***
It feels good walking down the path wearing my uniform again, powerful. Not as powerful as I feel with the knowledge that I can speak to and hear God. I mean it must be Him that is talking to me through the TV and giving me all these signs. I have thought about it a lot and this is the only logical explanation. I've done too much good for it to be anyone else.
I'd have taken the car if it hadn't been hidden from me, so I have to walk. Luckily the estate I am heading to is only ten minutes away. I should move, really, but then again I shouldn’t have to. This is why God has come to me and given me these instructions. He doesn’t think it is fair, either.
As I am walking I feel elated. I buzz from knowing I have been chosen. Some of the mad people in the hospital tried to tell me they had been given missions, too, but they were all fucking bonkers and didn’t make sense. I saw through them straight away. Some were agents of the Devil placed there only there to hinder my work, some were just plain, honest-to-God nutters.
I think about how clever I have been, tricking all the shrinks into thinking that they were good at their jobs. This is just one more pointer to the fact I am working for a higher being than these losers. I doubt they even know I was spitting my meds out. Even if I didn’t, the messages kept coming. They just made me feel too muddled.
I know what I need to do and nothing is going to stop me.
I also think about how I am going to do the job. I have got my keys on me with the penknife attached – the little lock knife I used to use in the Scouts – along with the second police baton I nicked a couple of years ago. I took it just in case. I wasn’t being given messages then, but I must have known this day would come, so I just didn’t give it in one day and nothing was ever said. This is the thing about the police, nothing is as tight or organised as we are led to believe.
I have not been told how to finish the job yet. I suppose the less people that know, the better. Maybe I am being given license to do as I wish. I’ll know when I look into the scumbag’s pinned eyes. If I am allowed to do as I wish, I’ll make the bastard suffer as much as possible.
It doesn’t take me long to get to the Granbyhill Estate. I know which number Simon lives in, I have been there often enough. The time is 10.55. I shouldn’t think it will be long before he is up and about. I choose to wait in the underpass.
A couple of local yobs ride past on their stolen, hand-repainted bikes and make a few pig noises, but I give them a bit of the old crazy eyes and ask them to come over to me and repeat it and they fuck off.
As they go one of them is pointing to his body and then back to me, I think he clocked I have no stab vest on.
Someone walks past in a T-shirt that says Relax; there’s some other writing, but only the one word sticks out. That’s a message, things are still on track, everything is going as it should.
I was wrong. I have to wait another half hour, but I keep myself concealed and busy myself thinking about the future. Then it happens: I see the sorry piece of shit in the distance heading out of his block, dirty and scruffy as he always his. My mobile has rung a couple of times – Mike, probably checking that I’ll be in when he gets there. I haven’t answered it, though.
As Simon gets to the underpass and sees me, I see him hesitate. It must be the uniform that scares the piece of shit. If I were an old lady he’d have run towards me, eyes wide with excitement.
I stand my ground, eyeing him as he walks towards me. As he gets closer to the middle of the underpass I move towards him; he is getting edgy now.
‘What?’ he says, almost shitting his knickers. I can only assume this is because he’s scared of getting nicked before he gets his fix for the day. Well, he won’t need that shit where he’s going. If I knew more about it I would try and injure him fatally AND make sure he has to go through withdrawal. I don’t, though, and the only message I have got through so far is to finish him.
‘Come here, son,’ I say in a menacing tone. And the thick twat does.
‘What do you want? I’m busy,’ he tells me matter of factly.
‘Come here, I need to talk to you,’ I say, as he moves closer and closer.
With each step he takes I keep hearing the same thing.
Do him, save Mary, do him, save Mary. Like a tape on repeat.
I reach round to get my baton; his legs are going to be first.
‘Hang on a minute,’ he says, just an arm’s length away.
WHACK!
I crack him on the side of the knee and he’s down before he knows what's happened.
This is it, the moment I have been building up to for months, the moment that was nearly taken from me by the Judases in my life.
‘Argh, what you do that for?’ Simon whimpers from his face down position on the ground.
‘Turn over!’ I scream. ‘You mugging scumbag, you ain't going to harm my Mary now. TURN OVER!’
‘What the fu—’ he is saying, but I stop that with another belt to the kidneys. I know that hurt.
‘Argh!’
‘I said, turn over.’ I want to see the fear. The fear he has caused so many will now be coming back on him tenfold. This is good, better than expected.
He's going in the water once I've caved his head in, to double check that the bastard is dead.
As he turns, I see his eyes: the fear is there, I can see it.
Doof! He kicks me in the balls – hard. Before I can react and whack him again he has slid out from under me, he’s up and he puts the boot into my ribs, knocking the wind out of me. I’m down. Shit, he’s getting away. I need a message.
Fighting for breath and ignoring the infernal pain from my bollocks, I try and tune in to what’s coming through the channels. Then it comes: Get up and get after him. Time’s running out!
I'm up and after him as soon as I can catch a breath; the fucker has a head start, though. He is up the embankment and across the road before I am at the end of the bridge. I didn’t think a fuck-up like him would be as quick. Maybe his survival instinct has kicked in.
I cannot lose him – EVERYTHING depends on this!
Getting to the road, I see Simon jumping on a bus. That is far too public. I can't finish him there. The message comes and it’s a good un: I stand in front of the next car to come round the corner. As I stand there, I worry a little that it won’t stop, then I remember: I am looked after, it just won’t happen.
‘Hello, Officer, what can I do for you?’ the old dear in the car says. Typical – I am commandeering the car of Miss Daisy.
‘Car! I need your car, there’s a criminal on the loose!’
‘But, but, I—’ I don’t wait for her to finish and I help her out the rest of the way, well, drag her. Wrong, but God won’t mind as I am on His mission.
I'm in the car and after the bus like a shot, leaving the driver in the road wondering if her day can get much worse.
After couple of hairy overtakes I am behind the bus. I've got to get him fast or Mary will be home and see I'm not there.
After three little stops the bus waits to get into Greyfriars’ stop, which has a few lanes for buses. I know he'll get off here, me and Mary do all the time, you have to change here to get into town.
The radio’s on in the car. I hadn't noticed up till now, but as the message comes through I suddenly tune in to it: I hear You gotta roll with it, don’t let anybody stand in your way. And I know how to finish the job.
As the bus pulls into the stop I hang back a bit, I need a run up to finish the job. There’s a bit of a crowd and for a moment I worry about the other people there, but they’ll move; he has a knackered leg, he won't be able to. I hear You gotta roll with it again and I know that I’m right – the power will move the others for me.
Suddenly I have to stop thinking, as there he is.
With as much wheel spin as I can get out of a Fiat Punto, I bomb towards him. I mount the kerb, the crowd scatters, and Simon stands directly in front of me, right in my line of fire.
Just as I am abo
ut to hit him, someone runs from the bus and pushes Simon out of the way. I collide with the person that does and they fly over the bonnet. As I look in the mirror, I see Mary’s distinctive coat roll off the roof and on to the ground.
Win-win
First published in Radgepacket Volume five
I'm sat in this fucking probation waiting room again. I seem to spend half my life sat waiting for Judith.
‘Just take a seat, Simon,’ says the receptionist, ‘Judith will be out in a moment.’ Fucking lying bitch.
Every bloody week it’s the same. Now I have to sit here next to this middle-aged bald man who is trying to justify his sexual perversions.
‘I swear she looked sixteen …’ he starts to say.
‘Look, Noncey, I may look and smell like I ain't washed in a week, but I am NOT one of your lot! If you don't fuck off with your kiddie fiddling bullshit, I am going to put my boot in your balls, CCTV or not. OK!’ I tell him, deciding not to beat around the bush.
‘Err, err I was just ...’ he starts.
‘Shuuut it,’ I snarl, which he does.
We sit in relative silence until he starts sniffling, attracting the attention of the receptionist. The bitch gives me the evil eye and picks up the phone. I’m a petty shoplifter, not a sexual deviant like him. He hurts kids and I’m the one judged for making him cry? I hate it here. Why should he get a chair, and a coffee, and the right to sit next to me? The only chair he should get is an electric one.
Hang on a minute! Where's my fucking coffee?
Behind the door leading to the interview rooms, someone curses and it sounds as if they have dropped some files. ‘Oh, damn and blast!’ The muffled voice is Judith. I prepare to stand and smile as she opens the door, holding a folder and loads of paperwork, all crumpled up. She doesn’t even look at me. ‘Brian, come through, please,’ she says, and old Noncey Bri stands up and greets her.
‘Hang on. I had an appointment ten minutes ago, ‘I protest.
‘Yes. Well. I’m running behind today. You will just have to wait,’ she replies.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ I say.
‘I heard that, Simon.’ Judith informs me in a tone I know so well.
‘Well, I didn’t say it in sign language,’ I reply, in my pissed off sarky voice. I’ve been waiting to say that for ages and I feel quite proud of myself for slipping it in. Shame no one is around to hear it except for Noncie and Judas.
‘Anymore of your abusive behaviour to me, the staff or other clients, and I will have you removed from here and you WILL be breached Simon,’ Judas tells me, no doubt making herself feel a little more powerful than she looks walking off into the sunset with a paedo.
I opt for wobbling my head from side to side and mouthing what she has just said by way of reply.
I’m left for a few moments to regret not saving my great joke for when someone else was round to hear it, but I am not alone for long. A couple of young chavs bowl in, throwing about the ‘init bruv seen seen’s’ Those chav twats are forever giving me shit. These two poor excuses for tracksuit enthusiasts are from my estate and immediately they turn their attention disorders towards me.
‘Si, Si, what up, son?’ the one with his own name tattooed on his arm says.
Son? I ain’t your fucking son, mate! I fingered your mum at school, I think to myself. ‘Hello Mickey,’ I say.
‘What the Fed’s got you for this time? I know it ain’t no kiddie porn, you can’t afford a pooter, innit ha-ha,’ he says, earning himself some knuckle love from his mate, Trevor. From what I can see, Trevor is lucky to even see me with the way his eyes point. He’s ginger, too, and a future serial killer if ever I saw one.
‘Nicking,’ I reply, keeping my eyes away from the evil ginger. It’s hard when you can’t tell where they’re looking. I opt to stare at the wall.
‘Seen, seen. What you get away with?’ Mickey asks me.
‘I don’t wanna talk about it’.
‘Oh. My. Days,’ Mickey says, forgetting he is not, and never has been, black. ‘You got busted nicking cheese again, didn’t you!? Oh, you retard! When will you learn, you fucking crack ’ed?’
‘No, it wasn’t cheese, actually,’ I lie.
Come on, Judith, you twat bag, don’t leave me sitting here. I wish I had a coffee so I could throw it all over my own crotch just to take the attention away from my nicking.
‘Ah, Trev, this joker gets caught nicking cheese every other week,’ Mickey needlessly tells Trevor, which prompts Trevor to start to talk to the poster to my far right.
‘You wanna buy some puff, grade A?’
I look round to see if the poster’s interested, then realise it’s me he’s talking to rather than the poster or his own nose.
‘Weed is much better than that shit you’re on,’ he continues, regardless.
I must be sat in his blind spot or something.
‘We’re sat in probation with grasses everywhere,’ I say, nodding at the receptionist who is taking notes while trying to make it look like she is writing a really important date in the dairy or something. This is why she’s a receptionist in a place that crap criminals are already in, rather than Secret Sheila of MI5.
‘Ah, dese fools can’t touch a brudda,’ Trevor tells me and his nose, which brings on some more brudda love in the form of some ‘street’ hand holding from Mickey.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I reply, then decide to wander outside for a quick butt rollie I made earlier from the contents of the handy ash tray outside the door. Thankfully the pair of nipples in hoods stay indoors and discuss ways to get crisis loans. ‘I told them I washed my money last week, bruv, innit, got sixty quid, ha ha,’ I hear Mickey lying as I leave.
As I come back in, the bredjins have gone. For fuck’s sake, their appointments were before me too.
I sit and wait for my son-of-a-bitch probation officer. After half an hour of trying to will Judith dead using only my mind, Peter the pervert bounds in wearing shorter than short shiny shorts and a puffer jacket.
'Christ, they’re all in today,' I say, hoping he'll hear me, get offended, and start screaming and punching himself like he does. He doesn’t like being made fun of, or being called Peter the Pervert, but how can someone be sensitive to jibes when they pull their socks up that far and wear Clarks shoes?
'I have an appointment with my offending rehabilitation assistant,' Peter says, all-matter-of-fact, to the reception lady.
'OK, Peter, I'll call Dave down now,' she replies, with a smile she only extends to men in headbands, it seems.
'Thank you, Barbara,' Peter says, teaching me something new. After two months of coming here, I’ve finally learned her name. I promise myself an extra bag later to help me forget it again, just so I don’t slip and call her it. I don’t want to give her any idea that I might like her. I don’t. I fucking hate her. I hate them all.
'No problem, Peter. How is your mother?' Barbara … err … shit … I mean nameless-woman-that-I-hate, enquires.
'Fucking embarrassed, I should think,' I say, this time hitting the target just shy of bullseye.
'Fuck off! Fuck off FUUUUCK OFFFFF!' Peter shouts at me while rocking forwards and backwards in the way that spakos do.
'Steady on, Petey. There's no need to make a song and dance about things,' I say, impressing myself for the second time today. It only annoys him further and he starts to grind his teeth. It’s loud enough to hear, but his mouth isn’t moving. He's staring at me too, like … well, like a madman.
Peter is not really a pervert. He just looks like one due to the way he dresses and the odd way he acts. That pretty much ticks the boxes in my mind, and that of every other small-minded crim. We all need someone weaker, uglier and stranger to look down on.
Peter soon goes through to the consulting rooms. I’m still waiting.
Jed comes in, he’s someone I know from the 'wet zone,' which is basically a bus stop round the side of the pound shop on the edge of town where we're allowed to drink. He’
s always there; he likes a good drink. Doesn’t touch the gear, though, just his drink, and a meth script from Boots once a morning.
'PerrrrrrrVVVEEeerrrt,' Jed shouts out, like a boxing compere, as soon as he spots Peter's back end going through the door.
'Fuck you, boy, you fucking boy!' Peter shouts from the other side of the door as it clicks shut. There is then an almighty bang, bang, bang on the door followed by a deafening alarm. The sound scares the shit out of me – Jed and I cover our ears. Jed allows his left ear one more second of pain as he takes his finger out, to breath on his finger nails and rub them on his right tit, in celebration. Smiling, he comes over and sits next to me, raising his eyes and putting his fingers firmly in his ears. The alarm stops after two minutes and from the other side of the door it sounds like Peter is fighting half of the probation service single-handed.
'Get off me you cuuuuunts!' Peter's muffled voice screams, and a dozen shouts of 'calm down' follow this.
'Fucking hell, hold his legs, he's just kneed me,’ someone shouts out. After a few more bangs the noise stops, as Peter is dragged off.
‘Sad, really, when you think about it, isn’t it?’ Jed says, with a smile.
‘Ha ha, yeah, but fucking funny,’ I reply.
‘Yeah,’ Jed chuckles.
I decide to try my luck and ask Jed for a smoke. ‘You got any smokes, Jed?’ I ask.
'Yeah, here y’are,' Jed says, opening a twenty pack of tailor mades.
'Ta, mate,' I say, as I take one. I know what the plan for the rest of the day is. It’s clearly giro day for Jed, and if I can't manipulate him into giving me some of his giro money, I'll take it when he's not looking or too pissed to fight me off. I mean, he's a mate, I suppose, but who cares about that when it comes to free money? It'd mean I won't have to nick cheese, whole racks of batteries or A-Z's out of Waterstone’s, then sell them to the corner shops. The bottom line is, he's got it and I want it. This means I’ll get it. We head outside as I ask him what his plans for the day are.
'Well,' he muses. 'Could get pissed, I suppose?' Like this was ever not going to happen anyway. 'You fancy it, Si?' Jed asks.
'Gotta do some graft first, mate,' I say, pulling on the first of many of Jed's Lamberts.
'Oh, you ain't are you?’ he whines. ‘I ain’t coming with you again, I got coming here for three months as a reward last time.'
'I gotta, mate. I'll be sick else,' I say, laying it on thick.
I'm angling for half his meth; he gets double what he needs, if not more, to keep the wolf from the door every day. He normally swaps it for a drink or some blueys, but today he is the king in the king for a day, cunt for a fortnight giro cycle.
'I suppose I could give you my excess if you sort us a frosty shat in the week.'
'Oh, that's a lovely offer mate, are you sure? I'd still need to get a few bits for the voddy, but not a lot,' I reply.
'Don't worry about that. I'll get you drink,' he offers kindly. Mug.
'Just return the favour,' he says, adding a condition I have no intention of keeping.
'Yeah, course, mate, course,' I assure Jed in my best sincere voice.
We flick the fags over the edge of the rail, bouncing them off the nearest car bonnet, and go back inside just as Noncey is being shown out by Judith. I don’t sit down, expecting her to call me through, but she turns on her heels and heads back towards the door.
'Hey! Ain't we having this fucking appointment?' I shout after her.
‘Simon, that’s three people you have verbally abused since being here. I’m going to ask you to leave and mark you down as a breach for non-attendance,’ she says.
‘Huh?’ I say. ‘You mean I don’t have to come?’
‘I’m not seeing you today, no,’ she replies.
‘And it’s for verbal abuse?’ I ask, hoping.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Well, I might as well make it worth it then ... You fucking shit cunt ugly fuck. Ya saggy titted bitch,’ I shout, as she walks through the door.
I turn to Jed and shrug with a smile. ‘Right, I’m off down Tesco. I’ll meet you back here in an hour,’ I say.
As I'm walking towards town I feel like a winner. I've not had to sit with that bitch and I've got a free day on the wreck out of Jed. Mind you, Judith is no doubt thinking the same, she has got out of sitting in a room with my smelly arse and she has got to punish me for it too.
A real win-win situation.
Inside I’m dancing
Previously unpublished
Every day I’d sit in the same spot. They all ignored me or talked over or at me.
I remember one of them heading over to patronise me.
‘Oh, Ricky, you look thirsty.’ My face hadn’t changed all day.
She forced a drink into my mouth. I didn’t really want it, but took the nip of the adult cup anyway. Well, what choice did I have? It was a case of drink it or wear it.
Nothing really changed, day in, day out. I sat in the same boring old place, had the same awful people getting in my face and treating me like dirt.
When I was three weeks old, my mum threw me against the wall and all I was left with was the ability to think, learn stuff and move my arms about five inches. My body hardly works at all, but my head is normal, I think. It’s not good enough to control my body, but it can remember most things.
No one there knew about my brain being OK, they didn’t bother with tests. It had been the same for years. I worked out a blinking system with an old teacher, but she died and that lot never bothered to read any files of mine. I was money to them and that was that.
The people who worked there all claimed to be Christian. That’s rubbish, I listened to a talking Bible once and nowhere did it say treat people with less ability than you with contempt, from what I heard it told people to be nice to others and love thy neighbour. Those people never showed me or the other residents any love or tolerance. Although they were happy to drag us all to the church to meet their friends under the guise of ‘religious commitments’. The boss was happy for them to go and she was there too, making herself look all great wheeling us lot in and letting her friends ‘heal’ us, which basically was a practice that involved a large amount of people touching us. It made me feel dirty to have a lot of people grabbing at me, chanting.
I’ve been hit, starved, left in dirty, wet pads for hours, had food left in my hair for a week after I’ve sneezed when being fed. The worst part was at night, they put me to bed at 8 p.m. every night. I was left with no music, no talking books or TV. I didn’t need much sleep — I did nothing most days but sit waiting for someone to rescue me. I never really went anywhere else. I got pushed around the park sometimes, but not often, only normally when one of the workers needed a fag or to make a lengthy personal phone call. The things I heard discussed! They were all bad people and seemed to be criminals through and through. From passport fraud to selling drugs, I don’t think I went on a walk without hearing about some scam or another. The guy that used to hit me seemed to really believe that he could beat the need to use the toilet out of me. I’d get digs in the ribs and on the top and back of my head, it happened so much I got used to it. The guy didn’t even try to hide it, why would he? No one cared if I was hurt, upset or abused in front of them. It was normal life in that place.
I thought about my mum a lot during the night. It was when I felt most alone. Sometimes I’d wonder if I’d done something wrong, if I was different to all the other babies. Other mums didn’t throw their babies into the wall. Maybe I was a loud crier. She’d probably had enough of me. I got fed up of Ashley, my house mate, screaming sometimes.
Mum’s a beautiful lady. The last time I saw her was a few months ago on my twenty-first birthday, she visited and brought me a big silver tankard with my name on. She talked to me like a person. It was nice, but the lady with her took her away again, she always takes her away. Mum did kiss me when she left, that was nice.
Sometimes I tried to remember and replicate her soft
kiss on the side of my face. It was hard, though, as I’d lose concentration easily. But it kept me going at night time – thinking about her.
When there was a new member of staff starting work, the owner, Felicity, used to explain my history to them across the lounge in front of everyone. She really made my mother sound bad and didn’t mind saying that she’d ban her if it was her choice. She kept saying that my mother was sick, that she was the devil incarnate. I used to have a teddy that smelt like Mum, she bought me it. However, it was taken from my room and never returned. I cried for a long time about that. They just thought I had a cold, though. No one cared that I was upset. They never did.
I’ve been on holiday to Morocco with the staff, the owner of the home is from there. Every year we’re all paraded in front of the family and local townsfolk to show them how well she’s done for herself and how kind she is. I got really bad sunburn on one of those holidays. It didn’t stop her dragging us round the town to various family members’ houses every day of the trip and leaving me out in the heat, though. I was sick over myself one day. When I was being pushed back to the van, I was told angrily that I was an embarrassment and that god wouldn’t forgive me. I didn’t care, though, I took it as a little victory. I tried to get them when I could. I wouldn’t have done that in the home, though – they’d have left me covered in it, as they’d left me in my own filth on many an occasion, overnight mostly. When I’d get put to bed I’d hear one say to the other, between the two it took to lift me, that I stank; they’d always choose to leave me till the morning, though.
The residents had to pay for the holiday. I don’t know how much got paid to them every week to look after me, but I know that all the money paid into my bank was saved up, along with the other residents’ money, and used to buy the flights for the trip: ours and the staff’s. While it was being saved up, I was left to wear secondhand clothes and eat the cheapest food going, all in the same stripy Tesco packaging.
There’s so much more, but I’m tired, can we finish tomorrow?
‘That’s more than enough for today, Mr Robinson, thank you,’ the detective said. He stood up to leave. ‘It’s a great bit of kit, that computer, isn’t it?’ he said to my new nurse on the way out.
Also by Pete Sortwell:
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