Bail,Drink and Anal

The helicopter encircled the retreat, it’s spotlight illuminating the forecourt that was full of police cars and screaming disciples being hearded into the back of black mariahs.  Amidst the chaos, tv news crews were angling to get interviews but were being held back.  In one paddy wagon the Scottish cries of “ Ah fah fucks sake, ahm nae deviant, ah just got a taste fer it recently like. Na what ah mean?”

The sirens wailed as the wagon crunched down the gravel path.  Meanwhile, inside, the police had Bill sat down. They knew him.  Only too well and when they raided the retreat they initially thought he was a hostage.  When he said he was there of his own accord they laughed, asking was the guinness cheap or something.  It was as the interview progressed, they realized that although Bill was involved there was a more sinister, darker element to the recent events.

“Ok Bill so where was Hank when all this happened?”

Bill couldn’t answer, the tears streaming from his eyes obscured his vision. He had forgotten that he was handling chilli.  He was so fucked.  Yet he was sober.  So maybe drink wasn’t the cause of all his problems.  Maybe drink was just an element of his personality that he had to embrace, again.  The realization did nothing for his mood.  It only posed more questions for himself.  And the police continued to ask him more questions.  Bill stood there, numbed to the events,  if drink was not the problem then what was?

“Where is the brainwashed fucking cunt?” A familiar voice outside was heard before the knock on the door.

“Now Hank” the sergeant called “you know better than that! The brainwashed cunt is under arrest and no doubt you will post bail in ½ an hour, and then Dave will feed you both Guinness until you can drink no more, the Navy will make you both out to be heroes and my Boss will take out a life time subscription to Zantac, my career will end prematurely….do I need to go on? Fuck off and I will see you at the station in ½ an hour..

The commotion slowly petered out as Bill heard Hank walk down the corridor.  The last legible sentence he heard was Hank asking whether it would make sense in setting up a direct debit to save time.

The detective sat looking at Bill.  He had his purple robe in an evidence bag and Bill was wearing the customary custody suit.  This one was different to the usual disposable outfits.  Twelve months previously Bill and Hank thought it their civic duty to save tax payers money in having their own suits that they laundered and dropped off at the station for when they next needed them.  Bill’s had his name and on the back ‘Hank did it’ in gold lettering.

 Unfortunately he was pissed when ordering the  custody suit and the owner of the embroidery emporiums daughter had been violated at the age of 17 by Bill.  In consequence what was actually embroidered was “if they’re five and alive I am ready to jive but when they’re seven I’ve moved to heaven”. Understandably this never went down well at the station but experience had taught the police that Bill was always too pissed to notice, and thought of his overalls as a badge of honour  so tolerated it.  Tonight however even the duty inspector was at a loss.  Bill in  a cult? Hank not involved? He needed help, and fast.

The detective was a deeply religious man and had often sought solace in the church.  However the cult and cunt in front of him was not something he felt god could advise him on.  The sensible and pragmatic side of him told him that some weird cult had tried to corrupt Bill.  Yet, somehow Bill had corrupted them.  That must be something.  Every bus shelter, every civic building, every wall had the word cunt on them. Bill was responsible, sort of.  He looked at the latest charge sheet.  For some reason, instead of the accused, as customary, it read Hank and Bill, in describing what they did.  He later found out that the rest of the station had been cutting and pasting in their charge sheets for so long that it became second nature.  This particular charge involved the two of them organising an ad hoc tramp racing betting scam.  They said it was for charity.  It turned out that charity was a Nigerian prostitute new to the area. He had no choice he had to let him go.

But still his conscience screamed NO! The city was defaced and Hank did not appear to be involved. It maddened him that the two would get off with it again; no something had to be done….but no need to rush it. No indeed, revenge would be his, this blasphemy would be stopped, properly and once and for all. So the plan started to germinate in his head and DCI Bone knew that his place in heaven was guaranteed. That night after signing the release forms he drove home to his lovely wife Rosey with impure thoughts coursing through his entire body and a new determination and belief in his job that had been missing for several years. As usual Rosey had cooked and was wearing next to nothing whilst suggesting that it was bed time for both of them; whilst checking all the electrical equipment in the house, the last noises heard from acacia street was a whimpering plea of a desperate man shouting ‘no, I am not going to faint, I promise’.

Bill left the police station with his property in a manilla envelope.  He started to walk home, his mind racing and trying to process all that happened recently.  He simply let one foot fall in front of another expecting to end up at his front door.  When he broke from his reverie he was stood at the bar, and Dave said’ that will be £127 Bill”.

He shook his head and took stock of his surroundings.  Ok.  He was in the pub.  No surprise there.  But £127? He looked at the newly poured pint of guniness in front of him.  Had prices gone up that much. 

“Er how come?”

“well Hank told me where you were.  But he said he knew you would be released and so you deserved a party.  He said he had no money but knew you wouldn’t mind.  Anyway he drank too much and ended up vomiting on the pool table.  That is when I sent him home. He said you would understand”

And understand he did. That fat useless Irish piece of shit had screwed him for the last time. That cunt would never put him in an embarassing or illegal or compromising position again. Yet another determined attitude was fostered; wrongs would be righted and sins undone…after this pint, Christ but it tasted good. “same again Dave with a double Jameson chaser” he called. Dave went home and Bill stayed til God knows what time but he awoke next day at home, in his own bed, with a sore head and some burbling Scot smelling of cleggy singing about a nun who loved fish beside him. Instinctively he felt his arse, his own not Als and all appeared normal, no drips or clots and no camera to catch it all. Maybe life had turned a corner after all.