The Front

David is dissatisfied: with the articles he’s skimming on his iPad, with the threatening colour of the sky, with everyone else around the table. His head shakes slowly, continuously, as he reads the headline and first few words of each story in his news feed. His finger stabs awkwardly at the iPad screen - rigid pointer finger extended from a clenched fist - in case anyone should infer that he actually likes the thing by virtue of using it too casually. He glances out the window every few minutes, giving the weather a glare that says he’s uncomfortable deciding what jacket to wear to work. He is cycling through his stock phrases of the moment under his breath, such that nobody needs to hear the words to know the themes being expounded.

Even he could do a better job than so-and-so. Is it that hard, really?

The house phone rings for the first time in at least six months. The sound so shrill and alien that the baby throws her hands in the air in alarm and starts bawling. The two teenage children look up briefly, then back down to their phones. Tessa, looking up from her crossword - in an actual newspaper, made of paper, filled with old news - scans the room to remind herself where the house phone lives. She puts the paper down, folded in two next to David, to retrieve the phone. En route, she hands the baby a dummy and deftly snatches the mobiles from her older children, dumping them on the counter to a perfectly coordinated chorus of Hey, that’s miiiine. David stares pointedly at the newspaper, he knows exactly what she’s trying to say by leaving it there.

“Who’s calling the house phone?” he asks without looking up.

She holds the cordless digital phone to one ear, and with her other hand rearranges the collection of items on the console table. One does not simply talk on the phone. “Hello, Malcolm, is everything alright?” she looks confused, then holds the phone out to David. “It’s your dad. I think he might be having an episode,” she finishes the sentence sotto voce, eyeballing the children to ensure they weren’t listening to her disparaging their grandfather.

David takes the phone and stands up. One does not simply sit still and talk on the phone. “Dad, what’s going on? Why are you calling the house phone?” his head slumped forward, chin on chest, pre-dissatisfied. “You don’t need to remember my mobile, it’s stored in your mobile, remember? … Why don’t you have it with you? … What do you mean by that? … Have you been drinking? … Where are you? … No, where are you really I mean? … I told you not to watch Newsnight if it winds you up so much… Yes, I think we all feel like doing that… Dad, I’ll call you later like we arranged. Thursdays, alright?” he handed the phone back to Tessa without hanging up the call.

“Is everything alright?” she hung up and put the phone back in the cradle.

“No, I think it’s going to chuck it down. If I take the long coat I’m going to be too hot on the tube, and if I take the waterproof it’ll be freezing. What’s the point of this weather? I’ll take the long coat and a brolly. If the wind picks up I’ll be chasing the damned thing down the street. I’ll see you after work.” David makes a round of his family, pecking and ruffling in muted affection. Staring at David’s back for a slow count of five, Tessa chooses a fight she can win and heads towards her squabbling teenagers.

David opens the front door to an orchestra of flashing blue lights and an unexpected group of people waiting on his doorstep. Six in total, with two suits at the front and four uniformed police officers at the rear.

“David MacDonald?” asked the lead male. It sounded like a question, but it wasn’t. At six-two, DCI Mike Edge was a good four inches taller than David. Neat, well-built and attractive in a pragmatic way.

“I am he,” David intoned, solemnly.

“Good stuff,” Mike returned after a beat. “David MacDonald of Archway Terrace, Islington? Son of Malcolm MacDonald of Epsom Downs Elderly Care Facility?”

“It’s a care home, actually. It’s really quite lovely. And you’re talking to me on my doorstep, in Archway Terrace. So… yeah. Who are you?” David began to warm to the role of Too-Busy-For-This Citizen.

“That’s a yes then, is it?”

“Yes. I’m going to be late for work. Tell me what’s going on?”

“I’m DS Corcoran. Have you spoken with your father today, David?” asked the second plainclothes officer, taking the lead in an unspoken agreement. Toby Corcoran was a few years older than the DCI despite his more junior position. His age and choice of clothing suggested a genial, friendly disposition. Whereas, actually, he wasn’t friendly. At all. He had capitalised on that juxtaposition to great effect in his career to the extent that he was famous for being able to pull off the good cop, bad cop routine all on his own.

“No.” David replied.

“Yes you have,” said Tessa, peering around her husband to contradict him.

“You know what I meant,” David whined.

“Mr MacDonald, let’s try that again shall we? Have you spoken with your father this morning?” Mike asked, taking back the lead.

“Not really. We talk on Thursday evenings. When I can. He called the house phone today, all worked up about something on TV. He’s just a bit… old, these days. That’s not a crime yet, is it?” David chuckled without a hint of self-consciousness.

“No, sir,” Mike began, “it’s not. But your father, Malcolm, has taken the Prime Minister hostage during a tour of 10 Downing Street they organised for veterans of Operation Market Garden, this morning at o-seven hundred. He’s using a wartime German Luger - that’s a pistol, sir - to hold the PM and two other old geezers hostage in the cabinet room. Either that, or they’re in on it too. He says he wants to talk to you on the phone. He says if you hang up again he’s going to shoot someone. We’re unsure if he means you or the PM at this stage, sir. And that, sir, is a crime.” Mike finished with a genial little smile. “Inside if you don’t mind Mr MacDonald. We have a phone call to make.”