I Hear the Sirens in the Street

but your front bedroom must have an unobstructed view of the graveyard – from mine the big chestnut tree at the cricket field is in the way.”
    “We can see into the graveyard – what’s this all about?”
    “Do you mind if I run up there? We’ve been getting reports about vandals spray-painting the shelter and stealing flowers from the graves and I think I just saw one of the little buggers go in there.”
    “Of course. Of course. That’s shocking, so it is. I’ve complained about them weans to the police but nobody ever pays any mind.”
    I ran upstairs to her bedroom. Her husband wasn’t here as he was still over in England looking for work. The bedroom smelled of lavender, there was a white chest of drawers, the bed sheets were peach, the wallpaper had flowers on it. A black lacy bra was sitting at the top of a laundry basket. It distracted me for a second, before the bra’s owner followed me into the room.
    “Why didn’t you just wait for him in the cemetery?” she asked.
    “It’s a she. And if she sees me in the graveyard she won’t do anything, will she? But if I can catch her in the act from up here, then Bob’s your uncle, I’ll have physical evidence and we canhaul her up before the magistrate.”
    “Won’t it just be your word against hers? You should have brought a camera,” Mrs Bridewell said, which was her way of letting me know that she was not going to be dragged into this. Like everyone else on Coronation Road, testifying against criminals – be they paramilitary mafia or mere teenage vandal – was not an option.
    “Aye, but the beak will always take the word of a peeler over a wee mucker any day of the week.”
    I took up a position at the window.
    I could spy out the whole graveyard from up here and could easily see if someone approached the shelter even through the heavy rain. It was possible that she’d already gone to check if I’d taken her envelope in that brief window between me leaving the cemetery and reaching here, but I doubted it. She was the careful type. She’d wait until she knew I was long gone.
    If she was still there at all. The really smart play on her part would be to leave the envelope and never come back. But most people weren’t like that. That took real dedication. Or years of training. If she didn’t come back at all it might be reasonable to infer that she was a spook.
    “Would you like a cup of tea?” Mrs Bridewell asked.
    “Love a cup.”
    “I’ll just go downstairs,” she said.
    “Where are the kids?” I was going to ask, but of course they were at school.
    It was just me and her.
    Steady lad , I told myself.
    I opened the window and stared across Coronation Road towards the graveyard.
    Mrs Bridewell came back in with a stool and a pair of binoculars.
    “They’re me Dad’s ten-by-fifties, they’re good,” she said.
    “Thank you.”
    “I’ll get you that tea,” she added, with a Mona Lisa half-smile.
    “Ta.”
    Our eyes locked. I noticed that she had fixed her hair.
    I am weak, I thought.
    I am a weak man.
    A stupid man.
    She nodded, turned and went downstairs.
    If my mystery caller didn’t show up it would mean big trouble here in the Bridewell household.
    I focused the binocs and gazed through them towards the shelter.
    A pigeon, a friggin’ seagull. Nothing else.
    I scanned along the graves and the stone wall. Nada.
    Mrs Bridewell came back with the tea and chocolate digestives. The tea was in a Manchester United mug, the biscuits were on a Manchester United plate.
    “Thank you,” I said.
    “You’re welcome. So this is what they call a stakeout then, is it?”
    I grinned. “I suppose, although its hardly The French Connection , is it? Catching a teen graffiti artist won’t get me a promotion.”
    “You’ve done more than enough, Mr Duffy. There’s many round here that were dead proud of you last year but they wouldn’t say it to your face, cos, you know …”
    I’m Catholic? I’m a cop? Both?
    “Yeah, I know,” I said.
    She put her hand on my shoulder.
    Oh, Jesus.
    “Listen, uh, Mrs Bridewell, you wouldn’t have a copy of the King James Bible handy, would you?”
    “Pardon?”
    “The King James Bible – I need to look something up.”
    The hand fled from my shoulder and tapped the back of her hair.
    “Of course!” she said, a touch indignantly. “Of course we havea Bible, just hold on a minute there and I’ll get it.”
    I took a sip of tea and resumed scanning the graveyard.
    I ate a chocolate