Horse's Arse Page 16

  'They're in there and well out of it, lads; stoned out of their tiny minds by the smell of it,' he whispered. 'I think you're going to be a bit disappointed with the reception you're likely to receive.'

  '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.'

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  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 duv
et, 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.

  'Hello, Peter,' said Ally sweetly, 'remember me?'

  'No,' he replied sourly. 'Who the fuck are you?'

  His vision was clearing and he could now identify the copper's uniform the man was wearing. It wasn't that stumpy Jock, was it? 'You're not that fucking Jock, are you?' he said.

  'Fucking right I am,' screamed Ally. 'Have some of this, you little cunt,' and venting all his pent-up hatred of niggers, wops, spies, ab dabs, Catholics, Australian barmaids and anyone taller than himself, he brought his truncheon down across the top of Thomas's head with a sickening crack. The man's scalp split and he slumped back in the chair with a torrent of blood obscuring his face. Ally stood back and briefly admired his handiwork before he became aware of Piggy watching him closely.

  'What?' he barked aggressively.

  'You OK? Feel better for that, Ally?' Piggy asked.

  'Much,' he snapped.

  'What the fuck was all that about?'

  'Personal business. One all,' Ally replied simply. Piggy shrugged. There was no point pursuing it with Ally in this sort of mood.

  Pizza had never seen anything like it. He had seen the Brothers take out Baker and Driscoll, and watched with an ever-widening mouth as his colleagues had appeared to go mad. There was blood everywhere and the six bodies on the floor looked as though they'd been attacked with a chainsaw. He really didn't know how to react and from time to time glanced at Bovril who appeared quite unconcerned, glancing at his watch, impatient to be elsewhere. The four detectives had watched the attack with an air of resignation, but as they stepped gingerly further into the room to look at their prisoners, a horrible realisation dawned on them. They looked at each other simultaneously.

  'Where the fuck are their clothes?' asked Benson for all of them. For the first time the uniforms took stock of the bodies on the floor and noticed that none was wearing trousers, shirts or shoes. They looked at one another and then at the detectives. Clarke had his eyes closed, head down, rubbing his temples as he spoke.

  'They've dumped their clothing, everything. We've got no fucking forensic. We're bolloxed.' He turned away in disgust and walked to the kitchen. As he walked in he found Psycho at the fridge, busy completing another of his rituals with his cock in a milk bottle. Every time he was involved in a house search he would find time to get to the fridge and have a piss in a half-full bottle of milk. He would later laugh himself to tears imagining the house occupants discussing whether the milk was off as they looked at a suspect cup of tea or bowl of cornflakes. It was the tomcat in him, making sure that people knew this was his territory. Clarke shook his head as he saw him carefully shake the last drops into the bottle and shut the fridge door.

  'Jesus Christ, Psycho, we've got real problems without that. They've dumped all their clothes somewhere. Tear this shit pit apart, see what you can find, will you?'

  Psycho couldn't give a toss about the lack of evidence in the flat. He'd had his fun with Anderson, but now he could do a bit of damage whilst he searched. As Clarke walked out of the kitchen, Psycho pulled the doors off a cupboard with a loud splintering noise.

  As Clarke returned to the living room where Lloyd, Benson and Thomas were ensuring that the prisoners were being cuffed and given an arresting officer with requisite evidence of arrest, Pizza came bounding up to him like an eager puppy. He almost put his hand up to speak.

  'Their clothes, their clothes . . .' he spluttered.

  "What about them?' said Clarke impatiently. He was quickly getting pissed off with this spotty woodentop.

  'I think I've found them,' Pizza said loudly. The piano player stopped as the saloon doors swung open and all eyes in the room turned to Pizza.


  'Found them? Where?' said Clarke slowly, taking hold of Pizza by the shoulders and looking him in the face.

  'I was in the garages earlier, and I found a bag full of bloodstained clothing. . .' he started before Clarke interrupted him.

  'What garages, when? Start from the beginning - don't miss anything out.'

  Pizza took a deep breath, keenly aware that for the first time he had the full attention, and, he hoped, the respect, of his colleagues.

  'I went to the underground garages here about six thirty this morning to see if any motors had been dumped. There weren't any, but as I was leaving I found a bin liner in one of the garages. Someone had tried to set fire to it but it's so wet down there it hadn't caught.'

  'Yes, yes, go on,' said Clarke excitedly.

  'I got it outside and had a look. It was full of bloodstained clothes.'

  'What sort of clothes?'

  'Trousers, shirts, couple of pairs of boots. The blood looked quite fresh.'

  'Where's the bag now?' said Clarke nervously.

  'Back at the nick. I logged it all in.'

  'You fucking beauty,' whooped Clarke, grabbing Pizza by the cheeks and pulling the flesh until it hurt. 'They've fucked up big time. That clothing's theirs and we'll match it to them no problem. What a result! Fucking good job . . . what's your name?'

  'Alan Petty.'