Handlebar

The man walked back. Barefoot now. No rubber boots. No hard hat. The road grit bit at his soles.

It was beginning to get lighter. Early hours. The sky was washed pale, bruised pink at the edges. The stars were gone, swallowed whole, leaving only the emptiness where they’d been. The air smelled faintly of diesel and frost, the cold kind that cracked your lips before you noticed.

Grief hit sudden and sharp, folding him in half. He sobbed, not the movie kind, but the raw, choking sort that raked the back of his throat. His chest felt like it was caving in, ribs turning to wet paper. Still, he dragged himself on, back to the overpass.

Cars hissed past below and around him, tyres spraying thin lines of water from the night’s damp. Headlights flared and died as they passed, like brief, indifferent glances. The roads were busy with early starters, bakers, drivers, cleaners, people on their way to somewhere warm.

He stopped at the top. This was where it ended. One last thing.

He stared down, listening to the hum of traffic. It was steady, hypnotic.

He looked over the railing. It was high enough.

Thunk. Swing. Creak. Please…

The word slithered through him. He shuddered. He raised a leg, hooked it over the cold metal railing.

But before he could turn to climb, something caught him, hard, yanking him back to the pavement. A flash of navy. The shine of a badge.

A policeman.

He thrashed, desperate, catching the old officer in the nose with a wild punch. The sound was wet, sudden. Blood spattered a grey moustache.

He scrambled up, lunged for the railing again, and then the world bit him, pulling him backward in a spasm of pain.

Electricity locked his muscles, tore a shout from him he didn’t remember making. He hit the ground hard, teeth clicking together.

Another cop was on him now, knee in his back, cuffs biting his wrists. He pocketed his taser and shouted over to the other cop, asking if he was okay. The old cop held his nose, red running through his fingers. He hauled himself to the patrol car, leaning on it like it might steady the years. His breath was ragged, the morning light making the deep lines on his face look like cracks in old stone.

The patient was rolled onto his back.

And then, the cops’ eyes.

He saw them. Both of them. And in the pupils, a reflection. It was wrong. He remembered where he’d seen eyes like this before. The hooker from the hospital. The waiting room.

He screamed, voice shredding. “You said I could leave!?” The words looped, tangled with sobs and wordless, animal sounds.

The cop laughed. Said he recognised the red uniform. Said they’d take him back to Sunny Meadow.

The man howled, higher, rawer. “You said I could leave!?”

It took both of them to shove him into the back seat. The door slammed, locking the sound away, muffled but still there.

The older cop, the one with the busted nose, leaned against the bonnet, dabbing at the blood with a crumpled paper towel. His breathing was rough, not just from the scuffle but from years of stale air and cheap whiskey. The other cop stood opposite, lit a cigar, watched the man in the back seat thrash against the cuffs.

Inside the car, the prisoner’s voice was hoarse, muffled through the glass. “You said I could leave… You said—” The rest was swallowed by the engine’s low idle.

The old man winced as he tried to laugh. “That’s it, Andy. I’m done. This time I mean it. I can’t keep up with this shit anymore.”

Andy smirked. “You’ve been saying that for a decade.”

“This time’s different. Nose’s busted, knees are shot, lungs feel like paper bags. And the truth? I just don’t want it anymore. Not the chases, not the paperwork. Even the good bits aren’t worth the trouble.”

Andy arched a brow. “Good bits?”

The old man grinned, teeth pink from the blood in his mouth. “You know. Perks. Free drinks for looking the other way. A little cash for misplacing the right evidence. Nights in the back room with girls who can’t afford bail… or don’t dare say no. The kind of stuff rookies wouldn’t have the stomach for.”

Andy chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess they’ll stick me with some wet-behind-the-ears kid who’ll piss himself at the first sign of trouble.”

“Probably.” The old man spat red onto the tarmac. “But you’ll break him in. Show him the ropes.”

They shared a quiet laugh, not friendly, but knowing. The laugh of men who’d both learned the rules only applied to people without badges.

From across the lot, a voice cut through. “Anderson!”

His walkie.

Andy straightened, flicked the ash from his cigar, and crushed it under his boot. His hand smoothed the ends of his handlebar moustache, like a man checking the last thing in the mirror before heading out.

“Anderson… copy—”