by Nick Oldham
‘Stitched, packed and dressed.’
‘So he’s ready to go?’
‘He’s all yours,’ she said. ‘As you can see he’s all dressed again, even if his clothes are a mess.’
Henry turned to the man and smiled savagely. ‘Did you hear that? You’re mine, all mine.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He was lying on his side, scowling at Henry.
Henry came up alongside the bed and extracted his warrant card.
‘All we’ve been through and we haven’t even been introduced to each other. My name is Henry Christie—’ he pushed the ID right up to his nose – ‘and I’m a detective superintendent from Lancashire Constabulary. This gent—’ he thumbed at FB – ‘is the chief constable, which means you’ve got the best of the best looking after you … and you are?’
‘Johnny Asian.’
‘Ahh, the well-known Johnny Asian. Is that your real name?’
‘It’s what I’m called.’
‘Not what I asked.’
‘It’ll do. It’s what I get called because my skin’s a bit dark. Anyway, what is this? I’m the injured party here. I thought I’d be going on to a ward for the night, for observations, like.’
‘No such comfort for you, laddie. You’ve been discharged and now you’ve been arrested.’
‘For what? I’m the one who’s been beaten up.’
‘Be that as it may, Johnny Asian, or whatever your name is, I’m arresting you for affray … there’s a lot of questions need answering here.’
‘No chance.’ Johnny sat up quickly, realized too late he had put weight on to his wound, screamed and leapt off the bed as if he’d been electrocuted. Henry grabbed him and yanked him around. He was thin and weightless like so many youngsters Henry came across but that didn’t stop him snarling like a cougar and struggling to get free. Henry rammed him up against the wall, pinning him there with his right arm across the lad’s chest.
‘You’re locked up and you’re going nowhere but into a cell until I’ve sorted this shite out. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence,’ Henry cautioned him through gritted teeth.
FB stepped up behind Henry and held out a set of handcuffs as Henry growled into Johnny’s face, ‘I’ve been battered and bruised by your mates, Johnny. My car’s a wreck and I’m in no mood to arse about, so stick your wrists out in front of you and let me cuff you. Make no mistake, you’re under arrest, so don’t make me kick your bottom, lad, because it’ll hurt.’
Henry looked around at FB, who was swinging the cuffs on his finger. Henry noticed they were the old-fashioned chain link type as opposed to the rigid ones that were now standard issue to operational officers. He looked up at FB. ‘Where did you get them from, the Bow Street Runners?’
‘Funny, ha-ha.’
The journey back from Rochdale all the way through Whitworth, then Bacup, then over the Deerplay Moors to Burnley seemed interminable, particularly for Henry who, in his Audi, followed FB in the Land Rover. FB drove slowly and carefully at a speed which grated on Henry.
So, apart from mulling over what had happened from the moment the young lady, Annabel, had burst in through the pub door and interrupted his JD, Henry was also feeling annoyed about how Lancashire Constabulary, so constrained by budget cuts imposed by successive governments, was expected to operate with anything like efficiency.
He hated harping back to the good old days, but the fact was when he had joined the police there had been a cell or cells in each police station in each town in Rossendale. Now there was only one actual police station, which had cost a hefty three mill and which was not even equipped to deal with prisoners, other than ‘in-and-outs’, that is, prisoners who could be processed quickly. All other prisoners – and that meant the majority of them – had to be conveyed over the hills and far away to Burnley nick.
It was bad enough having to haul a prisoner from Rawtenstall, which was only just over the hill from Burnley. Having to convey someone from the far reaches of Whitworth was verging on ludicrous. Henry also knew that Burnley’s days as a custody office were numbered, too. Soon, all prisoners from Rossendale (and all the far-flung towns east of Burnley) would have to be taken to Blackburn.
Inconvenient to say the least and a terrible waste of a cop’s time. Henry knew this situation often left streets un-policed for hours on end, which he thought was an abysmal disservice to the public.
It was therefore a good thing that the chief constable was on the prowl tonight. He could experience first-hand just how hard the cuts were chewing away at policing the streets.
Not that FB was too concerned.
He was the one who had driven the cuts as dictated by the Home Office but now he was due to retire, not least because he did not get along with the newly elected Police and Crime Commissioner, with whom he’d had two very public differences of opinion about the cutbacks and how the new post of PCC seemed to guzzle money without conscience.
Henry decided he would have a dig at FB later about the cuts, just to wind him up. Just for some sport.
As the two vehicles crossed the road at the top of the moors, the rain seemed to intensify and visibility dropped considerably on the poorly lit roads. Even the efficient headlights of the Audi struggled to pierce the darkness. Henry jumped when he felt water drip on to his neck and he groaned angrily as he twisted to see that the convertible roof had started to leak from being struck and damaged during the baseball bat attack.
He swore as he thought about the future repair cost and the hassle of dealing with insurance claims.
Just as the vehicles began the long, winding descent off the moors to Burnley, the Land Rover signalled and pulled into a lay-by close to a derelict brick mill. Henry shook his head irritably and drew in behind. Although he was getting wet he was reluctant to get out of the Audi.
‘What the …?’ he muttered.
The driver’s door of the Land Rover opened and FB rolled out and scurried back to Henry, who made him wait in the rain for just a fraction longer than necessary before opening the window.
‘What’s happening, boss?’
‘Lad keeps banging and shouting on the cab window.’
Henry blinked. ‘OK.’
‘Says he feels sick, woozy and wants a piss.’
‘We’ll be there in less than five minutes, now,’ Henry said. ‘He’ll have to wait.’
‘I don’t want him messing up the back of the Land Rover.’
‘What do you want to do?’ Henry asked, hoping he was masking his rising irritation at the chief. He didn’t want to lose it, but this was just being a bit silly and wasting time.
Both officers looked at the back window of the Land Rover, on which the spare wheel was fixed. The prisoner’s face was pressed up against the inner grille.
‘Let him be sick and have a pee?’
‘You sure?’ Henry asked.
‘Henry, I am not mopping out the back of a Land Rover covered in urine and vomit.’
‘He can do it,’ Henry said. As far as he was concerned, this was a non-discussion.
‘No, I’m going to let him do it out of the back,’ FB said. ‘He’s still cuffed. I’m not taking them off.’
‘Boss?’ Henry started to say, but FB had already turned away and was walking back to the vehicle. Henry watched him, aghast, as he unlocked the door, at which moment Henry realized what a big mistake that was.
As soon as the door was unlocked and FB had lifted the handle, Johnny Asian booted the door with the flat of his foot and with all his strength. This caught FB unawares and the heavy door, made heavier by the spare wheel, slammed into him and forced him off balance. He tripped and fell splat on his backside into a deep, muddy puddle.
Henry moved as Johnny leapt from the back of the Land Rover like a greyhound out of a trap, weaved sideways – and here Henry saw that he had somehow managed
to squeeze his right hand out of the cuffs – and sprinted away. Before Henry had even got completely out of the Audi, the last sighting he had of Johnny was of him flashing across the road and vaulting the low wall into the dark valley beyond and into blackness.
EIGHT
Johnny had actually been dreading Charlie Wilder’s return home from prison. He would have been much happier for him to have rotted in a cell for the rest of his life.
Johnny had a very big, increasingly fat reason for not wanting Charlie back on the scene, one which that night had become much more serious.
Johnny had known Charlie and Luke Wilder for most of his life.
With Jake, the lads had spent their early years growing up together in very poor, high-rise council flats in Rochdale. They had attended the same primary and secondary schools, though the verb ‘attended’ could only loosely be applied to the four of them as far as educational establishments were concerned.
They formed a loose-knit gang and spent years running free and uncontrolled through the streets, gradually becoming more feral and dangerous as they grew into teenagers. All four got a lot of pleasure from beating up other kids and some adults – such as teachers – over whom they swarmed like a pack of hyenas bringing down injured prey – and they hurt their victims, often badly.
Crime was part of their upbringing.
Petty crime at first. Shoplifting in Rochdale town centre, stealing from individuals, then robbery – using force to take money or goods, often from defenceless, unsuspecting older people they targeted on pension day. As they grew older they gravitated to armed robbery and gleefully ‘took down’ countless small convenience stores across the Greater Manchester area. Their offences became increasingly violent and aggressive, and although the police hunted for them, they managed to avoid their clutches.
It helped that Charlie’s father inherited his father’s farm in Whitworth when the old man died. Charlie’s dad – a rogue and drug addict – moved him and Luke up to Whitworth, which, of course, was over the border in Lancashire, not in Manchester. This meant that the gang committed their crimes in one county, but lived in another, making it much harder for the police to capture them.
They would plan the robberies, commit them, then hurtle back across the border and go to ground in the farm as though they were the Hole in the Wall Gang. They took great pains never to rob anywhere in Lancashire because, as Charlie drummed into them, ‘You never, ever shit on your own doorstep – golden rule.’
All four eventually ended up living in Whitworth, with Johnny and Jake living mostly with Johnny’s elder sister on the Wallbank council estate.
Life was fairly good for them, the combination of state benefits and money from crime keeping them all reasonably happy.
On the whole, the relationship between the four young bucks was never really dented by the appearance of girls on the scene. Females were generally treated badly, screwed and dumped, sometimes shared, but they never became a source of conflict or jealousy.
That was until Annabel Larch crashed into them and Charlie started going out with her. It was more than his usual casual relationship, though the macho Charlie was often at pains to describe Annabel to the rest of the gang as ‘just another fuck’, but the others could tell they were hollow words.
He had pretty much fallen for her; otherwise, as Luke once commented drily, ‘Why would he put up with her shit?’
The biggest problem with Annabel was that, after the first flush of hot lust, it transpired that all she wanted was a steady home and a peaceful life. She had been as wayward as anybody in her teens, but as she crept into her twenties, thoughts of motherhood started to overpower her and she became desperate to settle down and have kids.
For his part, Charlie tried his best to impregnate her just to stop her from moaning, but despite his best efforts, his issue did not appear to have enough ‘whumph’ to pierce its way into Annabel’s very fertile eggs.
It was for this very reason that Charlie ended up in jail.
After six months of trying and no success, an argument ensued between the couple as she intimated that their relationship might be doomed if he couldn’t get her ‘up the spout’, as she so colourfully described the beauty and mystery of motherhood.
This point of the argument was reached after a lot of alcohol in a pub in Whitworth and their loud exchange, which verged on violence, resulted in Charlie being asked to leave the pub by the landlord. When he refused, the landlord ejected him forcibly with the help of the police.
Charlie staggered drunkenly through the streets of Whitworth, simmering with rage and embarrassment. He then had an encounter with an entirely innocent middle-aged man out walking his dog, whom he had never met or seen before. For no good reason, this man made the error of inadvertently glancing at Charlie and became a victim.
Charlie attacked him ferociously, then set about kicking the life out of the unfortunate dog, which was pounded to death by the flat of Charlie’s shoe. The man was left unconscious with a fractured skull and just for good measure Charlie rifled through his pockets and stole his wallet.
Had Charlie left it at that, he might have got away with it, but he reeled into an off-licence and bought some more booze with the injured man’s cash. Unknown to him, as he fumbled with the man’s wallet he dropped a credit card, which was left behind as Charlie left the shop bearing his six-pack.
The shop owner knew Charlie, so when he picked up the card and saw the name on it wasn’t ‘Charlie Wilder’, he called the police.
From that point on it was fairly easy for the local cops to join up the dots and an arrest swiftly followed.
After two months in custody on remand, Charlie found himself standing in front of a grim-faced Crown Court judge and jury where his guilt was easily established. His defence counsel argued well for him and despite the judge calling him an ‘evil, violent man’, he was fortunate not to get more than the four-year jail term handed down to him. He came out two years later under licence and wearing a tag.
The man he assaulted recovered slowly from his injuries – but was never the same again. The dog, sadly, was buried.
Charlie never once thought about his victim or the dog he’d stomped to death.
On one of her frequent visits to him in custody, Annabel professed her deep and undying love for him and promised to be there on his release, when they would try again for a kid.
She did try her hardest to remain faithful.
Luke, Johnny and Jake visited Charlie as often as possible initially, but travelling over to Preston each week was a tedious, expensive journey and as time passed the visits became fewer and fewer and the three remaining lads, having lost Charlie’s vigorous impetus, became more lazy and dissolute.
It was about twelve months into Charlie’s sentence when Johnny bumped into Annabel in the Dog and Partridge pub in Whitworth. She said she was going to visit her banged-up boyfriend next day but was struggling for a lift. Johnny said he could use his sister’s car, an old banger, and would be willing to take her if she wanted.
She said yes, thanked him and gave him a peck on the cheek, the imprint of which stayed with him all that night.
Johnny drove her to Preston next morning and she went in to visit Charlie. Johnny didn’t show his face and asked Annabel not to mention he had given her a lift. Even though Charlie was in prison, Johnny was wary of him.
On the way home, Johnny took the scenic route, driving back through Blackburn and over the high moors across into Rossendale. As the car chugged over Grane Road, snaking over the moor, Annabel unexpectedly leaned over and planted a sloppy kiss on Johnny’s cheek. He almost swerved off the road.
‘Thanks,’ she cooed.
After bringing the steering wheel back to its central position, Johnny said, ‘No problem.’ He felt a flush up the neck and a rush down into his groin.
‘Always liked you, Johnny. Always thought you were the decent guy in the gang,’ she said, watching his profile and his colouring up with a s
mirk on her face, knowing full well the effect she was having on him.
‘Ta, but I’m just as stupid as the others.’
‘No, no you’re not.’
She leaned over, but this time slid her right hand on to his left thigh, tucking it intimately down between his legs where his balls rested.
He jumped. ‘What you doing?’
‘D’you fancy me?’ she whispered seductively in his ear.
What was there not to fancy, Johnny thought, in his simplistic head. She was fit, slim, had lovely tits and he had always harboured a fantasy about screwing her behind Charlie’s back. But he had never let this show. Charlie was far too dangerous an individual for Johnny to make a move on his girl.
Annabel tucked back a wisp of her hair behind her ear and leaned even closer.
She moved her hand, twisted her wrist and cupped his balls over his jeans.
Johnny emitted a gasp as the blood flooded into his penis. ‘You’re Charlie’s lass,’ he said, but at the same time he did not want her to take her hand away.
‘And Charlie is in a friggin’ cell … and I haven’t had a cock in my hand for a year and it’s driving me crazy.’
She started to unzip him.
He swerved around the next bend as she peeled down his underpants and revealed a very rampant member.
‘Oh God,’ he groaned.
‘Shine a light,’ she said appreciatively as she took hold of him. This time the swerve across the road almost caused a collision with an oncoming car. Johnny only just managed to correct the car in time.
‘I’m pullin’ in here,’ he hissed urgently. He slammed on and drove on to a car park for the Clough Head Visitor Centre off the Grane Road. There was a small café here and it was a popular start and end point for hillside ramblers. Johnny veered across the car park and skidded to a grit flinging halt and before he knew it Annabel had lowered her head and had taken him into her hot, wet mouth. His left hand snaked down the back of her skirt, into her pants, and cupped her pussy, which was as hot as a blast furnace.
