Mr & Ms Smith

“That address sounds familiar.”

I did some checking and Skippy was right. This would be the fourth consecutive night this particular ‘private’ disturbance had occurred. With nothing better to do and the promise of a 3am cultured debate, we took the call.

We couldn’t stop right outside the house. That space was taken by a middle aged man sitting in a family saloon with the engine running to keep the chill out. Still, I could do with the extra ten feet of exercise to get to the very quiet house. The door was flung open.

“I want him nicked.” No need to check the address then.

Ms Smith seemed very overdressed for the time of the night. The smell of alcohol as I passed her on my way to ‘him’ suggested that maybe she hadn’t got dressed up to the nines just for us. Leaving her to scream at Skippy I found a sleepy Mr Smith sat on the sofa amidst a quilt and pillows. Unless I could recall any offences under the Baggy Boxer Shorts or Hairy Knees Acts, I’d be struggling to appease the Positive Arrest policy makers on first appearances.

To the Muzak of screeching and four letter words coming from the hallway I started the in-depth questioning required to fill in the appropriate boxes on the appropriate forms.

“What’s going on?”

Resignedly, Mr Smith began to recount his tale of woe. He and the screecher were separated and she had moved across the Metropolis with their two small children. Having recently got a ‘job in a pub’ Ms Smith was in need of a babysitter and Mr Smith was more than happy to volunteer; travelling over every evening after he’d finished work. Hoping that his willingness may help to end the separation.

Unfortunately, Ms Smith was of the opinion that his services were not required when she got home and he was to leave upon her arrival. The lack of public transport at that time of night ‘wasn’t her problem’.

Unit X had solved the problem on the first night by inviting Mr Smith to walk the streets until the stations opened.

Unit Y had found Mr Smith sniffly and somewhat reluctant to repeat this on night two. He’d been arrested and had slept in a cell until the stations opened.

Unit Z had copied Unit Y. It’d be high fives all round in the Positive Arrest policy office this week.

Now it was our turn. While Mr Smith searched for his socks I heard Skippy call for a van amidst an increased volume of screeching and profanities. As I wandered out to say that it wouldn’t be necessary to wake the van driver up, I noticed that Skippy had obviously gone for Plan B. I had a feeling that Mr Family Saloon was going to be somewhat deflated by this new twist. Still, it was a plan so cunning that it subsequently prevented any further 3am relationship counselling sessions.

“You can’t ******* arrest me!” Emphasising the words with gesticulations that were proving difficult while wearing handcuffs.

“What about me kids?”

“I’m sure the babysitter won’t mind staying on a bit.” I obligingly interjected.

I checked; he didn’t.