Chemical Warfare

By Robert Smith

I’d decided that travelling at thirty miles an hour and keeping to our legal speed limit was a proper way of driving up Burngreave Road. I guess the fact that a local police vehicle was on my tail made this a wise decision. It was just after midnight and leaving a friend’s house I was driving my partner’s vehicle, a little flasher than mine and which I’m legally insured and covered to drive. 

It was the two figures inside the Police vehicle that decided that, with me, something wasn’t right. Conscious of them tailing me as I passed our local off-licence, the sirens behind me went off. Blue flashing lights and not sure whether they wanted to pull me over, I shifted aside to allow them to pass by, but it was me they wanted and I pulled over just before reaching Arnold Clark. 

The passenger of the panda vehicle, a female officer, came storming over. Making her way to the driver’s side with some urgency, she began shouting questions:“Is this your car sir? Is this your car?” “Na!” I replied calmly, informing her of the car’s real owner. “Yes, well, having run a vehicle check, we did not think you looked like her, Sir. So do you mind switching off the engine. Have you got any paperwork on you?” “Na, I don’t.” I knew the rest of the procedure would mean taking a seat in the rear of their vehicle and being written a ticket to produce at a local station of my choice. 

“ Step out off the car sir and move towards the panda vehicle.” Already complying with the wishes of this figure of authority and closely shepherded by her, I made my way to the rear door of the police vehicle, its lady driver glancing me up and down as we approached. “Hi there, how’s it going then?” I enquired jovially under the watchful eye of the driver through her rear view as I sat down. 

Quickly joined by the passenger, I relaxed back in the seat as she shut her door and grabbed for the pen and paperwork. Still watching me and engaging my eye contact, the driver began to sniff around the vehicle. She wanted to know if her colleague could smell what she could. “Can’t you smell that?” she said. I shrugged, because up until now, I knew I’d definitely held my bowels. Her colleague, preparing the producer, smelt nothing. “ But I can smell something!” she declared. I sighed inwardly, knowing it was coming. “You!” she said, swinging round in her seat, “Have you been near, chemicals?” I didn’t have a quick answer to that. Chemicals? What kind a chemicals did she mean? “D’you work with chemicals sir?” 

Wow, this one thinks it’s Afghanistan. “Na,” I shook my head. I had both their attentions now, in what I quickly figured could be some sort of set up. There was a slight pause before the truth dawned on the driver who jumped to respond. “It’s you!” she screamed at her colleague “Your canister, you’ve left it open!” They both bounded from the vehicle before allowing me to do likewise. “It crystallises in your nose,” explained the policewoman as we all began reeling from the effects of CS gas spray, none more so then the first sniffer. After some moments of sneezing and eye watering, an embarrassed apology was issued in place of the producer. 

I realised, on a more serious note, that the officer who approached my vehicle had stereotyped me as a threat and cocked her canister in preparation for conflict.