First chapter - thoughts?!

Meet Doggett

Not much could be said to Doggett anymore, ever since he had stepped down from the Guildford Constabulary. He was, he supposed, a finished man, yesterday’s hero, someone who had had his moment. Luckier then most he was prepared to admit but still somehow with the lurching sense of disappointment in his stomach that he tried to ignore day on day. Retirement was tedious but he had to admit he was lucky to still be around no matter how sedate life was in the suburbs or how he missed the people he had counted as colleagues up until not so long ago. How could life change so quickly so fast - as someone who had dealt with the improbable for his whole career he was at a loss to get a sense of perspective on what had happened to him as he supposed it happened to many who find their sense of purpose in what they do rather than who they are. It was a risk to be run by all those who chase a pay check. What do you do on the day the world has officially decided that there is someone smarter, faster and yes, younger than you are? Doggett knew the answer to his own question and that was to pine, to hanker, after the time when he was important, significant, needed, someone who commanded a fee, someone who people noticed. The only thing he could safely say that he was glad about was that he had resisted his wife’s blandishments to sell up and to go to the countryside, however much cheaper property was, nothing could compensate for the hellishly slow pace of life, the antiquated attitudes of fellow country-dwellers and yes, as someone who had grown up in a rural setting, the smell of silage.

He sat in his study and tapped his attractive fountain pen on the sturdy desk at which he sat. Someone had decided he was so old that he should be gifted such an antiquated implement as an ink-based writing tool with which to sign the cheques he still persisted in sending to the council every April to pay the rates. He tried not to focus on the ticking of the clock which thankfully had not been presented to him in an equally poignant attempt at irony by his junior underlings who had so mercilessly managed to hit his sensitive spot with the Parker 25 he now absent-mindedly caressed. He was desperately trying not to ponder the futility of existence or how many rounds of golf a person could reasonably get by without playing at the local club house without rousing suspicion that he had become a communist agitator. What he was really looking for he hated to admit it, was a job, something to do everyday, a purpose. Retirement really didn’t suit him. Still he was reluctant to pick up the ‘phone. He knew it would look desperate. How much better to play it cool, to pretend he didn’t miss them, had never needed them, wasn’t validated by it or any of the mind games, group bonding or pointless attempts to build camaraderie or even the collegiate. His mind wondered to gormless Woolley. He really did miss the terminally wet fellow-me-lad. Some people are suited to a steady plod through life and the young copper was definitely one of them aided and abetted by Sheila.

As it was now officially autumn the rain was coming down in sheets onto the gloomy Sarfolk fields backing onto the suburb where they lived. He was still at the stage of pathetic gratitude that his wife had not insisted they get a dog so there was no need to venture out into the cold damp inhospitable day. Possibly some sort of message would come through informing him of a grocery item that had not been purchased and he would feel then obliged to make his way to the local mini market to attempt to buy it or similar making sure that he had attempted to empty his mind of all associations to tobacco, whisky or any similar temptation that had somehow been the essential accoutrements of his former life. It wasn’t so bad being a teetotal non-smoking recovering alcoholic was it? His existence was considerably cheaper anyway. He knew he was lucky not to have an ulcer, diabetes or all manner of typically life style related illnesses to which so many of his colleagues had succumbed. Perhaps Ruth’s cooking wasn’t so bad after all. She had said to him in the early days that she just didn’t care who his friends were but to make sure he always came home, sat down and ate a meal. It was the least he could do as far as matrimony went and so it was to his great surprise that when he submitted to the gamut of tests rolled out to the average portly male of a certain age he discovered that he wasn’t on the critical list for anything, yet retirement it was, time to collect his pension and apparently in good health too. Doggett had never really had a hobby so the days were dragging and the general run of golf and half hearted attempts at do it yourself did not really appeal any more on this day than they had yesterday. What was he to do with him self beyond stilted conversation with the guys at the mini market after he had catalogued all of his not particularly well ordered CD collection, vintage cigarette cards and so on and so forth? The rain continued to fall down in its uninspiring way, Doggett heaved a sigh and acknowledged the fact that he was not suited to the suburban life any more than he would have been to an escape to the country and unless he could find something pretty dramatic to occupy himself with and sharpish things were indeed as dire as they seemed. In fact about the only event of note that did seem to be under way was the construction of a brand new nuclear power station several miles down the road.

Several note worthy females that Ruth had already managed to get herself invited to tea with in the locality had brought this to their attention and the publicity material announcing the ‘consultation’ regarding the matter had just dropped through the letter box that morning. It looked very glossy and presumably there was a great deal of international money behind it. He remembered his wife saying something to him about a protest by the local nimbies just as she had dashed out of the door that morning. Doggett’s father had been a researcher on the early applications of atomic energy so he frankly did not have all that much time for the sack cloth and ashes brigade who presumably wanted to see them all huddled round a candle spinning flax as opposed to enjoying abundant clean power too cheap to meter. He noticed contact details for the energy company and a solicitation imploring local people to come forward with their ‘views’.

Bored beyond belief Doggett decided that the great and good should have the benefit of his clear-sighted opinion on the matter. People who would be happy to spend the next Millennium scratching out a living on soil depleted of nitrogen powered by an indolent wind turbine needed to hear what he had to say. He entered his details on the handily provided S A E which could be torn off along a perfectly perforated line and gave permission for his details to be etched on the nuclear reactor’s titanium core. There was a meeting next Thursday in the local ‘community hub’ - a handy synonym for village hall, he had, at last he realised, something to look forward to

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