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near.
    She accused, 'You're only getting up?'
    Her face was devoid of make-up and she looked strained.
    'Actually, I was going to bed.'
    She made a show of checking her watch. 'It's one thirty in the afternoon.'
    I was tempted to slam the door in her face, shout, Aw, fuck off , but went with 'You came round to tell me the time? I have a watch.'
    She brushed past me and marched into the sitting room.
    I closed the door, said, 'It's not going to endear me to the neighbours, having Guards at the door.'
    She looked round, not seeing anything to improve her mood, so I asked, 'You want something? A beer, a large whiskey?'
    Needling her.
    She said, 'I'd have thought jokes about alcoholism were hardly appropriate.'
    We stood, hostility swirling round us till I
asked, 'What, you came round, figured you'd just bust my balls? Things a bit slow on the traffic front?'
    The wind seemed to go out of her. She slumped in a chair, asked, 'You know how hard it is, being a Guard?'
    I wanted to shout, Hello, I used to be one , but said nothing.
    She continued, 'And being a woman – a gay woman – they love that. You just know you're not on any promotion list. Last year they issued us with skirts to soften our image, like a thug is going to appreciate the difference, drop his knife and say, "Sorry, didn't realize you were wearing a skirt." None of the other women wear them. I have my baton, a utility belt that takes the handcuffs, has a pouch for the radio, a face shield for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and latex gloves for health and safety, especially when you have to search a body.'
    She gave a small shudder as she said this, then added, 'They allow make-up, did you know that? As long as it's not red lipstick or blatant. Our hair has to be a certain length.
There's a bitch, my sergeant, she measures my hair, so I started to wear a ponytail and she said it had to go under my cap.'
    It was like she'd never really allowed herself to examine the details of her job and I
wondered where this was going. She wasn't finished.
    'We're supposed to take turns in the patrol car and that's always in pairs. On the beat, you're often on your own. You know how many times I've got to ride in the car?'
    I had to say something so tried, 'Not often, I'd guess.'
    'Never. Is that fair? But what am I saying?
Fair isn't the deal. I get stuck in the station a lot. I hate that, it's like being in an office, people looking for driving licences, passports or reporting thefts. It's so boring. Then they bring in a drunk, a lot of drunks . . .'
    She eyed me. I was obviously in that category.
    I was tempted to mock, Ah, poor little Ridge, they won't let you ride in the big car .
    But I held back and she went on, 'The thing is, I love being a Guard, but if I don't get promoted soon, I'll have to consider resigning.'
    Her face as she said this was a tragedy in miniature. Sleep was trying to claim me and I
wanted her to fuck off, so I said, 'Do whatever you have to do to get the promotion.'
    She looked right at me and I realized we'd come to the whole point of the visit.
    She said, 'I'm very worried about a health problem and I don't know who to tell.'
    Sometimes simplicity is the only route, so I
said, 'Tell me.'
    She took a deep breath.
    'I found a lump on my breast. It might be just tissue, but –'
    I didn't hesitate.
    'You have to get it checked.'
    She was lost for a moment, imagining, who knows, what horrible implications.
    I pressed on. 'Ridge, promise me you'll make an appointment.'
    She re-focused.
    'OK, I will, but there is something else.'
    I waited. She asked, 'You know about the crucifixion?'
    I nodded, even though I knew precious little.
    She said, 'He was eighteen years of age, John Willis, they nailed him to the cross and mounted the thing on the hill above the city dump. We thought maybe it was a drug deal, a warning to others, or maybe even political. It isn't. He comes from a respectable family, was due to start college and has no record.'
    She waited