Authors: Charlie Owen
Horse's Arse (4 page)
Piggy
was sitting next to the officer he was due to crew a vehicle with that morning,
Alistair (generally known as Ally) Stewart. Ally was one of the smallest
officers in the Force at
5'7%"
- he had convinced his recruiting
officer that he would grow to the required 5'8" but never had. Southern
police forces regularly made up their recruiting shortfalls with expeditions to
the frozen, rickets-riddled wastes of the north where the unemployed masses
jumped at the prospect of any employment, regardless of its locality. Consequently
every force south of the Watford Gap had its fair share of unintelligible (to
the southern ear) Geordies, Scousers, Jocks and northerners of every
description. Yet even they drew the line at Ally, the runt of the litter with
his shock of ginger hair, broad Glasgow accent, permanent angry pink complexion
and physique to match the 'before' model in the Bullworker adverts. What he
lacked in physique and size, however, he made up for with his dreadful 'small
man syndrome'. He was also the most vehement religious and racist bigot and
kept a large poster of the Pope in his locker, which he would headbutt before
starting work. 'There ye go, ye Papist bastard,' he would bellow before making
his way to Muster. However, his worst excesses were reserved for anyone
unfortunate enough not to be a white Anglo-Saxon with milk-white skin. Some
years ago he and H had travelled into the centre of Manchester on a train and
after a few stops Ally had noticed that he and H were the only white occupants
in the carriage. He had put his nose in the air, sniffed theatrically and said
very loudly, 'Can ye no smell that, H, the smell of unwashed baboon?' H always
maintained that they were not attacked only because none of the other
travellers could understand Ally's accent. Ally was constantly in trouble and
could wallpaper his flat with the discipline notices he had been served with
over the years. He was however one of those coppers who knew instinctively when
something was not right. Having stopped a black cleaner early one morning,
searched him and found a £90,000 cheque the cleaner had just stolen from an
office, he was asked by the custody sergeant why he had stopped him.
'The
bastard had no socks on,' Ally had solemnly replied.
He
was not in a good mood that morning after the Grim Brothers had noticed as he
got changed that his pubic hair had vanished overnight. A one-night stand with
an Australian barmaid had left him crab-infested, and his golden plumage had
subsequently succumbed to a razor wielded by an Indian doctor who seemed to
bring unusual glee to his task.
'Try
not to move too much,' he had told the appalled Ally as he moved his rapidly
shrinking penis from side to side with his thumb and forefinger as he shaved him.
'One slip and I could lop the poor little chap off.'
Ally
promised himself he'd set fire to the rag-headed little bastard if he ever came
across him on a dark night.
'Fuck
me, Ally, it looks like a strangled chicken,' Jim had shouted in the locker
room. Ally didn't get much in the way of female company and he felt hugely
aggrieved that he had been infected by a chance shag with a woman of the right
hue. He resolved to persecute all Antipodeans in the future as they were little
more than white wogs.
Are
we going out today or not?' bellowed Psycho Sean, shocking Jones from his
living nightmare. Of all the misfits before him, Jones knew that Psycho
presented the biggest threat to him. He breathed insubordination and a sixth
sense told him that Psycho would be the source of most of his troubles. He was
right, too. Psycho was a real beast of a man, of average height, but as wide as
the proverbial shithouse door. His breadth of shoulder and depth of hairy chest
matched his enormous physical strength, but whilst he had been at the front of
the queue when they handed out physique, he had obviously been elsewhere when
looks were dolled out. He was as ugly as a monkey's arse, memorably described
by Bovril as looking 'like a bulldog licking piss off a stinging nettle'. All
efforts to tame his unruly mop of dark, wiry hair met with failure and his
swarthy, pirate-like, but bloodhound-jowly complexion was highlighted by a huge
port wine birthmark on his left cheek. 'The ugly fucker's mother used to feed
him with a catapult,' declared Bovril, but quietly so the monster didn't hear
him, snap his back and drink the marrow from his spine.
Psycho
had only been at Handstead for eighteen months after a period of suspension
from duty following a complaint of unreasonable force made against him at his
last nick. Off duty, he had wandered into a gents' lavatory in a department
store where he had been propositioned by a clearly blind or mentally defective
menswear department fairy at the urinal alongside him. Having punched the
confirmed bachelor into the middle of next week (not unreasonably, most
objective observers had reckoned) the enraged Psycho had overstepped the mark
and rammed the unconscious mans head down a toilet which he repeatedly flushed.
The man stood a good chance of drowning before other members of the public had
intervened. Psycho had been arrested whilst throttling two of the fairy's
saviours on the floor of the gents. Incredibly, the Deputy Chief Constable had
reluctantly reinstated him without any discipline charges after it came to
light that the geldings in the Complaints and Discipline Department had bent
one too many rules in their efforts to get him sacked. The only punishment as
such was his enforced move to the penal colony at Handstead. He had resumed
normal service virtually fireproof and been sent to Horse's Arse, where he
quickly gained a reputation for being totally mad. He wasn't mad - he just
didn't care any more. He knew he'd have to seriously fuck up before the Job
tried to get rid of him again and his conduct became more and more bizarre.
Stories
about his manic behaviour were legion, and all true. The Grim Brothers had
once, very reluctantly, taken a call on his ground when he couldn't be
contacted and were astonished to pass him driving the other way in a lorry
taking his HGV test in half-blues. He even had the balls to flash his lights
and blow the horn as he passed them. He'd been spotted serving behind the bar
of a rural pub on nights, and on more than one occasion found in his beat
vehicle having his one-eyed piccolo played for free by a local torn. But
nothing ever happened to him, and in truth the group quite liked him because
life was never dull when he was around.
Divorced,
he lived alone in a squalid flat outside Handstead, which was regularly used by
the Relief for huge alcoholic binges. It was rare for an outsider to attend
these orgies, but those who had spoke of them later in hushed, awed tones. The
dust was still settling after the last party, during which a very pissed Pizza
had spent several minutes trying to get the toilet door open but found that it
opened only about six inches before stopping with a loud clunk, no matter how
hard he pushed it.
Flat
on her back on the toilet floor, the girl Psycho was drunkenly ravishing had
taken several firm blows to the top of her head, and it was some time before
Psycho noticed that she had passed out. She had been doused with beer to rouse
her, dressed and put in a taxi still groggy and not quite sure what had
happened. Psycho had sought out Pizza and flattened him with a punch to the
back of the head. Pizza came round some time later in Psycho's bed to find him
gazing lovingly at him, licking his lips suggestively and indicating an open
jar of Vaseline on the bedside table. Pizza had fled in horror and spent the
next couple of hours with a hand mirror between his legs before confirming that
his cherry was still intact.
Jones
shook his head to clear his racing mind and made a start. His pre-prepared
muster sheet contained the names of everyone who should have been on duty, and
to his undisguised delight they were all there. He assigned them to their beats
for the day, read them some briefing notes concerning outstanding stolen
vehicles and crime trends, briefly mentioned the assault on the pub landlord
the night before, and ran for the door. Greaves was still staring out of the
window and didn't see him go. Jones vanished into the sergeant's office along
the corridor and sat shaking at a desk. At least, he consoled himself, things
couldn't get any worse.
The
muster over, the group began to drift up to the control room to pick up their
personal radios and vehicle keys. Bovril didn't hang about and the Grim
Brothers were still in the muster room as he raced his vehicle out of the back
yard and off to his rendezvous with the greengrocers girlfriend. The Night Turn
Bravo Two Yankee One crew were still not in and the Brothers had some time on
their hands. They had been after a disqualified driver for the past month, and,
having finally found his vehicle parked two streets from his home on the Pound
Court estate and positively identified him in the flesh, were hopeful of
securing his capture during Early Turn. They discussed their prospects for the
day.
'He's
due to draw his dole this morning,' said H, 'and there's no way he'll walk into
town. Five quid says we have him away this morning.'
'Why
not? Five quid says he does a runner when we stop him.'
'Done,'
said H. 'He'll shit his pants the moment he sees us and won't be able to walk,
let alone run.'
They
wandered up to the control room and arrived there as the Night Turn crew walked
in. Terry Hughes and Barry Field looked shattered. They saw the Brothers and
Hughes tossed the car keys at H.
'All
yours, H. Got a full tank and all your kit. It's running like a dream.'
'Busy
one, I take it,' said H.
'Fucking
murder,' replied Hughes. 'Haven't stopped all night. We've had Alan Stanley
banged up since eleven o'clock and still haven't interviewed him.'
'Give
him to the CID,' suggested Jim.
'Not
a chance,' said Field. 'Besides, have you been down the cells this morning?
It's heaving. Huge punch-up at the Hoop and Grapes last night where the
landlord was GBH'd. They've got eight in for that all too pissed to interview
until later this morning.'
'What
you got Stanley for?' asked H.
'Going
equipped. Gave him a pull on the Roscoe industrial estate and found two huge
screwdrivers tucked down the back of his trousers. I think we got him too
early. Still, there've been a few breaks up there lately we can put to him.'
'Good
luck, boys,' chorused the Brothers as they made their way out of the back door
into the yard. They had nicked Alan Stanley two years ago in a stolen motor and
knew he wouldn't give Hughes and Field the time of day. He would admit nothing
and had a reputation with the local police for being impossible to interview.
His forte was to sit, arms folded, smiling, and refusing to even admit who he
was. It could be very frustrating. Which had made it all the more surprising
when the Brothers gave evidence in court of full and frank admissions to
numerous offences made to them by Stanley. He had gone berserk in the dock and
had eventually been forcibly removed to the cells. He was duly convicted and
got three months, all on the strength of evidence given by the Brothers.
Stanley had committed some of the crimes the Brothers had allocated to him, but
the majority were nothing to do with him. Jim and H had gone to the cells after
sentencing, and as Stanley had raged at them with tears of frustration running
down his face, H had quietly said to him, 'Fuck you, Stanley. You were due.'
Bravo
Two Yankee One was a liveried Ford Escort RS 2000 with a pair of earshattering
air horns and the crews loved her. As sure-footed as a mountain goat and with
awesome acceleration, she convinced them that there were few drivers out there
with either the skill or the horsepower to get away from them. H and Jim
carefully checked the vehicle and its equipment before settling themselves.
'Ready?'
H enquired.
'As
ever, H. Let's go and lay our hands on that little shit.'
H
manoeuvred Yankee One through the tight back yard and up to the huge
razor-wire-topped back gates that enclosed it. An intercom box on the wall
controlled entry and exit and H pulled up smoothly alongside it. He pushed the
speak button and was answered by the switchboard operator in the control room.
'Yankee
One out and about please, Sarah,' said H.
'Good
luck, boys,' said Sarah, pushing the exit button. 'And good hunting,' she added
as an afterthought.
Jim
picked up the handset from the dashboard and booked on with the main Force
Control Centre. 'Hello Delta Hotel, Bravo Two Yankee One, show us On Watch
please.'