by Steven Clark
‘Yes Sir,’ said he, almost as sheepishly as the defendant. Having only attended court twice before, Betty was more experienced than him when it came to giving evidence.
Outside the court he was waiting for a lift back to the station when he heard a quiet voice from behind.
‘Excuse me officer.’ He turned and there she was. ‘Can I speak to you in private?’
They turned the corner out of the public eye and she began to cry softly.
‘It was you wasn’t it, you who locked me up? I saw the name PC Watkins on my arrest sheet but I couldn’t remember what you looked like until I saw the Magistrate nod at you in the court.’
She made good eye contact and beneath the tears there was a sadness that he didn’t understand at first. Just for a second, he thought she was going to start sobbing, but she wiped away a small tear and raised her head and the steely glare had returned once more.
Dave looked at her closely; she was a very attractive young girl who looked older than her sixteen years. She could easily pass for an eighteen year old. With short blond hair, shapely figure and just a little makeup, it was easy to see why the punters would be very interested in her assets.
He waited for what he believed would be a tirade of abuse and began to regret being out of the public gaze for a minute. He shouldn’t have taken her round the corner he thought to himself. When she kicked off again, he wanted to ensure there were plenty of witnesses for when he had to lock her up once more for disorderly conduct.
The tirade never materialised.
‘I’m very sorry PC Watkins and I apologise for my behaviour last week. I know you were only doing your job.’ Her words were spoken clearly and politely and her strong Liverpool accent was no more.
‘Did I offer you anything, you know, anything, anything physical?’
Dave was struck dumb. This couldn’t be the same wildcat he had encountered the previous week; the very same lass who was going to, ‘rip your fucking balls off and feed them to me fucking dog.’
After a few seconds he recovered his composure and said, ‘Yes. Yes you did actually.’
‘And did I, you know, did I do it.’
‘No you didn’t, I declined your offer.’
‘Oh, is that right then?’ She said with her head cocked to one side; chewing an imaginary piece of gum, hand on her hip. ‘You declined me fucking offer did yeh?’ spoken in her best Liverpool accent. The tension between them eased and they both laughed a little.
She folded her arms in a gentle, friendly way as she looked down at her shoes which had definitely seen better days. ‘I don’t remember things when I’m drunk. I don’t think I want to remember really. It’s better not too. That way, if I don’t remember, I’ve got nothing to worry about have I?’
As she looked at him, the sadness in her eyes returned again.
He said, ‘Are you OK?’ ‘Not really’ said Betty, ‘but I will be when I’m drunk. See you later and thanks again.’
‘Thanks for what?’ said Dave, ‘Locking you up?’
‘Oh no’ said Betty. ‘I know you had to lock me up, thanks for declining me offer, there’s not many that do.’
She shrugged her shoulders as she turned and headed off to the pub round the corner. At that point, he understood some of the pain behind the eyes. She was only a kid. He watched until she turned out of sight. What a waste, he thought; she was a spirited and intelligent girl who should have had a much better life. Although he had only been in the job for a few short months, that conversation struck him as extremely sad. Their paths would cross many times over the years and she was always violent and abusive when drunk; but, she never made him any ‘offers’ ever again.
They would talk many times over the coming years and Dave had taken a bit of a shine to her in a brotherly, protective kind of a way. When she was sober, she was the funniest, quick witted girl he had ever met. A born mimic who could impersonate most celebrities. She often had him with tears running down his cheeks with laughter. When they talked seriously, Dave would sometimes shudder at her tales.
Even if only ten per cent of what she told him was true, she’d had an extraordinary and painful life from a very early stage. Sixteen years of age, she had led the life of a forty year old.
She once told him that she had been an alcoholic from the age of ten years and had been abused by both her father and his brother, her uncle, from the age of seven.
Her mother and father were both Scottish, and although she was born in Glasgow, she always thought of herself as a ‘Scouser’ having come to Liverpool when she was eight years old.
She told Dave that if she thought of herself as a Liverpudlian, as opposed to Glaswegian, she could almost blot out the fact that Scotland had been the place of her childhood torment.
She used to blame herself that it was her fault. She must have been a very bad girl for her ‘Da’ and Uncle to treat her in such a way. Her Da was kind and affectionate in a proper fatherly way if he hadn’t been drinking. She often said that she got her violence when she was drunk from him; lovely when sober; a right bastard when pissed.
She always knew, well before the punishment, that it was on its way as the two of them, Da and Uncle Joe, could be heard two streets away as their hob nailed boots would sound loudly on the cobbled granite sets. Da’s boots made a very distinctive sound as a consequence of a limp from a shipyard accident when she was a baby.
A cotton bale had fallen from a sling as it was being lowered onto a wagon. As it hit the edge of the trailer, the gang of Dockers had all scrambled clear but her Da didn’t move quickly enough and his left leg was smashed in two places. She often wondered whether or not God had punished him for being a bad man or did he only become a bad man after the accident? Either way, there was many a time when she used to wish that the bale had fallen on his head instead of his leg.
With her lifestyle and foul mouth when drunk, Dave didn’t expect her to live a long and happy life.
Sometimes, when on patrol in the early hours of the morning, he would see a figure slumped in the door way of one of the dock sheds. On many occasions, she had a split lip or a black eye as a consequence of mouthing off at a punter who would consider that as he had bought her services he could knock her about either whilst having sex, or afterwards instead of paying for it. Most of the blokes were ok; but there were others, a fair few of them, who got their kicks from violent sex.
Even when she knew the identity of her attacker, she would never make a complaint; as far as she was concerned, it was an occupational hazard. There was definitely no happy ending in sight for her way of living. Pain, suffering and drunkenness was the world she lived in. He didn’t think that world was likely to get much better any time soon.
The revving engine brought him back once more, another glance at the watch; nearly there.
What Dave didn’t like, and what most of his colleagues disliked the most, was working the gates. “Freeze your bollocks off in winter; sweat like a fucking pig in summer. Fancy that do you?” He remembered the words of the recruiting Sergeant when he had first applied to join the force after leaving the army.
He hated doing it but also understood that it was one of the most important jobs. They were the entry and exit to the Docks where everyone, people, cars, Lorries; all had to go through to either enter or leave the Dock Estate.
At each gate was a ‘bobby’ whose job was to check people, wagons, cars; anything that went in or out of the gates, to make sure that they had legitimate business within the Port and to be certain that the more dishonest were not attempting to take the docks home with them! Anything or any one who looked a bit suspicious or dodgy would be ‘pulled’ and searched before leaving the gate.
Hundreds, if not thousands of Lorries, the lifeblood of the Port, went in and out of the docks each day carrying every conceivable commodity from bulk cargos of timber, steel, animal foodstuffs: to containers carrying clothing, furniture, through to high value cargos of bullion, used bank notes or spirits
. Some containers carried dangerous cargos of firearms or explosives.
Whatever item you can think of, it has probably gone in or out of one of those Dock gates at one time or another.
The gate officers hardly ever know what the containers consist of but for security purposes, each driver as he leaves the docks has to give a gate pass to the officer and once he has checked the pass details of correct date, time, container number, vehicle registration number etc, the Lorry would leave the docks for some far flung location such as sunny Birkenhead!
Another day, another dollar, another night shift nearly done. Not long now before his Morning Duty colleague would relieve him from the furthest outpost of the Port of Liverpool known to all and sundry as the Bramley Moore gate and home to a warm bed which would soon be vacated by the lovely Mandy. He smiled once more at the thought of her warm knickerless cheeks snuggled beneath the duvet. You never know, thought Dave, maybe a quick one before the kids wake up.
He looked down the dock avenue in the direction of the accelerating engine and saw the headlights approach. As it drew nearer he could see the Mercedes HGV pulling a forty foot trailer with a container on the back destined for some exotic location he knew not where.
He sometimes played a little game whereby he would try to guess the intended destination of the load. North or South, he wondered. Scotland or Birmingham. ‘Scotland’ said Dave to no one in particular. ‘Glasgow I reckon for today’s little excursion.’
As the wagon approached his gate, he recognised the driver as a regular. He didn’t know him well; only that his name was Joe and that he had worked for McAdams Transport firm for a few years. He was a local bloke who was a fervent supporter of Everton FC for his sins; still, he supposed, someone had to support them.
Dave, being a Liverpool fan, liked to share a bit of banter with Joe and usually a few friendly insults about the others team passed between them.
Another glance at the watch. Nearly there now. Another 20 minutes or so and the morning bobby will be here and time for the off.
Dave thought about the saying he had heard countless times over the years, A policeman’s lot is not a happy one. Well, thought Dave, I’m pretty happy right now; nearly time to go.
Chapter 3
The wagon pulled up at the gate a few yards from Dave with a hiss from the air brakes and dust, kicked up from the stone granite sets of the road surface, swirled around. He went to the driver’s side of the cab and the window slowly wound open and Joe reached down to give Dave the police pass.
‘Mornin Joe,’ said Dave. ‘How’s that shite team of yours then?’ He looked up into the driver’s seat expecting to see Joe grinning that toothy grin with a fag hanging out of his mouth.
Joe wasn’t smoking, he wasn’t grinning. In fact, he wasn’t even looking at Dave. He was staring straight ahead staring out of the windscreen.
‘You’re a happy bastard this morning. What’s up, either your piles are giving you gip or you didn’t get your leg over last night. Which one eh? No shagging, or a sore arse. Mind you, if I was your missus and married to you, it would have to be a sore arse as you definitely wouldn’t be getting any shagging off me you fat miserable old git.’
As he spoke, Dave moved to the front of the wagon to note that the registration number matched the details on the Pass. After doing the gates for so long, it was an instinctive reaction and more often than not all the details were correct. Sometimes it was necessary to send a vehicle back to the point of loading if there was an error in the paperwork. No problem today. Everything okay.
Again, out of habit, Dave glanced up at the passenger side of the windscreen to check that the Tax Disc was displayed in the lower left hand corner. It was still quite dark at this time of the morning on a damp early March day and at first, Dave didn’t see him.
Sat in the passenger seat, he could barely make out the figure of a man wearing a dark jacket and baseball cap. Joe didn’t usually have a passenger at this time of the morning, must be another driver getting a lift mused Dave. ‘Mornin mate, pity you sat next to this old fart, hope you don’t have far to go,’ said Dave as he turned away.
He went back to the driver’s side window and handed the copy of the pass back to Joe. ‘OK you miserable prick, better get your sad arse up the road before it gets busy and you might just get back in time to see your lot get stuffed again.’ Dave thought that; piles or not, the friendly insults would bring a grin from the old bugger.
Joe sat rigid, hands gripping the steering wheel and still staring straight ahead. As Dave looked up at his unsmiling normally friendly adversary, he saw a small trickle of sweat appear from under his flat cap and run slowly down his right temple onto his cheek. Even a fat fucker like Joe wouldn’t be sweating on a cold morning like this thought Dave.
Now, it was his turn to stare. He stood transfixed for a second and then said, ‘OK Joe, just a quick look in the wagon before you go eh?’
Joe looked down at Dave. His mouth didn’t move but his eyes were trying to speak. Dave didn’t see the look of fear as he had already started walking round to the passenger side of the lorry.
He looked up at the man in black. ‘Open the door mate’ said Dave. The passenger wound the window down, ‘what’s the problem officer?’
‘No problem mate, just a routine check of the cab and a quick look in the bunk behind you before you leave.’ He had said those words countless times over the years. Today was just another day.
‘Open the door please mate’ said Dave as he looked up to make eye contact with the man.
‘Doors open mate’ came the calm, matter of fact reply.
Dave took hold of the door handle and pulled. The door opened easily. Because of the size of the wagon, his head and shoulders were at seat height as he opened the door, he was still looking at the passengers face attempting to gauge any reaction. His experience over the years had told him that guilty people often get nervous when they have something to hide; they break eye contact, become twitchy and fidgety. This man wasn’t in the least nervous and looked him squarely in the eye.
The door opened fully. ‘You just made the biggest fuckin mistake of your life ‘mate’ said the man in black.
‘What’s your problem?’ said Dave.
‘I haven’t got one. But you have you nosey bastard. Why didn’t you just take the pass and fuck off back into your little hut?’ The strangers’ eyes lowered and Dave followed his gaze. Laying across his knees, and no more than three feet away, was a sawn off, double barrelled shotgun pointing directly at his face.
‘Oh sweet Jesus’ he said as his knees began to sag as he saw the finger on the trigger. He continued to look at the twin tubes. He knew he had said the words, but he thought they were from a movie and he would suddenly wake up, ‘am I going to die today?’ Much to his surprise, his voice was quiet and calm and he was just hoping that his bowels would remain intact.
Dave felt his initial panic begin to subside and his emotions began to change. He started to feel a sense of anger and outrage as he looked across at Joe sat in the drivers’ seat. He was terrified; his hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice. He was shocked rigid. Joe was a decent ordinary bloke who was now caught up in something he had absolutely no control over. It was patently obvious, given his grey pallor and rigid arms that there was no way he was sat there willingly.
Often referred to as ‘fight or flight’; people act instinctively without thinking and they either run like fuck; or get stuck in. Nobody can ever really tell how they will react until the situation is thrust upon them. Dave felt the anger rise within. How dare this evil, bullying bastard scare the shit out of an ordinary bloke who causes no harm to any one and just wants to drive for a living. I’d like to rip that shotgun from your fuckin hands mate and shove it up your…
Dave was brought out of his rising anger.
‘That depends on you mate.’ said the gunman. ‘Get in and don’t say a fuckin word. One dodgy move and you’ll have a big hole where your gut
s used to be.’
He climbed into the cab and sat next to the gunman. As he felt the barrel of the gun press into the right side of his ribs, incredibly, he heard himself laugh out loud. It was a mixture of fear and adrenaline. The barrel was rammed harder into his side and he winced in pain.
‘Just what is it about this situation that you find so fucking funny?’
‘It was when you said, one dodgy move, it sounded like something out of a film.’
‘Shotgun’ leaned closer, his eyes were piercing and wild and Dave was certain this wasn’t the first armed robbery he’d been involved in, not by a long way.
‘Then you’d better hope to fuck that this film has a happy ending.’
He repeated Dave’s words of a few moments earlier when he opened the cab door, ‘am I going to die today,’ he mockingly whined as Dave saw the fingers tighten on the trigger. He half closed his eyes waiting for the blast to erupt. He had seen photo’s of close quarter shotgun wounds whilst doing his training. He knew enough to know that he would die almost instantly as the two barrels unleashed together would practically cut him in half.
‘I’d like to off you now mate but you might come in useful. But, don’t you worry porky, I’d be more than happy to do you later.’ Not taking his eyes off Dave, Shotgun said to Joe, ‘Get this fuckin wagon movin or plod here will be wearing his fuckin guts like a necklace.’
Dave didn’t know as yet but his new found friend was none other than Luke Johnson a notorious armed robber also known as ‘chopper Johnson’. He earned his nickname as a nineteen year old involved in an armed robbery of a Security guard who was carrying a cash box that was handcuffed to his wrist. Just prior to the guard depositing the box in his security van, he was kicked to the ground by Johnson who was armed with a three foot long machete.
