by Robert White
His heart was pounding in his chest as he fought with his fear and Billy was convinced that it could be heard streets away.
He leaned his bulky frame into the door. The youth was very proud of his body and couldn’t resist looking at his biceps as he put pressure on the lock. At nineteen, he had worked out in the best gyms in the country courtesy of HMP. You couldn’t leave at the end of the session and the showers were cold, but the good side was, you didn’t pay and you met some really good lads in there that knew a thing or two about going on the rob.
The door was stronger than it looked. He brushed his blonde hair from his eyes, held his breath and applied more pressure. The frame made an almost inaudible popping sound and gave way. To Billy, it was a redwood falling.
Billy quickly stepped back and concealed himself behind a dustbin. As he crouched down, he noticed it had a brick on the lid and smelt of disinfectant.
“Tidy old sod,” he thought. If the old codger had heard the door go, then now was the time. So, he had to wait and shake.
A full five minutes went by and nothing happened. Billy had to remind himself to breathe. He gripped his knees, his position near fetal. Was it the cold breeze that made his hands tremble? Each step to the now open door was loud enough to wake the dead. With one foot into the tiny kitchen, his blood raced, his pulse was deafening. Careful Billy;
No pots in the sink. “A place for every thing and everything in its place,” he thought.
The door from the kitchen led into a small hallway. From there, Billy could see two other doors, one to the lounge, the other to the bedroom. He knew the layout; all the bungalows were identical. He could smell fresh paint mixed with the odour of old people. He looked to the bedroom and saw he had a big problem, the door was wide open and Billy could see the old crone snoring not ten feet away from where he stood, holding his breath.
Almost on tiptoe, Billy stepped into the lounge. His prize was just seconds away from him. He moved the clock first and it made a clanging sound.
“What are you doing?” A shaky, but loud, elderly female voice came from behind him.
Billy couldn’t believe his ears; the wizened old cow was up!
“Get out of my house!” There was no fear in the old voice.
Billy intended to do just that but not before he had got at least some of what he’d come for. He turned to face the old lady.
Her pure white hair was held firmly in place by large ping plastic rollers, which made her head look far too big for such a petite frame. He stood over a foot taller than her. He looked down at the frail soul and pointed toward the bedroom.
“Go back to bed you silly old cow,” he hissed. “If you wake the neighbours, I’ll break your fuckin’ jaw.”
Billy had known his own Gran. Granma Davey, his mother’s mother. She hadn’t been like this old bird though. She’d been a big woman with pendulous breasts that she would push your head into at every drunken opportunity. A loud old tart she was. Always smelled of aniseed.
“Back to bed, I said.”
Then he saw it. No! Fuck no! The little orange alarm handle, dangling from a length of cord. He’d heard about the alarm system in the bungalows but never actually seen it on his previous outings. Worse still, the silly cow was almost in reach of it. Her left hand was just steps from the cord.
The old lady was going for it.
Billy’s voice was evil, “Don’t even fuckin’ think about it grandma.”
Courage had never been lacking for the elderly lady. After surviving two world wars, a foul-mouthed youth wasn’t going to frighten her. She moved a step closer to the cord.
Billy reached for her wrist, it was all going wrong, everything was slowing down, his strength was waning, he was in a dream. He had to stop her before it was too late.
He lunged at the woman.
Even through his gloves, the old girl’s skin was ice to him. He could feel her bones under it, the muscles, emaciated by age. What remained seemed wrapped in cold thin gauze.
She was easy to maneuver. Billy must have been twice her weight. He just shifted his bulk onto his left foot and pulled.
The old lady spun like a top until she made contact with a nearby armchair which caused her to lose her balance. Her arms flailed. She grabbed at Billy in an attempt to steady herself. Billy simply shoved her backward.
“Fuck off,” he spat.
She gave a low moan as she hit the floor but Billy didn’t hear. He was running. He ran faster and harder than he had for a very long time. He didn’t stop until he reached the mill gates again.
Back at the bungalow Elsie lay immobile, staring toward the alarm cord. She had been so close.
Her legs were pretty numb. Something was wrong with them, and she felt pain, a sharp pain in her hip, and the cold was troubling her, even though the heating was on.
She wasn’t worried though, as Malcolm, her eldest, would be ‘round just after breakfast, and he would sort this mess out for her. Meanwhile, she needed to sleep. As Elsie lost consciousness, she wondered if she had paid her paper bill.
Billy got his breath back at the mill gates, just as Elsie May Townsend, 83 years, widow, mother of two and grandmother of eight, lay dead on her perfectly vacuumed living room floor . . .
Billy shook. It wasn’t the cold either. His powerful legs were gone and his head felt like it would explode. He gulped in deep breaths of crisp night air and waited for his heart to change from its thunderous beat to the normal steady pace.
Finally, he got his wish and was left in his own shaken silence. Scared, unable to move, like a rabbit in a snare.
He’d been inside the perceived safety of the dark mill for over an hour. Surely the old woman would have called the coppers by now? They would have been to the house and they’d be all over the estate like a rash.
Could she give a description of him? Maybe not, the old bat was probably half blind anyway and it was dark. Just the same, he was Billy Bailey and even if she could only give them, “Young, stocky, blonde and wearing a biker jacket,” it could be enough. If he got a pull on the way back to his house, it could mean a lengthy visit down at the local nick and that was out of the question. He didn’t need that shit. He was never going to jail again. He was far too clever for that.
Yeah, he thought, give it another half an hour, let the coppers fuck off, then a quick walk home while it’s still dark and no one is the fuckin’ wiser.
Another set of tired legs were not half a mile away from the drama.
Having settled the domestic between the couple from hell in Great Townley Street, PC Dave Stewart was resigned to spending the final two hours of his shift rattling the door handles of the few remaining shops on the estate. Someone had recently added to the graffiti on the late night shop shuttering. A new swastika and ‘Pakis go home’ in multi-coloured spray paint had appeared since his last tour. The fact that the Indian shopkeepers had probably never even dreamed of visiting Pakistan, other than to fight over the disputed land of Kashmir, made no difference. To the residents of Callon, if you were Asian, you were a Paki.
Dave checked the time, decided enough was enough, and a new spring came to his step as he turned to make the mile long walk back to Preston nick.
A half-hour stroll, type up the ‘drunk and disorderly’ file from last night’s lock-up and it would be time for much needed bed.
He walked past Callon Primary school, which was in remarkable shape for a change. A full fifty- percent of the windows were intact and the football posts seemed operational.
He looked across the pitch, saw movement, and his tiredness left him in an instant. A tall, blonde, bulky figure walked briskly toward him.
Dave recognised Billy from twenty yards away. He’d had a couple of dealings with the family since his arrival on the Callon estate and remembered the lad as a nasty piece of work.
Billy had his head down. He was re-living his botched job. He didn’t see the copper until it was much too late. With only seconds to spare his senses c
ame to life, he spotted his enemy, but he was fucked.
Billy knew he had been recognised. He couldn’t run it would look bad, besides he was too cool for that. Then he remembered his gloves. The fuckin’ marigolds were still in his pocket. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten to ditch them.
Calmly and as deftly as possible, Billy pulled the gloves from his leather biker jacket and let them fall to the ground behind him as he walked the last yards.
Dave Stewart on the other hand was checking that the handcuff pouch on his belt was un-clipped and the cuff readily available. His last encounter with Bailey had been a violent one and he was in no mood to take chances so far from backup. He felt the flush of adrenaline readying his body. Fight or flight. The darkness of the playing-field was enough to hide Bailey’s discreet drop, Dave didn’t notice. The gloves were gone.
The two young men stood opposite each other on the winter mush of the school grounds. Violence beckoned both players but this was no game with rules and a ball of any shape.
Dave’s voice was quiet but confident. His training told him to stay casual, even if he felt anything but.
“Out late Billy?”
Bailey eyeballed him and walked squarely into Dave’s personal space. His breath visible, even in the half light.
“Why don’t you fuck off and leave me be.”
Billy hoped that some front would do the trick. He recognised the copper and didn’t think it could work but it had to be worth a try. He considered the nosey twat might be unnerved by his surroundings and Billy’s ever growing rep, so he carried on.
“I didn’t know they’d started the Y.T.S. for pigs now.”
Dave was neither unnerved nor surprised by his subject’s manner. Every cheap face acted tough. He’d seen real hard-men at work back in Leeds, witnessed it first hand. This lad was playing at it.
As far as Dave could see, Bailey’s attitude was a good excuse to give him a slap. Teach him a lesson. They were well and truly alone. No witnesses.
Dave’s tone remained flat calm, but there was menace there and Bailey could almost taste it.
“Keep talking Billy.” Stewart checked the field, no-one in sight or earshot as far as he could see.
“You fancy a tear-up with a copper then?
Billy felt some of his confidence drain but held firm.
“Might do yeah. Why? You think you can take me do ya?” You wouldn’t be so fuckin’ brave if it was just me ‘n you without that uniform of yours.”
Billy was doing his best to be his cool self, but he didn’t like this guy, not one little bit. He just needed to get the 200 yards to his front door and fuck this night off.
The copper was straight to the point.
“Billy, I’m gonna turn you over weather you like it or not, don’t give me the hard-man routine, lets have a quick search of your pockets and you can be on your way. Know what I’m sayin’? What’s it to be? I do my job or do you get a fuckin’ slap?”
Billy held Stewart’s gaze like a boxer at a weigh-in.
This copper knew fuck all about the old dear, or the cuffs would have been out by now. He had nothing on him. Billy was clever. See? Let the twat do his check. He was clean as a whistle.
He stepped a pace back and held out his palms.
The pig grinned at him and it wound him up.
“239 to control, over,” Stewart spoke into the radio whilst Billy did his best to look bored and inspected his fingernails.
The communications room replied and Dave spoke clearly into his set, “Yes, PNC check for wanted, on William Henry Bailey, 19 years, male, white, six feet two.”
“You’re wasting your time mate. I’m whiter than white. Paid all my fines off last month when I did my last job!” Billy put on his best ‘fuck you’ smile especially for Dave, his confidence growing by the minute. He was a powerfully built young man with white-blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. His jacket, which was the latest style a la Duran Duran, probably cost more than Dave’s best suit. How Bailey paid for it was another matter. Dave didn’t give a fuck.
Bailey held his arms out to the side, resigned to a search and let the copper root in his pockets. He knew he had fuck all on him, so he just stared straight at the pig and smiled. As Stewart leaned in Bailey spoke into his ear.
“I know where you live pal.”
Dave Stewart had spent his youth on an estate just like Callon across the border in South Yorkshire. Been there, bought the T-shirt. For families like the Bailey’s, lies, just like larceny was the family business.
He stepped back and felt himself clench his fists.
“Well you must drop in sometime and empty my bins.”
“239?” The radio crackled.
Dave regained his composure.
“Receiving over.”
Instead of the control room he had expected to hear, it was the voice of another section officer Andy ‘Armless Dunn. ‘Armless had been Dave’s Tutor Constable when he first arrived at Preston nick. He had been allocated Dave as his “sprog” for five weeks, before he was let loose on the un-suspecting general public.
Andy was the shift van driver. If there was a prisoner to bring to the nick, or any rough stuff going on, he hated to miss out.
Some of the new style senior officers, the men and women brought through the ranks via some university and later Bramshill College, thought Andy a little over zealous, but they, like every bobby on the shift, were glad to see ‘Armless if the shit hit the fan.
“Where are you Dave?” questioned ‘Armless.
“I’m on the Callon Andy, on the primary school playing fields.”
“Can you speak?”
Dave turned the P.R. down so Bailey was unable to hear the radio conversation.
“Go ahead.”
“Just watch yourself with this one Dave, I’m on my way. He can get a bit naughty.”
Dave allowed himself a smile; he could hear the van engine racing in the distance and could imagine Andy’s determination not to be too late.
“Roger that.”
Billy was getting restless. “What the fuck is going on dickhead?”
Dave couldn’t hide a smile. “Just waiting for your check Billy. Calm down.”
“No, I won’t fuckin’ calm down. I’ve ‘ad enough now. This is fuckin’ harassment. I’m gonna complain about this you tosser. I’ll have my brief on this, just you see.”
“239?” the radio crackled.
This time it was the control room.
“239 receiving.”
“Outstanding Arrest Warrant on one William Henry Bailey, for non-payment of fines, power of arrest, over.”
Dave Stewart looked at Bailey. He never came quietly, but that suited Dave Stewart just fine. He didn’t like the guy one bit.
“You gonna come nice and easy Billy? You should pay those fines of yours.”
Bailey set himself. Dave could see the muscles in his neck and shoulders swell. Billy’s eyes glazed over, it was always the same for him. He clenched his teeth. His fists were now solid balls of bone and muscle. He had no intention of going to the station and he would fight anyone to avoid it.
“Fuck you.”
The young policeman wasn’t about to take chances. Dave dropped his right shoulder and sent a punch to Bailey’s left kidney. He delivered it with all his weight. It was more practiced than any of his colleagues could ever know.
The moment the punch connected, Stewart brought up his left hand to Bailey’s throat. He took hold of his windpipe between thumb and forefinger, slid his left leg behind Bailey’s and expertly dropped him to the ground.
Bailey was choking now. The fall to the ground had knocked the air from his body and he was unable to breathe as the Policeman had cut of his supply.
Dave Stewart spoke into the ear of the slowly asphyxiating Bailey, his mouth so close that Billy felt hot spittle on his lobe, “No…fuck you Bailey, you’re nicked.”
In all the excitement, Dave had failed to see his colleague saunter casu
ally over to the scene of the trauma. He looked directly at the struggling youth pinned on the grass below.
‘Armless was a monster of a man. No spring chicken, but definitely not one to be messed with.
His young trainee seemed in perfect control of the situation but there was one small problem. Dave just may kill his prisoner if he didn’t let go in the next few seconds.
Andy thrust his hands into his pockets. His still, thick Glaswegian accent cut the air in two.
“Ye don’t seem to need me anymore David,” Andy said playfully, “and you have no fuckin’ idea how much that upsets me.”
Armless, was born and bred a Scot. He’d been a military man before joining Lancashire Constabulary nine years earlier and it still showed. He coughed into his hand theatrically and added less jovially, “I think the wee lad’s had enough now pal.”
Dave released Bailey, who promptly spewed his last meal on the wet grass.
He stood and brushed part of a field from his uniform. “Hello ‘Armless, I see you’re slowing down, leavin’ the young lads t’do all the work.”
“I’ll still give you a run for your money, you cheeky wee shite,” said the older man. Dave looked Andy up and down. He had the appearance of a half-savaged pit bull terrier squeezed into a police uniform and Dave believed every word he said.
Armless picked up the now deflated Bailey in one huge fist carefully avoiding the pool of vomit at his feet. He handcuffed him and led him to the waiting van.
As he slammed the door closed he turned and shouted to Dave, “Aye, an’ just for your cheek lad, you can walk back to the nick.”
Dave was devastated.
“Awe come on Armless, I’ve just done a twelve on foot.”
Any protest fell on the ears of a man who had spent the last eighteen years teaching lessons to mortals from both sides of the fence.
“Bloody typical,” said Dave, to no-one in particular, as he picked up his helmet, gloves and torch that had fallen to the ground in the struggle.
