Camera Van

Climbing back in the police camera van after purchasing a warm greasy bacon sandwich from a burger van in the opposite layby to where PC Desmond Whye had been ordered to set up in he sighed, still tormented by the situation he had been placed in. If his commanding officer knew that he left the vehicle unattended even for the short period of time that he had he would have been placed on report, but Desmond was beyond reproach. Squeezing his bulk though the cab into the body of the van he slumped into the controllers seat taking his sandwich from its expanded polystyrene box and stared at reminiscent of the stare of a pathologist examining a corpse. He knew that he had to start eating healthy to aid the reduction of his 22 stone, back into the sleek muscular body that was expected of a police officer. Too many portions of his native Jerk Chicken and fried plantain and the lack of physical exercise from being side-lined into the traffic division had accumulated to the extent where his veins were now as congested as the M25.

He looked into the dead screen of the monitor that he had switched off earlier, seeing his reflection, it stared back at him alarmed and dejected at the sight. He had been told many a time that he resembled Lenny Henry, if this was still the case he must have been in makeup for several hours to add the extra two chins and two litres of saline injected into his cheeks or had acquired a severe peanut allergy. He seriously needed to stop eating. If he could switch off his appetite in the same way that he regularly switched off the speed cameras then he would reduce his weight and chance of a heart attack.

He sympathised with the speeding motorists, it wasn’t that the road he was on was renowned for a high level of accidents, in fact it had been nearly 23 years since the last accident and that was a miner collision; there was no school within a kilometre and other than himself crossing to Sam and Ella’s burger van there was minimal risk from vehicles breaking the 30 mile an hour speed limit.

Desmond struggled with his conscience, his belief that he was there to raise funds rather than speed awareness. Looking deep into the monitor he momentarily saw his blood shot eyes as he fired the system back up. It had been off for over two hours, the longest he had ever dared to cut off the money supply. If only he had been able to cut the money supply to his ex-wife as easily he would not have been awake the previous night wondering had to pay his rent. This wasn’t how he had envisaged his role in the force, what happened to being a beat constable protecting the West Indian community from the institutional racist, the reason he joined the force seven years ago?