Dearest Dorothy

It’s been a strange day.  

First,  a report of gunfire in an industrial estate. Us two firearms officers, sweating in Kevlar, and a warehouse full of dead Eastern European gangsters. One still breathing: “Dorota,” he kept saying to the paramedics.

In the middle, not a drop of blood on her, a child’s doll. Faye took it for the evidence bag.

We slung the long arms in the back of the BMW. I took the wheel. We were both quiet, me thinking about that bloodbath, Faye playing with the  doll.

“Are you putting that thing in the bag or not?”

“Dorothy,” Faye replied, “her name is Dearest Dorothy.”

We stopped at lights so I turned to her. She hadn’t secured her Glock. I reached for it.

“Don’t you touch her!” she yelled, no, screamed. She’s a pretty girl, Faye,  but she wasn’t pretty then, eyes wide, froth on her lips.

“It’s just a damned doll, Faye!”

Then I was looking into the barrel of her Glock-17.

“Stop the car,” she shouted: “Stop the bloody car, Dev!”

I did, nice and slow. She unbuckled, gripping that doll with white knuckles.

“I’m taking Dearest Dorothy and we’re going!”

Then she was out on the pavement, doll in one hand and pistol in the other, with mid-morning shoppers skipping out of her way.

“Don’t touch her!” she screamed at a pointing child. The white-faced mother found herself facing a 9mm semi-automatic.

“Faye, drop the weapon!” Now I was armed, my pistol on her, hers wandering between me, the child and the mother. “Put it down, Faye!”

Faye’s face crumpled with baffled fury, tearful, gulping air. She pressed the doll to her cheek and squeezed her eyes closed. The barrel moved towards her chin.

I took the shot.

The discharge sent pigeons whirring into the air, the boom of the Glock rolling down the shopfronts and surging back to me. Faye lay on the kerb. Dearest Dorothy sat next to a widening puddle of blood. I ran to her.

“Too right, it’s been a strange day,” said the Commander, blinking at the paperwork. He regarded me over the desk with a strange  expression. “Are you OK, Dev?” When I nodded he added, “Drop that thing in the evidence bag, will you?”

Before I left, I told him, “Her name is Dorothy.”

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I really loved writing this. I had to do a bunch of research on UK firearms officers, their guns and cars and protocols. I wanted it to be longer, with a longer chain of people falling victim to Dearest Dorothy before Dev finally succumbs.

This one spawned a prequel and a sequel, showing a hint of Dorothy's origin and ultimate agenda.