That was the shocked assessment of DCI Butter, delivered breathlessly to DCI Hollingsworth when she arrived at my cell seconds later.
She too just stood there for some time with her jaw dropped, staring at the mess.
“Anything to add to that, Derek?” She eventually turned to the big man.
“I . . .” he mumbled. “I . . .” The poor bugger was lost for words. “Sorry, Sarge,” he said.
Then he looked at me.
“This bloke here is a . . .” He searched for words. “Is a . . .” He trailed off again.
“Yo, what is all this fuss, people?” said the guy in the adjacent cell, still watching the proceedings through the hole. “You joining the cells now, is it?”
“Shut it, Gordon,” said Derek.
“Phil.” DCI Hollingsworth put a hand on DCI Butter’s shoulder.
DCI Butter was still staring at the carnage I had left, his face white as paint.
“Phil!” DCI Hollingsworth said, more sharply now. “What the bloody hell happened?”
“It’s true,” said DCI Butter softly. “What he said about his . . . pee. It’s . . . true.”
“Pee?!” said Gordon. “What are you lot on, man?”
“I told you to shut it!” said Derek, pointing a finger.
DCI Hollingsworth looked at me darkly. I had the feeling she still didn’t believe somehow.
“I’m sorry for the damage,” I said. “But I did tell you before—”
“Alright, alright,” she said, raising a hand.
She glanced once again at DCI Butter, who was still in a state of shock, then at Derek, who was much the same.
She sighed.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” she said. “Derek, I want you to take Dave here to another cell. And Gordon.”
Derek nodded slowly.
“I’ll need to make them up,” he said, his fearful eyes still glued to the smouldering pile of rubble where the toilet and wall had been. “I’ll take ’em to the rec room first though.”
“Fine, whatever. Do it,” said DCI Butter.
Derek looked at me, deeply distrustful.
“Come on then, you,” he said. “And you.” He nodded to Gordon.
“Sure thing, boss,” said Gordon, who proceeded to step through the hole and into my cell.
“Careful!” hissed Derek.
Gordon stepped around the pile, winking at me as we followed Derek to the door.
“Derek,” said DCI Hollingsworth.
Derek turned uncertainly to look at her.
“Yes, Sarge?”
“Make sure there’s no one else in there with ’em, alright? We don’t want this causing a panic, do we?”
“No, Sarge,” he said.
He grunted for us to follow him out.
“Alright, Phil,” said DCI Hollingsworth. “Debrief. Now.”
I looked behind me as we left, observing DCI Hollingsworth and DCI Butter at the start of what was sure to be an animated discussion. As we made our way down the hallway, I could tell they were keeping their voices down as much as they could, but DCI Butter, the poor chap, was having a bit of a time with that. “Freak of nature!” I heard him exclaim, shrill as a little girl. Several times.
CHAPTER 14
DEREK TOOK US TO A SMALL, windowless room around a corner at the end of the corridor. It had two plain white desk tables, a couple of chairs and a TV hanging from a corner of the ceiling. Clearly shaken and definitely stirred by what he’d witnessed, he didn’t say a word, just grunted as he left, locking the door on us.
Gordon flopped himself down into one of the chairs. He tapped his fingertips on the tabletop, looking at me.
“You alright, bro?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Suppose.”
I was still standing, while he sat. I rectified that by taking a seat at the other chair. I was on edge, I had to admit. I literally had no idea what would happen to me now. The police had seen it, the truth of it, but what would they make of it? What would they do? What could they do?
“So what in the hell was that anyway?” said Gordon.
“What? You mean the wall falling in?”
“Yeah,” said Gordon with a little chuckle. “And you standing there with your salami hanging out for all to see. It ain’t too pretty a specimen, you know.”
“What? Seen many, have you?”
He smiled widely and let out a hearty laugh.
“You got me there, bro! Nah, course not. I ain’t bent. Good bantz, bro, good bantz.”
I wanted to laugh with him, but as mentioned, I was feeling rather uptight.
“You’re not much into fashion neither, are you, bro?”
He was eying my Gant-wear. I glanced down at my sweater and trousers, wincing at the soft browns and beiges.
“It’s a long story, alright?” I said. “A hell of a long story.”
“Yeah, I bet,” said Gordon.
We sat in silence for a minute, Gordon continuing to drum his fingers on the table, increasingly annoying me.
“So . . .” he let out the word slowly. “We gonna switch on the TV and watch Countryfile or are you gonna tell me this terrible tale?”
*****
Sod it, I thought. It was a Sunday evening, and as Gordon had pointed out, that meant only crap on terrestrial TV, and I seriously doubted the police station had satellite. So I told Gordon everything, all the gory details, and he listened well, cringing in all the right places, which was pretty much throughout the whole thing.
“You know what, mate?” he said. “If you’d tried telling me that down the pub I would’ve probably lamped you for being so cheeky, but since I saw what I saw, I guess I got no choice but to believe.” He did a little tap with his fingers. “Jesus man! How the hell you been coping with this shit is beyond me. I would’ve flipped out the first night, gone on a rampage or something.”
“A rampage?”
I wondered where that thought had come from. Then I suddenly had a disturbing image of myself as a werewolf, naked in the light of the full moon, in the middle of Crawley, growling, pissing on everything, watching it all burn.
“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t know, bro. I don’t know.” He seemed lost in thought. Then a smiled crept over his face. “Nah, do you know what? If I was clever-like, and I do have my moments, I might figure out a way to use it. Seems ideal for high-security break-ins and that.”
“Do you think so?” I said, reminded of James and his idea about robbery. “It’s not exactly inconspicuous though, is it?”
“Inconspi—what?” said Gordon, looking confused.
I did wonder why I had used that word. I guess those boxset binges gave me plenty of vocab.
“Inconspicuous,” I said. “It means it would be easy for the cops to know who did it.”
“How’s that?” said Gordon.
“How many people you think are going to be using super strong acid to break into places?”
“You’d be surprised what a properly tooled-up crew has at its disposal.”
“Acid?”
“Maybe.”
“Really?”
“It don’t matter, bro. People use whatever they can. You know what I mean? Innovation. That’s the name of the game.”
He said the word “innovation” in a very particular way, like it was gold-plated. Innovation.
“Think about it, bro,” he said. “You don’t need no crazy strong piss to wrench a door open or pick a lock or break a window. What good’s that gonna do, except maybe cause a scene, bring the walls down and that?” He laughed at this, winking at me. “Nah, bro, the tools have got to be right, and that would be like using a flamethrower to light a ciggie.” He paused and leaned towards me, talking in a hushed tone. “But some of them safes they got nowadays, like in banks and ATMs and that, there’s no way you is gonna find your way into one of them without something really special. There ain’t no tools I know that could do that. Maybe a stick of dynamite, but who the hell’
s got their hands on toys like that? You, on the other hand, and your . . . mighty penis. You got the killer edge, bro. The killer edge.”
I winced at the term “mighty penis,” but he did have a point. Still, I wasn’t a criminal. A yob, maybe. An idiot, most definitely. But not a criminal. Yet here I now was, sitting in a police cell, in a police station, talking to a criminal about crimes and how to commit them using the power of my very own . . . mighty penis.
*****
“What you in for then, Gordon?” I asked once we came to a natural break in the subject of my member.
“Me?” said Gordon. “Oh, just for being a twat. You know.”
I had no idea what he meant, actually.
“I didn’t know it was a crime,” I said.
“What?”
“Being a twat. If so, half these cops would have to lock themselves up.”
“Oh.” He laughed half-heartedly. “Good one, bro, yeah. I like your style. Good bantz.”
I took the compliment but wasn’t to be thrown off-topic.
“So what did you do? Being a twat, you said?”
“Kind of embarrassing if I’m honest, bro.”
He looked down at the table in front of him, twiddling his thumbs.
“Come on!” I said. “After what I’ve just told you?”
“Well—”
And he was about to spill the beans, except the door to the room opened.
In walked three of them: DCI Hollingsworth, looking pissed off something rotten, DCI Butter, still as white as a ghost, and another copper, a grey-haired smart and lanky one wearing a fine uniform with several shiny pins on his shoulders and on his front lapel and holding a nice clean police hat in front of him.
“Here he is, Chief,” said DCI Hollingsworth.
“Hi there!” Gordon waved to the tall man.
“Shut it, you,” growled DCI Butter.
The tall one, the chief, looked down at me and frowned as if he was looking upon the remains of a dog poo he had just unwittingly stepped into with his newly shined boots.
“David,” said DCI Hollingsworth, “this is Chief Constable Young.”
“Hello,” I said.
He looked at me, frowning just the same, turning his head this way and that, as if to get the measure of me.
“He doesn’t look dangerous,” he said with one of those voices you hear announcing the news. He was so tall that, as he spoke, I imagined him bashing his head on the ceiling at any moment.
“Agreed, sir,” said DCI Hollingsworth. “I’d say he’s completely harmless, but you saw what state that cell was in. And there’re the felonies to consider. Seven of those.”
“Indeed,” said Chief Constable Young. “What do you think, Butter?”
Something about the way he said “Butter” made me smile, as if it was the lowest form of condiment to spread on your bread. I suppressed it well enough from the chief, but I think DCI Butter himself caught me in the corner of his eye.
“Well, sir” he said, going slightly red, looking at me with what I can describe only as utter fear and distaste. “DCI Hollingsworth is correct. He’s nothing but an oyke and a yob. But somehow, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, somehow what he told us is true. He has been . . .” He struggled for the words in the presence of his superior. “Urinating a powerful acid-like substance.”
Chief Constable Young turned to DCI Butter. “You saw it, did you?”
“Yes, sir, I did. It was . . .” Again that struggle for words which I couldn’t help enjoy. “Terrifying.”
“Indeed,” said Chief Constable Young.
“The detention officer witnessed it too,” added DCI Hollingsworth.
“Oh yes.” The chief constable nodded in recognition. “Where is Derek?”
“We sent him home, sir,” said DCI Hollingsworth. “He was in something of a shock.”
“Indeed,” said the chief constable. “Well I hope you didn’t send Meg home with him too. I don’t know what we’d do without her round here.”
The two officers ignored this comment.
“Well, my boy.” The chief constable looked down at me again. “What are we going to do with you then?”
I looked up at him, trying neither to frown nor to smile nor indeed to show any emotion whatsoever.
The chief constable, however, continued to stare at me expectantly.
“Answer the man, Sonny Jim,” hissed DCI Butter, slapping me on the shoulder.
“I don’t know, sir,” I said. “I wish I knew what was happening to me . . .”
“Don’t we all,” said the chief.
“The main thing, sir,” I continued, “is that I should be allowed to”—now it was my turn to struggle with words—“relieve myself outside, preferably in a field somewhere in the middle of nowhere, anywhere where I can cause no damage or harm to . . . public property.”
The chief constable nodded. “Sensible, indeed.”
It wasn’t that he was better than everyone else, but he definitely had an air about him. Not a foul-smelling one, like my piss—an air of authority. And I think he particularly appreciated my mention of public property.
“Well, Butter,” he said with a little half-laugh, being quite rude, I thought, since he was still looking at me while he addressed the DCI. “It looks like you’ve got yourself a little job.”
*****
DCI Butter would hate me for all eternity, I was sure of that, but honestly, I couldn’t give a monkey’s. He had kept on squelching me with his “Sonny Jims” and his “laddies” and every other stupid way he found for making it clear that I was beneath him. Well, now he had something to show for it. Who else would you escort to the loo, day in, day out, keeping an eye, making sure he didn’t get lost? Who else but a small child or, as he liked to say, a “son.” Well, there you go, Butter. Time to gobble what you spread on it.
*****
After the visit of the chief constable, Gordon and I were taken to new cells. From the way the police were all whispering furtively, I got the feeling there were higher-up conversations going on about my case. Perhaps the decision was not in their hands.
Once I was put in the cell, which was identical to the one I had been in before, minus the utter carnage of the toilet, Meg soon arrived with dinner. I knew it was Meg because she opened the shutter and the first thing she said was, “Hello, it’s Meg! I’ve got your dinner here, poppet.”
The smell of the sausages, warm and absolutely delish, wafted into the cell.
“Thanks, Meg,” I said, taking the tray.
“You’re welcome,” she said with a smile.
From what I could see through that opening, she was a plump, middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks and a cheery spirit. I sat on the bed with the tray on my lap and tucked in.
“You’re David, aren’t you?” I heard her say, realising she was still stood at my door, watching me eat through the opening.
“Yes,” I said through a mouthful of sausage, cabbage and mash. “This is great by the way.”
“My Derek told me what happened,” she said with a concerned, motherly tone. “Before he went home . . . Terrible thing, it sounds.”
I nodded at her, smiled, took another mouthful and said nothing, hoping that my silence would be signal enough to leave me to eat in peace. After my next mouthful, she was still there, staring at me, frowning.
“I can’t help wondering though . . .” she said. “Why you?”
“What?” I said, still eating.
“Why you? With that terrible . . . affliction? Why you and not someone else?”
“I dunno,” I said, chewing a sausage. “Wish I did.”
“I mean, you’re a big podgy, but it’s not like you’re so different, is it?” she said. “But somehow . . . Somehow you must be though.”
“I’m not.”
“No?”
“No.”
I took a big gulp of the water that had accompanied the food on the tray.
“Hmmm.” She stroked
her chin. “You know, I’ve always believed that the stomach is at the root of everything. All illness and all happiness. Everything.”
“Oh yes?” I said, being polite.
“Yes, love. It’s where everything starts and ends. What you put in your stomach—it becomes you. I’ve read about it plenty of times in the papers, doctors talking about all the microbes and bacteria in there. Some people who can’t sleep, for example, they change their diet and then, straight away, once they’ve done that, they’re fine, sleeping like lambs. You are what you eat. That’s more true than most people know. It does make me wonder . . .”
She was putting me off my food something rotten, but I am politer than most people give me credit for, especially in the presence of my elders. I put the spoon down and waited for her to finish her little talk so she could bugger off and let me finish my din-dins.
“That’s why my cooking’s so good,” she said. “Everyone says so. I only use natural ingredients. Organic, if I can afford to, though sometimes I need to be a bit creative here in the station, what with the budget cuts. Meat, fish, milk and veggies, only what nature provides. What kind of diet have you got, poppet?”
I bit my lip, wondering if it was worth lying.
“Crap,” I said, honestly. “I only eat crap.”
She looked at me, deep in thought. She was waiting for me to elaborate, I realised.
“I’m a fast food junkie,” I said. “And in my spare time, well, I’m a snack freak, a confectionery addict and a fizzy drink fiend. Oh, and I do like a beer or seven.”
“Well,” she said darkly. “There you go then. Best look into that, poppet.”
She closed the shutter and left me to it. I looked at the food with distaste now. It seemed more like an accusation than a meal. I did have to admit she had got me thinking. Once things settled down for me, if they ever settled down, there would have to be some pretty big scientific investigations into what the bloody hell had happened to me. I struggled to believe that it would simply come down to my diet, but perhaps she was right.
More to the point, if that was true, if it really did all boil down to the food I stuffed in my gob, did I even have the power to change things? Could I live in a world where I ate only “healthy” food and didn’t touch any of the yummy stuff? Perhaps my wee would be normal in such a world, but really, could I hack that? Perhaps you can, Dave, I said to myself. Perhaps you’ll have to. But it sure seemed like a dark and grey world, devoid of meaning, devoid of life.
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