Horse's Arse

by Charlie Owen

  '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.'

  'Not a chance,' responded Jim. 'I think its a dead cert we'll have him today. How about we let him run first?'

  'What, a little chase?' said H, a broad grin spreading across his face.

  '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.'

  An operator acknowledged him and Jim sat back in his seat. Yankee One moved slowly, and with an unmistakable air of menace, out into Horse's Arse.

  Back in the cell area, Sergeant Andy Collins surveyed the evidence of the Night Turn's endeavours. Fifteen prisoners lodged, most of them extremely drunk, for offences ranging from grievous bodily harm to being drunk in charge of a pedal cycle.

  Collins had been round the block a couple of times and was totally unflustered by the miscellaneous assembly before him. He was a huge man with a head of iron-grey hair, hands like hams and a cigarette permanently clamped between his lips. He dealt firmly with all his prisoners and was politeness personified until they stepped out of line. Many a lippy young pup had discovered that man could after all fly. His power of punch had earned him the accolade of 'the Anaesthetist' and he really came into his element dealing with those who considered police officers to be their social inferiors. The last to try it on had been a corpulent 60-year-old accountant, nicked by Pizza for drink driving during the last set of Nights he'd worked. Standing before Collins as the circumstances of his arrest were explained, he had begun by sneeringly telling the officer how much he earned every year.

  'How much do you earn, Cuntstable?' he slurred.

  'I'm a sergeant,' Collins had replied pleasantly, 'and you probably earn more in a month than I do in a year. Now where do you live?'

  'You can poke it up your arse, you grey-haired twat,' continued the accountant. 'I'm very good friends with some of your superiors, you retard.'

  Collins's face had begun to redden, and Pizza, recognising the danger signs, took a step back. But Collins didn't hit the man. Instead he simply took the cigarette out of his mouth and said, 'OK, let's log your property. Put everything on the table.'

  The accountant smugly emptied his pockets on to the table and stood with his arms defiantly folded.

  'All of it,' commanded Collins quietly.

  'What?'

  All of it. Strip, you fat bastard.'

  'What. . . what do you mean?' the accountant stammered, unfolding his arms as the colour drained from his face.

  'Get your clothes off, fat boy. I'm going to have a look up your hairy starfish to see what you've got hidden up there.'

  'You can't do this. I know you can't,' the man whimpered.

  'STRIP, YOU FAT CUNT,' roared Collins, getting to his feet and showing his full size. 'Do it now or I'll do it for you.'

  Slowly the accountant stripped in front of the scornful Collins and the hugely amused Pizza. As he removed his shapeless baggy underpants and stood holding his manhood like an errant schoolboy, he thought his degradation was over. But he was wrong.

  'Bend over and pull those lardy cheeks apart, fat boy. Pizza, have a gander.'

  Meekly the accountant bent over and pulled his backside apart.

  'Blister, get in here,' Collins had shouted and obediently the Blister had walked in from the front office.

  'Ever see tackle that small before?' Collins asked her, indicating the accountant who was looking in abject horror over his shoulder at the Blister, his backside still held wide open in both hands.

  'Only on a humming bird,' she replied crushingly before leaving.

  Collins really went to town on him shortly before he put him on the breathalyser machine. 'Listen,' he said in a conspiratorial whisper, looking round in case they were overheard, 'I might be able to help you beat this. My experience is that the more physical exercise you have, the lower the level of alcohol in your breath.'

  'Really?' said the fat accountant, all ears.

  'Yes. My advice would be to get some strenuous exercise in quickly.'

  'OK, OK,' replied the accountant eagerly.

  'On the floor then, fat boy, and give me fifty push-ups,' said Collins.

  'Fifty?' queried the accountant who couldn't remember when he'd ever done one.

  'At least,' replied Collins matter-of-factly.

  Wearily the accountant got to the filthy floor of his cell and fifteen minutes later looked up at Collins who was sitting on the bench picking his fingernails.

  'There,' he gasped, red-faced and perspiring heavily, 'fifty push-ups.'

  'Took your time, didn't you?' snapped Collins dismissively. 'Right, up you get and give me fifty star jumps - got to get that alcohol out of your body, lard arse.'

  Twenty minutes later the accountant collapsed in a heap, panting like a greyhound, drenched in sweat.

  'Fuck me, you'll get nowhere like this. On your back and let's have fifty sit-ups,' said Collins, pulling him over on to his back where he lay like an overturned tortoise.

  'I can't,' sobbed the accountant, 'I can't. I'm exhausted.'

  'I thought you wanted to hang on to your licence,' said Collins. 'Obviously I was wrong. Never mind. Come on then, let's get you on the machine and get it over and done with.'

  'No, no, I'll try,' moaned the accountant, desperately heaving his flabby body from the floor. He managed an extremely painful three sit-ups before he vomited. 'I can't do any more,' he cried.

  Collins allowed him to clean himself up and then hauled him to the breathalyser machine, where the exhausted accountant blew twice over the legal limit and looked in horror at Collins. 'But you said . . .' he started.

  'There you go, some you win, some you lose,' said Collins, shrugging his shoulders and then taking the accountant's arm and frog-marching him back to his cell.

  The accountant was a changed man when he left two hours later with a charge sheet and bail notice in his breast pocket. He shook hands with Collins who playfully ruffled his hair for him.

  Thanking the sergeant for his kindness, he fled the station close to tears.

  Collins was a superb judge of human nature and character and had become an expert in exploiting them. It was his greatest gift.

  He glanced again at the fifteen names in his charge that morning and thought he recognised most of them, particularly the eight nicked for the GBH on the pub landlord. They were all members of the s
o-called Park Royal Mafia, arrogant young thugs who were a constant source of trouble in and around the town. Collins picked up his phone and dialled the CID office. He'd seen the Early Turn CID officer slink in just after 6 a.m. hoping that nobody would clock him and spoil his day just yet. Early Turn CID at Handstead was the shitty end of the stick because you got to deal with most of the crap locked up overnight. And generally there was plenty of it. Collins waited patiently for several minutes until the phone was answered abruptly.

  'CID,' barked a male voice.

  'Andy Collins in Custody. Who's that, please?'

  'Oh, hi, Andy. Sorry. It's Bob Clarke. How's it going?'

  'Very much business as usual, Bob. Got a shedload down here for you. Want to pop down so we can run through it all? We've got eight Mafia in.'

  'Great,' replied Clarke wearily. 'Yeah, I'll be right down, Andy.'

  Clarke replaced his phone and sat rubbing his throbbing temples for a while. He'd had a skinful the night before; his eyes looked like a racing dog's bollocks and he was suffering. He'd contemplated going sick but his DCI had been at the same do with him and questions would be asked if he failed to show. The next CID officer was due in at 8 a.m. and he knew that the rest of the day would now be spent trawling through the cells with him. They would inherit all the paperwork and the associated inquiries to get on with. He looked at his in tray which contained the pile of paperwork and inquiries from the past two mornings spent in Custody, and wondered when he would ever find the time to complete it.

  Clarke had served at Handstead in uniform before escaping to CID and latterly to a Regional Crime Squad. He'd completed his five-year secondment to the squad before returning to Force and had been horrified to learn he would be going back to Horse's Arse.