Horse's Arse (24 page)

    'We're
not fussy,' hissed H, caressing the slim lead-filled mahogany truncheon he held
in his right hand. 'Just like the Gurkhas, it's out and now it's got to be
blooded.'

    Clarke
rolled his eyes to the ceiling as the rest of the uniforms sniggered and
murmured their agreement. They were all carrying truncheons except Psycho who
had a heavy yellow metal Bardic lamp and the two Patrol Group lads with their
pickaxe handles.

    'Where's
your stick, Psycho? You won't need a lamp in there,' he said.

    'This
is my stick. My equaliser. Never let me down yet,' replied Psycho whose eyes
were wide with excitement and anticipation. 'Come on, Bob, let's fucking get on
with it.'

    Shaking
his head and now fearing the worst, Clarke again put his ear to the door.
Satisfied that the occupants were still unaware of their presence he tapped
silently on the door with his little finger.

    'Police,
we've got a warrant, open up or we'll put the door in,' he said, so quietly
that the group behind him could barely hear him. 'No, refusing us entry,' he
continued slightly louder. 'Put the door in, lads.'

    The
Brothers hurried forward as Clarke stepped to one side, eager to show their
expertise. Jim had picked up one or two tricks in Ulster which he had passed on
to H and they now used on a regular basis. H put his arms under Jim's armpits,
linked his arms around his chest and braced his legs. Jim then jumped into the
air and slammed both feet against the door lock. The flimsy frame splintered, the
door crashed open against the far wall and the Brothers led the charge into the
flat, Jim screaming at the top of his voice, 'You're fucking dead, you
scumbags.'

    Myra
Baldwin was lying naked on Baker's bed, alone under a filthy duvet, curled up
in the foetal position. She had stopped crying, but her face was tear-streaked
and the pillow wet from her tears. She was still in pain and gave the
occasional sob as she winced, but otherwise she was calm. The pain wasn't the
reason she had been crying. Her betrayal by the man she worshipped, and the
only man she trusted, had been too much for a girl already teetering on the
edge of the abyss of madness. Abandoned at birth in the toilet of the railway
station, Myra was a classic product of the system in which she subsequently
grew up. Educationally backward, she had been unfortunate enough to inherit her
unknown mother's good looks and figure and as she reached adolescence had begun
to be abused by her 'carers' and fellow inmates. She had her first abortion
aged thirteen, the result of repeated rapes by the senior social worker at her
home. Others followed. At the age of seventeen she had found herself booted out
into the real world with a hatred of men that bordered on the psychotic.

    She
picked up a handful of convictions for petty crime, but really came to the
notice of the local law with her last two, assaults on police officers that had
left her victims shocked by the sudden, explosive, truly vicious attacks. The
last officer to be attacked by her, during a disturbance outside the Park Royal
pub, sagely observed as he nursed deep fingernail scratches under both eyes,
'That evil bitch is going to kill someone one day.' Myra couldn't explain, even
to herself, why she would suddenly erupt, but she knew that she enjoyed the
notoriety it inspired. That, coupled subsequently with her relationship with
Driscoll, elevated her above the common herd in her own eyes. The derisory
fines imposed by the local magistrates (she hadn't appeared before Colonel
Mortimer) only served to reinforce her dangerous psychotic state.

    Myra
had been given a council flat on the Park Royal estate but had no idea how to
live outside an institution. Quickly, she drifted towards the gutter. Driscoll
had first come into her life one evening in the estate pub a few months after
she arrived. He was different, an obvious leader, and, unlike all the other men
she'd known, hadn't tried to screw her straight away. On the contrary, he
talked to her at length, didn't lay a finger on her and left the entire running
to her. His strategy was spot on and after a couple of weeks Myra was convinced
that something was wrong with her. She pursued Driscoll with manic intensity,
finally bedding him in her filthy flat and swearing lifelong loyalty to a man
who made her feel differently about herself. She belonged to him and gave
herself completely, body and soul. She was his property and as such became part
of the Mafia, always at his side. She'd been alongside him as they'd laid into
the landlord at the Hoop and Garapes last night and had allowed him to escape
ahead of her before following through the window behind. He was her Messiah,
she his disciple. But he had betrayed her. He was no better than the others. He
had betrayed and deceived her.

    At
his bidding she had undressed and mounted him as he lay back on Baker's bed, to
give Baker 'a bit of a treat'. After a few minutes, Driscoll had suddenly
wrapped his arms round her and pulled her tightly against him. As she struggled
to breathe she became aware of Baker moving closer behind her.

    'What
you doing, Bobby?' she gasped. 'You're hurting me. Let me go.'

    'Relax,
you stupid little bitch,' Driscoll hissed. 'You'll do as I tell you - you're
mine. Take it and tell me you like it.'

    'I
don't like it. You're scaring me. Let me go, Bobby,' she pleaded as Baker began
to caress her raised buttocks. Then she felt his erect penis pushing against
her anus and she began to struggle violently. Both men restrained her as Baker
viciously buggered her. She screamed at the ripping pain, but Driscoll held her
head firmly against his chest, and vaguely she heard him saying repeatedly,
'You're mine, you bitch, tell me you like it.' Baker ejaculated inside her
quickly and roughly withdrew, causing her to scream even louder, and Driscoll
pushed her off him onto the bed. She curled into a defensive ball as he stood
over her, masturbating.

    'You
fucking little slag, you enjoyed that, didn't you? You're mine and I can use
you as I please. If I want to share you I will.'

    She heard
Baker laugh out loud as Driscoll ejaculated, and felt his warm semen splatter
on to her hips and legs. As he pulled up his trousers and buckled his belt he
turned to her.

    'We'll
be back for seconds later, Myra. Get yourself cleaned up, you lucky bitch.' He
and Baker were laughing like hyenas as they left the room and she began to sob.

    He
had betrayed her as no one had ever betrayed or abused her before. Her warped
and distorted version of life with Driscoll was all that she had to cling to,
and now that had evaporated along with all the rest. Once again she peered into
the pit and saw only the swirling darkness that billowed over the edge and
covered her completely. The stunted emotions that left room for vulnerability
began to shut down, and a veil was drawn across her face as her last tenuous
grip on sanity made its apologies and departed. Ten minutes later, icy-faced
and feeling nothing physically or emotionally, she kicked the duvet aside and
began to search the room for something to clean herself up with. In the top
drawer of the shabby little table by the bed she found two pairs of relatively
clean underpants, one of which she used to wipe herself. She was bleeding
slightly and pushed the second pair between her buttocks to staunch the flow.
She felt no pain now. Opening the bottom drawer, she began to hurl the socks
and T-shirts she found over her shoulder. Then she stopped and smiled strangely
at what had been hidden underneath. The snub-nosed, gunmetal-grey model 10 .38
calibre Smith and Wesson handgun had been bought three weeks earlier in a pub
in Hanstead by Baker for £75. He wasn't really sure why he'd bought it, and
hadn't mentioned it to Driscoll, as he was unsure of his reaction. He'd toyed
with the notion of robbing an off-licence in nearby Ashington, but dismissed
the idea when he accepted that he could never operate independently of
Driscoll. The gun had come with three rounds in the chamber and Baker had
hidden it away for a rainy day when Driscoll might announce, 'I wish we had a
shooter.' He contented himself with occasionally holding the weapon and
quick-drawing in front of the bathroom mirror. One day Driscoll would
congratulate him on his foresight and initiative.

    Myra got
back on to the bed, covered herself with the duvet, and was cradling the gun in
her hands when she heard the front door come off its hinges as the Brothers led
the charge into the flat. The alcohol and drugs had lost their hold as her
freezing madness engulfed her. She lay wide-eyed, staring at the wall, waiting
to kill the next man who came to abuse her, Driscoll,

    Baker,
whoever. She had no idea whether the gun was loaded or not; if she had to she
would beat him to death with it. She waited quietly, her breathing controlled
and steady, like a lioness on the African veldt watching a zebra detach itself
from the group.

    Somewhere,
deep in the dark recesses of his drug and alcohol- sodden subconscious, Baker
heard the commotion and the animal instinct in him told him that it meant
danger. He was lying on his back on the floor by the sofa, surrounded by empty
lager cans and cigarette butts stubbed out on the ruined carpet. His lank black
hair was plastered to his head where Driscoll had doused him with lager as they
celebrated their attack on Myra. He stank like the wild beast he was. As the
warning voices in his befuddled head got louder, he opened one eye, vaguely
made out figures moving around him, and then felt his world erupt as H stamped
on his testicles as hard as he could. The Brothers had spotted Baker as they
rushed in, knew he was the most dangerous, and instinctively went for him
together. As Baker lurched upright screaming, H and Jim hit him simultaneously
with their sticks, H in the mouth and Jim in the back of the head. Baker
slumped against the side of the sofa unconscious again, broken teeth falling
from the side of his mouth, blood streaming from his nose. The danger man dealt
with, the Brothers now turned their attention to Driscoll as the rest of the
raiding party tore into the other sleeping Mafia members. Baker's scream had
roused Driscoll, who was now desperately trying to focus his eyes and get up
from the sofa. Someone kept pushing him in the face, keeping him down.

    'I'll
fucking do you,' he slurred, eyes narrowed as he tried to identify his
tormentor. He heard a voice say 'Hello, Bobby', and tried to place it. He was
sure he recognised the accent. 'Who the fuck is it?' he said, rolling his head
around. 'I can't see you.'

    'You
know us, Bobby,' said another voice quietly. Driscoll stopped rolling his head
and raised his iron-heavy eyelids as his head slumped against his left
shoulder. Yes, he recognised those voices, but from where? Two large figures
swayed in and out of his vision and then finally the picture cleared like a 3D
puzzle suddenly becoming obvious.

    'Fucking
hell,' he screamed as he recognised the grinning Brothers, who appeared as twin
Grim Reapers to him. As he tried to get to his feet, H stooped down and hit him
on the kneecap with his truncheon. As if shot, Driscoll grabbed his knee and
fell screaming from the sofa on to the floor. As he thrashed about, Jim took
careful aim and smashed the other kneecap with his stick. Driscoll vomited and
passed out alongside his similarly unconscious enforcer.

    Around
the room, the other Mafia members were receiving similar treatment. Danny
Reilly was beaten like an old carpet by the Patrol Group lads with their
pickaxe handles until he seemed to burst like an overripe tomato. His younger
brother Cliff had tried to help him and been instantly felled by a blow that
Babe Ruth would have been proud of. The CID officers had remained in the hall
as the uniforms played catch-up with the Mafia, and only now ventured into the
living room.

    'Holy
fucking shit,' whispered Clarke, glancing from the unconscious Driscoll and
Baker to where Psycho seemed intent on hammering Des Anderson's head through
the floor into the flat below. His bardic lamp was covered in blood and sent
sprays on to the wall behind him on the upstrokes.

    'For
fuck's sake, Psycho, stop it,' he shouted. 'You'll fucking kill him.' Psycho
stopped with his arm raised and looked maniacally over at Clarke and then down
at Anderson, who had been unconscious for some time. He shrugged, got off him
and stood over him for a few seconds before wandering out of the room, down the
corridor and into the kitchen. The living room was beginning to resemble an
abattoir.

    Peter
Thomas came to with someone blowing into his ear and whispering, 'Cooee, cooee,
wakey wakey, Peter.' He grinned and giggled, opened his eyes, and through a
fish-eye lens saw a ginger- haired man smiling at him. As he had entered the
room, Ally had seen Thomas slumped in a chair at the far end and had barged
past Piggy, Bovril and Pizza to get him, shouting. 'Thank you, God, thank you.'
Thomas frowned as he looked at Ally and tried to remember where he knew him
from.