The Girl under the Tarpaulin

Sirius Copper is used to the jokes, a twenty-two-year veteran officer with the Metropolitan Police Force in Rayner’s Lane, in the borough of Harrow.

9 min readJan 20, 2023

A short story in parts: Part 1: Libby.

Sirius pounds his beat, week after week, month after month, and year after year never having sought promotion. There isn’t a rogue in the vicinity he doesn’t know, or who doesn't know him, some since kindergarten.

Most of them juveniles, getting into trouble after a few brews at the local. But on October 15, 2022, Sirius finds himself dealing with a unique situation.

Part 1: Libby

It’s just after 1:00 a.m. Sirius has been kept busy checking shop doors for security after a spate of burglaries in the area, then had a call to meet an ambulance on Eastcote Road for an old man having a suspected heart attack around 10 p.m., but for a Saturday night, it’s been surprisingly quiet.

Sirius, his bladder in need of emptying, steps inside the Rayner’s Lane Underground Station only to find the men’s room locked, and after knocking on the ladies’, finding, it, too, is locked.

There’s nothing for it but to scramble his six-foot two-inch frame part way down the rail embankment, unzip his trousers, and lets out a sigh as the need to urinate finally produces a weak stream of relief.

“Son of a bitch. I’ll kill you,” a strident female voice berates Sirius as he stands unsteadily on the embankment holding his penis in his right hand. In shock and disbelief, he looks down, his urine splashing over a black tarpaulin, probably discarded from a truck.

In panic, Sirius stuffs his penis back into his trousers as a trickle of warm liquid runs down the inside of his thigh.

He lets out an inaudible ‘shit!’

Down below the tarpaulin ripples with movement and a moment later, a woman’s head appears from beneath its edge. Sirius takes his torch from its holder attached to his belt and shines it down on the subject, who raises her hands to cover her eyes.

“A girl can’t even lie down for a few minutes without some bastard pissing a yellow shower, over her,” the woman yells. “I should call a cop,” then squinting through her fingers, says, “oh, fuck, you are a cop.”

With urine dribbling down the inside of his right leg, Sirius quickly presses a hand down the leg of his trousers, stemming the flow. When nature kicks-off, it stops for no man, at least not without a conscious effort, which Sirius hadn’t had time to properly initiate.

“I suppose you’re going to arrest me,” the woman growls incoherently.

“How old are you?” Sirius asks, and what the hell are you doing sleeping on a railway embankment? Is anyone under that thing with you?”

Sirius’ first thought is that he’s caught a teenage couple having sex.

“Take the fucking torchlight off me, it’s blinding me. And no. I’m not a hooker, you asshole,” she yells, “and if I had a home, or any money, I’d go there and not spend the night sleeping under a tarpaulin waiting for a cop to piss all over me.”

Sirius is embarrassed, though she wouldn’t know why.

“Climb up here, let’s have a look at you on the street,” he says.

The girl is indignant. “Fucking harassment, that’s what this is. I wasn’t doing anything but sleeping.”

“Just get up here. I won’t ask again. Do you have a jacket or something warm under there?”

“Oh sure, I have feather pillows and an electric blanket! What do you think.”

As the young woman reaches the top of the embankment, Sirius again brushes a hand down the inside of his uniform trousers.

She comes closer, still having a lot to say. “I haven’t been drinking, I’m not on drugs, I’m starving and trying to get some sleep, but you, adding insult to injury, a cop no less, pisses all over me and then implies I’m a prostitute, and…”

Sirius holds up his hand. “Do you ever stop spouting your mouth off? You’re not under arrest. Now I can see you in the streetlight, you’re clearly not a teenager, what are you, twenty-seven, eight?”

“Mind your own fucking business. How old are you? Seventy? You probably can’t hold your piss,” she giggles behind her hand.

Sirius subtly turns his body; wary his trouser leg might show a sign of damp.

“What’s going on? Has your husband kicked you out, is that what’s going on here?” He guesses.

“Really? Do I look dumb enough to have a husband?”

Sirius is weighing up if there’s any reason to call for backup. At the moment all he has is a woman trespassing on railway property, which is prohibited and clearly marked on a sign a few feet away.

“Look, as far as I can tell you’ve not done anything wrong except ignore a trespass sign. Do you live locally?”

“That’s my fucking home,” she says, pointing down the embankment, “and you’ve pissed all over it. If you’re not arresting me, then I’d like to go back,” she says standing with her arms folded, jean clad legs ending in bare feet on a cold October night.

It’s a piffling offense, hardly worth his time.

“No shoes?” He asks, looking at her feet.

“I cannot climb the bloody embankment wearing them, but yes, I have shoes.”

Sirius wonders what kind of night had befallen the young woman and doesn’t want to add to her misery.

“Look, I can give you taxi fare. You can be on your way in five minutes.”

“Hell, you’re dumber than you look. Where will a taxi take me? I’ve nowhere to go,” she says. “Just leave me alone, I’ll be gone in the morning.”

“Gone where, you say you’ve nowhere to go,” Sirius says.

“Jesus, you are a cop, aren’t you. I’ll think of something. Right now, I’d like to get some sleep., so if you’ll finish your piss somewhere else, I’ll be grateful,” she says, standing in the semi-lit darkness, then shrugs away her anger and scrambles down the embankment. “I’ll be gone in the morning,” she calls back.

Sirius looks at his watch, if he steps on it, he can make it. It’s 1:45 a.m., as he steps inside the door of the Bamboo House. The aroma of Indian spices fills his nostrils mas he is greeted by the restaurant manager, Pankej Patel.

“Welcome, Sirius, it’s a rare sight to see you in uniform?”

“Hello, Pankej. Am I too late for a takeout?”

“Not at all, not any time my friend. What can we get you?”

“Great. I’ll get the Chicken Tikka marinated in those Indian spices, pork dumplings, an egg foo young, too, with crispy noodles, and a soda, please, Pankej.”

“I have that out for you in ten minutes,” Pankej says.

Sirius is a regular when off duty, living less than a quarter mile away.

Walking with a carry out package, Sirius makes his way back to Rayner’s Lane Station and stands at the top of the embankment.

“Hey, you with the mouth, are you still hungry?”

There’s a momentary silence before the tarpaulin starts taking on different shapes, one of those shapes rippling its way to the upper edge and a familiar head appears.

“Starving,” she says.

“I have Indian food here,” he tells her.

Her response is somewhat predictable.

“Just so you know, I’m not giving you a blow job, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Lady, my sixty-year-old dick has become very particular with age. Do you want this food or not?”

“Yes,” she calls back, rather meekly.

“I’m not coming down there. I’ll leave it here,” he says, “you have a good night.”

“Wait…” she calls.

She scrambles up the embankment. This time carrying wearing shoes, a denim jacket, and is carrying a purse over her shoulder. Sirius determines, by the condition and style of her footwear, she’s not been penniless.

“You do have shoes, then? They look like something you might wear on a glamorous night out,” he says.

“I know, you still think I’m a hooker, right?” She says, bringing herself upright.

“I could suggest that you’re a high-class prostitute, but I won’t. You don’t have that kind of elegance,” he says, making his point.

“Okay, okay, I deserve that. Look, whatever you believe, I don’t mean to be ungrateful. If you could lend me money for a hotel room, I know it sounds as if I’m begging, but I promise, I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

Sirius is a little unprepared by the woman’s sudden turn to a passive temperament and finds himself wanting to help.

“Hotels around here are few and far between. The nearest is in Harrow. But look, and don’t get me wrong, I’m not asking for favours. I have a couple of bedrooms that are empty so if you’re not feeling threatened, and out of a kind spirit, I will let you sleep at my place until you’ve rested. Then be on your way, no conditions,” Sirius explains. “I share my home with Carla, she’s a Persian, owns the damn place.”

“Persian?”

“Cat, a Persian,” Sirius says.

“I love cats,” she responds sounding slightly relieved.

“If you want to bring everything you have that is left under that sheet, you can eat at my place, it’s less than half a mile from here. I can set you up with a bed and a shower. When I’ve finished my shift, I’ll be quiet coming home. I don’t get up until noon, by which time you’ll be long gone.”

“You’ll trust me, alone in your home?”

“I have a damn good description of you, you’ll not get far if you’re thinking of running off with my Carla.”

“This is it, I have everything,” she says.

As they walk, Sirius senses his trousers are almost dry.

“If you’re going to be staying in my home, perhaps it would be a good idea to give me your name,” Sirius says.

She doesn’t look over at him, and says, “Olivia, people I know call me Libby, and yours?” She asks.

“Sirius,” he says.

Libby mishears. “Yes, of course I’m serious.”

“No, Sirius, my name is Sirius, like the star, not Serious,” he says laughing.

“Sirius, wow, that’s unusual. The brightest star in the sky,” she says, looking up, “otherwise known as the Dog Star.”

“You know about that stuff,” he asks.

“Not really, but all kids ask what the brightest star is called.”

Unlocking the front door, Sirius moves aside — remembering his manners. Libby enters, which she does with a little flounce and Sirius gets his first good look at his guest in the hallway light.

She’s slimmer than first imagined. Not unattractive, with long dark hair, and for the first time he sees her right eye is blackened. She’s wearing a pale blue shirt under the denim jacket, blue designer shredded jeans, and three-inch ankle strapped heels.

Sirius has his own thoughts, and assumptions. The first is she is definitely keeping something to herself.

“You want to tell me anything about that black eye?” He asks.

“Had a fight with a car door a couple of days ago,” she says.

Sirius is less than convinced. He’s not going to push her on it. “Look, I’ll leave you to eat that food. I need to go upstairs and get cleaned up.”

“I thought you were still on duty?” She says.

Sirius is not about to explain why he wants to get out of his piss-dried trousers. “Sit yourself down and eat that Indian. I’ll be five or six minutes.”

Libby doesn’t need a second telling, and pulls out a chair from the kitchen table before diving into the warm brown paper sack.

“This is really kind, I don’t understand why you chose to be a copper,” she says.

“I was born one,” he says, smiling at his own joke. “Back in a jiff.”

Libby is acutely aware, since leaving the railway embankment, of the weight of her purse hanging from her right shoulder — alone in the kitchen she drops it to the floor with a surprisingly heavy thud.

PART TWO: