The other cops, grudgingly went: ‘Sarge.’ The term like bile in their respective throats. She was summoned to Brown’s office. She was confident the Super had a little congratulatory speech prepared, the first black female sergeant! She thought to herself: It’s been a long time coming. And she resolved to be suitably humble and, what was the term, yeah, self-effacing. She knocked on the door, her sense of anticipation at its zenith. She was taken aback to see PC Lane there, the fuck was he doing at her moment? Lane was the lamest cop on the force, so bland he could only be described as beige. He’d had one moment of glory when he was photographed with Tony Blair, but old Tony had lost a lot of kudos since then. Even Lane’s wife had removed the framed photo from their mantelpiece, replaced it with the Dalai-lama, always a safe bet. He never said nowt, and people were vague as what exactly he ever did. The Super was huddled over papers, took five minutes before looking up, and when finally he did, he said: ‘Ah, Falls, you’re late.’ No Sergeant.
