Horse's Arse Read online

  Horse’s Arse

  Charlie Owen

  * * *

  * * *

  Copyright © 2007 Charlie Owen

  The right of Charlie Owen to be identified as Author of

  this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2007

  by HEADLINE REVIEW

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law,

  this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted,

  in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of

  the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance

  with the terms of licenses issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  978 0 7553 3681 4 (hardback)

  978 0 7553 3683 8 (trade paperback)

  Typeset in AGaramond by Avon DataSet Ltd,

  Bidford on Avon, Warwickshire

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham plc, Chatham, Kent

  Headline's policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable

  products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging

  and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the

  environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  A division of Hachette Livre UK Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NWl 3BH

  * * *

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Author's note

  * * *

  Acknowledgements

  I first sat down to write this book a few years ago to fill my days off work whilst I recovered from an operation on my back that had gone wrong. The idea of writing a book came initially from my wife who was probably increasingly fed up with my 'cabin fever'. Had she not pushed me, I doubt Horse's Arse would have seen the light of day — some might say she has a lot to answer for.

  I also owe my sincerest thanks to two old friends, Martin and Tracey Kosmalski, who looked after me during an awful period and helped get me back on the path to recovery. They helped me get admitted to the Lister Hospital in Stevenage, and it was there that I began to recover from my illness. Some of the book was written whilst I was there and I thank Martin, Tracey and their daughters Jo and Gemma for their support and friendship at a difficult time.

  Vast amounts of the book were written at the Police Convalescent Home at Goring where I spent some considerable time recovering. My thanks to the staff there and to my fellow 'raspberries' and 'window lickers' who offered encouragement when they became aware I was attempting to write a book. Here it is: I hope you enjoy it!

  I also owe a huge debt to my friend Richard Tucker, who pestered many of his contacts in the publishing business and eventually got in to see Kerr McRae and Martin Fletcher at Headline. They had a punt on an outsider and I hope this Horse comes in for them!

  Finally, I offer thanks to my wife Karen. She has been my sounding board, constructive critic and proofreader throughout the writing of this book. She knows it inside out, probably as well as I do, and still laughs at the same passages. She has encouraged and supported me throughout and I dedicate this book to her.

  This novel is from start to finish entirely a work of my imagination and the characters, companies and their actions in the story are entirely fictional.

  * * *

  Foreword

  This is a story about a fictional sub-divisional police station, set in a fictional county in the mid 1970s. The sub-division is phonetically known as Hotel Alpha, but such is the disdain the officers feel for the town they police, it is generally referred to as Horse's Arse.

  If the world had an arse, then Hotel Alpha would be its piles.

  It is not a popular posting, generally reserved for the more aggressive and belligerent officers of the Force.

  This is an account of how the Job used to be done. This is the way it was, but never will be again.

  * * *

  Prologue

  Handstead lay about fifteen miles north of Manchester from which the town had been aggressively populated and expanded during the 1950s, when a far-sighted Manchester City council had indulged itself in early ethnic cleansing and moved thousands of its most troublesome tenants out into the sticks.

  Promises of a new life in new homes, and even jobs in the burgeoning petro-chemical industry, had drawn them like flies round a dog turd to the brave new world that was Handstead. The ancient old town that had merited a mention in the Domesday Book all but vanished under the concrete sprawl of the New Town.

  The dream proved short-lived, and by the early 1970s and the departure of its major employer the town was a waste of ghettolike estates, desolate windswept shuttered shopping parades and looming tower blocks. Many of its inhabitants, long since released from the burden of gainful employment, lived out their lives in alcoholic and drug-induced hazes between trips to pick up what the state gave them without question. Their benefits were supplemented by petty and occasionally serious crime, robbing and raping each other and creating a reputation for themselves that spread to all corners of the county and beyond.

  Handstead villains, men and women, had spread the word and their exploits were related with pride from generation to generation.

  Without question the very worst of the estates was the Park Royal. With its solitary pub, depressing regulation shopping parade, featureless council houses, unkempt gardens and abandoned cars, the estate was home to some six thousand inhabitants. The few decent souls amongst them lived out their lives in silent fear, dreaming of the day Handstead Council rehoused them. The place was a dump and the local police had done little to address the problems. Efforts to house a home beat officer and his family on the estate were quickly abandoned, after the house was stoned and the officers children were attacked in their front garden. Why the locals were so anti-police wasn't immediately obvious, but over the years the mutual hatred between the residents of Handstead in general and the Park Royal in particular and the local police had gone unresolved.

  The Forces answer had been to use Handstead as its penal colony, and the town was therefore policed by a motley collection of alcoholic, sexually promiscuous and generally undisciplined misfits. None of them laboured under any misapprehension as to their place in the food chain either. They knew they had been condemned to spend their careers at Horses Arse; some because they were serving 'sentences' for offences committed elsewhere, others because that was how the dice had rolled when their initial postings were being decided. Blissfully unaware, they were almost true Stoics. Powerless to do anything about their fate, they calmly accepted the inevitable shitty end of the stick and tried to make the most of their situation. The attempt regularly man
ifested itself in outrageous abuses, but they took a perverse pride in policing Horse's Arse notwithstanding. They recognised better than most what a hopeless task they faced, but revelled in their Canute-like resolve to hold the tide of shit at bay as best they could. They made a difference, albeit a small one, and enjoyed the 'rather you than me mate' looks they got from colleagues who worked elsewhere. It never occurred to any of them to apply to transfer out of the sub-division. What would be the point? It would never be allowed: they were destined to stay there so best get on with it. How often had they been told, 'If you can't take a joke you shouldn't have joined the Job'? Some joke. They recognised their own frailties, but that was where they parted from the ancient doctrine of the Stoics. The faults of others, particularly the local villains, were never forgiven and they were policed with extreme prejudice. Making a difference: that's what it was all about for the Handstead force.

  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.

  * * *

  Chapter One

  '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?