Horse's Arse (11 page)

    'Bugger
off, you filthy old slag,' roared Tucker with a manic light in his eyes. He
continued to direct the jet at Rosie, rolling her across the pavement and into
the road. Early morning passers- by couldn't quite believe what they were
seeing, but this being Horse's Arse they continued on their way. Having hosed
Rosie out, Tucker was about to kick her shopping trolley after her when he
thought better of soiling his glass-polished shoes, and hosed it after her. He
then directed his attentions to the wall and steps before shutting off the
valve and vanishing back into the nick.

    Rosie
sat dripping next to her shopping trolley at the side of the road, shouting
obscenities at the nick as passing cars hooted her. Gillard had returned
downstairs to ensure that the Blister had complied with his instructions, and
had seen Rosie disappear like so much flotsam. He promised himself that he'd
look after Tucker; that bitch Bott could poke her complaints up her arse. He
glared at the Blister again, who looked up, flushed, and quickly went out to
make herself a cup of tea. Gillard staggered back to his office to change and
wash before Bott arrived and completely fucked his day up.

    'Why
couldn't she have fallen in that piss?' he muttered to himself.

    Pizza
was soaked and freezing after half an hour's aimless wandering around the
virtually deserted town centre. Large numbers of the shops were unoccupied,
boarded up with 'For Let' signs peeling off outside, more in hope than
expectation of a letting. He decided to try to ponce a cup of tea from the
baker's shop on the other side of the market place, and quickened his pace as
he passed through the rows of empty stalls. The drizzle had intensified and
large drops were falling from the peak of his sodden, ill-fitting helmet.

    Pizza
had quickly lost the feeling of finding his vocation in life and was worried that
he'd made a dreadful mistake. His job was pointless, he felt he achieved
virtually nothing, and, worse, no one seemed to give a fuck, either about the
job or about him. He was ignored by his supervisors and colleagues, and despite
his best efforts to ingratiate himself they regarded him with icy contempt. He
took it very personally, unaware that he was undergoing a rite of passage that
all police officers were subjected to, and endured, before they were accepted
as a member of a group. It was nothing personal. Newcomers couldn't be trusted
until they'd been thoroughly tested by their peers. Once you were in, you were
in for life, but if you were out you were fucked. Pizza felt well fucked.

    The
lights from the baker's shop pierced the damp gloom, and he felt a surge of
well-being as he pushed open the door and stepped into the yeasty warmth. He
took off his helmet and shook his overcoat, sending a shower of water on to the
floor. He smiled at the young girl watching him from behind the counter. She had
a richer crop of spots than he did, and he began to feel even better.

    'What
a poxy morning. Cup of tea, please,' he said pleasantly.

    Wordlessly
she filled a mug and placed it on the counter. He picked it up and began to sip
the tea.

    '20p,'
she said, holding out her hand.

    
'20p?'

    'Yeah,
20p. You didn't think you were getting it for nothing, did you?'

    Pizza
was speechless. This had never happened to him before when he'd been out with
the others under instruction. He put the mug down and began to desperately
search his sodden trouser pockets. He began to redden as he realised he was
skint. The girl took the mug from the counter and threw the tea into the sink.

    'Come
back when you've got some money.'

    'Yeah,
right,' said the crushed Pizza, putting his helmet back on and slinking back
out into the drizzle. His eyes began to fill with tears as the feeling that
absolutely everyone hated him began to consume him. He stood for a moment to
compose himself before walking slowly towards the nearby Grant Flowers tower
blocks. He was sure he'd recover a nicked motor or two there. Give him a chance
to show the others that he was a grafter. Whilst they were all cosseted in
nice, warm, dry cars, he was out there on the cobbles in the rain, doing what
real coppers had been doing for over a hundred years. Showing the flag, getting
amongst them, getting his hands dirty, looking them in the eye. At least he
would if there was anyone about; the little slag in the baker's shop who'd just
slaughtered him didn't count.

    The
tower blocks loomed out of the gloom in front of him like a modern Stonehenge
but with none of the mystery or magnificence. They oozed silent malevolence.
Thirty storeys high, they resembled a child's neglected Lego construction. They
had vast, subterranean garage blocks that had long been abandoned by car
owners, and their unlit, vandalised depths were now home to the drug addicts
and glue sniffers whose tools of trade littered the permanently damp floors. It
was a favourite dumping ground for nicked motors, which were stripped and
invariably torched.

    He
remembered his first visit to the flats with Ally, who gave him some salutary
advice that had stuck with him. 'Keep away from the building line, keep looking
up and never use the lifts,' he'd said simply. Not using the lifts was obvious
enough, but why keep away from the building line and keep looking up? 'Because
the rodents that live here have the habit of dropping fridges and tellies out
of their windows on to people they don't like the look of,' had been the reply.
Pizza would never forget that conversation. Amid the mind-numbing, parrot-like
learning of definitions of offences and powers of arrest, this was the sort of
thing he really needed to know about. It had begun to dawn on him that there
was absolutely no substitute for experience.

    As
Pizza entered the first of the garage blocks, he took out his torch and shone
it into the forbidding darkness. The weak beam landed on the rusting, burnt-out
shell of a car at the back of the block, and he began to walk slowly along the
rows of garages, all without their doors and resembling huge, gaping tooth
cavities, his boots crunching on discarded syringes. His breath hung in large
clouds as he walked, shining his torch into the dark. He could hear the
relentless dripping of condensation from the low ceiling, and felt his
childhood fear of the dark begin to wrap its icy arms round his shoulders. The
abandoned garages were full of rubbish of every description, and stank of human
excrement. Discarded condoms in most of them evidenced another activity popular
down there, and he wondered what sort of person chose to have sex in such a
place. There was little of interest in the garages on the right-hand side and
he began to walk back along the other side, back towards the distant, weak
light of the entrance. The first few garages contained nothing to merit further
examination, but halfway along, his torchlight fell on a pile of rubbish that
appeared to have only recently been dumped and arranged so as to conceal
something within it. Very slowly, he walked into the garage, checking from side
to side before he began to gingerly move the rubbish to one side with his boot.
Under the pile was a large, black, bulging bin liner. Putting on his gloves,
which he'd been trying to dry in his pockets, he pulled the top of the bag open
and shone his torch inside. He could see what appeared to be clothing.
Intrigued, he pulled the bag free from the surrounding rubbish and noticed that
attempts had been made to set fire to it. It was so damp that it had barely
smouldered. He carried the bag back to the entrance of the garage block and
emptied the contents on to the ground. Inside were three pairs of jeans, a pair
of brown trousers, two pairs of Doc Martens boots, a red and a checked shirt, a
pair of trainers and a blue denim jacket. All were covered in what appeared to
be dried bloodstains. Now he felt he was doing something worthwhile. This was
interesting, proper police work. What was the story behind this little lot? Now
the others would take some notice of him. This could be a quality job. He
pulled his radio out of his inside jacket pocket and called Handstead Control.

    'What
d'you want, Pizza?' answered the operator, who shared his colleagues' disdain for
him.

    'I'm
down at the Grant Flowers garage blocks,' started Pizza, 'and I've found a bag
of clothing.'

    'Does
any of it fit you?'

    'What?
No, no, I've found a load of clothing covered in blood.'

    'Very
interesting, Pizza. And?'

    Pizza
was speechless for the second time that morning.

    'And?'
repeated the disinterested, indolent operator.

    'Well,
what should I do with it?' queried the rapidly deflating Pizza.

    'You
could take it to a launderette,' offered the operator.

    Several
miles away on the used car forecourt, the Brothers were listening attentively
to Pizza's radio message. It sounded as though he had stumbled on something
that might be of interest later. And whilst they had little time for him, they
had even less time for the operator.

    'He's
a useless idle bastard,' snarled Jim, grabbing his radio and transmitting
without identifying himself. 'Get it back to the nick and book it in,' he
shouted in his unmistakable accent.

    Pizza
heard the advice, replaced everything in the bag, slung it over his shoulder,
and headed back towards the nick. If nothing else, he could kill an hour or so
out of the rain booking it in. He might even be able to spin it out until
breakfast.

    It
took him ten minutes to get back. When he walked into the front office the
Blister was still engrossed in her magazine. She buzzed him in and only glanced
up when he dropped the bag on the floor next to her.

    'What's
in there?'

    'A
load of bloodstained clothes and boots; what's that smell?'

    'Rosie
pissed herself earlier. I hope you don't think I'm booking it in. You brought
it in, you book it in.'

    'OK,
I didn't expect you to,' said Pizza, trying to sound aggrieved. 'Which register
should I put it in?'

    'Miscellaneous
Property,' said the Blister, imperiously waving a finger at a rack of registers
and files above the front desk. Pizza located the register he needed, picked up
the bag and began to walk down the corridor towards the report-writing room.

    Sergeant
Jones was in the corridor sniffing the air as Rosie's aroma filled the nick.
'What the fuck is that smell, and what are you doing in?' he demanded of Pizza,
determined to improve his day by making someone else's a misery.

    'Rosie
the scat pissed herself earlier, apparently, and I've brought in a bag of
bloodstained clothing.'

    'What
for?'

    'She
can't control her bladder, or her arse, apparently.'

    'The
fucking clothes, not Rosie. Why have you brought them in?'

    Pizza
was about to reply, 'Because someone shouted over the radio to do it,' but
thought better of it. He considered the question again.

    'Well?'
said Jones testily.

    'It's
covered in blood and had been hidden away,' replied Pizza, finding inspiration,
'and I think that merits a little investigation.' Jones bridled at the
perceived insolence and tried to think of a suitable response.

    'For
fuck's sake,' was all he could manage before he hurried towards the toilets for
the third time that morning.

    Pizza
hung his soaking coat over a radiator and sat himself down at a desk to start
logging the contents of the bin liner. 'Please let this be a decent job,' he
said quietly to himself.

    'Hope
Pizza's got something decent,' said Jim quietly to H, who still had his eyes
closed. 'First time for everything, I suppose.'

    Frankie
Turner rolled out of bed shortly before 9 a.m., lit a cigarette and sat on the
edge of the mattress smoking. He could hear the bitch downstairs with the kids
and decided to wait until she took them out before he did anything. He lay back
on the bed, flicking his ash on to the floor, listening to the clamour
downstairs. He was bored shitless with her, had no time for his children who
were unplanned and unloved, and promised himself for the hundredth time that
he'd bugger off soon. Only one thing had stopped him going before, the fact
that he was an idle bastard incapable of looking after himself. He'd considered
going back to live with his mother, but he hated her only marginally less than
the bitch. He was stuck and he'd have to make the best of it. Still, today
wouldn't be too bad. Pick up his dole; meet the boys at the pub, good drink,
game of cards, pool. Who knows?