit more glamorous than it actually was, as there was only Malik, me, and two of the station's uniforms. Since I knew that Bower might well make a run for it, I decided to post an officer at the rear of the property to intercept him. Ordinarily, I'd have used one of the bigger guys for this, but instead I chose Malik, much to his surprise and the surprise of the other two on the op. He didn't complain, though, I remember that. Just did what I'd asked, and when the rest of us had knocked on the front door and Bower had opened it a few inches, realized who we were and made a dash out the back, Malik had been there to greet him.
It had been a one-sided contest. Running through Bower's cluttered hallway in hot pursuit, I watched as our suspect tore open the rear door and charged straight into Malik, knocking him down onto his back and literally running right over him like something out of a cartoon, his Nike trainer trampling Malik's face as the poor sod tried without success to tell him he was under arrest. Bower was a big guy, and he'd run from us before, so I knew I'd been unfair on my new partner, but the thing that I remember about the incident was that Malik hadn't given up. Although shocked and probably in a lot of pain, he'd grabbed hold of Bower's ankle as he'd come past, and had refused to let go. Bower hadstaggered along the garden, struggling to shake Malik off, and had even tried to kick him in the head (an act that had caused him to lose his balance and fall over, much to our mirth). But Malik had grimly held on to that ankle right up until the moment we'd had Bower in cuffs,
In the week after Slippery's death, I took divers out every day, enjoying the opportunity to immerse myself in the island's warm, clear waters and forgetthe torments that were beginning to wear me down. It's easy when you're underwater. It's quiet, for a start. There's no one to hassle to you, and there are enough breathtaking sights amongst the fish-covered reefs and canyons to take your mind off even the largest of troubles. The only problem is there's only so much time you can spend down there before your air runs out and it's time to come back to reality. And reality for me meant remembering Malik as a living, breathing, talking person, and remembering what had happened to him, and my own very indirect part in it.
I couldn't get it out of my head, no matter how hard I tried. One night in the week after Slippery's death, I had a dream. It was an almost exact replica of an incident that had occurred not long after Malik and I had started working together, about four years back. At the time, I hadn't been too sure about my new recruit. A five-foot-eight, slightly built Asian university graduate, who was already shooting up the ranks even though he was barely in his mid-twenties, I'd already come to the conclusion that he was only there to make up the ethnic numbers. So when we did our first op together, a raid on the home of a habitual burglar named Titus Bower, I decided to test my new partner's mettle and see if he was more than just a prime example of affirmative action and Met Police political correctness.
Bower lived in a small, terraced house with ashoebox-sized rear garden that backed onto an alley. I was leading the team sent out to arrest him, which sounds a bit more glamorous than it actually was, as there was only Malik, me, and two of the station's uniforms. Since I knew that Bower might well make a run for it, I decided to post an officer at the rear of the property to intercept him. Ordinarily, I'd have used one of the bigger guys for this, but instead I chose Malik, much to his surprise and the surprise of the other two on the op. He didn't complain, though, I remember that. Just did what I'd asked, and when the rest of us had knocked on the front door and Bower had opened it a few inches, realized who we were and made a dash out the back, Malik had been there to greet him.
It had been a one-sided contest. Running through Bower's cluttered hallway in hot pursuit, I watched as our suspect tore open the rear door and charged straight into Malik, knocking him down onto his back and literally running right over him like something out of a cartoon, his Nike trainer trampling Malik's face as the poor sod tried without success to tell him he was under arrest. Bower was a big guy, and he'd run from us before, so I knew I'd been unfair on my new partner, but the thing that I remember about the incident was that Malik hadn't given up. Although shocked and probably in a lot of pain, he'd grabbed hold of Bower's ankle as he'd come past, and had refused to let go. Bower hadstaggered along the garden, struggling to shake Malik off, and had even tried to kick him in the head (an act that had caused him to lose his balance and fall over, much to our mirth). But Malik had grimly held on to that ankle right up until the moment we'd had Bower in cuffs,
Similar Books
