Horse's Arse

by Charlie Owen

  'Christ, I hope not,' replied H. 'Be much better if we found him here. Besides, I'm sure I saw him thrown clear.'

  They walked slowly together towards the cul-de-sac until Jim stopped and looked over a low wall outside a cable manufacturing company.

  'Over here, H,' he called quietly. H joined him and there behind the low wall, lying motionless on his back and wide-eyed, was a very dead Bobby Driscoll. He lay on a small patch of grass with both legs at odd angles and his left arm tucked under the small of his back. An ever-increasing pool of blood was forming under his head, fed by a heavy flow from both his ears and his nose.

  'Dead as a fucking doornail,' remarked Jim. 'Best we fuck off before anyone sees us.'

  'Did you pass anything when you came in?'

  'Not a thing. They must have pissed off up Balmoral Road. Did you see what it was?'

  'No. Come on, let's make ourselves scarce. There's nothing to tie us in with this so let's keep it that way.'

  Nothing else needed to be said. The Brothers returned to Yankee One and left the industrial estate quietly, confirming for themselves that they were unobserved and the only living souls there.

  Driscoll had died almost instantly, his last conscious thought being one of puzzlement as he was flipped across the Capri's bonnet before his skull was crushed against the windscreen cross beam. He continued upwards in a spin, his right leg, hip and arm and all the ribs on his right side fractured. Both his lungs were punctured, his liver ruptured and his gall bladder collapsed midair before he landed behind the wall, breaking his left leg. He was dead before he hit the ground; both lungs quickly filled with blood and his liquidised brain began to ooze through the top of his head and ears on to the grass. He remained undisturbed for another six hours until a cleaner arriving for work at the cable manufacturing company noticed him when she stood in a puddle of blood and brain tissue at the front door.

  Martin and Chance, the wannabe Mafia, had not hung around to find out whom they had run over. They too were puzzled by the lack of a body when they had turned round in the cul-de-sac and were making their escape. Driscoll's body had slammed across the bonnet and smashed the windscreen before disappearing over the top, but they were not minded to make further inquiries as to its whereabouts. They got away from the industrial estate as quickly as possible, discussing hysterically what they should do. They agreed they had to dump the Capri quickly and get it burnt to destroy all trace of their presence in it. As petty criminals tended to do, they headed for home ground to dump and burn the car before they vanished into the labyrinth of tight alleyways on the Park Royal estate.

  Two minutes later they passed Delta Two parked up in a bus stop with Ally and Piggy arguing furiously. Ally was waving a clenched fist at Piggy, screaming, 'Next one you're going to fucking die, you fat cunt,' before plunging his head out of the car window into the fresh air. Martin and Chance took in the extraordinary sight of a ginger-haired policeman hanging out of a police car gulping in air, before Martin floored the accelerator and made a run for it.

  'Come on, you fat cunt,' shouted Ally, coiling himself back into the car. 'Come on, get after them quickly.'

  'What?'

  'The fucking car with two little scrotes in it, no lights and I smashed windscreen,' screamed Ally. 'GET A FUCKING MOVE ON.'

  Reluctantly, Piggy got their panda car rolling, Ally withering his ears with constant exhortations to go faster. As they got behind the Capri, Ally put the blue light on, grabbed the radio handset and began to broadcast.

  'Delta Hotel from Delta Two, we're chasing a red Ford Capri along Tavistock Place towards the Park Royal estate. Vehicle has what looks like accident damage, no lights, two up, failing to stop for police.' He read out the vehicle registration number.

  There was a pause before the operator informed them that the vehicle had no current keeper and had not been reported stolen. Other police vehicle crews began offering help and moving towards the chase.

  'FUCKING KEEP UP,' screamed Ally at Piggy, forgetting he was still transmitting on the radio. 'We're not going to lose these little fuckers. Thanks, Delta Hotel, still towards the Park Royal, still failing to stop, speed is 55 m.p.h.'

  The main set operator took the opportunity to tell Ally he had an open radio microphone before she opened the channel completely to talk through as the chase developed.

  In the clapped-out Capri, Martin knew the wreck had little chance of outrunning the police car behind him and decided to dump it before they got to the Park Royal. He recognised where he was and realised he was travelling alongside the Valley Forge Golf and Country Club, which lay on the right side of the railway tracks. He lurched the Capri left on to a service road that ran up to a greenkeeper's storage shed alongside the twelfth fairway, closely followed by Delta Two. Ally knew where they were as well.

  'Delta Hotel, he's off the main drag on to a dirt road up to the Valley Forge Golf Club. Decamp is imminent. Is there a dog unit available?'

  'Negative, Delta Two. The only dog unit this side of the county is assigned at Foxtrot Sierra, continue commentary please, now towards the Valley Forge Golf Club.'

  'Fuck it,' shouted Ally, again forgetting he was transmitting, 'get up his fucking arse, you useless cunt. Delta Hotel, we're still on the dirt track which is a dead end, vehicle slowing, doors open, decamp, decamp.'

  Martin and Chance bailed out of the Capri as it was still moving, allowing it to run into the side of the concrete greenkeeper's shed, and sprinted out on to the twelfth fairway, disappearing into the inky sleet.

  'Come on, you fat bastard,' roared Ally, throwing the microphone on to the floor and flinging open his door to follow them.

  'They'll be well away by now. There's no point,' whined Piggy, who didn't fancy a run at the best of times, but certainly not on a freezing cold, pitch-black night.

  'Get out of there and help, you bastard,' hissed Ally, leaning back into the car and going nose to nose with him, eyes blazing. Reluctantly, Piggy eased his corpulent frame out into the cold and lumbered off into the night after Ally. It was no good. After only fifty yards he had lost sight of him, and, worse, his stomach was starting to rebel against this unwelcome exercise. Fearful however of further abuse, and possibly physical attack by Ally, he broke into a fat person's run/jog and carried on into the dark. Disaster struck shortly afterwards as his sphincter, unable to cope with the huge quantity of curry in his gut and the totally alien exercise, lost the good fight and Piggy shat his pants 250 yards up the twelfth fairway from the competition fee, a good wood shot distance, and adjacent to a deep fairway bunker.

  'Bollocks,' he bellowed, standing bandy-legged and soaked in the dark. 'Thanks a fucking lot, Ally.' He was unsure what to do next. Soaked to the skin anyway, he couldn't go on in this state. Eventually, he took his shoes off, dropped his trousers and gingerly eased his soiled bundies off, kicking them away in disgust before having to retrieve them to clean himself up as best he could with the unsoiled areas. Once he had redressed, he looked round to see where best to dispose of his filthy underwear. His eyes lighted on the fairway bunker. He kicked his pants into it, climbed in himself, scooped a deep hole and then buried his pants, scraping the sand back over them with his shoes. Stamping the sand flat and satisfied the evidence had been disposed of, he wandered disconsolately back to the vehicles by the greenkeeper s shed,

  Ally returned about twenty minutes later in a foul mood and without a prisoner. 'What the fuck happened to you?' he said darkly to Piggy.

  'I had a good look round. We must have got separated in the dark. You had no luck, then?'

  'What's it fucking look like? If you'd been up their arses we could have had them. Bollocks. Have you had a look in the motor yet?'

  'Erm, no, not yet. I was just about to though,' Piggy lied.

  Ally didn't say anything, but walked over to the abandoned Capri and peered in. Both doors had remained open and the interior was now soaked.

  'There's no current keeper for it, is there?' he said. 'No on
e's going to claim ownership of this pile of shit, are they?' Frustrated, he took out his truncheon and began to smash the windows.

  'What the fuck are you doing?' asked a startled Piggy, who never ceased to be amazed by Ally's sudden outbursts of extremely violent temper.

  'Well, fuck it,' said Ally, 'look at it — no keeper, no tax, no insurance, fuck all. Who's going to want it back? Who's going to come complaining that it's been nicked and trashed?'

  'Well, no one I suppose,' agreed Piggy uncertainly, 'but all the same, I mean .. .' He trailed off as Yankee One rolled to a halt behind the panda car and the Brothers got out and walked over to view Ally's handiwork. They had listened to the brief chase, put two and two together and prayed that Piggy and Ally didn't nick either of the occupants.

  'Didn't get them then?' said H casually.

  'No, fuck it,' snarled Ally, glaring at Piggy, who looked away, ignoring him.

  'Get a good look at them?'

  'Couple of young scrotes, that's about it. Got to be from the Park Royal.'

  'What about if you saw them again?'

  'Not a hope. Never got close enough, did we, Piggy?' added Ally pointedly.

  Again, Piggy ignored him and wriggled uncomfortably.

  'No keeper or anything, is there?' continued H.

  'Fuck all.'

  'Give it the treatment then, shall we?'

  Without another word, H and Jim went to either open car door, unzipped their trousers and pissed all over the seats and dashboard, then drew their truncheons and trashed the inside of the Capri. If anyone ever queried it, they would simply claim that was how the thieves had left the vehicle. More importantly, what they had done was dispose of any evidence linking Martin and Chance to the vehicle. Barring unlikely fits of conscience, they would never be brought to account for Driscoll's death. The Capri was left where it was, open to the elements, and it would be another three days before officers investigating Driscoll's death connected with it. By that time the trail was cold. Driscoll's ironic demise would remain unsolved. The only people who could ever throw any light on it were not inclined to discuss it.

  As agreed, Psycho had picked Pizza up outside the cemetery on the edge of the town centre, and, still bridling at Pizza's insolence, had driven in silence out to the Bolton Road industrial estate where the gypsies had taken up residence. The silence didn't bother Pizza one bit. He had quickly learnt that being out of the wet and cold was worth any price.

  'What've you got planned, then?' asked Pizza, breaking the silence as Psycho turned off the car headlights and pulled up in an unlit lay-by about a hundred yards from the half-dozen caravans. A row of tall conifer trees completely concealed the police car from anyone who might have been watching from the site.

  'Just watch and learn, boy,' Psycho replied very smugly, getting out of the car and going round to the boot. Pizza joined him and watched with increasing anticipation as Psycho pulled out an air rifle with the largest telescopic sight he had ever seen. The illegal .22 German-made rifle had been brought back from Hamburg by Psycho after a trip to the city's fleshpots a few years earlier. Producing a muzzle velocity of 17 foot-pounds and firing steel- cored Prometheus hunting pellets, it was an absolutely lethal weapon. It had a massive kick when being fired and it took a strong person to use it effectively.

  'Jesus, Psycho, what are you hunting, elephants?' Pizza asked. 'What sort of range have you got with that thing?'

  'Fuck knows,' replied Psycho, 'but what I do know is that I can't miss with it. Look at this.' He flicked a small switch on the side of the huge sight and a low humming noise started. Pizza saw a green light start to glow from within the sight.

  'What's that then?' he asked, genuinely impressed.

  'Night vision sight,' Psycho replied proudly. 'Look at that, bright as day and clear as a bell.' He held the sight to Pizza's eyes to prove the point. The gypsy camp appeared in the sight as clearly as Psycho had claimed and Pizza whistled his approval.

  'Lovely looking bit of kit, Psycho, but can you use it?' he challenged.

  'Can I fucking use it, can I fucking use it?' repeated Psycho. 'Watch and learn, boy.'

  He broke the barrel, pushed a pellet into the breech, locked the barrel shut with a satisfying clunk, and wrapped the strap around his left arm. He then walked to the other side of the vehicle before he rested his left arm across the roof and tucked the butt into his right shoulder. Settling himself, he closed his left eye and moved his right eye into the cushioned sight, quietly cursing the incessant drizzle.

  'Right then, you pikey bastards,' he murmured to himself, 'who wants some?'

  He swept the sight across the unofficial gypsy site, but the occupants were either all having an early night or, more likely, out thieving. Not a thing moved nor a light shone in any of the caravan windows.

  'Fucking hell, where are they all?' he complained as Pizza leant, bored senseless, against the bonnet, an ear cocked for the radio which had burst into life some minutes earlier.

  'Piggy and Ally are still chasing that Capri,' he said hopefully.

  'Going the other way. No chance for us,' said Psycho, who had no intention of going anywhere until he'd shot someone. Pizza sighed and pulled his head deeper into his coat, debating whether he should get back into the car but knowing that Psycho would get the hump.

  'Hurry up and shoot something, will you?' he complained. 'I'm bloody soaked. The whole idea of getting a ride with you was to keep dry.'

  'Can't hurry these things,' answered Psycho, who was himself beginning to doubt he'd ever get the opportunity.

  'They've decamped at the golf course,' interjected Pizza, going back to the radio. 'A couple of toe-rags across the golf course,' he reiterated, looking over at Psycho, hoping he might get the reaction he was looking for.

  'Won't come this way,' said Psycho, still not lifting his eye from the sight.

  Pizza puffed out his cheeks in defeat. The golf course was only a little over a mile away, but in this mood he knew Psycho wasn't going to be moved. He resigned himself to getting very cold and wet until Psycho had purged his blood lust.

  Fifteen minutes later he suddenly heard Psycho hiss 'Yes' triumphantly and saw him stiffen into his firing stance, slowly moving the barrel of the rifle left and right as he fixed on a target.

  'You little beauties, let me see you,' he whispered, as if the prey might somehow hear him and run away. In his sight he now had two bedraggled, unkempt youths, carefully picking their way through fairly dense undergrowth over to the east of the gypsy camp.

  'Been out poaching or robbing,' he whispered to Pizza, who had moved behind him, hoping to witness the cull. 'Stand by, stand by, stand by,' he muttered slowly to himself. Pizza looked oddly at him; he really was the maddest person he'd ever encountered.

  Jimmy Martin and Dave Chance were lost, but not overly worried because they were now quite sure the Old Bill weren't behind them. They'd stuck together across the fairway of the golf course but had become disorientated in the dark and were now headed away from their intended destination, the Park Royal estate. Still, they'd lost the Old Bill and now intended to stay off the main roads as much as possible until they hit home ground. They were pushing their way through thigh-high shrubs and undergrowth and stumbling over rubble on some waste ground when Martin, who was slightly in front, stopped as he saw something up ahead.

  'Fucking gypos,' he whispered back to Chance. 'We must be on the Bolton Road estate. This lot moved on a couple of days ago.'

  'Bolton Road?' hissed back Chance. 'We're going the wrong fucking way then.'

  'Yeah, I know. Still, at least we know where we are now. Give these bastards a bit of room, though,' he cautioned. 'They catch us, I heard they'll do you up the arse and keep you as a sex slave in one of their caravans.'

  Chance looked saucer-eyed at his friend and hurriedly followed as he moved over to the left, giving the camp a wide berth, and casting anxious looks towards it.

  Then something ripped off the tip of Martin's nos
e, causing him to throw both hands to his face and drop to his knees. Such was his shock that he didn't scream or yell. He took his hands away from his face and even in the dark could see they were covered in what was obviously his blood. Chance saw him drop and called out quietly, 'What's up?' He received no reply, so moved towards him. His friend was staring at his own outstretched hands and reaching up to touch his nose.

  'What's wrong?' hissed Chance anxiously. 'Stop fucking about.'

  Martin turned to look at him, and Chance saw the ruined nose and fearful, heavily bloodstained face. Martin's eyes were wide with fear and he was struggling to breathe properly.

  'I've been shot,' he stammered.

  'Shot?' queried Chance, a split second before a second pellet embedded itself into the hard bone above his temple. As he fell poleaxed to the ground, blood flowing from the wound, Martin began to scream like a hunted hare. Chance had not lost consciousness when he was hit, and as he rolled around in the undergrowth, clutching at his head, he too began to scream.

  Psycho stepped back from his rifle sight and grinned over at Pizza, who was looking admiringly at him and glancing over in the direction of the hysterical screaming.

  'Got both of them,' he boasted happily as he packed his rifle away in the boot of the panda car. He glanced over towards the gypsy caravans as he noticed lights coming on in one or two. 'Time we made ourselves scarce, Pizza.'

  He slammed the boot shut and hurried round to the driver's side. Pizza followed suit; Psycho started the engine up and drove quickly out of the lay-by, not putting the headlights on until they had put some distance between them and the camp. He was beaming contentedly and hit the steering wheel several times in celebration.