The Marauders - Order of the Phoenix Part Three

It's Unisex

PC Anderson and Sergeant Fisher sat in their police car, parked at the mouth of a narrow road between two buildings, chatting through their boring shift. Anderson had a cup of coffee while Fisher floshed some undercooked chips in a pool of ketchup. 

"The wife's been on me to be cuttin' my diet, says she had to let out my uniforms again," Fisher complained. He held aloft the greasy tray of chips, "What she don't know won't hurt me." He chuckled.

"Oh I know the feelin'," Anderson said, shaking his head and sipping his coffee, "Gertie's been on about her own weight and somehow that effects me - suddenly we're both on this new fangled diet thing she's tryin' out and she's pisser at me because I've lost weight and she 'int lost but a fraction of what I 'ave and somehow that's my fault."

Fisher shook his head. "If Barb knew half what I eat when I'm out on patrol she'd leave me I swear, she's that militant 'bout it," he grumbled.

The radio in the police car crackled to life suddenly and Anderson reached for the knob to turn it up as Fisher lowered the tray of chips. "10-33 emergency in progress, pub on Highgate West Hill, 10-10 fight confirmed, possibly armed - resident called in, units dispatched to scene, all officers in North London on standby for further instruction - 10-12."

Fisher looked at Anderson, "Ah good, I don't have to stop eatin' my chips," he laughed and Anderson chuckled and took another gulp of his coffee. 

"Keep it up in Highgate, that's what I say," agreed Anderson.

"I almost pulled Highgate tonight, too," Fisher said, grinning, "Dodged that bullet, I did."

The pair of officers returned to their conversation.

It was about ten minutes later before the radio cracked again with descriptions for a city-wide look-out for two young males, black hair. Supposedly the chef of the pub had seen them slip out the back door; it had been a violent attack of some sort, possible firearms involved, unknown vehicle used for the escape. Cleared the whole pub, witnesses were being brought in.

"All this racket over a bar fight," Fisher rolled his eyes. "Wouldn't even have given that air time back in the day."

"Getting more frequent, the killin's in the city," Anderson pointed out, "You noticed? Seems like there's a new horrific killin' nearly ev'ry day these days. You heard 'bout all them people up in Blackburn? With that serial killer they've been dealin' with?" He let out a breath of air - "Whoo-weee. Glad that innit 'round our beat, 'ey?"

"That's off there in Blackburn, sure, but 'round here there's been loads of mysterious killin's just the same," Fisher pointed out. "Three cases I worked last week - people dead as dead can be but not a thing wrong with'em. Perfectly healthy, apart from bein' dead. Not a mark on 'em."

"Bleedin' weird," muttered Anderson, shaking his head.

Fisher nodded, "Bleedin' weird." He'd finished up his chips and was wiping his hands on his pant leg, crumbling up the paper tray they'd been in. He shoved it into a plastic bag and threw that in the backseat. "Alright, let's do a couple laps about the block," he muttered and he shifted the car into gear, rolling forward and about to pull into traffic when --

Anderson spit a mouthful of coffee in shock. "The fuck was that?!"

"A - a motorcycle?" Fisher flipped on the lights and sirens and pulled out of the alleyway. 

Anderson looked at the radar. "No way." He turned the radar gun toward Fisher. "Take a look at that, will ya?"

Fisher glanced over as he pressed his foot to the pedal. "That's damn impossible."