Saved By The Cops.

Saved By The Cops. Chapter One. PC Mable Walters. The white lines that separate the road disappear under my car and the endless miles of tarmac that lead me north blur before my eyes. I glance in my rear-view mirror at the two-year-old little girl fast asleep in her car seat, oblivious to the world around her. Her dark long lashes rest on her chubby cheeks, as she makes a sucking motion with her heart-shaped pink lips. This little girl has turned my life upside down. My old, single life in London is now over. I let out a long sigh, who knew a simple DNA test from Ancestry would unearth such drama, my mind was still in a spin from the intensity of it. I was a child of the system, passed from pillar to post since I was an infant. Approximately three years ago, I had a deep-seated need to understand who I was. Maybe find the sister who I had read about in the pages of the report provided by my social worker before they sent me out into the big bad world to fend for myself. I was shocked when I found a match. The sister I never knew I had until I was eighteen years old, must have had a similar thought, both of us were lonely, needing the security of having a family, which ‘normal’ people took for granted. We had been separated the day the authorities had found us. I was just three years old, feeding the eighteen-month-old baby sister mouldy bread because she was hungry. Giving her glasses of water, from the tap I was too small to turn off, causing a flood in the bathroom, the water overflowing and running down the stairs. Our clothes were so soiled, that the social worker commented in the report it took four baths before they managed to rid me of the scent. It seemed, even though I was three, nobody had taken the time to potty train me. We were children, babies, alone in this world, neglected and unloved. The woman who was our birth mother lay dead on the floor, the needle that contained the poison that killed her still hanging out of her arm. She had chased the dragon, and when she caught it, the flames had devoured her. The only thing she gave me was my name. Even then I question the decision to call a baby Mabel, the name more fitting for a granny. Still, at least she bothered to name me. My sister didn’t have a name, nor even a birth certificate, well, not that anyone could find. So, I guess I should be thankful, for at least that. Hence the reason I did the DNA test on the family website. According to the social services report, a neighbour finally knocked on the door to the small council flat that had been our home. Not because he cared, but because my sister’s screams were keeping him up. He had banged on the door, and from the police report, I looked up at work and opened it to find the woman who birthed me dead on the floor. The pictures of my first home, which were in the folder made me sick to the stomach, that place was not fit for a dog, let alone two baby girls. The crime scene photos I pulled from the system at work, showed a woman I did not remember lying on the floor in a puddle of her own vomit. In a prudential light, we looked alike. Her black hair though matted and greasy was like my own, her skin pale to the point of being translucent, undoubtedly due to her habit, was not unlike my pale skin, only with a healthy glow. Where her lips were blue, from the asphyxiation caused by choking on her own vomit, I could not help but wonder if they had once been a deep red like mine. I remember one of my foster parents naming me Snow White. The only thing was I did not have seven friends to look after, or they me. My eyes are heavy, driving after another sleepless night does that to me. My bladder was also full to the point of bursting. I let out a sigh of relief when I saw the blue signpost 12 miles to Woodhall service station on the M1. I had travelled for four hours, and from what I could gather, there were two hours or so left to go, before we arrived in the city that was going to be our new home. I pull into the service station, heading to the pumps to fill the tank, before finding a parking spot, so that I could take a well-earned rest, toilet break, and grab a coffee, and some food for both Marnie and me. I glanced into the back seat once more, the little girl who was my niece, yet now my daughter blinking her eyes open. “Mama,” she said, her face scrunching up. I smile at her. “Right here baby girl,” I tell her, and I see the confusion in her big blue eyes. It is not me she is asking for. No, it is my sister. I smile down at her. At just two years old, she has seen more drama than any child should witness. She doesn’t understand that she will never see her Mama again. Sometimes she calls me Mama, but when she first awakes, she asks for her birth mother, forgetting that she is gone. “I am just putting some petrol in the car, then we can go for a little walk, and get some food,” I smile at her. I don’t know if I should address the fact that her Mama is gone for good, or just carry on as if our lives haven’t been turned upside down. I have decided against it, maybe I am right, maybe I am wrong. I guess time will tell. It is not as if I am any kind of expert. Hell, I hardly know what I am doing half the time. I return the pump to its station, and retrieve my credit card, before getting back in my car, and driving to the carpark. Thankfully the roads are not as busy as in London, and in no time, I am parked near the entrance. I take Marnie out of her car seat, holding her to my body, as I grab my handbag, slinging it over my shoulder before slamming the door shut. Marnie wiggles in my arms, wanting to be down, but drivers are too busy focusing on finding a space to park than watching for little toddlers, so I keep a tight hold of her. “Soon little one,” I smile at her, as I walk up the small steps that lead to the glass doors. As we enter, I place Marnie on her feet, keeping hold of her tiny hand, as she drags me towards the WHSmith’s just at the entrance, spotting a huge purple squishy blob with big googly eyes, pointing at it, and giggling. “Okay, you can have it,” I smile down at her. I know as her parent I should probably say no, but I am still adjusting from being the cool aunt who got to spoil the little one. Plus, if a big purple blob puts a smile on this gorgeous little face, which is looking up at me with pleading eyes, then she can have it. After all, if I cannot spoil her a little, nobody else will. I am determined to give this little one the best life I can. I never want her to feel unwanted, unloved, and homeless. Children from the system tend to go one of two ways in this life. I chose to better myself, to give something back to society. I had joined the Met police at 21, pounding the beat, and found the family I never had in my work colleagues. I was good at my job, and loved it, working hard for a promotion into the Criminal Investigation Department. Sarah, my sister, however, seemed to follow in the footsteps of our mother. When I found her, she was just out of rehab, with a rap sheet as long as your arm for possession and petty theft. She had received the same files as I had about our formative years and mother. Credit where credit is due, as soon as she found out that she was pregnant with Marnie, or Armarni as Sarah had called her, after her favourite fashion designer, she checked herself into rehab and got herself clean. She had been doing so well, that she had rented herself a small two-up two-down house on the outskirts of London, away from the estates, the people she had once known, and her dealer. The landlord accepted those benefits, many don’t, but with me turning up in my uniform to sign as her guarantor he had given her a chance. It was not the best, but not the worst either. She had made that place a home. She had even gotten herself a small part-time job at the local mini-mart, just a few hours per day, and put Marnie into a small nursery. That was until the darkness of her previous life jumped up and bit her on the ass in the form of Marnie’s father. The drug dealer she wanted to avoid. He had taken advantage of my sister’s addiction, offering her free blow, for another kind of blow. He had found her, and his daughter. I remember the day, four months ago, when my inspector called me into his office. There was a body. A woman with a small child. An altercation with the father, which had turned violent. I took note, wondering if I was going to be placed on the murder squad to help with the investigation. I had worked my arse off for the opportunity to prove myself. Only that was not why he wanted to speak with me. No, the victim was my sister, murdered by her former dealer, and her baby’s father, in front of their daughter. Marnie was now, all alone in this world, and I was left with no option but to step up to the plate. That life-changing event set in motion my move to the northeast of England, to the small city that sits in the shadow of its big brother Newcastle. No longer young free and single, with ambitions to join CID. Now, my only ambition was to do the best I could, for this little girl who is now mine. I suppose I am blessed in a way. Although it doesn’t feel like it sometimes. At least I have money in my pocket. Thanks to selling my basement apartment in the centre of London for over four million pounds, yeah, you heard me right, the prices in the capital are ridiculous and since the dreaded lurgy that took over the world in 2020, the housing prices increased even further. However, it meant I could pay off my mortgage, and with what was left, buy a three-bedroom semi-detached, 1960’s-built house up north, for cash, with enough money left over for furniture, and to prop myself up financially for a couple of months if I was careful. I also managed to land myself a job with Northumbria Police which offered flexible working hours. My chief inspector putting a word in for me with someone he knew up there. So, in just four weeks, I begin my first shift at Faringdon police station, giving me a little time to settle into my home in Hastings Hill. Inspector Burns who was my main point of contact at the station was a good guy. He offered me flexible working hours. He was even kind enough to recommend a childminder who offers an overnight service for those who work in the emergency services, that some of his buddies at the fire station next door use. I need to interview her myself, but if all works out, it means I can do three weeks of 10 am – 6 pm shift, for 5 straight days, taking two off, then, with four days leave, do one four-day week of the night shift, with another four days off, the night shift boosting my wage. Yes, I would be just another plod on the beat, and CID would be on hold for me for a very long time, but I could juggle both things I love. My job, and this little girl who is chatting happily at a big purple blob.