by Gus Ross
....“Did they see you?”
.... “Do you think they will come looking for you?”
....“I wouldn’t feel safe if I were you.”
....“Did the police offer you protection?”
“…blah, blah, blah…”
Yip, just the kind of thoughts I was looking for to accompany a long drive home, in the dark, to an empty house. Still, if I hadn’t been able to see them, the chances were they hadn’t seen me either and I had my full beam on come to think of it. Yes, why didn’t I think of that? Back road – full beam! There was no way they would have been able to make me out in the dark with the old full beam blazing down on them.
Whew…
Still I was not quite sure if I really believed what I was telling myself.
Anyway by tonight it would be all over the local news and then tomorrow’s headlines in the daily rag. Whoever was involved would be lying low, or high tailing it out of Dodge, and would have no time to be trying to seek me out.
I would play over those thoughts as I drove home, sometimes convincing myself and other times not. But each time a large dark van came up behind me, or overtook, I could feel my breath forcing itself back into my throat and my body straighten and tense, as if I was about to plough headlong into some fast approaching object.
By the time I was home a stiff whisky was in order.
The sound of a cork releasing itself from a good bottle of malt has got to be up there in the list of life’s great pleasures, closely followed by that satisfied sigh that always follows the first mouthful. I was on my second glass before I had even taken my jacket off.
I slumped back into my favourite tub chair; all distressed leather and thick stitching, ‘a chair for blokes’ as my wife liked to call it, but damned comfy, and plonked my shoes up on the table in front of me, half expecting to be told off as I did it. But of course the house was empty. The television flicked itself into life courtesy of my thumb on the remote, and I spent the next half an hour channel hopping in the hope of finding the big news story of the day about the dead body plucked from the River Churn.
Nothing.
Not a peep.
Not even on the local 10.30 bulletin, by which time I had completely forgotten about eating, completely forgotten to call the wife, and had drank perhaps a little too much malt to be conducive to a night’s sleep without heartburn. I always was a bit of a lightweight when it came to the hard stuff.
And still no news of the dead body!
I finally decided that phoning ‘Aunty Beeb’ and berating whomever answered the phone for missing the story of the day was probably not the best use of the remaining hour before bed, and instead gave my wife a quick call on the mobile.
To be honest I had no idea what hotel she was staying at, and, come to think of it, could probably only guess at which city she was in; so when her mobile rang out I assumed she was either in bed, or still at the bar, or whatever, and gave up. Not as if my story had much credence now, given that there was nothing on the news to back it up. I went to bed.
The alarm went off at its usual time of 6.10 am to which my already developing headache / hangover was, to some degree, grateful; at least I would now have a chance to quell it before it really took hold.
I always set the alarm to Radio One as I hated almost all of the nonsense they churned out and there would therefore be no way I could lie and listen to that drivel. When you factored in the overweight, self-righteous host that presented the show, and who really should have taken the honourable way out and gone down with that pirate radio ship he used to work on (Caroline, or whatever it was called), then I’m sure you start to get the picture.
The thought that the previous day’s problems had only occurred because I could not sleep and was therefore out of my snoozelbag and on the road to work earlier than normal (and that was without the wife constantly kicking me, or ‘gently’ trying to roll me over to stop the snoring, which of course I did not do!), really irked.
And now I was fighting to avoid a shitty hangover as a result of everything. I was really beginning to hope they would find the perpetrators and hang them from the nearest motorway flyover.
“Ouch!” My head really was starting to hurt, but nothing a couple of quick ‘ibu’s’ and a glass of orange juice couldn’t fix. I had slept pretty well considering, although there was one particular nightmare concoction of the previous day’s events that had me being chased through a forest by some faceless creatures, driving what I swear looked like a cross between that psychedelic van they had in Scooby Doo and one of those mad Transformer type thingamabobs. Can’t remember if it was scary or just plain weird, but it forced me to waking before I drifted off again.
The ibuprofens were already kicking in as I emerged from the steam filled en-suite like some giant lobster that had finally learned how to walk upright. I did like a hot shower, but perhaps had stayed in a little over the odds seeing as I had the place to myself. But the pills and the hot steam seemed to have done the trick and soon I was dressed in the ‘same old, same old’, and into the car without any further ado.
Off I went again.
Just another boring day in the office to look forward to.
I had decided, not surprisingly, to take the pain and stick to the A-roads this morning and that, plus the constant replay of yesterday’s events in my head, was enough to ensure that autopilot was not engaged. I was buzzed up like a man who had been slipped just a little too much speed and was not about to come down any time soon. I must have listened to at least a dozen radio stations, including some I had no idea existed, and even some that resided in the murky unsophisticated realms of the AM frequency. There were even one or two that I reckoned merited a shot on my coveted pre programmed list.
But still not a peep about a body.
Whoever was responsible for that saying about curiosity and cats was on the money, but I just couldn’t help myself. Before I knew what I was doing I was pulling up in front of the world’s ugliest police station intent on establishing exactly what kind of numbskull detective work had failed to find my body, which was now almost certainly on its way to Mexico, or to becoming shark food. (Clearly if I had understood anything about the Gulf Stream, sharks, or indeed anything maritime, I would have come up with a better destination for my corpse). But this cat was curious, so in I went, stopping only to pop two extra strong mints in my mouth; just in case last night’s liquid dinner was still lingering on my breath.
Old double ugly (I read that somewhere and try to use the expression whenever possible, even when it isn’t really appropriate, although in Pug’s case it most definitely was), was behind the desk again, only this time with a large mug of hot sweaty piss (I mean tea of course), in his hand instead of a phone.
“Mr Richards. Good morning. Come to report another body have we?”
I could tell by the look on Sarge’s face, plus the barely concealed sarcasm, that this encounter was not going to go too well.
“Well actually I came to find out what you have done with the first one?”
“The first one. Is there more than one?”
“No, well not that I know of. No, I wanted to know what happened yesterday. Did you find the body?”
“I’m afraid that is police business Mr Richards.” Old Pug’s face told me he was enjoying this. “But..,” he continued, “off the record you understand, our investigations are…....continuing.” He smiled a not very pleasant smile, probably the sort kept for timewasters and idiots, either category I now presumably slotted into quite comfortably.
“I did see a body Sergeant Watt. I know I did, and I am sure it will be on its way to … to Mexico by now.”
“Mexico, is that right? Good swimmer this body perhaps?”
“You know what I meant,” I replied indignantly.
“Indeed. Have a good day Mr Richards.”
I wanted to say so much more, I wanted to grab the big ugly bull dog by the collar and drag him all the way to the river (unlikely
I know). I wanted him to believe me, to at least take me seriously, but instead I left with my tail between my legs. Still this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Surely the police were supposed to take these things really seriously. You know: helicopter, search parties, some of Pug’s doggy friends, a slot on Crimewatch, the Full Monty. But this guy was acting like I had just reported someone littering the street, or crossing the road without looking both ways. Maybe they get a lot of reports of bodies being thrown into the river round these parts. Goodness knows, but I was less than happy.
I went back to my car and, careful not to put the key in the ignition, gave my wife a call on the mobile. The line was dead. Silly mare must have forgotten her charger. Never mind, now I had a day of constant ribbing at work to look forward to. I could almost hear the wisecracks already. I could hardly wait.
By the end of it I was actually quite amazed about how many jokes there were that involved dead bodies going missing. Some of them were actually quite good.
Everyone a comedian.
There was certainly enough doubt being cast in my direction for me to seriously reconsider the whole sorry incident. What if there really was a bag of dead cats floating around somewhere, or maybe just a bag of rubbish being fly-tipped by some lazy lowlifes? Maybe I did get it wrong.
I was on my way back home again before I knew it (A-roads of course), but still nothing from the wife’s phone. I had tried her at least three times from the car but could not get anything. I thought about trying one last time but having to listen to that posh women’s accent on the built in voice dial again was too much for me...
...“Please say the command after beep. Please say the stored name after briefly touching the talk switch. Please reply dial. Dialling this number...”
It was like having your very own BBC newsreader in the car with you and the only way I had found to operate the voice command successfully was to reply in an equally posh English gent’s accent, as if I had been educated at Eton rather than Glasgow University. I had never thought of myself as having any kind of discernible accent, but clearly my car thought I did. Still I would sometimes giggle at the thought of a Scouser in a Lexus screaming blue murder at the voice command lady in a desperate attempt to be understood. Then again, a Scouser in a Lexus was most likely the result of some form of crime, so perhaps there was some kind of weird perverted justice in the world of Japanese car makers.
I don’t quite recall the exact moment to be honest.
There is always what I like to call the slow-motion bit; that second, or seconds, where everything slows, even the sound-waves, and you are left suspended in that seemingly blissful moment when you know what is coming, in fact you can see it right in front of you, but you just haven’t quite got there yet.
And you know you would give anything not to get there.
Anything at all.
But you also know that the rewind button just doesn’t work in real life. Press the damn thing till you’re blue in the face, kick it, punch it, swear at it, but it still doesn’t work.
And then that second is gone and everything after it speeds up.
I think it was the door when I look back, maybe it was the door. I was pretty damned sure I had locked it and my wife wasn’t due back yet. But there it was, kind of lying open in a, “just popped out to the bins” kind of way. Maybe she had come home early. But then again, on closer inspection, there were wood splinters round the frame, and that’s when things suddenly started to speed up.
I kicked at it, like someone expecting the bogeyman to come jumping out shouting boo, and instead found myself shouting.
“Hoi! Who’s in there? Hello! I have a gun!” (What the fuck made me shout that? Of course I didn’t have a gun, but if the burglar had one then he was now twice as likely to use it. Muppet!) “Hello!”
I have no idea what I was thinking; did I expect some burglar to start answering back?
“Oh hi there, just stealing all your worldly possessions. Won’t be long mate. Be a good chap and stay outside so I don’t need to clobber you with my swag bag.”
Eventually, summoning all the courage I could muster, I flipped my hand round the doorframe and flicked the switch. Amazing what a bit of light will do for your sense of adventure; suddenly the bogeyman is not quite as scary as he was in the darkness. But there was no bogeyman. I grabbed a golf brolly from the hat-stand by the door (the weapon of choice for any self-confessed secret agent), and with new found confidence swept swiftly from room to room, shouting all kinds of obscenities and warnings and waving my weapon as I went.
A lunatic with tourettes and a golf brolly – what self-respecting burglar would not run for his life?
To be fair the place was already a wreck; the additional damage I created with the brolly was pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But by the end of my crazed rampage through my own home I was a mixture of exhaustion, shock, anger, and ultimately relief that my undoubted bravery was not called into question. But oh my god, the mess, I couldn’t even begin to say what was missing.
No, strike that… the flat-screen was gone, and my guitar (the bastards took my bloody guitar!), and my iPod and … I swiped my brolly at a lamp sitting innocently on the nest of tables (not one I had much affinity for to be honest), and sent it crashing sideways into the wall, and then called my wife’s mobile. Still no answer!
Now don’t get me wrong, I love our house: detached, nice garden, mature trees, about a half mile from the nearest neighbour, all great stuff. But at times like these you kind of find yourself wishing you had bought one of those bog standard estate doo dahs…you know the ones....where every house overhangs the other and you can see into your neighbours’ kitchens/bathrooms/bedrooms etc, and watch their oversized flat-screen porn movies (if you were so inclined). Yip - you might have to share your dirty laundry with people on all sides, but at least the neighbourhood watch scheme actually does what it says on the tin!
I phoned the police.
There was clearly not much else I could do, so I sat on my trusty old tub chair, surrounded by chaos, waiting for the local plod to come and take down some details and perhaps dust a few shiny surfaces for prints, and then the doorbell rang (not that it needed to, the lock was burst and anyone could just saunter in if they so pleased). It rang again.
“Ok, just coming,” I shouted.
Local plod was far more efficient than I had expected, I had only called ten minutes ago and here they were. Must be a slow night. I opened the already open door wide and got my second surprise of the evening.
“Good evening Mr Richards.”
It was Pug and his sidekick Buckwheat, or whatever his name was.
I ushered them in. “Wasn’t expecting to see you out here, I thought my call would have gone to the local office.”
Neither Buckfield nor Pug moved from where they stood.
“What call would that be Mr Richards?” asked Buckfield, taking the lead.
“The one I made ten minutes ago. I’ve been burgled.”
Pug moved his large ugly head into the doorway. “Oh dear. Looks like you really have been burgled.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked more than a little irritated. This was the second time in a day that I had been on the receiving end of his smart assed comments and I was in no mood to put up with them.
“I am afraid I have to ask you to come with us down to the station Mr Richards,” said Buckfield.
“What? Am I under arrest? But I have just been burgled. Do you think I keep my house like this on purpose?” I opened the door as widely as possible to let them see.
“Sir, I’m afraid you need to come with us to the station.” It was Pug’s turn to reinforce their position and already his ugly mug was showing signs that his patience was thinning.
“But why? What about this mess? Who’s going to watch the house? It’s not as if I can just lock the door, can I?” I said, pointing to the space in the door frame where the lock used to reside. “And an
yway, why do I need to come down to the station? Am I under arrest?” I repeated my still unanswered question.
“Sir, if you don’t mind.” Pug’s hand was now moving towards my shoulder in an ushering motion and I knew that I was fast running out of options. “I will get one of my officers to come and secure things here.”
It didn’t sound quite right, didn’t feel quite right, not that I would have known proper police protocol any more than how a dead body might float its way from the River Churn all the way down to Mexico. Still, I had only been asked to accompany them down to the station, it was not as if I was under arrest, was it? I wasn’t even sure of that anymore.
Soon I was bundled unceremoniously into the back of the police car and off we went. It was only a forty minute ride, but it seemed like a lot more, probably something to do with the chuckle brothers up front and their distinct lack of conversation. At least they hadn’t handcuffed me I thought to myself in that sort of un-thought-out sort of way that my mind was prone to. Why would they? After all, it was not as if I was a serial killer. I then found part of me wishing they had handcuffed me, at least then they would be taking me seriously, my mind was off and running again into its own little fantasy land of adventure.
Helps pass the time you know.
Before I had the opportunity to finish my dramatic mental escape from the moving vehicle (having skilfully managed to slip my cuffs), and then disappear into the night without trace, the car pulled up in front of my favourite cop shop.
Back to reality.
Hand on head and out into the bitingly cold night air and then up the three steps and before you know it I am back in the delightful little interview room, sitting on the world’s least comfy chair. No offer of tea this time though (a blessing).