by Robert White
Dave was halfway down the steps when he remembered Andy Dunn and their weekend plans. Dave knew he would be there, and when Andy saw him, he would give him shit. He and ‘Armless’ had planed the piss-up for ages. Dave hadn’t even bothered to ring him to cancel. He had been too excited by his date.
Dave and Anne both pushed their ID cards in front of the doormen and were allowed straight into the bustling club, the entrance fee waved.
As they made their way toward the bar, Anne took Dave’s hand and he held it tight.
Once the drinks were ordered, Anne left for the sanctuary of the ladies. Dave went in search of ‘Armless’.
He didn’t have to look far; he was lounging in a corner of the club, draped around the barmaid he was seeing on and off. Dave had seen her a few times when drinking in the Black Bull. She seemed a good sort.
Lucy was trying bravely to fight off the advances of the Policeman. Andy Dunn was having a great time. It looked to Dave, like Lucy would soon give in to her man and seemed to be enjoying the game as much as ‘Armless.
Dave stood in full view of Andy Dunn and waited for the avalanche.
“Oh! Ho!” bellowed ‘Armless’, over the booming music.
He temporarily released Lucy. “You wee jobbie of Yorkshire shite, you’ve finally shown up eh?”
Dave raised his hands in surrender and smiled. “Sorry ‘Armless’, but something important came up.”
In a mock display of aggression, Andy Dunn rolled up his shirtsleeves, displaying the 20-inch biceps that gave him his nickname.
“I think it’s time to teach the sprog a lesson. What do you say Lucy?”
Lucy was laughing so much, that her more than ample assets seemed to be fighting to escape from her flimsy top. Right on time Anne appeared at Dave’s side. She slipped her hand in his and gave him a peck on the cheek.
Dave sported the stupidest grin Andy had ever seen.
Andy was shocked and impressed in equal amounts. He eyed Anne up and down. “F’God’s sake Hen, you scrub up well fer a Sergeant.”
Anne turned her head to look at Dave. “I’m not the only one Andy.”
“So this is the important thing that came up then Dave?” Andy gestured.
He patted the seats next to him. “Ok pal, I forgive you, come and join Lucy and me, and we’ll have a right royal piss up.”
Anne folded her arms in an act of defiance. “Andy, you are about to be drunk under the table by a woman.”
The DJ played Heatwave and all around the club, the human mating ritual was taking place. Men trawling the circular dance floor hoping to catch the eye of an available female. The Square was not about true romance. This was casual sex on a plate territory. Everyone knew the score. There were more than a few wedding rings removed in the toilets, only to be replaced prior to the return home to the spouse.
For Anne, Dave, Lucy and Andy though, their stresses forgotten, it was time to party. The beer flowed and the truth came easier.
‘Armless’ leaned over to Anne. “Listen Sarge, dinnae take me wrong like, but this big daft Yorkshireman is a grand lad. He’ll make a good copper and someone a good husband. You’ll be a hard act to follow for him. I’d hate to see him hurt.”
Anne’s eyes followed Dave who was helping Lucy carry yet another round of drinks to the table.
She had to shout into the veteran cop’s ear, “Andy, when it comes to picking men, I’ve had my moments,” she paused for thought for a second and decided attack was the best form of defence.
“Anyway, how old are you now mister! I don’t see you settled with the little woman of your dreams.”
Andy shrugged. “Fair enough.”
Anne made her point before Dave sat down.
“Listen, I think that David is a great lad too, but we’ve just met, first date, give us a chance.”
The night turned to early morning and the tempo of the music changed. Anne rested her head on Dave’s shoulder. The alcohol had done its job. “You promised to dance with me.”
They held each other for the first time in the melee of a crowded dance floor. She felt the solid strength of his body as he swayed to and fro in an ungainly attempt to move to the music.
“Take me home,” she whispered.
The taxi pulled into Royalty Lane, a tree-lined avenue in the semi rural area of New Longton.
Close to Lancashire Police Headquarters, it boasted the grand accommodation Anne called home. It was a typical middle class development of 1930’s houses. Substantial dwellings with large airy rooms with high ceilings and higher prices; they were the kind of houses Dave could only ever dream of.
As the taxi slowed, Anne noticed a large dark saloon car parked directly outside her house. Her heart skipped a beat.
She tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Keep going, we’ve changed our minds.”
Dave’s head was full of wine, beer and some mad cocktail of spirits Andy had insisted on buying in the nightclub. “Where we going now Anne?” he slurred.
“Your place,” she whispered; a feeling of disgust washing over her as she double-checked the registration plate of the car.
“OK by me,” murmured Dave, totally oblivious to Anne’s discomfort. “Driver!” he announced, Lindle Court please.”
As the taxi left the affluent avenue and turned for the more modest dwellings situated in the grounds of Lancashire Police Headquarters, Detective Chief Superintendent John McCauley snored noisily behind the wheel of his car. A bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers lay on the seat beside him. It was not going to be the Chief’s night.
Dave almost fell from the taxi as Anne held onto his elbow. She paid the driver and the pair stumbled to the front door of Dave’s police house. Lindle Court sat within ‘The Colony,’ the nick-name the coppers gave to the small estate of police owned houses.
New coppers, those with less than five years service, couldn’t buy their own houses, it was the rules. Dave found the keyhole and the couple stepped inside. Anne seemed to be doing her best not to fall over in the hallway.
“Oops!” she giggled and again grabbed at Dave’s arm for balance.
Anne pushed the lounge door open and it sobered her. It was immaculately clean and tidy. It was also comparatively empty. One worn armchair faced a prehistoric black and white television. An equally ancient indoor aerial with outrageous v-shaped extensions sat on the top along with the only visible photograph. A monochrome couple smiled at the camera. Blackpool tower rose behind them and a new looking Triumph Bonneville motorcycle dated the shot around the late sixties. A book case was pushed against one woodchip covered wall. It was packed with dog-eared paperback novels, each neatly organised by author and genre. It appeared David liked to read rather than watch. There were no carpets or curtains, but he had managed to run to a small synthetic rug, placed in front of a pale green gas fire mounted inside a grey tiled fireplace.
Dave saw the look on her face and he felt ashamed.
“Not much is it?”
Anne looked up at him. She studied his face in the unkind light of an undressed lamp. He had three small scars, one below his left eye, another which dissected his top lip and traced half an inch upward toward his nose and the last that parted his right eyebrow. Anne decided all had needed hospital treatment. Despite them he was classically handsome. She had never seen such eyes on a man. They shimmered and danced with life and emotion when he spoke. They were the darkest, deepest chocolate and she wanted to drown in them.
She touched his cheek.
“Don’t be embarrassed David Stewart.”
She felt herself smile and nodded toward the hearth.
“Does that ridiculously ugly fire work?”
A flash of a grin spread across Dave’s face.
“Yeah, yeah it does.”
Anne dropped onto the rug, leaned forward on all fours and turned the dial on the fire until it made a tell-tale click. A small oomph sound indicated the gas had ignited and she sat close, rubbing her bare arms to fight the
chill of the room.
Dave found himself watching her. A wayward piece of her hair had found its way out of its clasp and kept falling into her face as she tucked her feet under her. She attempted to fix the problem, twice, gave up and released her mane so it fell in shiny ringlets over her shoulders and down her back. Dave was spellbound.
He turned out the naked lamp.
She patted the worn rug and Dave sat. The fire was warming to its task and he removed his new jacket and dropped it on the chair.
Dave looked into her eyes. The gas fire hissed and bathed Anne in a crimson glow. He couldn’t ever recall seeing someone so beautiful. He slid his hand around the back of Anne’s neck and kissed her gently on the corner of her mouth.
Then, he released her. There was a long silence, then another, firmer, passionate kiss.
“Please stay,” he said.
Three miles away McCauley woke from his uncomfortable sleep. His back ached. Where the fuck was she? He checked the clock on the dash. It was 4.30 a.m.
He looked over at the wine and flowers and grimaced.
“Bitch!”
six
Billy was in a bad way. He smelled awful and looked haunted; the dark circles under his eyes gave his face a hollow near jaundiced look. He hadn’t washed, shaved or eaten since his arrest. It had been three full days of his own private hell.
It was time for Billy’s Court appearance, but Billy’s concept of time had long since deserted him. He’d had the dreams though, the horrible rancid dreams.
Ray Holmes stood in the pungent cell next to his client, perfectly groomed. A clean set of underwear, a brand new shirt, suit, and shoes were stacked in is arms. They had cost him a few quid, but hey, this was going to be a big pay-day.
Holmes was repulsed by the stink but he figured this case was a free holiday to Bangkok, one of his favorite locations, where he could indulge in his very private interests. “Get a shower and a shave Billy, and then put these on.” He held out the clothes. “Bought at considerable expense I might say. Not your Preston market shit this.”
Billy rocked slightly on his bunk, mumbling to himself seemingly unaware of his legal advisor.
“Billy!” The brief thrust the clothes under the nose of the young lad.
“Get you’re shit together!”
Bailey lifted the great weight of his head and stared blankly at Holmes. The dawning of a familiar face didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want Ray?”
“It’s time for your Court appearance Billy! You’re in front of the beak this morning mate.”
Ray shook the suit under his nose in frustration. “You know? I’m here to help you get yourself sorted out?
Holmes rested the clothes on Billy’s lap.
“Look, get cleaned up and we’ll see what we can do for you eh?”
Billy pushed the clothes from his lap and stood. With almost mechanical movement he pushed his head into the open hatch and with great ferocity shouted to the cell officer to release him for his ablutions. Even Holmes jumped in fear. Billy was on the edge and his Council knew it.
Holmes walked the floor of the stinking cell re-reading the prosecution file. Something didn’t smell too good in that little thriller either.
As Holmes came to the end of the medical statements, Billy walked back into the cell. He was dripping from the shower, a prison towel around his middle.
“That’s more like my boy,” said Holmes.
Ray Holmes stared at the lad. Billy’s broad shoulders and well-defined muscles sent shivers down his spine.
Ray dropped the Court papers on the bunk and walked over to the troubled youth. His mouth was dry even though his face was beaded with sweat and he licked his lips before he spoke. “I’ve always looked after you haven’t I Billy?”
The solicitor stroked Billy’s newly shaven face.
“Nice and smooth William. I remember when you were called William, not Billy. The time you were just starting out, running away from that slag of a mother of yours, nicking sweets from Woolies. Remember William? How old were you then? Ten maybe just turned eleven?”
Billy knew what was coming next. He’d known from that very age, eleven years old. Holmes quickly checked the cell corridor through the hatch in the door. It was deserted. He turned and pulled the towel from Billy’s waist and held his breath as he drank in the view. He unzipped his own fly and released himself, then rested his hand on Billy’s wet, blonde hair. Billy dropped to his knees as he had so many times before. Holmes moaned at the first contact.
Within seconds Holmes was ready. He motioned Billy to his feet and turned him to face the wall. Holmes spat on his fingers and pushed them into Billy. The solicitor then forced himself inside the youth in silent ecstasy. He imagined William, not Billy. The boy as he was when they first met, when he was the right age. That did the trick.
Satisfied, Holmes re arranged his clothes and gathered the papers he’d dropped so readily. A smug expression crossed his face.
“You know Billy, your going to be alright.”
Billy stood, naked. He made no attempt at modesty. He stared at his feet and snorted derision.
“Am I Ray?”
Holmes stepped forward with is ‘best client’ smile and took Billy’s chin in his hand. His lust had vanished and William the innocent had become Billy the bonus.
“Yeah, you’ve got a lucky face Billy. Know what I mean? A fucking lucky face.”
Billy pushed Holmes’ hand away with some strength.
“I don’t feel too fuckin’ lucky Ray.
Holmes stepped back and stuffed the Court file into his latest briefcase. He rapped on the cell door.
“Constable! Constable!”
Holmes was glad to hear the steady steps of the copper walking toward the cell. Billy was a live one at the best of times and he figured the least time spent in a confined room with damaged goods, the better. He could never have considered his own actions that of a deviant. Only the lower classes fell into that category. Neither had he considered he may have been central to Bailey’s mental state. Pedophilia was an art-form to him. Something he had studied for many years. The grooming of young boys was no more erroneous to him, than ordering the wrong wine at dinner.
The lock turned and Ray slipped out of the door to the relative safety of the corridor.
Billy’s, tears flowed freely as he dressed himself. The years of abuse at the hands of Holmes and his cronies massed on top of him making it all too hard to draw a gulp of air to cry out loud. It had been that way for as long as he could remember. They had taken William Henry Bailey’s life from him, without him knowing. Taken his very breath from his body and now he just didn’t care anymore.
He took to rocking to and fro again, for comfort. It felt right.
Minutes later, officers arrived at his cell door to escort him on the short journey to Court. The guards were taking no chances after the injuries he’d inflicted on their colleague. Both coppers were young, fit, and muscular. They barely noticed his distress. Why should they care anyway? They handcuffed him briskly and marched him through the underground tunnel which led from the station to the Magistrate’s Court cells.
Bailey was kept separate from the other defendants. He was classed as ‘vulnerable.’ He had an officer with him at all times, except of course, when with his legal advisor, which, unknown to them, was when he needed protection the most.
Within the hour Bailey stood in the dock of the Magistrates Court flanked by the same two Police officers.
It was drab building of similar age to Lawson Street nick.
Ray Holmes sat in the allotted seat for the defence solicitor. The prosecuting Inspector was talking to the Magistrates, but Billy didn’t hear a thing. The same tuneless song repeated in his head over and over.
Suddenly someone was asking him to confirm his name. They asked once, then again and again. Inside his head he screamed at them to be quiet, to shut up and leave him alone. The bastard in the uniform was st
aring at him. Billy wanted to fuck him over. Billy wanted to fuck the world over.
Billy wanted out.
It took less than ten seconds for him to drop the guards, who, on the misguided orders of the Magistrate had removed Billy’s cuffs. He vaulted the dock like a gazelle and raced for the exit. The public gallery erupted. A woman screamed at the sight of blood. A camera flashed. An elderly court usher attempted to block his path but then had second and better thoughts.
Within thirty seconds, Billy was out in the rain and running for his life.
By the time the first radio transmission had alerted the Police officers in the area of the Court building of the escape, Billy had gone to ground.
Dave Stewart stretched himself. He lay with his head in Anne’s lap.
Since the early hours of Sunday morning, they had never left his bedroom. He felt wonderful. They had made love so often and with such passion, that both were exhausted but happy. Something was developing between them that, although unspoken, was as powerful as any sonnet.
Anne checked her watch. “David?”
“Hmm?”
“I’ve got an idea, why don’t we pack a few things and have a run up to the country?”
Dave sat up. “What now?”
“Yes now.”
Anne leapt up and stood on top of the bed, naked and smiling. She jumped to the bare floor and started to pull on her only clothes, still scattered around the room where she’d left them.
“We’ll go back to my place. I’ll pick up some more suitable clothes, get my car from The Winchester and just…well…go!”
Dave looked at the beautiful woman fastening her dress that now looked somewhat out of place on a grey Monday afternoon.
“Anne?”
“Yes honey?”
“I don’t want this to end.”
