by Paul Jones
Geoff sat back with a note of caution. ‘Yeah but they’d soon start flying if he began to throw that hip of his.’
Tom sneered. ‘To look at him you’d think he’d get beaten up by a gang of field mice.’
Geoff raised a brow. “Once, in our youth when he wasn’t throwing petrol bombs, he was throwing six foot four guys out of the Boulevards.’
Everyone found this difficult to believe.
‘Oh yes, once this nipple-head, another bouncer at a club in Rhyl, was on a night out showing off to his girlfriend and all the other bouncers that he was the top dog. So what does he do? He picks on the smallest guy in the place and accuses him of spilling his drink. Even though Guy was nowhere near him, he still apologised and offered to buy him another. But that wouldn’t satisfy this chap’s ego, and he expected Guy to crawl on his hands and knees like a dog.’
‘Cheeky bastard,’ Tom huffed, checking that none of the women had heard his language.
‘Anyhow, Guy tried to walk off and the chap grabbed him by the collar. Next thing this sixteen stone tower of a man was wind-milled over and crashed into the table full of drinks. What a sight! And there was little Guy standing over him.’
‘So what happened then?’ Brad asked.
‘Well, he didn’t stay around waiting for him to get back up, he was off, job done.’
Phil the copper then arrived with a fresh tray of drinks, and everyone welcomed the sight of more Christmas cheer. Later Geoff collared Phil for a quiet word and asked about the possibility of acquiring some stab-proof vests for the team. Phil blew hard at the request, but said he would try his best.
Towards the latter part of the evening, most of Geoff’s party were becoming a little worse for wear. By now everybody had on their beer goggles, and there were the usual teary sniffles from some of the women, (namely Phil’s wife) who had drank just a bit too much vodka and orange. Now they were down to their last round of drinks.
Standing by the entrance to the toilet, Brad was chatting up a cute-looking brunette in a stripy jacket, and a short denim skirt. From their balcony table, Geoff and Guy smiled admiringly. ‘Fair play to him, nice to see him making the effort.’
Guy thumbed his glasses back up. ‘Yeah, especially after he caught his fiancée cheating on him a couple of years ago.’
‘Shit, what did he do?’ Geoff asked.
‘He jumped straight on the chap she was with, but unbeknownst to him, he turned out to be a judo brown belt.’
‘Did he get beaten?’
‘No, no, he managed to survive, just. But for a while he said he was getting tied up in knots. That’s why he came to my dojo and started learning the art.’
Listening to this, Charlie, bleary-eyed, joined in on the conversation.
‘I was thinking of starting judo classes once,’ he slurred.
‘I didn’t know that?’ Guy replied.
‘Yeah, me old man, used to do a bit in his youth, before he hit the bottle that is. And he started to, you know, teach me a bit.’
Guy nodded, interested. ‘So did your father pick it back up later on in his life?’
Charlie’s glazed eyes dropped to the beer-spilt table. ‘Naw, the drinking saw that he never got the chance again, boom, boom.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ Guy said flashing Geoff an uneasy glance.
Finally the Christmas night out began to draw to a close, and couple by couple they started to depart. With only a handful left, and with their taxi waiting outside, it was Geoff and Jan’s turn to bid everyone good night. Tom, still tanked up, but coherent enough, stood up and gave Geoff an almighty bear hug. Geoff strained in his tight embrace, and waved to everyone else before lumbering out of the King’s Head clutching his wife’s hand. Feeling fuzzy-headed himself, but not completely cabbaged like some of his chums inside, he flopped in the back seat of the taxi with Jan. The taxi was warm and cosy, and had a sobering scent of tobacco about it. As they pulled off, Jan leant her weary head on her husband’s shoulder.
What a night, Geoff said to himself, not only did everyone thoroughly enjoy themselves, but they also got to know a bit of history about one another.
First there was Brad from Brussels and the judo lesson from his cheating girl’s lover. Then there was Mike getting discharged from the marines for using someone’s head as a toilet brush. And last but not least, they had Charlie who lost his judo teaching father to the bottle. What a motley crew of neighbourhood watch avengers.
Geoff felt a silly smile grow on his face and thought that on the whole it turned out to be a cracking evening. Shame Tom’s girlfriend, Karen, didn’t show up though?
CHAPTER 18
Defiantly, she drew back her nylon curtains, wanting them to know they were being watched. Mrs Roberts was a sixty-four-year-old widow who lived alone on a housing association estate in the junction, alone that is except for her six-year-old white terrier called Tibby.
Until recently she also had a ten year old black moggy called Thomas, but they had caught him, and hung him to death on the branch of an old oak tree in the field nearby. Sadly, she only found about that when one of her neighbours had discovered it while out walking their dog. Unfortunately, she couldn’t prove they had murdered her cat, but she knew it was them alright.
Poor Thomas! How could anyone do such a thing to an innocent creature like that? Even though that was three months ago, she still missed Thomas terribly. Every morning, the sight of his empty food dish waiting under the kitchen table would break her heart.
Now all she had was Tibby, and if anything should happen to him as well, then that would be it. They might as well do her a favour and put her out of her misery too.
Just how much longer was this torture going to continue? How much more did they think she could take? Hadn’t she suffered enough already? All she did was report one of these sink-estate yobs to the police after catching him trying to steal an expensive ornament from her back garden. Yet when the police eventually caught their suspect, just by chance they discovered that he had drugs in his possession, and that was the only reason he was charged.
Now these vengeful thugs were intent on making her pay for grassing on one of their mates. For the past six months, every Friday and Saturday night, after they had tanked up on a couple of litres of Strong-bow cider, it was straight over to Mrs Roberts for her weekly dose of torture. These youths, these feral yobs ranging from about fourteen-to seventeen years old would stand on her front lawn shouting obscenities, throwing empty cans at her window. But what would really get her goat was when they threatened her with what they were going to do to her precious dog. That’s when she showed her defiance to them, and refused to give in. So why didn’t she simply call the police? First, Mrs Roberts knew only too well the futility of calling the police. During the last six months, she had reported these pests on numerous occasions but as usual, no action could be taken until an actual offence had been committed. Number 1, by the time they got around to responding to the call, the yobs would be gone anyhow. Number 2, If the yobs knew that she had called the police, it might antagonize them to do even worse.
So why didn’t the neighbours intervene? Answer, they didn’t want to get involved for fear of retribution by the young thugs.
Mrs Roberts glared at them from her living room window. To the youths outside, she looked like an illuminated waxwork dummy. They jeered, called her a fat slag, and one of the cheeky buggers even bared his backside at her. The ring-leader of these social misfits was a seventeen-year-old lad with short bleached blond hair, who wore a single ear ring. His name was Mongoose, because his face looked pinched out in a kind of snout.
Arrogantly, Mongoose eyed her from her lawn and glugged on his bottle of cider. Mrs Roberts’s head shook with contempt, and her terrier, Tibby, yapped at her feet as if he was telling her to ignore them. As if complying to her dog’s command, she released the nap of the curtain, and went to sit back on her leather two-seater couch. Satisfied, Tibby
leapt up on her, and curled up by her side. Mrs Roberts began stroking his soft white fur more out reassurance for herself than a show of affection for her pet. In an attempt to take her mind off the ruffians, she tried to focus on the TV, but it didn’t seem to be working. Inside, her heart was still racing, and she had that awful gnawing dread in the pit of her stomach imagining what the yobs could be doing outside her home.
As time passed, her couch became a seat of brambles, and she was itching to go to the window and check on the hooligans. No I mustn’t, she told herself. Besides, should she need something for self defence, there was always the nine iron golf club that she kept behind the living room door. (one of her late husband’s clubs from his old set) Trying to relax again, she turned back to the TV in the hope of forgetting about the yobs
Crash. The racket came from the kitchen. Mrs Roberts bounded up from her couch and dived for the club behind the door. Tibby yapped in alarm, but she ignored him and tore through the hall to the kitchen, club in hand.
Throwing the door wide open, and slapping the light switch on, she discovered to her horror that Mongoose was crouched half way through her broken window above the sink. Screaming more out of fear than anger, she flew at him swinging the club wildly, first catching the ceiling light shade which smashed to the floor. Mongoose tried to scarper back out of the window like a filthy rat caught in the dustbins, but Mrs Roberts caught him with a glancing blow on the small of the back. Mongoose let out a rat-like squeal and disappeared back into the darkness.
To try and cut him off, she bolted through to the front, the fear and adrenalin affording her some manoeuvrability for her size, and age. Outside, only a few of the gang remained, yet Mongoose was nowhere to be seen. Now directing her fury at these smirking little yobs, she marched over to them wielding her club.
‘Go on sod off you bunch of evil bastards. Get away from my home,’ she cried, threatening to whack them one.
Quickly they dispersed with a new found wariness of this old woman, with a golf club.
Then it suddenly dawned on Mrs Roberts that while she was out in the front, Mongoose may have doubled back, and re-entered through the kitchen window. Gasping in panic, she dived back indoors and reached the kitchen which lay empty except for the shards of smashed glass, scattered on the window ledge. With her breathing laboured, and her heart banging in her chest, she tried to calm herself down so as not risk having a cardiac arrest.
However, the respite was short-lived when her attentions turned to her beloved dog whom she hadn’t heard yapping for a while.
‘Tibby?’ she cried, completely oblivious of Mongoose now. ‘Tibby, Tibby?’
She flew into a lather beginning to scour the entire downstairs, but there was no sign of him. She noticed the front door was wide open, and suspected that he might have got out, so she rushed out on to the lawn. Still there was no joy, but at least the yobs had gone for now, but they would be back.
‘Tibby? Tibby?’ she cried scanning the small cul-de-sac, but he was nowhere to be seen.
In her mind she began to imagine all sorts of terrible things that may have happened to her beloved pet. Perhaps they have taken him, she fretted. Just then another possibility provided her with some meagre hope, maybe Tibby had run upstairs and hidden under the bed like he did once when the man came to fix her washing machine. With that, Mrs Roberts trundled up the stairs to check, praying that Tibby’s joyful yap would put an end to her torment. Upstairs, she looked everywhere, under the bed, in the dressing cupboard, even in the bathroom, but it seemed hopeless.
Crushed, she slumped head in hands on the edge of her bed, and was just about to succumb to her overwhelming misery, when a knock sounded on her front door. Raising her head with the possibility that someone might have found him and brought him home, she raced back downstairs to find two police officers standing in her open doorway. Maybe one of the neighbours had called the police on her behalf, thank God, she thought.
The young female officer began to address her. ‘Mrs Roberts we understand you’ve had a bit of a disturbance?’
Mrs Roberts heaved a weighty sigh. ‘Yes, those bloody thugs tried to break into my home, and I think they’ve stolen my dog.’
The two officers flashed awkward glances at each other, then the male officer took over.
‘Actually, we’re here in response to a reported assault.’
Mrs Roberts looked at them confused. ‘But I haven’t reported anything yet.’
‘No, the report was made by a seventeen-year-old youth who claims that you attacked him with a golf club.’
‘Yes, that’s right, I caught him trying to break in through my kitchen window, that’s why I attacked him.’
‘Well, the report that we received was that a couple of youths were talking outside in your close, when you stormed out with a golf club, then attacked one of them, and threatened the others. We have witnesses to support this claim.’
Mrs Roberts couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Those fiends, or yobs, as I would prefer to call them, have been harassing me for the past six months. They stand outside my home drinking alcohol, throwing empty cans at my house, and use terrible foul language. Then they tried to break into my home, and that’s why I attacked one of them.’
The young female officer interjected. ‘Well, like we’ve said, the only report we’ve had is of an assault committed by you on these premises.’
Mrs Roberts’s began to lose her patience. ‘What about all of the harassment I’ve suffered over the past six months? What about the breaking and entering?’
‘Of course, if you wish to report a break-in we will investigate. But for now we have to clear up this complaint of an assault which you have already confessed to.’
Mrs Roberts glared at the two officers indignantly. ‘So you mean to tell me that this scum can get away with harassing me as much as they want, break into my house, steal my dog, and because I have to defend myself, I’m the one being charged?’
‘Like we’ve already told you, Mrs Roberts, we will look into your complaints in due course, but first we have to sort out this accusation of assault.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Mrs Roberts retorted bitterly, ‘the criminal’s rights must come first, mustn’t they? Over the last six months I have made dozens of complaints about the behaviour of these estate yobs, and what have you done about it? Nothing! Yet as soon as one of these hooligans make a complaint, you’re here like a shot.’
‘But an assault with an offensive weapon is serious, Mrs Roberts,’ the female officer retorted.
‘So is harassment, breaking and entering, and stealing a pet,’ Mrs Roberts hit back.
‘I understand, Mrs Roberts, but I’m afraid first things first, we must ask you to accompany us to the station to make a statement.’
All this had become too much for her now, and Mrs Roberts began to cry.
‘What about my poor Tibby? What have they done with him?’ she sobbed.
‘We’ll find your pet, Mrs Roberts,’ the male officer leant towards her. ‘Listen, we understand your frustration we really do. We’d like to nail these thugs just as much as you, but the problem is that they are still minors, and until we have concrete proof they have actually committed a crime I’m afraid our hands are tied.’ Then he signalled to the waiting marked Honda CR-V. ‘Please, if you will?’
What’s the point, she thought and reluctantly, she got herself ready. While she did, the officers sorted out a 24 hour glazer to board up her kitchen window until it could be repaired the next day. When all this was in hand, she locked up her home, and climbed into the back of the police car feeling like a criminal and was escorted down to the police station. Justice, thy will be done.
*
About an hour later, the police drove Mrs Roberts back home, as yet no charges had been made against her, but she was informed they would soon be in touch. Be in touch, she thought, at the moment she couldn’t care less, she was more concerned about th
e welfare of her beloved pet. And the only thing that had kept her going down at the station was the possibility that when she returned, Tibby might be waiting for her on the front door step, with his tail wagging behind him. Unfortunately though, he wasn’t.
Gloomily, she re-entered her home and tried to bring some life back into it by turning on as many lights as possible. She lumbered into the kitchen to make herself a cuppa, and saw the boarded-up window, thankfully, the smashed glass had been tidied up for her. She began filling up the kettle-jug, and as she waited for it to boil she noticed the crumpled light shade put on top of the fridge freezer. Then it suddenly dawned on her that around this time of the night, Tibby usually had his supper from the fridge, a couple of slices of honey roast ham. Mrs Roberts began to cry again, she didn’t care about the trouble with the thugs, she didn’t care about the charges of assault she could be facing, all she cared about was Tibby.
That night in bed, Mrs Roberts had never felt so alone since her husband Alf had died five years ago. And the corner of her bed where Tibby usually slept, looked so cold and empty.
Every now and again just as she was on the verge of stealing a couple of winks of sleep, she thought, she could feel Tibby’s soft warm body at the end of her bed. Once during the night, she even imagined she could hear him yapping outside the house, but when she opened the bedroom window to look down, there was nothing.
The following morning, Mrs Roberts decided that today, she was going to initiate an intense search for her pet, starting with door-to-door enquiries. She had to try at least. Upstairs, while she tidied her bed, she heard the letterbox flap shut, and supposed it was the postman delivering. But when she came back downstairs, she found a small card lying on her doormat. She bent down to pick it up, and heard the tired bones clicking in her legs. She turned over the card, it read: