"Watcha, Boom."

His name wasn't Boom. And it wasn't even a nickname he liked, nor was it designed to be. Boom was short for Boomerang. As in, something that always comes back.

His real name was Sawyer Crawford. Sergeant Crawford – although that didn't stop a few of the constables from joining in on the workplace jibes. On Swayer's level, there was just one other – Sergeant Maxwell – a rather churlish man in his fifties who was escorted into the force by his late father and had created a permanent indent in the burgundy corner sofa ever since. He smelled of dust and regret. Maxwell resented the fact that 28-year-old Sawyer was his equal, yet had little determination to do anything about it. He was the personification of sleepy Willow Mills.

The one man ahead of Sergeant Crawford in the pecking order was equally unpleasant, but in a far more active way. Sawyer could deal with the lingering presence of Maxwell, forever in his peripheral – much like the damp in the swollen ceiling tiles or the cigarette burns in the station's one working police car. Inspector Hawkins-Leggett was closer to a sinkhole or a broken brake pedal – horrible, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

"Watcha, Boom."

Inspector Hawkins-Leggett.

He often clocked into work the latest out of everyone, despite being the most senior. Sawyer would mistake it as a display of power if he wasn't so sure it was simply a case of the Inspector struggling to get out of bed in the morning. Over the years, his legs had stopped moving parallelly and developed more of a perpendicular side shuffle. The kind of method you adopt when shifting a particularly heavy chest of drawers without assistance. The one silver lining to this was that Hawkins-Leggett's heavy sewage breathing retreated an inch further from Sawyer's desk each month as his belly continued to protrude.

The Boom nickname had started just a few months before. Sawyer, like many his age in the force, had gained his experience at a local level with the aim of securing a promotion somewhere a little more exciting. London, Birmingham, Manchester – he'd always had a soft spot for Edinburgh, even after his Scottish grandmother passed away. The pursuit of such a move came with little resistance from within the force too. Sergeant Sawyer was an impressive young officer, and they were always looking for impressive young officers in the big cities. They had even asked him to take part in a nationwide promotional campaign, although he begrudgingly declined, unwilling to effectively be the face of the Blue Lives Matter movement.

Despite that knockback, Sawyer was offered a Sergeant role in London just after his twenty-seventh birthday, and leapt at the chance to wave goodbye to the thick smog that hung over the Willow Mills Police Station. It was much to the amusement of Maxwell and Hawkins-Leggett just a few months later when Sawyer returned, a tail tucked betwixt his cheeks. It became even funnier for them once the Inspector noticed two particular words at the bottom of the report – 'transfer requested'.

Sawyer couldn't hack it.

"The big leagues ain't so bright and shiny, are they now kid?" Hawkins-Leggett had spluttered between gurgled laughs. "Best keep yourself out of harm's way."

He spoke with the assurance of a man who had completed two tours of Iraq, rather than a deadbeat who had demolished two Mars bars before 10 a.m. Sawyer didn't mind though. The comments were true in a way. He had spent so many years dreaming about patrolling the streets of London that he hadn't spared a single second to think about the things he might see. Within his first week in the borough of Haringey, Sawyer had been the first responder to a side street stabbing. A 19-year-old woman – girl – bled out in his hands.

He felt faceless, helpless, pointless. How could he make a difference in a place so big? A place where no one knew his name? The locals didn't trust him, or even like him. The transfer request was the one piece of work he had been proud of in London, even more so once he returned to life in Willow Mills.

Life in a big city was liquid. If flowed with a viscous current. One moment you were paddling along, the next you were at the mercy of a riptide, hauling you down into the murky depths of the Thames. A small town wasn't necessarily better. Time was jagged and intrusive. You felt each second pulse through the temple and reverberate down each vertebrate of your spine. There was a certain curse to having time run away from you, but equally having too much time on your hands.

"Got that daft old biddy on the phone again this morning," Hawkins-Leggett announced asthmatically.

Maxwell grunted from the corner while a couple of the constables discussed unsavoury Saturday night plans in the kitchen.

"You mean Mrs Samuels?" Sawyer sighed, feeling the burden of service.

"Do I?" the Inspector scoffed. "Complete fruit loop, that's all I know."

"And what was she calling about?"

"Same old crap. Something about a ghost in the woods behind her house or some shit. You know what she's like. I just put the receiver down and made a coffee. Silly cow was still rambling by the time I got back." He erupted into raucous laughter, but the pool of joy in his eyes quickly dissolved into embarrassment when the spluttering coughs bubbled up, as they always did. He was an unhealthy man in about every measurable way.

Sawyer's chair squeaked and strained as he pushed away from his desk and retrieved his badge from the top drawer, patting down his uniform to make sure he had all the essentials on board.

"Where do you think you're going?" Hawkins-Leggett raised an eyebrow. "London calling again, are they?" He peered over Sawyer's shoulder to check if Maxwell had heard, but withheld his laughter since the Sergeant had drifted off into one of his many midday naps.

"Sounds like one of our citizens called for help and there are literally five police officers just sitting on their arses in here," Sawyer challenged.

Hawkins-Leggett rolled his eyes, "She just wants to talk your ear off. You're too wet behind the ears, you are."

"We work in a local police station in Willow Mills. Half the people that live here just want to talk your ear off. The woman is 87 years old. If she wants a chat, I'm happy to give it to her."

The Inspector raised his hands in what had become a patronising, yet trademark 'do what you want' gesture. And with that, Sawyer was gone. Out of the station, and he could breathe again.

Mrs Samuels was indeed an 87-year-old woman, but an extra descriptive Sawyer had chosen not to say to Hawkins-Leggett's face was that she was a black 87-year-old woman. Perhaps it didn't matter to the inspector that the lady on the other end of the phone was black, but it certainly changed things when she wasn't white. Willow Mills was hardly a town that attracted a thriving minority population, and Sawyer had witnessed first-hand the shortcomings of the police when dealing with people just like Mrs Samuels over his time on the force.

It was another underlying reason he had decided to return rather than take a promotion elsewhere in the English countryside. The people here knew him, and more importantly, they needed him. He could deal with the pushback he received from Hawkins-Leggett due to the colour of his own skin – his heart would give up long before Sawyer could teach it to treat all equally. But he refused to allow the prejudice of the police department to hold people like Mrs Samuels ransom. One day, she would be in genuine need of help, and perhaps that will be the day she no longer has the inclination to pick up the phone.

Knock knock, knock knock knock

Sawyer rapped his knuckles rhythmically against the soft wooden door, just about strong enough to keep out a gentle breeze. Mrs Samuels had commented on the knock before, years ago now. But he knew it would bring her comfort to recognise her visitor before unlocking the chain.

"Sawyer! Look at you! Come into the light, would you? Have you grown?" Mrs Samuels beamed, beckoning him into the rose-wallpapered hallway with an insistent wave.

"I'm 28 years old, Mrs Samuels. If I'm still growing, then I worry about these low ceilings."

The old lady tutted warmly, heartened by the familiarity of Sawyer's humour. There was no Mr Samuels to speak of, and no children. No siblings or cousins or distant relatives. Mrs Samuels was an elderly woman whose days were defined by rare and fleeting visits.

"Now what have I heard about something going on in the trees behind your garden?" Sawyer asked, a friend in police clothing.

"Can I get you a cup of tea?" Mrs Samuels pottered around, her slippers fighting against the blotchy pink carpet that covered every room save the kitchen.

Sawyer placed his hand over the trembling ones belonging to his host. "Why don't I make them."

"What a gentleman," Mrs Samuels cooed as she sauntered back into the living room. Sawyer already knew she would be situated in the rocking chair that looked out through the French doors at the back of the property. He already knew she would be busy clearing the coffee table of magazines, making just enough space for a tea tray. And he already knew he would end up perching on a green, velvet ottoman to remain close enough for her hearing aid to pick up his every word.

"Now, what's this I hear about ghosts in the forest," Sawyer tried once more, after Mrs Samuels took her first sip and the shaking of china against china ceased.

"Ghosts," she tutted, this time short and irritated. "Is that what the grubby little man told you?"

"Inspector Hawkins-Leggett," Sawyer corrected.

"Mmm," Mrs Samuels glanced knowingly. "I said a ghostly figure, though I doubt his ears are evolved to listen. A ghostly figure marching through the woods in all white."

"But it was an actual person...?" Sawyer verified.

"Sawyer, my dear. Ghosts don't leave footprints, now do they?"