I Hear the Sirens in the Street

biscuit.
    And there she was!
    She was wearing a black knit cap, a black leather jacket, blue jeans, white Adidas gutties. Her back was to me, but I could tell that she was of medium height, and limber.
    I put down the binoculars and ran out of the bedroom.
    I almost collided with Mrs Bridewell coming up the stairs.
    “She’s there, if I leg it I’ll get her!” I called out.
    “Oh! Go on!” Mrs Bridewell said, excited by the hunt.
    I opened the front door and sprinted up Coronation Road, turned left on Victoria Road and was through the cemetery gates in under forty-five seconds.
    My girl had arrived at the shelter.
    I took out the Smith and Wesson and marched towards her.
    Rain was bouncing off the polished marble headstones and thunder rumbled to the west. It was quite the scene. If Mrs Bridewell were watching through the binocs she’d be well impressed.
    “Hey you! Police!” I called out. “Put your hands up!”
    She didn’t even turn to look at me. She ran out of the shelter and kept running towards the graveyard wall.
    “Halt or I’ll shoot!” I yelled, but she didn’t believe me.
    She kept on running.
    My mind raced. There was no clear shot and if I did shoot her it would be an inquiry at the very least, and if she was just some harmless lunatic I’d be dismissed from the force or (if the Sinn Feiners made an issue of it) charged with involuntary manslaughter.
    “Halt!” I screamed again.
    Not for a second did she stop.
    Fucker!
    I let the hammer drop on the Smith and Wesson and ran after her.
    Christ, she was fast. She ran between the headstones and down the row of sycamore trees that led to the back gate. She stumbled on a tree root that curved above the surface. She lost her balance, regained it, lost it again, spilled.
    “Okay love, that’s enough fun and games!” I shouted at her.
    I pulled out the trusty .38 again.
    I thought I heard a crack.
    It may have been a gunshot, it may have been a car backfiring.
    I dived to the ground and scrambled behind a headstone.
    “The bitch is shooting!” I exclaimed, caught my breath and carefully stood up behind the grave.
    In the ten seconds I had taken to do all that, she had gotten to her feet and sprinted towards the cemetery wall.
    “Jesus!”
    I ran after her but before I’d covered half the distance she hopped the wall and vanished into the Barley Field.
    I heard a motorcycle kick and then saw a green Kawasaki 125 trail bike zoom across the field. It jumped a stream and cut down the lane to Victoria Road. It drove straight across the road heading into Downshire Estate. By the time I made it to the wall I couldn’t even hear it any more.
    I jogged home and called it in.
    “Female motorcyclist in black leather jacket heading through Downshire Estate, Carrickfergus on green Kawasaki trail bike. Indeterminate age, possibly dangerous.”
    It was unlikely that they’d catch her but you never knew.
    The doorbell rang.
    I opened it.
    Mrs Bridewell looked concerned. She had evidently watched the whole thing through the binoculars.
    “Are you all right, Mr Duffy?”
    “I’m fine.”
    “Are you hurt?”
    “No, I took a spill is all.”
    “Them vandals are getting more brazen every day. They have no respect for the law. I have half a mind to tell Bobby Cameron.”
    Bobby Cameron was the local UDA commander. His method would be to kneecap the next kid who was found with a spray can.
    “No, no, there’s no need for that! I’m sure we’ll find the culprit. I’ve called it in.”
    “They’re putting out an APB? Like on Kojak? ”
    “Exactly like Kojak .”
    She quivered for a moment in the rain.
    “Oh, Mr Duffy,” she said, and folded into my arms. “I was so worried.”
    I held her for a moment.
    She cleared her throat.
    “Well,” she said. “I suppose I better go get the weans.”
    “Yes. Of course.”
    She walked back down the path.
    As I watched her arse jiggle away in that yellow dress I saw a black woman walking down the street from the other direction. She was tall and elegant, wearing jeans and a green sweater.
    I had never seen a black person before in Carrickfergus and contextually it was pretty surprising. Because of the Troubles Northern Ireland had had virtually no immigration. I mean, why would anyone emigrate to a war zone that had bad weather, bad people, bad food and sky-high unemployment? Carrickfergus was as ethnically complex and diverse as a joint Ku Klux Klan-Nazi Party rally.
    I stared at the woman for a