Horse's Arse

by Charlie Owen

  If the Hoop and Grapes public house had had a piano player, he'd have stopped playing as the doors to the bar opened and the group walked in. As it was, the two men standing at the bar looked round, and a couple at a table glanced over at them. The relief manager looked up from the sink where he was washing ashtrays in preparation for closing up for the night to see who had come in. He had no idea if they were regulars - he'd only been there two weeks - but something about the newcomers made him uncomfortable. The size of the group for a start, all male apart from a sole female who seemed to be joined at the hip with one of the men who it immediately became apparent was the leader of the group. He was speaking quietly to four members of his gang, two of whom left and went out into the car park, the others going to either end of the single bar and then into the gents before returning to the leader and whispering into his ear. This strange behaviour attracted the full attention of the four other customers and the relief manager. Almost as one, the four drinkers got up and made for the door, nervously passing through the group still clustered around the entrance. Nothing was said. As the door shut behind them, with a leaden feeling in his stomach the relief manager saw a chair being wedged under the handle. He knew he was in trouble, but with past experience of griefy pubs he was able to recognise the fact and do something about it. Quickly, he went to the storeroom at the back of the bar where the only phone was and dialled 999. Speaking as quietly as he could into a cupped hand, he asked for police attendance as he believed trouble was imminent. Then he went back into the bar. How right he was. All fifteen of the strangers now stood there, smirking.

  'What can I get you?' he asked genially.

  'Lagers all round, you wanker,' said the apparent leader to raucous laughter, 'and get a fucking move on. We're thirsty.'

  'Lagers it is then,' he replied as jauntily as he could through gritted teeth, his heart thumping, praying the Old Bill wouldn't hang about. He reached up to get a glass from the shelf above and began to pull the first pint, avoiding eye contact with the group who were staring quietly at him.

  'You're too fucking slow. Couple of my lads'll give you a hand,' said the grinning leader. He nodded at two of his gang, who vaulted the bar and grabbed pint glasses from the draining board.

  'Hey, hey, hold on,' shouted the manager, stopping his pouring. 'Get the fuck out of here, all of you.' He moved towards the nearer of the two intruders and grabbed the grinning thug by the arm. 'Come on, get out, get out, now.' The response was an elbow driven into his face and he went down, blood gushing from a split lip. That was the signal for the rest of the group to swarm over the bar like marauding pirates and begin to loot everything they could lay their hands on. The contents of the till quickly vanished into various pockets, as did the cigarettes from the cabinet on the back wall. Bottles of drink were taken from the cool shelves and drunk straight down before being thrown out into the bar area and smashed against walls. The stunned manager struggled to his knees as the maelstrom ebbed and crashed around him and shouted again, 'Fuck off, you bastards. I've called the police.' This prompted one of the rampaging gang to pull a vodka bottle out of its optic and smash it over the manager's head. He slumped back down and was battered completely senseless as the gang put the boot in, hoofing him around the floor of the bar like a football. His head was flicked from side to side as the kicks rained in, blood spraying around in a mist like an ever-open aerosol can. Suddenly the leader called for quiet, as he became aware of a loud banging on the front window. Looking over he saw the pale faces of the two young gang members he had sent out into the car park as lookouts. They looked worried and were gesticulating wildly for him to come to the door. He walked over, kicked away the restraining chair, opened the door and stepped out into the porch where the two lookouts waited.

  'Old Bill,' he said grimly as he heard the approaching sirens. 'Time to go. You two fuck off quickly. I'll be in touch.' He hurried back into the pub and headed for the cabinet to finish stuffing packets of cigarettes into his jacket pockets, followed closely by the female gang member. As he passed the unconscious manager he kicked his head contemptuously and smiled. The thug who had felled the manager with the vodka bottle was standing alongside his prostrate body still holding the broken neck of the bottle. He grinned at his leader's gesture of contempt and then quickly crouched down and stabbed the jagged edge into the back of the manager's head. He looked up at his leader for a sign of approval, only to be disappointed to see complete indifference at his act of deference. Shrugging, and throwing the bloodied bottle neck to one side, he too began to beat a hasty retreat.

  The gang had waited too long. As the leader returned to the front door and peered out into the darkened car park, a police car and van careered to a halt outside.

  'Fuck it, out of the toilet windows,' he shouted and led the charge away from the door. At the toilet door a panicked bottleneck ensued, while the front doors to the pub crashed open and two extremely large policemen carrying truncheons burst in and quickly appraised the scene of devastation before them. Others rushed in behind them, and then the whole group noticed the trapped gang and charged at them in their bottleneck. Some of the gang, including the leader and the girl, made it through the small window in the toilet, but for the remaining eight only a fearful beating at the hands of the police remained an option. They knew it, and once escape was no longer viable they turned to fight like cornered rats. They were no match for the superior numbers ranged against them, all of whom had had a good drink too, and were soon hammered into submission and arrested. Some rudimentary first aid saved the relief manager's life and he was eventually removed to the intensive care unit at the local hospital with severe head injuries. One of the more sober police officers was despatched with him on a deathwatch.

  The eight prisoners were dragged to police vehicles where further summary justice was administered before they were taken to the police station for processing. The dice had been rolled and the game was on.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  Six a.m. the following morning. A freezing cold January morning. It was still dark and pissing down. The Night Turn had been busy: the cells were full and the atmosphere in the nick matched the weather.

  'D' Relief had arrived in silent dribs and drabs with the air of condemned men. Wordlessly they had changed into uniform and now sat in the muster room waiting to hear what the coming day held for them. No one spoke.

  It was the first day at Handstead for one of 'D' Relief's sergeants, Mick Jones, recently arrived after a spot of bother with the wife of a fellow officer at an outlying rural nick. He was terrified and it showed. He had stood nervously, shifting from foot to foot behind a lectern as the Early Turn officers had silently filed in and taken their seats. He was sure that one large, unshaven, dark-haired officer with bloodshot eyes had passed him, turned slowly to look at him and revealed a set of vampire's teeth - he may even have hissed at him - but it could have been a trick of the light. He hadn't slept for days before coming to Handstead. Colleagues at his previous nick had tried to console him when news of his enforced move had come through, but, as one by one they'd crossed themselves and promised to light a candle for him, he knew he was doomed. Not only was he now at Horse's Arse, but he was on 'D' Relief. Rumour had it that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse had declined moves to 'D' Relief.

  Pop-eyed, he looked at his audience and they glared back at him.

  'Morning, everyone,' he said. He actually squeaked, his throat was so dry, so he coughed loudly and tried again.

  'Morning. I'm Sergeant Mick Jones. Spot of bother at Alpha Sierra, so here I am.' He laughed nervously, and on his own. In reply the vampire sitting in the front row leant to one side, removed his teeth and farted loudly.

  'Jesus Christ,' Jones said quietly to himself and looked desperately to the door where Inspector Greaves, 'D' Relief's 'leader', stood looking out of the window. He was off with the fairies and Jones was on his own. Greaves was wearing a pair of carpet slippers, which he had walke
d to work in, and he now stood in an ever-increasing puddle. He was unshaven and saw nothing as he stared out of the window. Eighteen months at Handstead on 'D' Relief had broken him.

  The vampire, 28-year-old Sean 'Psycho' Pearce; turned to the officer next to him and said in a stage whisper, 'Who's this knob?' Jones heard him and shrank further into himself. He forced himself to look at the officers ranged in front of him and quickly wished he hadn't. They continued to glare at him.

  Sitting at the back were the Grim Brothers, who would not have looked out of place in the front seat of a hearse. Indeed, neither would have looked odd in the coffin in the back. They crewed the area car, call sign Bravo Two Yankee One, and were a cold, brooding pair with a reputation for violence that kept them apart from the rest of the group. They worked and drank together, kept watch for each other, and according to Psycho Sean had probably been separated at their birth to a Rampton inmate. Jim Docherty was a dour, pale-faced Geordie in his early thirties with breath that could strip wallpaper. He loved his job, which he saw as a very simple one. Arrest villains, fit them up if necessary, kick the shit out of them - job well done. His partner in crime, Henry Walsh, took a similar line and between them they had established a reputation in the town as a pair of unscrupulous hard bastards. The locals hated them, and whilst their colleagues regarded them warily, their arrival at a pub fight was always as welcome as the appearance of the Seventh Cavalry. Unfortunately, their arrival at non-violent situations had a habit of shortly preceding a fistfight. Henry, known simply as H, had joined the Force straight from school and could never be described as the stereotypical copper. School had been a prep school in Kent followed by a minor public school in Devon, which he had left with a rudimentary education, a raging thirst and a desire to experience life outside a secluded valley. The son of a naval officer who had served around the world, Henry had been at boarding school from the age of eight, rarely seeing his parents or younger brothers. He was fiercely independent and emotionally retarded, but soon found the job he had been born to do. He revelled in the macho world of the police and discovered that being born with fists like granite gave him a distinct advantage. He was also marked out from the rest by his less hirsute approach to personal grooming. Whilst his colleagues, including Jim, favoured a collar-length, over-the-ears style with full sideburns, H preferred his blond hair cut in a tight flat top — a style achieved in a local knife and fork establishment to the accompaniment of 'Something for the weekend, sir?'. He enjoyed the comparisons, often made, to a German Panzer tank commander.

  The Grim Brothers had made Bravo Two Yankee One theirs and no supervisor had ever been inclined to separate them. Many took the view that with them working together at least trouble was confined to one job at a time. Now the pair looked at Jones and then at each other.

  'Complete twat,' said Jim and H nodded in agreement. They always agreed.

  The officer to whom Psycho Sean had offered his opinion of Jones was Dave 'Bovril' Baines. Bovril had gained his unusual nickname after a drunken coupling with a nurse at the local hospital. After several hours of frenzied activity the unfortunate woman's nether regions had become dry, and in an attempt to avoid serious injury she had asked Baines to use some lubricating jelly from a jar on a shelf above her bed. He had grabbed a jar, smeared a huge handful of its contents into her crutch and got stuck in again. Her screams had chilled his blood, as had the horrendous brown stains on both their bodies and the bedding. The discarded Bovril jar on the floor calmed him somewhat before he beat a hasty retreat leaving her dousing herself at the sink. He had related the tale to the rest of the group later and was quickly saddled with a nickname that would stay with him for the rest of his life. Even his mother now referred to him as Bovril, but innocently assumed that it was as a result of his childhood addiction to the stuff.

  Bovril didn't respond to Psycho's observation, but privately agreed with him. A formidable shagger, he drew the line at going after colleagues' partners, but had a rendezvous planned for that morning with the girlfriend of a greengrocer who left for work shortly after 6.30 a.m. As soon as this pointless muster was over he would be on his way. He worked as hard as he had to, but he really had only one interest in life: sex, and lots of it. A previous supervisor had once memorably remarked that it was a shame he was such a lazy bastard. If he'd been able to get up in time he'd have shagged the crack of dawn. Even at this ungodly hour Bovril was thinking about sex. He cast a glance behind him at Amanda Wheeler, known as the Blood Blister, 'D' Relief's only WPC, briefly considered having a crack at her later, thought better of it and went back to sleep.

  Amanda Wheeler had seen Bovril leering at her and wondered if her hour had come. Every fibre of her fifteen-stone body yearned for him. The red, bloated face that had earned her the nickname - often shortened to just the Blister - glowed more than usual as she lusted after him. She'd previously made him an offer at a party he all too easily refused.

  'I'll need a couple more gallons and a lobotomy,' Bovril had gallantly told her. Despite the rebuff, the Blister was still very much in love with him. A veteran of the old Womens' Police Department that had dealt with female prisoners and juveniles between office hours, the Blister found her new role an onerous one. She was vehemently opposed to the Equal Opportunities gurus who had got her into this mess and longed to turn the clock back to when she was the secret other half of a detective inspector who kept her on her back and in the dry. Now the Blister sighed deeply and took another long drag on her cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into her ruined lungs.

  She blew the smoke vacantly at the neck of the officer sitting in front of her. He had a large spot forming in his hairline and was rubbing it with his fingers. Alan 'Pizza Face' Petty was covered in spots and one more would make no difference to the stick he got on a regular basis. Each new arrival on his body was a fresh worry for him to pick and scratch at. With only three months in the job he was the butt of every practical joke and was little more than an errand and tea boy. He'd not been allowed out in the cars yet and spent his days wandering aimlessly around the depressing pedestrianised town centre taking regular calls to deal with shoplifters at the only supermarket. The other officers in the group generally ignored him. Recently turned nineteen he was no match for them and could feel himself unravelling.

  He lived in horrendous lodgings in the town with an old puff adder of a landlady. She was unprepared for a lodger who worked shifts and the only meals she served were breakfast, lunch and dinner. Too bad if he was working nights. He'd considered moving into the local YMCA hostel, but H had convinced him he'd be raped by the legions of homosexuals that inhabited the place. He'd lost a stone in weight since joining and his physical and mental deterioration was becoming a real worry to his doting parents. When he'd gone home for a weekend, haggard and hungover following a 'D' Relief invasion of Calais, his reaction of 'What the fuck is that?' to the lovingly prepared Sunday lunch had his mother in an apoplectic fit. Only his heart-rending apologies had persuaded his father not to phone the station to complain about his son's rapid descent into moral hell. He sat there totally alone amongst the group.

  Next to him was Ray 'Piggy' Malone, so called because of his uncanny resemblance to a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig. He crewed one of the beat vehicles with whoever happened to be spare. Piggy had the gait of primitive man and with his ever- open mouth and a forehead that protruded far enough to keep his feet dry had convinced his colleagues that he was the missing link. He spent large periods of the year off sick with a bewildering array of illnesses and injuries, all of which he managed to obtain doctors' certificates for. Never one to miss an opportunity, he had plunged down flights of stairs in sudden power cuts, slipped on wet floors and been deeply affected by the carnage at road accidents. He had let it be known that he had instructed his wife to arrange for him to be deposited in the back yard of the nick in the event of his passing away at home. This would ensure that his demise would be recorded as happening on duty, thus ensuring a huge payout
. The fact that he personally wouldn't benefit had apparently not occurred to him — but then he was extremely thick.

  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.