Gladiator School.

‘Gladiator school.’

‘Eh?’

‘Gladiator school,’ Dave repeated. ‘That’s what we used to call those places. They come in as young kids, first offenders some of them, and go out as fully fledged villains. This is where they learn their trade.’

‘Not a lot of emphasis on rehabilitation then?’ My question was rhetorical; I already knew what the answer would be.

Dave looked at me with blatant scorn. ‘Not a lot, no. The whole point of a place like this should be punishment. Pure and simple. Make the bastards suffer and they’ll not be keen to set foot in a nick again any time soon.’

I just nodded. Best to say nothing when Dave was on a roll. I’d long since realised that most serving and former coppers I’d met had views somewhat to the right of Genghis Khan. He’d left the Drug Squad three years ago, but once a copper, as they say. I’d never been a copper, but I understood where he was coming from.

We’d just got back from an interview with a young kid, one of life’s losers. High on crack he’d stabbed another lad from a rival gang, left him to bleed to death in a bus shelter, then gone looking for trouble waving a bloody knife around in a crowded street. A patrol car had clipped him as he’d run across the road, breaking his hip. He and his victim were both fifteen years old. I’d hoped to learn something new about the gang hierarchy, but the kid wasn’t talking. Not now, not ever. Too engrossed in his new-found celebrity.

That symbiotic relationship which had always existed between  myself and Dave as a mutually advantageous partnership between two disparate individuals, was under severe strain. There had been raised voices for half an hour and the argument showed no sign of winding down. When arguments are prolonged to this extent, there’s very little chance of a reconciliation.

Dave was the classic bigot, all fury and bluster with a characteristic inability to see beyond his own fixed and definite opinions. That didn’t mean I didn’t like him or respect him. I did. It just made the working relationship difficult. I was probably just as bad, just as determined, probably more so, but deluded myself into thinking I had the ability to see the merits or otherwise of all relevant points of view. It certainly wasn’t any lack of opinion on either part that was prolonging the argument.

The door opened and Gemma looked in. Gemma acted as my ‘phone contact when I was on a job. Acted out the role of wife, girlfriend, whatever the role demanded. She’s a tough cookie, pretty sharp too with her Cambridge law degree. Fancies herself as a peacemaker.

‘Problems?’ Gemma enquired sweetly. We both glared at her, too involved in our row to bother with a reply.

Gemma came into the office and sat down. She never sat down in Dave’s office; at best she perched on the edge of the desk.

‘No problems at all,’ I replied, eventually ‘Far from it. Your boss and I have had a free and frank discussion concerning future policy in the firm and come to an entirely amicable conclusion.’

‘Oh,’ Gemma ventured. ‘Dave doesn’t seem quite as enamoured of this future policy as you do.’

‘Ah well,’ I replied gravely, ‘There’s a very good reason for that. He’s a total arsehole.’

Dave walked to the door, still visibly seething. ‘Think it over,’ he said. ‘Get back to me when you start to see sense.’

He left the room, slamming the door behind him. I blew out my cheeks, grinning at Gemma.

‘That went well.’

‘Not from where I’m sitting,’ Gemma said. ‘What’s the problem?’

I shrugged. ‘Dave wants to go mob-handed, I want to keep it tight. Same old story.’

‘In on your own again?’

I nodded. ‘Only way I’ll get anywhere. More people, more flapping tongues, harder to blend in, less chance of a result.’

Gemma nodded. We’d been over this before. Many times.

‘It’s a big one, this, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. We’re losing the battle. Hand over fist. If we don’t make a move on this new bloke, we’re fucked.’

Gemma swung herself round on the desk, looking pensive. ‘Not like you, this. Taking it personal.’

‘It’s all changing, we need to make a push now or just leave it to the bizzies to mop up the blood in the gutter. Accept it’s not a war we can ever win. I’m not ready for that.’

‘It’s bad now, isn’t it?’

‘You know it is. When it comes down to life and death, I’d say that was pretty bad. God knows what the life expectancy of lads on the street is around here. About nineteen I’d say. The lucky ones get knocked off and go to jail. Think about that; your chances of survival are increased a hundred fold by getting banged up for a good long stretch. If the drugs or AIDS don’t get you first, there’s plenty of drive-by shootings and punishment squads around. When drugs are the only business in town, the only choice is to be either a seller or a user. Dealers get rich quick or bleed to death in the gutter because the paramedics won’t attend emergency calls for fear of being attacked themselves. Drug users lose everything in even less time. The ones who survive are tough or lucky. Usually both. A few ex-cons get religion in Walton and come back here to set up needle exchanges or drug advice centres. Putting something back into society, they reckon. They end up like everyone else: disillusioned with the same apathy and resentment they dished out to well-meaning do-gooders in their own youth.’

‘Phew!’ Gemma said, ‘I can see you’re still pretty wound up, but you make it sound hopeless. Not like you.’

I looked back at her, meeting and holding her gaze. ‘Do I? Sorry if I’m coming across as a sad disillusioned wanker, it’s because that exactly what I am. I started off like everyone else, thinking I could make a difference. I still thought like that until reality kicked in. Now I know we’re only playing catch up at best. This squad, Dave’s people, are the best I’ve ever been involved with and yet we’re still losing ground hand over fist.’

Gemma shook her head. We talked about the job all the time and she’d usually be the one with the negative vibes. I was supposed to be the positive one. As the bloke at the sharp end I had to be.

Today was different. I felt a deep sadness invade my spirit. Less than a mile from here, no more, there were wine bars, and fancy cafes, delicatessens and tanning studios. Footballers’ wives sipped cappuccino in pavement cafes within spitting distance of a war zone.

Dave came back in, glowering. ‘I’ve been on to London, what a bunch of wankers, know fuck all about anything. We’ll do it your way.’ He held up an admonishing hand. ‘My rules though, right? First sign of it kicking off, I want you out of there. No pissing about trying to rescue the situation, they’re mad bastards, just get out.’

I nodded. We were mates again and the job was still on. We shook hands and settled down to planning a campaign.

This time next week I’d have a new name, a different identity, Gemma would be my telephone significant other. Otherwise I’d be on my own.