“That’s not true! Listen—”
DCI Butter jumped in. “No, you listen. Do you want to know what I think?” I didn’t. “I think you’re just a sad little prick who got fed up with being a nobody. You wanted to show off, for once in your life to do something, be seen, and, sick bastard that you are, this is your way.”
“Hang on—”
“Now you’re just taking it one step further, giving us this nonsense about your pee. You just want to prove to the world that you can do what you want, that you’re more than just Dave Smith, the sad pathetic wanker who eats too much and can’t get a shag to save his life.”
It took every ounce of self-control I had to ignore his insults and call him out for being the complete and utter twat that he was, but I managed it.
“Have you spoken to any of my friends?” I said as calmly as I could.
“Yes, of course we have, David,” said DCI Hollingsworth.
“And? They would have told you the same thing I’m telling you. The night before, in the Dog and Whistle, and after that, it was crazy what happened. But it happened.”
DCI Butter laughed. “You think the testimony of a bunch of drunk idiots is going to cut it in court?”
“More to the point,” said DCI Hollingsworth, “they can confirm nothing. The ones who were with you yesterday”—she looked at her file—“Martin Beeswood and James Crab. Both of them say they don’t clearly understand what they saw.”
“What?” I said, genuinely surprised.
“You heard the lady,” said DCI Butter. “They’re certainly not willing to testify that they saw you urinate acid, I can tell you that.”
“Shit . . .” I murmured, feeling my heart pump, the blood rising to my head.
“Yes,” said DCI Hollingsworth. “Plus, you also gave different stories at the hospital. Bear in mind Martin Beeswood’s parents will likely press charges too. And the landlord in your flat. You really did leave an awful trail of destruction in your wake.”
“And the doctor?” I croaked.
“Ah yes,” said DCI Butter, enjoying himself. “You mean the respectable GP you hoodwinked into opening her family home to you, gave you a hot meal, a bed for the night, even lent you clothes?”
“She’ll tell you what happened in her office.”
“Lad, it’s time to give up the ghost now,” said DCI Hollingsworth, going a bit soft, presumably thinking we were entering the final stages of the argument. “She corroborates you destroyed the wall in her office and that she believed your story at first, but only because she was in a state of shock. That’s about it.”
“But I told her the same thing I’m telling you!” I cried. “I’m not making this up!”
“The fact you have this story about peeing acid only makes you look mad. It makes you look insane. You do realise that? It’s not helping you in the slightest.”
I was done for, up shit creek without a paddle. They were making that very clear. I had to give them that, at least. They had all the evidence they needed to bang me up for life. But the truth was, it was my pee, not some crazy anarchist plan. I wasn’t mental!
I gave it my last shot. “You won’t find anything related to the dark web on my computer. No guide to making acid or anything like that.”
“Do you know what the problem with the dark web is?” said DCI Hollingsworth. “It’s very . . . dark. That means it’s dead easy to erase your tracks, delete all your history and files without a trace. In some cases that makes it difficult for us to convict people in the absence of other hard evidence. It’s a godsend to criminals. Drug dealers and such can often get away with it.”
“Not in your case though, Sonny Jim,” said DCI Butter. “We’ve got truck-loads of hard evidence. I’d call this open and shut, wouldn’t you, DCI Hollingsworth?”
“Yup.” She nodded. “Open and shut.”
And that was that. The two inspectors wrapped up the interview, gave their closing little statements to the recording device, noting the time and the date. As far as they were concerned, a wrap.
“One last thing,” I said, just as DCI Butter was about to switch off the recorder.
“Yes?” he said, annoyed.
“You don’t believe me. I get it,” I said. “But why not let me give you a demonstration?”
“A demonstration?”
“Yes. Let me pee for you, show you what happens. Then you’ll believe me.”
“Just so I understand, you want us to watch you pee?” said DCI Butter, disgusted. “Do you have any idea how sick that sounds?”
“And I thought I’d heard ’em all . . .” muttered DCI Hollingsworth.
“I know it sounds weird, but I am telling the truth. Please.”
They both sighed.
“Assuming we agree to it,” said DCI Hollingsworth, “where do you suggest we perform this little . . . demonstration.”
“Somewhere safe,” I said. “Preferably outside where no damage can be caused. In the country. Far away from people and buildings. And trees.”
“Oh, I see,” said DCI Butter. “We’re to drive you to a safe spot in the countryside and let you walk out for a leisurely pee. You’ve got to be joking, mate.”
“He’s not joking,” said DCI Hollingsworth.
“He’s a nutter,” said DCI Butter.
“If I’m a nutter, you’ll soon find out.”
“Oh, we already know that, laddie. We already know that.”
It wound me up no end, the way this DCI Butter kept calling me Sonny Jim and laddie and all that, but I kept my mouth shut. I could see I had given them something to think about.
“Look, Sonny,” said DCI Butter. “You’re gonna need to pee anyway, right? You think we’re gonna take you out to the woods each time? You’re with us for the long haul. You do know that?”
“Yes, I know that. It’s going to be a big problem for you.”
DCI Butter laughed half-heartedly to himself and leaned over to his colleague.
“I don’t know about you, Pauline, but I’ve had more than enough from this idiot.”
“Me too,” said DCI Hollingsworth.
She looked at me, scratching at her nose.
“We’re not taking you outside the station. Let’s get that clear.”
“But—”
“But alright, I’ll send DCI Butter here in with you when you next need to go. I can’t join you myself, for obvious reasons.”
“Oh, Christ, do I have to?” moaned DCI Butter.
I stared from one of them to the other.
“You’re going to make me use the toilets here, after everything I’ve told you?”
They glanced at each other and sighed. DCI Hollingsworth did a cut-throat action with a hand to her neck, and DCI Butter flicked off the switch to the recording device. They stood up, picked up their papers and went to the door.
“Just call for DCI Butter when you need a tinkle, alright?” said DCI Hollingsworth, using the voice a mother uses with her little baby.
They had a little chuckle as they left the room.
I’ll show you, I thought darkly. You ain’t never seen tinkle like mine.
CHAPTER 13
SO THE UGLY TWINS WENT ON THEIR WAY, had their laughs, and some uniformed officers came in to take me to my cell. A detention cell, they called it, and that meant walking down a corridor and down some steps to another corridor that was basically just a row of thumping big blue metal doors, one of which was opened for me with these giant, clanking keys. I was pushed in and that was that.
It wasn’t half bad, to be honest. There was a window up high, letting in plenty of light, a nice little bed freshly made with these dull brown sheets, and a sink and toilet just for me, all clean and disinfectant-smelling. My own private digs.
Within five minutes of my being there, someone came to my door and opened it.
“David Smith?” he said, reading from a pad.
“Yes, sir,” I said, for he was a big, burly sort of a bloke, smart-looking with h
is shirt all tucked in nicely but bulging both in his belly and in his upper body. Plenty of muscle there. Not one to mess with.
“Right, well, welcome to Crawley Detention Centre,” he said. “My name is Derek Waters. I’m the appointed detention officer today. As it looks like you’ll be in here for a little while, let me give you the rules. There’ll be three hot meals a day, one shower in the evening, and you’re also allowed out to an exercise area once a day, usually in the late morning but sometimes in the afternoon. We’ve not got a communal area as such; however, there is a room with a TV, and if you’re good, I might be persuaded to let you catch up on Coronation Street or whatever. Got it?”
“Always been a bit of an EastEnder myself,” I said.
“Don’t get talky with me.”
“Fine,” I said.
“If you get out of line in any way, I have no hesitation in keeping you cooped in this room for as long as suits my fancy.”
“Right—”
“That means no getting shirty, no swearing, no whining, no crying, no pestering, nothing. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” I said.
“Good,” he said. “Simple, really. Play by the rules, everything’s fine. Give me shit, and, well, you get the idea.”
“I do,” I said.
“Brilliant,” he said. “So first order of business. Dinner. You’re not a veggie or anything like that are you?”
He looked me up and down as if somehow I might be.
“No way, sir,” I said.
Perhaps it was the middle-aged clothes I was wearing, I wondered.
“Fantastic. You’re in luck, actually. We’ve got a lovely cook here. Name’s Meg.” He seemed to drift off at the mention of her name. “Bubble and squeak this evening. Hope that suits.”
“Absolutely.”
“Right, well, that’ll be brought to you shortly. Anything else I can help you with?”
It was funny: the more we talked, the more the place seemed like a hotel and this Derek like my concierge.
“No thanks,” I said. “Could do with a drink though, please. Bit of a long interview I just had.”
“No probs,” he said. “I’ll bring you some water. Anything else?”
“Nope,” I said.
“Hunky dory,” he said. “You need anything, just push this button here.”
He indicated to the large, red, plastic button to the right of the door.
“Great,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Have a nice stay, Dave.”
And he left.
Within minutes the water was brought, a large plastic jug.
As I set to drinking it, I felt very well catered. I also knew it wouldn’t be long till my next wee. The tension of the interview had tightened up my waterworks no end, and in truth it had been hours since I’d last relieved myself way back in the doc’s field that morning. That seemed like another life, another me. Everything had changed.
I soon relaxed in the cell though. What with my Derek to ease me through, I almost felt at home in the place.
*****
I was kind of annoyed that I needed to pee so quickly. Meg’s bubble and squeak sounded delish, and I knew that once I took my next squirt there was little chance of things settling down for me in the police station. But as the saying goes, when you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go.
As instructed by Derek, I pushed the red button. He showed up in thirty seconds flat.
“Yes, Dave?” he said, talking to me through the little shutter in the door, which he had opened.
“I need to pee—” I started to say.
“There’s a toilet in your cell. You’re not being funny with me already, are you?”
“No,” I said.
There was an expectant look on his face that said I’d better say something reasonable now.
“Can you get DCI Butter for me,” I said. “Please, it’s urgent.”
He frowned at me. I realised the huge error I’d made in opening the request with mention of my need to urinate.
“I told you no funny business. Why do you need DCI Butter?”
“I’m not being funny. Look, please, it’s urgent. If you call DCI Butter, he’ll understand.”
“Will he now?” Derek laughed.
“Yes!” I said, a little too forcefully.
“I can see you’re not going to be as well behaved as I thought.”
“Look, I need to pee, and I need DCI Butter here to see it—”
He slammed the shutter on me.
I stepped back, in shock, though I suppose I really had no right to be.
I sat on the bed, my legs twitching this way and that. The seal was about to break, and I really needed that copper here to see the mayhem it would unleash. I took a deep breath, holding it tight, trying to figure out my next move. I could just go for it, forget about DCI Butter, but God knows what would happen. I’d destroy the cell toilet; that was a given. And then what? Should I call Derek back, try and get him to bring DCI Butter down? What could I say?
I stood and hit the button again. I had to give it a shot.
It took Derek longer to come this time.
“Yes?” he said, opening the shutter, sounding extremely wary.
“I promise you I am not messing you about.”
“Oh well, now I’m all ears,” he said with extreme sarcasm.
“I need to speak to DCI Butter,” I said. “It’s about my case. I’ve got some new information I want to give him. Please, it’s urgent.”
“And why is it so urgent?” he said.
“Because . . .” I tottered from leg to leg, bursting now, worried that the toxic-piss might start dripping down my thigh. “I might change my mind, alright. Just get him now!”
I was so insistent with my last plea that it had some effect. I saw big Derek considering this and, I assume, deciding it was better to hand me off than to deal with me. He grunted a grumpy “alright” and went off.
I stood there, taking deep breaths, holding it in, praying that Derek was in fact going to get DCI Sonny Jim and not just ignoring me for the nutter he doubtlessly now thought I was. It was a matter of mind control, I told myself. You can do this, Dave. You can do this. I twisted my legs tight across one another, like a nun with a guilty conscience.
I had all but given up hope when I finally heard the locks of the giant door clunking. It opened to reveal an extremely fed-up-looking DCI Butter.
“What?” he said, hands on hips, toothpick in mouth.
“No time,” I mumbled. “Come here.”
I rushed straight to the corner of the cell with the little toilet.
“Ah, Jesus . . .” he muttered.
“Don’t go!” I ordered, for he was turning to leave in disgust.
I unzipped, and I can’t describe how much relief I felt at being able to let all that pent-up urine flow out.
“You’re a piece of work, you—”
He stopped talking mid-sentence as the water bubbled and fizzed and the toilet seat cracked before his eyes.
“Holy crap!” he screamed.
“Told you.”
The smoke of all the melting porcelain rose into the air, grey and green and foul-smelling with the funk of my secretion.
“Stop it. Now!” he cried as the entire bowl disappeared into a puddle of slimy liquid, swirling and burning away the stone floor beneath.
“Can’t. Sorry,” I said. “Been storing this one up all day.”
The tank fell forwards, crashing into the corrosive pool of whatever the hell it was accumulating on the floor, digging deeper down into the depths of the cell. I had that same sinking feeling I had before, knowing that I was barely halfway through my business. There was a lot more damage to go.
“Bloody well stop it, lad!” he cried.
“I can’t!” I shouted.
“Sweet Jesus. This is too much,” he said to himself. “I’m getting DCI Hollingsworth. Derek!” he shouted down the corridor. “Derek!”
I kept on peeing, an
d now, since the toilet was gone, I had no choice but to do so into the puddle that had replaced it. It grew and grew, reflecting an eerie green tinge onto the wall behind, slowly lapping at it and causing it to creak and crack. The white paint browned and disappeared in flashes of fire and smoke, bricks sliding and dropping down from the next row up, shattering like powder in the deadly and growing sludge pond beneath.
“What the bloody hellfire . . .”
I looked round to see Derek now, anger and fear in his eyes.
“What in God’s name are you doing to my cell?”
He rushed forwards, grabbing me by the shoulders.
“Get off!” I cried, but it was too late.
He held me, pulled me, shook me, and this only made me lose my grip on my member. The stream of green pee swivelled wildly, drawing acid lines deep into the wall. The whole thing was quickly torn apart by this corrosive attack, a ton of bricks smashing down in clouds of dust. Derek let me out of his grip as he saw the effects.
We both coughed, and with relief, I felt the tide of my piss slowing down, my bladder emptying. I peed with less vigour, doing so relatively harmlessly onto the mound of debris which continued to fizz with its repeated impact. Finally, the last drip hit the pile. It reacted with something like the sound of a can of Coke being opened, and it was over.
We all were coughing, Derek and DCI Butter with faces that had gone pure white with shock.
“Woah!”
I heard a splutter from beyond the hole in the wall that I had destroyed. As the smoke subsided, I saw a hand waving away the dust. Then a face emerged, a bloke in his twenties, about my age I supposed, though in most other respects entirely different, thin and wiry, wearing a cap and an oversized Adidas T-shirt, and sporting a well-trimmed goatee and utterly blood-shot eyes on his bony, pale white face.
“Hey, hey!” He looked at me through the wall, laughing, coughing, and waving the dust away at the same time. “What’s the story, bro?”
As the dust settled, he glanced down, then suddenly put a hand to his eyes.
“No, man, no,” he groaned. “At least be decent for me, eh?”
Realising what he meant, I zipped up.
*****
The police were scared shitless. That was obvious.
“Never seen anything like it in my sodding life!”
Man of Ruin Page 11