Horse's Arse (2 page)

    The
new Handstead police station perfectly reflected its surroundings. As was the
habit, it had been built alongside the old classic Victorian police station
which had become offices for the local council. Typical drab 1960s
architecture, warped metal window frames and a peeling noticeboard displaying
faded 'Wanted' posters of villains probably long since dead told an onlooker
everything they needed to know about the place. The station had an unloved air
about it and bore the scars of many a past siege when the locals had gathered
to vent their spleen at the perceived excesses of its inhabitants.

    The
local magistrates' court had been built alongside the police station and was
connected to the cell area by a subterranean tunnel. The tunnel ensured that
prisoners could be taken straight to the dock without passing through any
public areas, and also provided the officers on night duty with the opportunity
to hold mock courts. Many a puzzled magistrate wondered about the sanity of the
overnight drunk he had just fined who thanked him profusely for overturning the
death sentence imposed on him the night before.

    It
was the busiest sub-division in the county in terms of the numbers of prisoners
locked up, coming close each year to nicks in larger towns. Officers at Horse's
Arse had arrest records that were the envy of most of their colleagues around
the county, but then if you spent your working day immersed in a sewer it was
almost inevitable that you ended up with a few turds in your pocket.

    Of
the three shifts worked at the station, Early Turn was generally the quietest,
since most of the low-lifes rarely ventured out of bed until after lunch, and
officers cleared up after the night before. The day would inevitably get busier
as Late Turn (2 p.m. to 10 p.m.) progressed into Night Turn (10 p.m. to 6
a.m.). Friday and Saturday nights were usually the busiest, with the Late Turn
officers working through until 2 a.m. to assist their hard- pressed colleagues
dealing with pub fights, assaults, violent domestic disputes and every
conceivable type of drunken behaviour. During long hot summers (fortunately
rare) every night resembled Friday and Saturday, and Late Turn officers would
end up working a week of twelve-hour shifts.

    'Another
six, darling,' shouted the drunk leaning heavily on the bar. The room was packed,
the jump itself awash with beer from the overflowing pint glasses that were
arranged in two long, straggling lines along its length. The bar towels lay
submerged in liquid, and cigarette butts floated in their dozens in the two
ashtrays at either end of the bar.

    The
drinkers stood shoulder to shoulder facing the two bartenders, shouting at the
top of their voices, looking like a drunken terracotta army. The bartenders,
both women, were beginning to wilt under the pressure, which had increased
tenfold since 10 p.m. Other drinkers at the bar had vacated their spaces to
accommodate the influx and now stood or sat at tables at the back of the bar
area watching in silence as the newcomers got it down their necks as quickly as
possible.

    As
they stood alongside each other pouring another pint each, the younger of the
two women whispered to her companion, 'They're like animals.' Briefly looking
up from the drink she was pulling to glance at the baying mob in front of her,
she added under her breath, 'Look at them.'

    'Don't,'
replied her more experienced partner. 'Just smile, get their money and look
grateful.' She slammed a pint down on to the bar top. 'Anything else?' she
asked the bleary-eyed specimen in front of her.

    'Just
keep them coming, darling, we've got a long night ahead of us,' he shouted,
before belching loudly and continuing: 'We'd better have some pork scratchings
to be going on with.'

    She
shuddered as she turned back to the packets of crisps and peanuts on the wall
by the optics. Someone farted, long and loud above the raucous din, and the bar
erupted in whoops and cheers. As she tossed half a dozen packets of scratchings
on to the bar, she glanced over at the younger girl who was making her debut
behind the jump that evening. She was no longer watching the drink she was
pulling but looking open-mouthed at the fat, balding, middle-aged man in front
of her. The beer was overflowing into the slop tray and on to the floor.

    'I'll
need some peanuts for the youngster please, sweetie,' the fat man said. His
flies were open and he'd pulled his penis out of his trousers and was
stretching his foreskin from side to side imitating a feeding chick in its
nest. He was sweating like a rapist, eyes fixed on the girl. The older woman
shook her head, rolled her eyes to the ceiling, reached over to take the
overflowing pint glass and emptied it over the fat man's crotch.

    'You
slag,' he shouted, as his companions cheered loudly and cleared a small space
around him as he put his tackle away.

    'Put
Jenny Wren away, Trevor, and behave yourself,' she said. 'Pay no attention,
darling. He's always getting it out but God only knows why. It's like a cock,
only much smaller.'

    'Bitch,'
snarled the fat man as he pushed his way through the throng to dry himself off
in the gents.

    'Off
for a Spanish hand gallop, Trevor?' shouted one of the crowd, prompting
prolonged and almost hysterical laughter. The group had only been drinking for
fifteen minutes, but each of them had bolted four pints of either bitter or
lager in that time, and still had plenty more to get through up on the bar.

    'They're
like animals,' repeated the younger girl, tears welling in her eyes.

    'Don't
worry, love, they've only got half an hour. They'll be on their way soon
enough; just try to ignore them,' her friend answered as she pulled another
pint. 'Wash some of these empties for me and catch your breath. You'll get used
to it.'

    Not a
chance, thought the young girl, resolving to never again set foot in this bear
pit.

    The
tempo increased as the group became aware that time was short, and more and
more of the beer spilled on to the drinkers as it was thrown down their necks.
Each of them was gasping for breath, gagging and belching as he moved on to the
next pint. The wooden floor at the front of the bar grew slippery, and pork
scratchings, crisps and peanuts crunched underfoot. Every one of the group was
smoking, and a thick pall of smoke hung just above their heads and meandered
around the cheap, yellowing ceiling bulkhead lights. The room was spartan and
strictly functional. Its role was not to provide solace or relaxation, but to
sell alcohol cheaper than anywhere else in town. And sell it they did, in
volumes that raised eyebrows at their supplying brewery, which responded with
bigger and better discounts.

    'I'm
absolutely fucked,' burped one of the group, holding the rail on the front of
the bar with both hands, head bowed to the floor. His companion tipped his head
back and drained the last half of his pint. He glanced at his watch.

    'Fuck
me, we should be downstairs and you're driving,' he said to his mate. 'It's
half past, lads,' he shouted at the top of his voice. The noise subsided as the
group grumbled and drank what remained in their glasses, and, in some cases,
what remained in other unattended glasses. Then, wiping their mouths on the
backs of their hands, talking too loudly and doing up their jackets, the Late
Turn police officers lurched out of the bar and downstairs for four hours'
public order duty in Horse's Arse. Calm returned to the bar and the other
drinkers resumed their conversations as the loud, echoing voices faded down the
stairwell like the Zulus departing from Rorke’s Drift.

    'They're
straight out of the zoo,' said the young girl again, coming round into the main
bar area to start clearing the debris. Her older companion remained behind the
jump, mopping the bar top. She smiled, but said nothing. She'd worked there for
three years and had felt exactly the same at first. But very quickly she'd
become fond of these rude, drunken, obnoxious, sexist, racist, bigoted
hooligans who seemed to live only for their next drink and shag, and told the
most extraordinary stories she had ever heard. It was their stories that had softened
her. She'd caught snippets of their hollow-eyed conversations about what they'd
seen and experienced and she gradually understood that they needed somewhere to
rage and shout at their fears, frustrations and demons. This bar was their
pressure valve. They didn't drink anywhere else because their behaviour
wouldn't be tolerated, but here they could drink to forget and comfort
themselves, throw off the restraints of normal acceptable behaviour, and scream
at the moon.

    She
understood why they let their hair down the way they did. She didn't approve,
but she understood. As they'd grown used to her being around, they'd stopped
showing her their knobs, mooning at her, sneezing cockles, whelks and bacon
rinds on to the bar, and constantly trying to shock and appal her. Some of them
grew comfortable enough with her to talk candidly about what they had seen and
done. She felt like a priest in the confessional as infidelities, misdemeanours
and other acts verging on the criminal were unloaded on to her. They told her
everything and what they told her would have been dynamite in the wrong hands.
But then, as she often reasoned with herself, who the hell would believe half
of the stories she could recount?

    If
the Hoop and Grapes public house had had a piano player, he'd have stopped
playing as the doors to the bar opened and the group walked in. As it was, the
two men standing at the bar looked round, and a couple at a table glanced over
at them. The relief manager looked up from the sink where he was washing
ashtrays in preparation for closing up for the night to see who had come in. He
had no idea if they were regulars - he'd only been there two weeks - but
something about the newcomers made him uncomfortable. The size of the group for
a start, all male apart from a sole female who seemed to be joined at the hip
with one of the men who it immediately became apparent was the leader of the
group. He was speaking quietly to four members of his gang, two of whom left
and went out into the car park, the others going to either end of the single
bar and then into the gents before returning to the leader and whispering into
his ear. This strange behaviour attracted the full attention of the four other
customers and the relief manager. Almost as one, the four drinkers got up and
made for the door, nervously passing through the group still clustered around
the entrance. Nothing was said. As the door shut behind them, with a leaden
feeling in his stomach the relief manager saw a chair being wedged under the handle.
He knew he was in trouble, but with past experience of griefy pubs he was able
to recognise the fact and do something about it. Quickly, he went to the
storeroom at the back of the bar where the only phone was and dialled 999.
Speaking as quietly as he could into a cupped hand, he asked for police
attendance as he believed trouble was imminent. Then he went back into the bar.
How right he was. All fifteen of the strangers now stood there, smirking.

    'What
can I get you?' he asked genially.

    'Lagers
all round, you wanker,' said the apparent leader to raucous laughter, 'and get
a fucking move on. We're thirsty.'

    'Lagers
it is then,' he replied as jauntily as he could through gritted teeth, his
heart thumping, praying the Old Bill wouldn't hang about. He reached up to get
a glass from the shelf above and began to pull the first pint, avoiding eye
contact with the group who were staring quietly at him.

    'You're
too fucking slow. Couple of my lads'll give you a hand,' said the grinning
leader. He nodded at two of his gang, who vaulted the bar and grabbed pint
glasses from the draining board.

    'Hey,
hey, hold on,' shouted the manager, stopping his pouring. 'Get the fuck out of
here, all of you.' He moved towards the nearer of the two intruders and grabbed
the grinning thug by the arm. 'Come on, get out, get out, now.' The response
was an elbow driven into his face and he went down, blood gushing from a split
lip. That was the signal for the rest of the group to swarm over the bar like
marauding pirates and begin to loot everything they could lay their hands on.
The contents of the till quickly vanished into various pockets, as did the
cigarettes from the cabinet on the back wall. Bottles of drink were taken from
the cool shelves and drunk straight down before being thrown out into the bar
area and smashed against walls. The stunned manager struggled to his knees as
the maelstrom ebbed and crashed around him and shouted again, 'Fuck off, you
bastards. I've called the police.' This prompted one of the rampaging gang to
pull a vodka bottle out of its optic and smash it over the manager's head. He
slumped back down and was battered completely senseless as the gang put the
boot in, hoofing him around the floor of the bar like a football. His head was
flicked from side to side as the kicks rained in, blood spraying around in a
mist like an ever-open aerosol can. Suddenly the leader called for quiet, as he
became aware of a loud banging on the front window. Looking over he saw the
pale faces of the two young gang members he had sent out into the car park as
lookouts. They looked worried and were gesticulating wildly for him to come to
the door. He walked over, kicked away the restraining chair, opened the door
and stepped out into the porch where the two lookouts waited.