She goes there when she feels down. She calls it the hobby shop, because it’s
where you go to indulge and discuss your interests.
The hobby shop is a run-down basement on a suburban street
in Orpington. The guy that owns the
house opens it up on the second and third Wednesday’s of each month. There’s a projector and screen, and about a
dozen worn and chipped dining chairs. It
shows specialist films.
Not pornography as such, more spontaneous violence.
There’s a community there.
Everybody knows each other, there’s no sense of menace, just excited
anticipation.
The films are always ‘fresh’, crimes committed within the
past two weeks. She holds herself tense
throughout, hardly breathing as the adrenaline tingles through her.
When she walks out, she feels alive. It helps her feel that policing is
worthwhile.
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