The Virgin Sharpy

Raguel placed their fingertips elegantly on the file as it was slid across the table and gently lifted the cover, glancing at the first page without betraying too much interest. Akvin Div wasn't fooled, though, the momentary arch of Raguel's eyebrow enough to indicate that the game was afoot.
"Why this one?" said Raguel, "he seems terribly ordinary."
"Precisely why!" laughed Akvin Div, with the grinding sound of a million quern-stones, "the talk around the pit favoured someone neutral, to make it easy for you. Of course, we'll still win, and the soul will suffer, and all because you failed to defend the indefensible. Perhaps we will spend an eternity turning him inside out, atom by atom..."
Raguel sighed. They had suffered innumerable defeats, punctuated only rarely by victories, though the raging and the gnashing of teeth below at someone's self-sacrifice or incorruptibility always raised choruses of hallelujahs. But usually, Raguel was faced with Akvin Div's ubiquitous smugness as yet another soul fell: why were humans so weak? Yes, of course, free will. But they could be good, Raguel had seen it.
"So, bring your best," smiled Akvin Div, "perhaps Barratiel? He came so close last time."
Raguel knew that Akvin Div was mocking him, but then what else would he do?
"We will indeed bring our best, and you will bring your worst, and in the end the good will outweigh the bad."
"You say that every time," said Akvin Div with a snort, pushing his chair back and letting it fall, clattering off the nacre tiles. He didn't even glance at it, let alone attempt to pick it up, but he merely turned on his hoof and swaggered out between the black tapestries hanging along the walls of the neutral meeting room. Raguel sighed and got to their feet, walking around the black obsidian table and across the border. They had to physically right the chair, their powers not working on the wrong side of the line.
Then they gathered up the file, walked between the tapestries at their end of the room, and slowly climbed the spiral stairs. Barratiel was an interesting suggestion, even if it was made in disdain, and they remembered the old mantra: evil carries the seeds of its own destruction. Barratiel had something to prove and Akvin Div discounted such things but, Raguel knew, one day that would be to his cost. Yes, let it be Barratiel.
* * *
Luke Bailey eased his hated Astra off Harefield Road and into the car park, out of the drizzle. He hadn't beaten the morning park-and-ride rush, and he had to circle for nearly five minutes to find a space, waiting as a young mother loaded her little girl into the safety seat after dropping off the sibling in the pre-school down the street. Finally, he was able to get out and stretch, then reach in and grab his two laptop bags (one with laptop, the other filled with varied reading material, lunch, spare chargers and detritus).
He exhaled heavily and grimaced, blowing off the morning cobwebs as he looked at the silver Astra, with its creaky front suspension as not advertised. However much he didn't like it, he needed it, an accessory which confirmed who he was, just like the cheap suit and tie, and his hair, which he had been forced to grow from his usual shaved look into something that required shampoo instead of a razor. A month ago, he'd looked like a bad-ass, toned in the gym and even a touch younger than his thirty-three years. Now he looked like nothing more than a drone, a desk warrior, softened by inactivity.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Luke left the car park and crossed the road, walking past the charity shops and fast-food places, up to the entrance to Uxbridge Magistrates Court with an ill-disguised sense of his own incompetence. He passed a collection of the usual suspects, smoking a last fag before their appointment with the beak, the optimists in ill-fitting suits, the realists in their normal streetwear. Glancing at them surreptitiously he ensured that none of them were known to him, but his previous stomping ground was diagonally south-east, as far as it was possible to go and still be inside London. These were the same kind of scrotes he knew so well there, just a different clan.
Moving from the tense bustle in the corridors of the court, upstairs into the Probation Centre reception reminded Luke of those hectic nights when he'd help the paramedics get some bloodied six-lager pugilist into the emergency department and then slip out into the staff car park, watching his breath condense in the cold air as he gazed up at the few stars visible through the suburban light pollution. Downstairs the mood was that of uncertainty, a fear of the punishment to come (or perhaps not, fingers crossed the magistrate believed the bullshit excuses). In contrast, the subdued calm of the Probation Centre was most like a convalescent ward -- the sickness had been excised, and now the patient needed to be slowly returned whole to the real world.
Janice ruled the reception area, no nonsense bayrampaşa escort bayan with the clients but, rumour had it, no nonsense with any PO who didn't do his best for the clients either. She was somewhere in her forties, a single platinum blonde with a queue of admirers in her local who she encouraged with greater or lesser enthusiasm depending on their place in her pecking order: she knew her worth and a man had better know it, too.
"Mr Carver's running late," she said, passing Luke his files for the day, "but he called to say he'll still be in time for a quick run through of the clients before your first appointment."
"Five today..." said Luke, counting the files, "any particularly noteworthy cases?"
"Mr Carver will fill you in," said Janice, "we don't gossip in reception." She glanced pointedly at the couple of clients waiting, though Luke was sure they each told the others about the crimes that landed them there. Well, perhaps all but the sex cases, who no doubt invented convenient property crimes as a cover.
"But we do find out how Oscar's doing," said Luke, and here Janice immediately softened, both towards Luke for remembering and being interested, and at the thought of her beloved pooch.
"The vet says the cone can come off at the end of the week and the scars have healed up nicely," said Janice, now looking at the framed photo of Oscar the beagle.
"Well, I hope he's learnt not to play with barbed wire fences in future."
"Oh, it was awful, out in the field and him covered in blood," and Janice was temporarily forlorn before she snapped into professional mode to deal with a newly-arrived client. Luke left her to the uncomfortably big unit, all muscles and knitted eyebrows, who immediately sat and wagged his metaphorical tail at her merest glance, and went to the kitchen to get himself a cup of the instant shite that the Probation Service had the nerve to call coffee.
Mr Jeremy Carver, a tired man three years from retirement (actually it was two years, ten months and change, as he checked morning and evening on his calendar), popped his head around the kitchen door just as Luke was stirring in some milk. He grimaced an approximation of a smile and Luke followed him to his office, a joyless zone of wood veneer furniture and institutional cream-coloured walls. He took the files from Luke's hand and glanced at them.
"First one's an habitual shoplifter," he said, not looking up, "steer him to something vocational, but I doubt it'll make much difference."
He sucked in the air between his teeth as he looked at the second one.
"This one you'll need to update me after you've seen him. He's a domestic violence case and there's a non-contact order on him. Emphasise that he absolutely has to abide by it or we'll return to custody," and Mr Carver caught Luke's eye, impressing him with the seriousness of the case before looking at the third file, "ah, this is an interesting one."
Luke's ears perked up. He knew all about the third case, but wanted to hear the Probation Service point of view.
"He's what the Yanks might call 'connected.' Inside for theft, and it was one hell of a bust."
"Really?" Luke played dumb.
"Hmm. He broke into Conyngham's, a boutique jewellers on Bond Street of all places, and with his two accomplices was clearing the place out when, bad luck, there was a three engine fire in a building across the road, with cordons up and police everywhere. Took all night to put out, so of course he was stuck inside with his mates until broad daylight, no possibility of escape. Jokers that they were they just wore everything they could and waited until they were caught when the shop was finally opened, dripping with bling. His brief tried arguing that it was just attempted as they never got away with anything but the jury didn't buy it. He got five years for a repeat offence."
"Sounds like a bit of character."
"He is. Be careful with him. He's a careerist, though he's employed right now." Mr Carver's tone was serious as he went on, "I can't say I'm happy that you've been assigned this one. You're only on probation yourself and this chap is tricky. If we had enough experienced officers you wouldn't be dealing with him. Note down everything and fill me in later."
"Righto. And the others?"
"Car thieves. Young and dumb and straightforward. The bread and butter of a newly assigned probation officer. Steer them in the direction of the job centre and the drug rehabilitation services, and check they've got some stability in their home lives. Remember, firm but concerned, ok?"
"By the book," said Luke, and again he felt something of the awesome responsibility of getting the anti-social to make a success of their lives, if only for the benefit of everyone else. He collected his files and took them, with his coffee, to his own office, Janice indicating that his first client was waiting.
If Mr Carver's office was an institutional personality-free zone, bayan escort then Luke's office was downright morose. It contained the same wood veneer furniture, with grey blinds over the windows, but worse, it was almost exactly the same dimensions as a cell -- six feet by ten -- as if to remind the clients that they were only a mis-step or two from a return to prison. Luke eased himself behind his desk and arranged his things, then spent three minutes speed reading the first file before calling in his first client of the day.
Ethan Wright was twitchy, trying to keep it together, either on a come down or in withdrawal. Luke recognised the signs too well, had dealt with them too often. The man stank of poverty and addiction, and no doubt that fuelled his criminality and thus his convictions -- nine since he was fifteen, and he was only twenty-three now with two jail terms behind him. He sat, unable to focus for longer than a few seconds, his skin bad, his trainers clearly knock-offs and his clothes most likely stolen.
"Hi Ethan," said Luke, "I'm Mr Bailey. I'm here to help you, but part of that is to make sure that you follow your conditions. You haven't been to The Pavilions, have you?"
The shopping centre had an exclusion order on him, he'd been caught thieving there so many times.
Ethan shook his head and then they ran through the rest of his conditions, none of which he claimed to have breached, though Luke didn't believe him for a moment. After that Ethan tried to articulate his attempts to reintegrate into society, and his generally poor education became painfully evident as he struggled for words. There was no job, naturally, for who would employ him?
It was clear that Ethan wasn't swimming, but sinking, and it was just a matter of time before he found himself back inside, part of a pattern that only getting clean could begin to address. He was nowhere near that right then, his drug use obviously in full flow, but there was the confident report from his drug counsellor, convinced that Ethan was addressing his problems and working hard to overcome his addictions. Every box was ticked and Luke had nothing to say other than to keep plugging away, things would come together, and stay out of trouble. It was a sticking plaster on a gaping wound, and it was the most Luke could do or say.
As Ethan left Luke felt the painful limitations of the job. Clearly, he was watching a one-man crime wave walk out of his office but there was no actual evidence that Ethan had done anything wrong at that moment. Yet, in an hour, when he needed some cash for his dealer? He'd rip off a shop, get caught or not, and if he got away with it today then he wouldn't tomorrow when he needed another hit. And Luke was impotent.
The paperwork needed to be done, so Luke wrote up his report of the meeting, all the while wishing he wasn't doing this job, guiding those unwilling or unable to be helped. It was only his second week with 'clients,' as he had to euphemistically think of the criminals in the waiting room, and he could only imagine how jaded he'd be in twenty years. Thirty minutes later it was time for his second meeting, and he went to the door to summon the wife beater.
Where Ethan had been shaky and unable to meet Luke's eye, a young man whose hand he could even hold if he had a bath, Brian Smethurst was all false bonhomie, projecting a camaraderie that made Luke itch. Brian wanted to make a connection, as if being buddies would smooth it all over, and Luke might agree that it was kind of silly, really, that Brian was here at all, having to mix with real scum like Ethan.
"Well, you shouldn't have beaten the living shit out of your girlfriend, then, you fucking waste of a fucking life!"
Luke didn't say it, but it was a close-run thing. Ten years older than her, she was just out of university, and he'd controlled her, kept her away from family and friends, and when she decided it wasn't the life she wanted he'd put her in hospital with fractured eye-sockets and cheekbones, missing teeth and broken ribs. And Ethan had actually spent more time in prison than this oleaginous piece of private school educated thuggery.
Of course, his education had ensured contacts, contacts who'd got him another estate agent gig once he'd served his ten months. As he was employed, and didn't have previous criminal contacts, there wasn't much to do other than ensure he wasn't trying to contact his now-ex, which he said he wasn't (and there were no reports to the contrary from her) and usher him out of the door without assaulting him. Luke suspected the real reason Mr Carver wanted an update on this case was to make sure he hadn't ground the man's face into his carpet. Which was tempting.
And then it was time for his third meeting of the day. Luke's palms felt sweaty, and he had to fight down a surge of nervous apprehension. This was why he was here, and the next thirty minutes or so meant success or failure. His briefing had been very specific: Daniel 'Danny' bağcılar escort bayan Squire was a very smart criminal who enjoyed what he did, and Luke had to allow him to think his probation officer was a bit of a dummy without making it too obvious. He had to gain Daniel Squire's confidence at all costs, though this might take some time and several meetings. He went to the door and called for Mr Squire, then turned and retreated behind his desk.
What nobody had told Luke through all the hours of briefings was just how... handsome Daniel Squire actually was. Magnetic, in fact. Of course, Luke had seen photos, but they didn't do the man justice. Not that he was pretty. He wasn't too much more than average height, and relatively slim, but he filled the room the moment he came through the door. He was a lithe, well-dressed man in his early thirties, his clothes unobtrusive but screaming quality and his hair high and tight, but without a casual strand out of place. Luke indicated the chair across the desk from him and tried to compose himself, and at that moment his phone buzzed.
Rattled, Luke reached out and grabbed his phone as Daniel sat, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. It was Claire: she'd forgotten the salad, could he get some? And she felt the need to remind him for the fourth time that her mum and dad would be over at seven. Which, to be fair, he had forgotten in that moment. He quickly sent an 'ok' back to her and put his phone down, both annoyed and glad for the interruption. He turned to Daniel Squire.
"So, Mr Squire..."
"Call me Danny, everyone does."
The smile was supremely confident, the outward badge of a man who fitted in perfectly to any space he occupied. Luke briefly struggled to compose himself and apply more than a decade of training aimed at dealing with precisely this type.
"Very well. Danny, how are things going?"
"Fine," the man shrugged, "the job with Uncle Tony, which is the main thing you probably care about, is going pretty well, but then I'm good at it."
Danny worked, as Luke well knew, assisting his uncle's large florist business, in part wholesale, in part retail.
"Tell me about it." Luke applied the PO training he'd crammed into a brief fortnight -- get the clients to spell out their successes, to reinforce successful behaviour.
"I deal with the ladies, flash 'em a smile and a bit of cheek. My cousin Mandy deals with the blokes buying 'sorry, I forgot your birthday' bouquets. We've got the shop sewn up. Between us, my uncle's seen his profits up nine percent in the last three months. And I deal with some of the corporate stuff, too."
"A lot of our clients who have similar histories to you report missing a certain excitement in their lives. You wouldn't be feeling that?"
"Yeah, no," Danny smiled again, "there's mugs who get hooked on thieving, yeah... I'm not interested in getting hooked on anything. Well," and here he focussed a little on Luke, "nothing unhealthy, anyway. I do like a bit of physical exercise, though."
Luke shifted in his seat, feeling the presence of the man again.
"You'll want to know if I'm knocking about with people of a criminal bent?" Danny was controlling the conversation, and it took Luke a moment to realise that was actually a good thing. He nodded.
"Well, between you and me," and here Luke leant forward a little and lowered his voice, "I could hardly not, could I? Given who my family is."
He grinned wickedly, before continuing, "but I swear I'm keeping my nose clean, Mr Bailey, and I am endeavouring to persevere in my long-term aim, that of keeping myself out of His Majesty's Prison System. I'm struggling to make a positive contribution, to make up for my criminal past, and to help those wayward members of my family see the error of their ways and join me on the straight and narrow. So help me, God."
"This is serious," said Luke, a hint of a wounded expression on his face.
"I'm sorry, Mr Bailey," said Danny, earnestness finally breaking through, "look, I hated it inside and I've no desire to go back. Straight up. And the best way not to go back is to be good enough at what I'm doing now to earn a nice bonus off Uncle Tony at the end of every week, which is what I'm doing, and then I can spend that nice bonus on tasteful threads and good living. Which is what I'm doing. Now, I think we're done, aren't we?"
"Erm..." was all Luke could manage.
"Because I've got a couple of deliveries to make."
Luke wanted to give the usual pep talk that was at the bottom of the checklist, but it seemed superfluous. Danny would be sure to smirk at him if he did, and Luke found himself feeling a little unmanned by the thought. So he nodded, and Danny took his leave.
Luke exhaled heavily once Danny Squire closed the door behind him, the sweat sticking his shirt to his chair. There was a lot to process, and a lot to remember, but before he wrote up his report of the meeting Luke needed to recover his equilibrium. He stared at the door for unending seconds and then finally pushed himself to his feet. He wandered a little listlessly to his window and peeked through the blinds, down at the narrow dead-end street at the back of the building, and there was Danny, walking briskly up to a black Range Rover.