Day Zero

though… I wouldn’t mind hearing a speech or three from the tasty honourable member from earlier. There’s something about an older woman who knows what she wants, know what I mean? What’s her name again?”
“Lincoln,” Danny said. “Sarah Lincoln.” He recalled that his mother had voted for her, though she claimed to regret it. “She’s a looker, yeah.” He paused. “Scary, though. There’s a woman who doesn’t take shit.”
Hattersley nodded. “Just my type. What’s the gen on her anyway? Faulkner looked like he’d swallowed a mouthful of glass when she got done with him.”
Danny shrugged. “Just a local MP, innit?”
“So another civvy who knows bugger all, looking to screw us over. Wonderful.”
“Dunno. She had some good points, I thought.” Danny didn’t consider himself political. One politician was much like another, as far as he was concerned. Sometimes he felt like he ought to pay more attention, but who had the time?
“Don’t let Faulkner here you say that. He’ll rip your bollocks off and hang ’em in his office.” Hattersley made a vicious twisting motion. Danny winced.
“Yeah, yeah. She was right though. This shit here? It ain’t working.”
“What would you suggest then, Hayes?” Faulkner’s voice cut in. Danny and Hattersley stiffened as Faulkner stepped down out of the back of the personnel carrier. “Should we put it to a vote maybe? See what the locals have to say?”
Danny turned. “No, Sarge. Sorry, Sarge.”
“Sorry? For what? Sharing an opinion?” Faulkner ambled around them, an easy smile on his craggy face. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, though. “That’s what squaddies do. They gripe and moan, until the orders come down. And then they do their bloody job, like it or not.”
“Yes, Sarge,” Danny and Hattersley said, in unison. Faulkner held them with his gaze for a few moments, then turned towards the crime scene.
“When they’re finished, I want you two to move in. Cordon off the scene so we can bring our own people in.” Faulkner scratched his chin. “Not that it’ll do much good, but orders are orders, and we have ours.” He turned to Danny. “Walk with me, lad.”
Danny glanced at Hattersley, and then followed Faulkner as he prowled closer to the scene. Without looking at him, Faulkner said, “This is your manor, isn’t it?”
“Sarge?”
“You were born in East London, weren’t you?”
“Yes, Sarge.”
“Must be like old times, being back here. See many friends – family?”
“My mum – a few others.”
“Your sister?”
Danny hesitated. “Don’t talk to her much, Sarge.”
Faulkner patted him on the shoulder. “That’s all right lad, I don’t much like my siblings either. Can’t choose your blood. You can choose your loyalties, though.”
“Yes Sarge?” Danny hadn’t meant it to come out as a question, but it had nonetheless.
“You like working in the private sector, Danny?”
“I like it all right.”
“Me too. Money’s good. And it’s bound to get better, once Nigel Cass gets things up and running. Something to keep in mind, perhaps.” Faulkner looked towards the police cordon. “Think she likes you, eh?” he murmured. “Man looks his best in a bit of kit. Stand up straight, Danny my lad. Chin up, dick out.”
Danny blinked. “Sarge?”
“Figure of speech,” Faulkner said, clearly amused. He tapped Danny’s visor. “Squad feed, remember? We see what you see. And you were observing her closely, I noticed.” He turned. “Do me a favour, chat her up for me, would you?”
Danny looked at him. Faulkner’s bonhomie evaporated. “You heard me. Go talk to the bint and be as fucking charming as you can manage.”
Danny hesitated, but only for a moment. Faulkner’s patience wasn’t infinite. When he said jump, you jumped or you spent the day square bashing, at best. Danny nodded and ambled towards the knot of constables. Once, he’d have done anything to avoid getting anywhere near the Filth. He was the wrong colour, wrong class, wrong everything for friendly interactions with the authorities.
Or he had been, at any rate. These days, he had a certain cachet. He was a hard man, a rock solid operator in his black tac gear and urban fatigues, with the weight of Albion backing him up. It was a good feeling, in a way.
Even so, it made him uncomfortable at times. Some of the others, like Hattersley, seemed to regard East London as foreign soil, full of enemies. They picked fights, instigated conflict – and Faulkner egged them on. Sometimes Danny wondered if he were following orders the rest of them weren’t aware of.
He pushed all that aside as he drew close to the police. Heads turned, stares steady. He felt as if he were looking down gunsights. He cleared his throat. “Lovely day for it,” he said, plastering on his best smile. His mother assured him it was his best feature.
The woman laughed. Danny flushed. “Yeah, fine,” he said, making as if to turn away.
She waved a hand. “Wait, wait – steady on, mate. It’s just… did you hear yourself?”
Danny paused. Then chuckled. “Yeah. Sounded like a right tit, didn’t I?”
She nodded and stepped away from the others. “Can I help you with something?”
“Bit of chat,” he said, hopefully. “It’s boring, just standing there, watching you watch me.” He turned. “This place hasn’t changed.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You local?”
“Was. Am again, I suppose.”
“Where from?”
“Locksley Estate.” He shifted the weight of the Vector on its sling. “You?”
“Hackney Road.”
He grinned. “And look at us now. Both coppers.”
She frowned. “I’m a copper. I don’t what you are.”
Danny paused. “A soldier, I suppose.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
He gestured. “Whitechapel is lot of things. Not really a warzone, though.”
“Tell your boss that.”
Danny laughed. “I’m a grunt. Nobody listens to me.” He peered at her. Then, hesitantly, he stuck out his hand. “Danny. Danny Hayes.”
“Hello Danny-Danny Hayes. I’m Moira Jenks.”
“Moira?”
She fixed him with a level look. “You have something against ‘Moira’?”
“No, no. It’s a pretty name…” He hesitated. Faulkner was sidling towards the crime scene techs – no, towards the evidence bags. What was he doing? He hurriedly looked back at Jenks, a sudden uneasy sensation churning in his gut.
“So why are you still