We finally get to the police station just a little before closing time. A counter runs the whole length of the room, cutting it in two. Behind it are four police officers. Down at the far end, a light-brown policeman who must be about fifty is interviewing a woman whose young son, clad in track-suit and trainers, is twisting about on the seat beside her. At the centre of the counter, a dark-haired, jovial looking fellow is giving advice to a young couple about how to claim back money that has been spent on their stolen credit-card. Closest to us, a young black women, the only person actually in uniform, turns away from a conversation with a young trainee to deal with us.

Marie tells her story, and the woman informs her that she must fill out a separate form for each of the main items that were in her wallet when it was stolen - credit card, driving licence and identity card. She then turns back to the trainee, a young beur, who is obviously out to impress her with his newly acquired street savvy. He shows her where he keeps his handcuffs, clipped to the back of his belt beneath his pullover. His speech is rapid and excited, almost boisterous, while the woman responds to him with a mixture of amusement, solicitude and indifference. 'Ah,' he says, ' the big guys, the bank robbers - real criminals - I know them all - all of them'. He segues into his first arrest - a fight in the rue des Rosiers. 'I just got between them, grabbed one, and took him aside. Hey, it was pretty dangerous, I mean look at me, and it was in the Jewish quarter - but it all went smoothly.'

The black-haired policeman finishes with his clients. He stands up. 'I've got to be off now,' he declares, 'the old lady's waiting for me at the BHV. I should have been off an hour ago. Course, it's the full moon - always more of them at the full moon.' He considers, looking at the young couple fondly as they make their way to the door. 'Not thieves, though,' he says, 'they know what they're doing. The moon doesn't affect them.'

Marie finishes filling out her forms. She passes them across to the police-woman, and thanks her, getting up to go. 'Ah, mais c'est pas fini'. She'll have to make out a statement, and the policewoman can't deal with this, as she is also only a trainee. The police-man at the far end is still dealing with the woman, so we settle down to wait. The woman is tense and bouyant ; she is there because a group of youths had whipped her son's new baseball cap from off his head - a new one, costing 150 francs - a brand name coveted by teenagers. She had grabbed one of them, her son another one, and they had pulled them into a high-street shop, keeping them there until the police came along to pick them up. 'It's the third time,' she says, 'the third time. Ahh, they called me all sorts of names, but I hung on and dragged him along with me.' Her son was kicked in the crutch in the struggle, and she wants to get him to a doctor, but she also wants to make sure that the youths are charged.

Two women walk in - a middle-aged arab and a younger one who is probably her daughter. The policewoman looks up and tells them that it is too late - they are closed. 'But they told us to come here,' says the older woman. It's for G.' 'Ah, yes - he's upstairs.' The policewoman telephones, and another policeman appears - large, in his mid-thirties. 'What's your G done? Why I'll tell you, madam : G's been thieving, that's what he's done.' He takes the women away to see the young criminal. The woman whose son was roughed over watches them go with a grimace of satisfaction which she wishes to share with me.

The dark-haired policeman reappears with a heavy leather jacket on. He looks over at his colleage, who is still only half-way through the paper-work with the woman and her son. Then he looks at me. 'Have you been waiting long?' We haven't, but he decides to take us all the same. He seems to feel at home in the station. Marie begins to tell her story, with me chipping in to confirm or elaborate. 'Three girls' says Marie, but I only saw two. 'One of them blew smoke in my face, and another must have taken my wallet when I turned round to tell her to stop.' Our policeman shrugs; he's heard it all before, he implies. 'What did they look like - black were they?' 'Well,' says Marie, cautiously, 'the one who blew smoke wasn't European, but I don't want to say more than that'. 'She was black', I say, 'and the other one had long red hair'. 'Deux de race noir,' says the policeman, happily. 'No,' I say. 'The other one wasn't black'. He seems a little put out. 'Black with curly hair,' he tries. 'No,' I say, 'the black one had straight hair'. He grunts, but doesn't lose any of his good humour.

The telephone rings, and the policewoman picks it up. 'Ah no,' she says into it, 'he's still here.' She turns to our policeman; he picks up the phone and shouts into it, gesticulating dramatically. 'Ah, no, Maman. We're rushed off our feet here - I couldn't get away.' His colleagues are laughing, and so are we. I imagine his wife can hear our giggles. He puts the telephone back down with a triumphant flourish. 'I should have been there an hour and a half ago.'

A man slips in through the street door ; he looks vaguely middle-european. 'It's too late.' 'I've come for R.', he mutters. His son is upstairs, in one of the cells. He sits waiting, pale-faced and immobile, until the woman beckons him over to the stairway up which he disappears.

Marie has finished her statement. She signs a copy, and we leave. The woman with her son is still talking to her interviewer, and our policeman has not yet gone to join his wife. On the way home, I keep on expecting to run into the black girl and her companion once again. I don't think I'd recognize either of them though.
 

Comments to me at tmason@timothyjpmason.com.