The latest instalment for RAPE 101.
The tea was weak and the sandwich stale, so much for her Majesties fabled hospitality. Frank sat on a plastic chair sweating under the glare of bare neon bulbs in the interview room of the east Yorkshire constabulary on Coney Street. Wanted posters and public information bulletins pinned to a cork board were the only other decoration in what had possibly once been a cloak room – rows of coat hooks still lined the wall.
*
His day had been planned – a quick visit to Izzy to collect the gear, on to the pub to pick up wages he was owed, and then onto the bookies. The Saint Ledger was running at Doncaster that weekend and he’d had a tip for a horse in the second. Emerald Warrior a thoroughbred out of one of the local stables and a sure thing according to one of his regulars, an Irish Jockey, little fella, who’d sworn that she went like a bloody rocket. He’d planned to put a monkey on the nose to win and take his winnings of to some sun splashed Spanish beach to enjoy some of the local brew and possibly a senorita or two. With autumn setting in it was starting to get cold and despite the thick jacket and leather gloves he wore on the door, the damp was starting to play havoc with his knee. An old war wound he’d acquired playing rugby back in the day that had been caused by an over enthusiastic center-half. He sat in silence, sipped his tea and rubbed his knee.
The car had come out of nowhere – no sirens, no nothing, just a squeal of breaks and a slamming of doors. Two uniforms, couple of sour faced buggers, had climbed out and invited him in no uncertain terms to come with them. Dirty-deeds-done-recently ran quickly through his mind as he tried to place what they were nabbing him for. He’d been out the car stealing business for some time and although he’d been a bit heavy handed on the door with some of the punters there was nothing that could be called unjustified; excessive maybe but not without cause.
“Frank Johnson?” they’d asked.
He’d said nothing.
“Get in the car son. We want a word down the station.”
No point fighting it. The rozzers clearly knew who they were after.
*
The door opened. A man in his mid-fifties, dressed in a crumpled civilian suit, walked into the room. Scraping back a chair he sat down opposite Frank and threw a folder down – one of the photographs it contained slid from within and scudded across the table. Frank’s blood went cold. The look on his face betrayed him instantly. The momentary lapse told the copper everything he needed to know.
“Bollocks,” thought Frank. He was done for.
“That’s right Frank,” sneered Pinkney,“we’ve got you dead to rights mate. Looks like you’ll be doing a bit of porridge in Leeds.” Leeds was an old dilapidated Victorian prison that looked as though it had been used as the back drop for a medieval vampire epic. One man to a cell was a Victorian value, but Frank had heard the stories, how they crammed four fellas into a cell, twenty two hours a day, with nothing but a bucket and a roll of toilet paper.Bloody barbaric is what it was, especially in this day and age.
“Who are you then?” Frank asked.
“I’m Inspector Pinkney. I’m the one who’s going to put you away and throw away the bloody key lad, that’s who. You can call me Inspector.”
Frank mumbled something under his breath and glanced at his watch. It was three o’clock, he should have been up to his neck in the Racing Post studying form and picking ponies, instead here he was being interviewed by the bloody pigs – a situation that was worsening by the minute.
“Recognize those mugs in the photographs do you?” Pinkney flipped open the folder and arranged the pictures in front of Frank. By the time he’d finished the table was covered and every one showed Frank in a compromising situation. Frank said nothing – what did they know any way? They didn’t know nowt!
“Who’s that fella with you there?” He said pointing to the picture of a skinny man with a beard. Pinkney knew who it was, he wasn’t stupid, the backroom boys had already done the leg-work. For the last couple of months they’d watched the drugs and their dealers go back and forth. Pills mainly however, they’d recently switched it up and were now pushing coke. Thing was they didn’t know where the local pushers were getting it from, and that’s what the Inspector needed Frank for.
Frank was sweating bullets. “That’s you isn’t it lad?” The picture showed Frank carrying boxes into a lock up. There was another man in the picture; thankfully the hooded sweat shirt hid his face from the camera. “Now we know its drugs Frank and you know how we frown on that type of caper? Do yourself a favor and let us in on the secret. Who’s that with you, and where are they bloody coming from?”
The Inspector was enjoying himself, loved this part of the job – it was always good when you had the crooks on the wrong foot. A collar was sure thing however, it wasn’t Frank he wanted, it was the person behind him, and the persons behind them. If they could wrap this mess up before soon, it would go well for his retirement and who knows may even set him up for a gong. The missus would like that. A train down to London, tea at Buckhouse and a handshake from Lizzy. Pinkney could see himself now splashed across the Daily Mail dressed in top hat and tails with and O.B.E. in one hand and an adoring wife on his arm. He came back to reality, leaving behind his acceptance speech, and once again focused on the business at hand and the miscreant in front of him. Frank was a big bugger, someone he wouldn’t like to meet on a dark night, but in the grand scheme of things he was only small fry.
“Tell me what you know Frank and I’ll try to make this go away,” said Pinkney in the most fatherly voice he could muster. “Tell me who’s in charge of peddling this shit and I’ll see that you get off Scot free,” promises the inspector couldn’t make, but right now in the sea of shit that Frank was drowning in, he was his only hope. Pinkney sat back in his chair and rubbed his face. He could still smell the dirty bitch on his fingers from this morning’s rendezvous. The extra-curricular that put the spring in his step and the sparkle in his eye. Nothing her-indoors needed to know about, something on the down low, his little secret.
Frank shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This wasn’t happening to him. They’d been so careful with the distribution; the Poles were sticklers for secrecy! It’d been going on for a year and a half without a whiff of bother.
Had somebody mouthed off? What the fuck had gone wrong?
The photographs spoke volumes, there was no denying what was on the table. It’d been smooth sailing – the money had come rolling it. The pills were easy to lay off on the weekend crowd, and the demand for something a little more exotic had been a doddle to come by, all they’d to do was ask. The Eastern Europeans he was dealing with could lay their hands on just about anything and with the guarantee of steady money were more than happy to cater to York’s party needs. The city had always been a chocolate town, the two major manufacturers of sweet confection, them and the railroads, had made the city what it was. The nose-candy supplied by the Poles had been the icing on the cake. Folk came from miles around to party on the weekend and enjoy the illicit product that was being sold in nearly every pub and club in the city and it was all thanks to Frank. He’d been careful not to be excessive with his new found wealth – kept his living costs moderate, no point in pointing a search-light at himself and screaming come and get me.
Getting caught was one thing but grassing on the comrades was another – hard faced ex- military types with a severe lack of empathy. He’d seen what they’d done to one delinquent dealer who hadn’t taken them seriously. When the bloody, barely breathing, body had been thrown into the river, he was more than convinced he didn’t need to fuck around with this lot. In and out was the key. Make your money and disappear. The poles were driving delivery vans over from Calais stacked full with tablets and smack. They wouldn’t think twice about putting a couple of bullets into him, the same way they had the other poor bastard who even now was feeding the fish at the bottom of the Ouse.
“Frank you can tell me, or I’ll put you back out there and say you did. We can work this out one of two ways, either you are fucked or I can make sure that this goes away. He tapped his fingers on the table, “Protective custody, new identity, different town, all within my power Frank. All you have to do is cough.”
Frank was shitting himself, he could feel the flatulence pressing against his sphincter. Why the hell had he done it? What a fucking mess. Either he was screwed or he was royally screwed. His mind scrambled for a way out. He thought back to every episode of The Bill he could remember. How could he spin this thing and walk away. “I want to see a solicitor.”
The Inspector smiled. “There you go Frank now your thinking. Got one in mind or would you like me to recommend one?” The inspector smiled like a shark, revealing his tobacco stained teeth. Frank had taken the bait and admitted his guilt before they’d even started. A couple of photographs weren’t going to get him an arrest however a full blown confession with a protective custody advisory would do nicely. Given the photographs no solicitor in their right mind would suggest otherwise.
Then the inspector played his trump card and reached inside his jacket and produced another photograph, this time of a woman in her late sixties. “Recognize her do you Frank?”
Frank felt his tongue turn to sandpaper, tried to swallow. The dryness in his mouth crept through his entire body.
“Course you bloody do, seeing as how it your old Mum. We’ve had our eye on her to,” sneered Pinkney.
“You leave her bloody out of this, she ain’t done nothing you rotten bastard.”
“Temper, temper Frank. I was just making a little conversation, ain’t nothing written in stone just yet. Seems to me though she’s involved whether she knows it or not. Got a couple of my boys ready to go around her house later and have a word, a friendly visit if you will.”
Frank despaired. Not his mum of all people
“That lock-up you’ve been storing your gear in belongs to her, makes her an accessory after the fact. How do you think your old mum will do in Leeds? Lot of women in there would probably take advantage of a sweet lady like her, if you know what I mean Frank?
Frank thought hard. The poles would kill him but he couldn’t see his mum go down for something she hadn’t done. The copper was right, Leeds women’s prison was no place for a frail middle aged woman, besides she’d never done a wrong thing in her life. She’d no idea they were using his dad’s old luck up for storage. There was nothing for it he had to come clean.
The drugs had been easy enough to distribute and with a ready clientele they’d soon made money hand over fist. Everybody was involved, from the bartenders to the security staff, there wasn’t a single one of them that wasn’t making a packet on the side. At first they’d kept it to the slug and cabbage but word, as it always did, had travelled and they’d started to supply the other pubs and clubs as well. It’d got to the point where they’d had to take even more merchandise off the Polaks, who for an astronomical price were more than happy to supply. Frank through his contacts at the garage and the network of connections on the doors had been able to get rid of the lot. The amount he was dealing in was mindboggling, overnight and without really trying he’d become a regular Yorkshire drug lord. There was so much coke being snorted in York that the whole bloody city should have turned white, a veritable narcotic Christmas every weekend of the year. He’d been careful, at least he thought he had – those bloody pictures how had they got a hold of those? What about his mum? There was no way he could let her take a jump for what he’d done, shed never survive in Leeds.
Pinkney stood up, stuffed the photos back into the folder and made to walk away. “Alright then Frank, if that’s the way you want to play it?” The inspector was the consummate actor; he’d played the role a thousand times before.
Pinkney was old school bastard you could smell it on him – he could try to slip him a bribe but he didn’t look the type. There wasn’t much for it, either way he was screwed. If the poles found out they’d take him and the others out without a seconds thought. If he grassed then a shallow grave on the moors or a cold shower in the Ouse was the most he could expect. “What kind of deal? Asked Frank through clenched teeth.
Pinkney stopped at the door, he had the man by the balls. Loved it when they squealed nothing better than a perp spilling his guts and giving up his mates. It was the little things that made the job worthwhile, perks like the girl he’d enjoyed that morning. He smiled in delicious remembrance, sniffed his fingers once more, and turned back to the room.
“Good boy Frank, seems to me like you’re brighter than what I gave you credit for.” The inspector sat down pulled out a note pad and pen, “Alright then lad start at the beginning and tell me what you know.”
Tags: FLASH FICTION, local authors, SHORT STORIES, westside wordsmiths, writers, writing, writing project
SLASHED SEAT AFFAIRS
3 MarThe six-thirty to London comes to a halt – pneumatics hiss, doors swing open. Men in grey flannel suits, camouflaged business attire, mount the morning steed and head to concrete jungles far from suburban greenery. With mortgages on their minds, the nameless, faceless, warriors of economic boom-and-bust climb into regular seats next to familiar-faced strangers. With a tip of the hat, a crinkle of the mouth, they wish silent good mornings to ‘old whatshisname’ whom they should have known, considering they’d sat next to the same perfect stranger for the past five years. Thermos flasks are opened and luke-warm coffee is enjoyed between mouthfuls of pressed-meat and fish paste sandwiches.
The doors close and the train moves forward.
Newspapers are spread and folded to desired locations – crossword puzzles, sports pages, the prime minister’s questions and lack of answers. Depthed in individual worlds of commuter bliss, the gentlemen of commerce prepare themselves for the thirty seven minutes to Paddington – barring of course derailment and leaves on the track!
The train has been cleaned but you can still smell the bleach from where the night porters washed away vomit and piss from the previous evening’s downtown revelers. Nothing like the inner city to bring out the beast – what happens in London stays in London, unless of course it’s left on the train on the way home. The empty kebab wrappers and fish and chip papers have long since ben removed by persons unknown with a basic grasp of the English language; men and women thankful for the opportunity to pursue a future in this other Eden.
The leather-backed chairs bear mute witness to star crossed lovers, footballing rivals and pen knife poets. The indelible verse goes unread by the daily commuters.
Graffiti on an otherwise perfectly good leather seat will incur the ire of the train manager who at some stage will have to invest taxpayer money to repair the damage
“Mick loves Charlotte,” but the grey-suited bowler-hatted gents will never share their joy. Their minds’ eye is focused on distant financial horizons; the love affair announced to the world and staring them literally in the face remains anathema. Mick may love Charlotte, but the world really doesn’t give a damn.
Bloody stupid anyway! What’s the point? What are they looking for – immortality on a train that’s twenty years past its replacement date? Eternal love scratched into substandard leather. The gents with the newspapers turn their pages in unison and concentrate on two-up two-down rather than what’s scrawled across the seat-back in front of them.
CRYPTIC.
9.ACROSS: Position taken up some distance away.
2.DOWN: Nice day contaminated with such poisons.
*
It’d been a Friday night down at the Bull and Bush – the local disco where the kids could hang out, drink their underage pints, and fondle each other outside in the car park. That was where Mick had first seen Charlotte.
A vision in taffeta and blue eye shadow, a sixteen year old woman of the world pretending to be eighteen going on thirty five. Liked them a bit younger did Mick, and this one had taken his fancy. The way the strobe light caught her in mid dance made her appear as if she was carved in marble. A virgo intacta, a monument to the virtues of womanhood petrified on a beer-sticky dance floor. The sparkling glitter ball screwed to the ceiling accented the glitter in her hair; the blond highlights from the do-it-yourself hair dye kit flashed in the darkness. He’d done the usual, offered to buy her a drink in the hope that it would lubricate the knicker elastic of her Saint Michaels. Three rum-and-blacks later and a slow dance to a top forty favorite and they were soul mates.
As they lay in post-coital bliss, after consummating their undying love, their names dripped in condensation hearts off the rear window of the second hand Ford Cortina – fogged up windows that bore testimony to their eternal affection.
He who dares wins and he who plays pays. Wedding bells and confetti righted the wrong and the three of them moved into her mother’s. Not much to write home about but there again Mick had never been a man of letters. His job stacking tins down at the local supermarket kept him busy enough. Shelves filled with beans and spaghetti necessary to satiate the needy that plied the store to lay waste to Mick’s nightly labors; a population desperate for Italian cuisine and cheap heat-in-the-microwave dinners.
Connoisseurs who at the touch of a button and with thirty seconds of RF radiation could recreate the smell of the Mediterranean.
Not much of a job, but about as much as Mick could handle. With the baby and the wife there wasn’t a lot else to spend his money on. Friday nights down at the Bull and Bush were a thing of the past, now it was Friday T.V. Game shows with the ever present parents-in-law. A house with one bathroom and paper-thin walls meant that all carnal activity was common knowledge. The short, sharp, tap of the headboard hitting the wall and the grunts of his mother-in-law in the room next door were hardly conducive to a successful love life, especially when the disco princess lying next to him looked more like her mother every day!
A year of dirty nappys and a manager that he’d swing for boiled his piss and cooked his bile. It wasn’t the fact that the shepherd’s pie had been overcooked or that once again the baby had vomited on one of his favorite t-shirts. It was a combination of things – It was everything.
*
“Much too much, much too young. Your married with a kid when you should be having fun with me…”
The Specials.
*
Memories of an easier life and a pocketful of cash raced through his mind as he pounded his fist into the face of his truly beloved – her split lip and blood-soaked dress sealed the covenant that would make their purgatory last forever. As the police officers dragged Mick from his home, their night sticks smashing his teeth and bruising his eyes, he remembered happier days when a trip to London had resulted in recording their love for posterity, with a pen knife on the back of a carriage seat.
*
The train pulls to a stop and the cloud of grey and black suits stand to attention and head for the exit.
“Tickets gentleman, please,” calls the conductor searching for errant free loaders as they try to exit without paying. Looking around the empty carriage, the blue uniformed inspector checks for dropped wallets and forgotten brief cases. There was always something to help supplement the stipend British Rail kept him on. Picking up a newspaper he peruses an unfinished crossword and clicks his tongue, reaches for his pen and fills in the missing letters.
His eye catches the etched leather and replacing his pen he takes in the love heart with the names scratched into the seat.
“Bloody vandals!” Like he didn’t have enough to worry about without some stupid kids tearing up the place.
N.B. Slashed seat affairs is a lyric from THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT by THE JAM
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