McDonald was home, shaking his head in disbelief. The events of the day had staggered him. Just when he truly believed his life was fully in the toilet, the cavalry had arrived-in the guise of an old codger.

Go figure.

After he had bashed the young hooded girl and invited the old man for a cuppa, it had never once occurred to him that his whole future was about to change. They’d gone to a transport caff, one of the few real English places still existing, the old man prattling on about the country having gone to the dogs… though he might have well said… wogs.

Which meant he had either a lisp or a serious hard-on for foreigners. They’d ordered bacon sarnies, a neon-lit nightmare of carbos, and, of course, a large pot of tea, brewed with Lipton’s real tea, none of that tea-bag shite. The sandwiches arrived, dripping fat and lard, just the way McDonald adored them. As they ate, with relish, the old man, mid bite, asked:

‘So, how come a bright young copper like yourself is pulling garbage duty?’

McDonald thought about giving him a sob story but decided to tell the truth, said:

‘There’s no tolerance any more for hands-on policing.’

This seemed to be exactly the answer the old man was hoping for. He extended his hand, said:

‘I’m Bill Traynor, fought for my country and what do I get?’

McDonald put three sugars in his tea, ventured:

‘Sweet fanny all I’d say.’

Bill was nodding, said:

‘Too bloody right, mate. Where I live, we’re tormented by young Pakis, playing loud music, insulting our wives, sneering at us as we go to the post office, and don’t even mention the darkies. They wait for us to collect our pensions, not that you could feed a frigging cat on what they give us, and they jump us after we collect.’