Just Another Day (3 page)

It all seemed to happen in slow motion, me looking down at my arm spurting blood, and him swinging my hand around above his head like a skipping rope. Suddenly, my hand flew out of the bracelet, slammed against the van, and fell to the floor with my blood splattering everywhere as it fell. He looked down at me once more and said in the most chilling voice and manner, “Now me old matey, that was handy wasn’t it.”
I will never forget those words or the way that he said them. I wake up sweating at night; he was speaking in the way that you hear old pirates speak in the movies. He enjoyed what he did to me. He is a monster who enjoys inflicting pain on others. He’s like a rabid dog. He should be put down.”

‘So, just to be absolutely clear on this matter Mr. D, Had he so wished, the defendant could have retrieved the cash box without any injury to you. You were not resisting him in any way, in fact, you had freely offered him the cash box key which would have enabled him to simply unlock your bracelet and make off with the cash without further ado. Is that correct?’

‘
Absolutely right Mr. Jameson. We are under instructions not to offer resistance to any form of violence, not just for our own safety, but also that of any other staff or members of the public who could get injured if we resisted, we are told quite clearly that under no circumstances are we to try any heroics.’

‘
Quite so, quite so Mr D, thank you for your attendance here today in what is obviously a very distressing situation for you. May the witness be excused M’lud? I’m sure he would appreciate a rest and an opportunity for him to have a drink. That is, if the defence have no questions to ask Mr D?’

The prosecution barrister continued his drama by waving his hand towards his learned colleague, but did not look at him as he knew his gesture would have even more dramatic effect.

Johnson’s defence barrister was also very experienced in court room procedures and he was well aware that both the Judge and the jury were looking in his direction. He could read both their minds; he knew it would be seen as extremely callous of him if he began to ask questions of the injured security guard.

Although he was duty bound to defend Johnson, he was well aware of the monster he was representing. He knew full well what a violent bastard he was. As his defending barrister, he had access to his previous convictions and he knew that his client had been in and out of institutions of various kinds for many years.

It came as no surprise to him to hear the evidence of the sadistic nature of the man in the dock when he knew that he had been detained in a young offenders institute at the age of 12 for decapitating a neighbour’s cat and pushing the severed head through the letterbox of the neighbour’s front door. The next door resident, in the eyes of Johnson, had committed a ‘crime’ in that she had not thrown his football back over the wall into Johnson’s yard. Hardly surprising given the tirade of foul abuse the neighbour had endured over a considerable period of time and the latest outburst of, ‘Gis me fucking ball back yeh smelly old cunt.’

Mrs Willis was indeed old, but smelly, she most definitely was not. She kept her little terraced house clean and tidy and lived in abject fear of the two young thugs who lived next door.

The jury are never allowed to know the previous convictions of defendants as it is considered extremely prejudicial to a defendant’s right to a fair trial. Johnson’s barrister knew it would serve no useful purpose to question the guard and equally dismissive with his gesturing hand, said to the Judge, ‘I have no questions for this witness M’lud.’

The Judge turned to the guard.
‘Thank you Mr D for the evidence you have given to this court today. You are dismissed, and I hope that your wounds quickly heal and you regain full use of you’re hand. You have been most honest and forthright in your testimony. I understand that you remain employed by your company in an administration capacity and it is to be hoped that you are never subjected to such violence again. Thank you once more.’

As the guard left the witness box, a woman juror sitting nearest to the witness looked across at Johnson in the dock. He was handcuffed and another chain was around his waist securing him to a rail. Two prison guards stood either side of him. Another stood behind him to restrain him if required.
He saw the juror looking at him. He smiled at her and raised both his arms and made a sawing motion, simulating him cutting off one of his own wrists. At this gesture, the young woman fainted and had to be led from the courtroom whereupon the Judge declared a short recess in order that she may be allowed to compose herself and continue once more.

Fifteen years was certainly not enough jail time for the evil sub human that smiled and blew kisses to the jury as sentence was passed. They all knew that with parole and other matters taken into consideration he would serve no more than eight or nine years.

Fortunately the security guard was able to make a reasonable recovery as surgeons managed to re-attach the severed hand thanks to a quick thinking checkout assistant who rushed to the blood splattered scene with several bags of ice from the Supermarket freezer department. He would only ever have limited use of his hand and he would never recover the use of his little finger or ring finger as they were in a permanently straightened position as a result of tendon damage

Into first gear. The wagon lurched forward.
‘Fuck me,’ said Dave. ‘He’ll kill us all driving like that. Mind if I put my seatbelt on?’

‘
Very slowly, pull it over with your right hand.’

As
he reached for the belt, his mind was racing. Stupid thoughts of another film from the dim and distant past, today is not a good day to die. What day is ever a good day to die thought Dave?

The wagon bounced over a particularly deep pothole in the road and Dave bounced out of his seat slightly.
Johnson looked away from Dave and
politely
asked Joe to be more careful as he drove!

Dave managed to slip his right hand under his uniform tunic and moved one of the switches on the radio concealed under his clothing. He was grateful of the early Season. Still fairly cold on the docks at this time of the year, especially on Nights.
He was still wearing his bulky winter short coat whereupon the radio was carried inside the left chest area of the jacket. The new radio system, which had only been up and running for a few months was a huge improvement over the old one. Not only was it much more powerful in the distances it could transmit and receive, it was a lot smaller and lighter, and more important today than any other day, had a number of features that old gear didn’t have.

The switch he had operated was the open microphone facility. He wouldn’t be able to r
eceive any messages of which he was extremely thankful. The last thing he wanted was for his abductor to know about the radio. All he could hope for now was that others might become aware of his predicament.

Just before 0700 hours and the Port Police control room was its usual noisy banter and mayhem of the night shift about to go off as the early shift came on duty.

Sergeant Chambers had just come on as the early turn supervisor. The Section Sergeants always came on duty a bit earlier than their constables so that they could sort out any briefings or information required prior to the lads and lasses coming on. They would quickly scan the incidents of the previous 24 hours and be in a position to allocate any jobs or enquiries that would need to be carried out during their tour of duty for that day.

The Night duty Sergeant had appraised him with,
‘All quiet Bob, see you tomorrow morning.’

‘
Right.’ said Bob, as he walked into the control room for his first cup of tea of the day. All jobs and offices have their little routines and idiosyncrasies and Bob’s first and foremost action was to make that first cup of tea in the morning. He knew he couldn’t function properly until he was sat there with that steaming mug in front of him reading the 24 hour log.

‘
Now then Stevie, which of our lovely lads and lasses; those sweet little cherubs of ours has rang in this morning saying they’re going to be late because they’ve had a puncture, got stuck in traffic, alarm clock didn’t go off, or they’ve been up all night with the shits and vomiting then?’

Steve smiled and busied himself as usual. ‘Everyone’s here boss, except Tony Collins. He hasn’t phoned in from Birkenhead yet to book himself on duty. I’ll give the night lads a bell over there in a few minutes if I haven’t heard anything.’

Steve Mullins was the early turn control room officer and was issuing radios and car keys to the Morning duty Bobbies when the telephone rang.

Sergeant Chambers slid into the hot seat and answered the ‘phone in his usual cheery early morning manner as the display indicated the call was from one of the gate houses. As he knew the call was from one of his officers and not a general call from the public, he answered in the usual way.

‘
Morning bollocks, what can I do for you at this unearthly hour?’

‘
Mornin Boss, PC Edwards here. I’ve just got to Bramley Moore gate. Dave Watkins helmet is in the hut boss, but there’s no sign of him. It’s like the bleedin Marie Celeste here; the fires on and the radio’s playin but he aint here. I’ve checked the bog as well sarge but nothing. I know he hasn’t pissed off home early boss because his car’s still here and his civvie coat is hanging on the peg behind the door.’

As Bob Chambers was listening to Mick Edwards, he was aware of something unusual coming through over the radio system and instinctively, although he hadn’t registered what was being transmitted, he knew it was something untoward as his stomach churned. Today was definitely not going to be just another day.

‘Quiet, everybody. Quiet.  Now’.

Instantly, all the officers in the control room who seconds earlier had been receiving their patrol vehicle keys and radio’s; discussing last night’s football results and latest conquests, real or imagined, knew their jovial Sergeant wasn’t messing about. There was instant hush.

‘Mick, I’ll phone you back, there’s something going on here. Steve, turn the radio up.

Steve Mullins increased the volume and listened intently.
Nothing.

Two or three minutes went by with just some unidentified noises and static. A
car horn in the distance maybe? an engine revving? He couldn’t make it out.

Suddenly, the recognisable voice of Dave ‘the satisfied diner’ Watkins voice came over the air.

Dave had been affectionately known by this nickname for a few years ever since he had been invited to a night out and was unable to go at short notice due to some domestic crisis or other and had said, ‘Sorry, lads I can’t make it, I’ve got a lot on me plate at the moment.’

He was met with the retort,
‘Yer wha? got enough on yer fuckin plate ave yer. Who d’ya think you are then. The fuckin satisfied diner?’

Liverpool humour being what it is, particularly that relating to the docks, ensured that he would be
forever known as the satisfied diner.

Sergeant Chambers listened intently and the room was hushed. When the words were spoken, he was surprised at how clear and calm the voice was.

‘
How long then?’

‘
How long what?’ Nobody recognised the second voice.

‘
How long you gonna keep that sawn off shoved into me ribs?’

‘
Until I decide whether or not I’m gonna rearrange your insides now, shut the fuck up.’

‘
OK, I’m just a bit worried about Joe, our driver. You can see he’s sweatin like a pig. I don’t fancy him smashing into the overhead gantry here at Switch Island that’s all.’

The six or seven officers in the control room either looked at the radio base unit on the desk, or at each other in silence, nobody spoke as they were all dumbfounded by the words emanating from the speaker.

Bob chambers laughed nervously and thumped the desk with his huge fist.

‘
Good lad Dave, fuckin good job son.’ he said to no one in particular.

He turned to the other officers in the control room and to the controller, Steve Mullins
, he said, ‘He’s trying to let us know as much as possible where he is and what’s happening.

‘
Start the Log Steve. Make sure you write down everything you hear, everything. Sounds; noises of any kind, any words spoken by anyone at all. He’s in deep shit by the looks of it boys and we need to give him a fighting chance by being on the ball. John, give him a hand with the phones and you Griff, go and speak to Inspector James and bring him up to speed. Go on lad, quick as you can.’

Sometimes the lads were chided by management for not doing this, or complaining about that but, one thing Bob Chambers knew for an absolute certainty was, when the mucky stuff hit the fan, they all pulled their weight and worked hard together without complaint.
He knew that none of his lads would complain today regarding working hard or long hours.

‘
Hang on in there Dave; we’re gonna give you as much help as we can mate,’ as he reached across to the array of telephones and monitors close by.

‘
I need to speak to your Force Incident Manager, Priority One. Armed robber and hostage’s situation.’

The direct phone line from the police control room on the docks to the Merseyside Police Control Room had been a vital means of communication between the two forces for many years but never had it been more important than now.

‘FIM Inspector Jarvis here. Who am I speaking to please?’

‘
Hello Larry, Bob Chambers here. One of my lads has been taken hostage at gun point and is in a lorry somewhere near to the Switch Island Junction at Netherton.’

There was a moments silence on the other end of the ‘phone.

‘Fuck you Bob. That’s not funny. No more of your poncy jokes. Last time you tried to fuck me over, I nearly had the force chopper taking off looking for Mr G. Raff. Remember him? One of the park rangers; supposed to have collapsed inside the Lion enclosure at Knowsley Safari Park; diabetic coma or some such shit. Remember that one do you Bob?  Now, piss off. I’m too busy for playing games today.’

Bob and Larry had been mates for many years and, as bobbies do, sometimes to while away the long hours, more often than not to lighten the atmosphere following traumatic incidents, they often
took the piss out of each other; see who could do the best joke on each other. As soon as Bob Chambers began to speak again, Larry Jarvis knew this was no wind up.

‘
Larry, on my little girl’s life, this is a live incident that kicked off at one of our gates. It doesn’t get much more serious than this mate. As we speak, Dave Watkins has a sawn off shotgun pressed into his ribs. Somehow, he’s managed to get his radio onto an open microphone and he’s trying to tell us where he is. I don’t know how long he will be able to keep up any kind of a commentary. If the shooter becomes aware he’s transmitting, he will be in the shit big time; he might take him out then and there’

Again, there was a moments silence and Larry Jarvis spoke again.

‘We’re on it Bob. He’s a good lad mate. Keep this line open and connected while I get the chopper up in the air and mobilise the firearms teams.’

A few moments later, Inspector Jarvis was back on the ‘phone and Bob was doing his best to update him with the facts as known so far.

The telephone rang. ‘Sarge, its Mick Edwards at Bramley Gate.’

‘
Mick, I can’t talk at the moment. As you probably know by now, Dave Watkins is involved in a serious incident.’

‘
Yeah, I know Sarge, got the info from the lads that somethin’s on the go but, I’ve just been having a good look around both in the hut and outside, there was a gate pass for a wagon lying in the road. It’s a bit damp, but it’s got today’s date on and you can still make out the registration and box numbers.’

‘
Is that bothering you bollocks?’ The radio crackled into life.

‘
Well, you could ease off a bit, me right ribs gone numb.’

‘
Good. Fuck me about, and this might go off. Not pretty mate. Do we understand each other?’

Both control rooms were listening intently for any information as to directions or numbers involved and whilst the Port control room could do nothing but sit and wait, things were moving rapidly in the Merseyside Police incident room.

‘Steady on Joe, he won’t need to shoot me; your driving will kill the three of us if you’re not careful. How about a cuppa at Burtonwood. Relax us all a bit eh?’

‘
Keep it going Davey, you’re doing a brilliant job’ said Bob Chambers to himself. He’d never been a particularly religious man but he found himself praying silently. ‘If we can get you out of this one, I’ll make sure you’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll buy you the biggest fucking curry you’ve ever had son now just keep doing what you’re doing.’

‘
You probably got that Larry, it sounds like there is just the three of them in the wagon and they are heading towards’...,

The door to the control room opened suddenly.
Inspector James entered. The legend in his own mind. ‘MIKE’, -Me I Know Everything- James.

Give him a project,
paper exercise or any other non operational shit to contend with and he was brilliant, full of facts and trivia but, when it came to important issues such as backing up his men and being there at the sharp end and getting your hands dirty, he was about as much use as a chocolate teapot.

‘
Right Sergeant, Sit Rep.’ He’d obviously been watching a war movie or something the night before.

‘
Sit Rep, sir?’ replied Bob.

‘Come come Sergeant, situation report;
tell me what’s happening and what’s being done. If what young Griffiths here tells me is correct, time is of the essence.’

Sergeant Chambers went through the details as best he could while
Mike
read the incident log.

‘
Is that right Sergeant?’

‘
What’s that sir?’ said Bob, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

‘
Here, on the Log. PC Watkins helmet. It was found in the gate house. Is that correct?’

‘
Yes sir. On the shelf sir, behind the door.’

‘
I knew it, I just knew it. What’s the matter with these bloody officers? How many times do I have to tell them? When outside the gate house, put your bloody helmet on. It’s not that difficult to understand is it?

Scruffy, Sergeant. That’s what it is, scruffy. Improperly dressed in public. Standards Sergeant, that’s what we need to impress upon these officers under our direction and control.
Standards. When you wear the uniform Sergeant; well, your very much under scrutiny from the public; if you don’t have proper standards, you have nothing. Don’t you agree Sergeant?’

‘
Yes sir.’ said Bob wearily. ‘Sir, given the circumstances that PC Watkins is in at the moment, I don’t think he will be particularly bothered that you consider him to have been improperly dressed at the immediate moment that he was abducted.’

‘
That’s as maybe Sergeant. However, have him come and see me when this incident is over with. I think he needs a bit of a talking to. I think I need to impress upon him the finer points of being a British Police officer. Envy of the World, that sort of thing. Not forgetting also, your role in these matters. You have to keep on at these young officers. Instil upon them the proper values. Wouldn’t do for you to shirk your responsibilities regarding discipline.  Don’t you agree Sergeant?’

Bob’s simmering hostility towards his useless, uncaring, incompetent
twat of an excuse for a leader began bubbling to the surface. He had worked with this prick for long enough and after nearly thirty years in the force; he decided he didn’t care any more what would happen to him ‘when this incident is over with.’ He’d finally had enough of tossers like James.