Chapter 10: The Dark Side of the Loon.

July 5th-20th, 2002. Plaistow. London

I returned in triumph to The Crown with my supporters, and spent the evening in joyous celebration. People clapped me on the back, and bought me trays full of foaming pints and Jim Beam chasers.

"Well done, Des."

"Nice one, Dewey."

"Good on yer, Dave."

Friends from the army, childhood, and neighborhood kept me buoyant on a wave of euphoria and alcohol, and, when at last I was poured into my bed at 23 Kitchener Road, the morning star was visible.

I awoke late the next day, and it was then I went doolally tap., round the bend, off my trolley, and all those other politically incorrect terms for experiencing a mental breakdown.

The combination of all the trauma I endured over the last months; the wounding in Afghanistan, my sudden dismissal from the army, the shock of discovering my wife had been shagging her brother during all the years of our marriage, and her brother may have been shagging my mother for the last year of her life, the attack on Hodge and the subsequent trial, finally drove me over the edge and round the twist.

My lunacy manifested itself by my absolute belief that Sharon of The White Swan and I were soul mates, and destined to marry. A girl who I had spoken to no more than three times, who didn't even know my name until called as a witness for the prosecution, and then damn near perjured herself to get me banged up in prison. I must have been barking mad.

Nevertheless, later that day I went to my bank and drew out £1000, much to the alarm of the bank manager when seeing the mad gleam in my eyes.

Next stop Bond Street, where I purchased an engagement ring, a miracle of sapphires and diamonds, which set me back about £750.

By the time I got back from 'Up West' with my purchase it was late; too late to go and pop the question in a busy pub, so I made an an early night of it and determined to go to Chigwell next morning in time for the opening of the pub.

Mine was the only car in the car park of the White Swan the next morning, just gone 10 a.m. and the doors of the pub had barely opened. Entering, I saw Sharon behind the bar stacking bottles of soft drinks. She glanced up when she heard me come through the door.

"Oh no. Not you. Go away." The intertwangled expression of horror, disgust, fear, and loathing on her face took me aback.

"Sharon, love," I said, "I'm moving up here to be near you. I will get a job with a firm in Chigwell, then buy a house and we can get married." I brought out the engagement ring box from my pocket. "Here's the ring. I want to marry you as soon as possible."

Bill Hancock, stacking bottles in the small bar, heard everything, and entered the main bar. "You'll not get a job in security with a conviction for GBH, in fact you'll be hard pressed to get a job of any sort," he said with an air of triumph. He certainly didn't like me. It was then Sharon shattered my life.

"Marry you, you vicious bastard? I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth, you fucking brutal cunt." Her words entered my heart like swords, and the shock of such a sweet girl using foul language was as if overhearing Mother Teresa telling the Pope to fuck off. My face surely revealed the depth of the anguish and misery as my world crumbled and crashed down around me.

Even Hancock showed me some sympathy. "Go on home, son, there's nothing for you here," he said in a gentler tone of voice.

"Yes," Sharon yelled, her face ugly with anger, "fuck off, you savage shitbag sod, and never come back."

Hot burning tears filled my eyes as I stumbled to my car. I don't know how I managed to get home, for when the tears finally cascaded down my cheeks I could barely see to drive. On the way home I called in at a Booze R Us store, and bought six bottles of vodka and six of Jim Beam. I had finished one of each by the next morning. My descent into a hell had begun.

Some days later, I don't know exactly when, I sat in The Crown — unshaven, unwashed, and drunk. Both Maggie and Alfie tried, in vain, to find out what was wrong with me, and eventually they contacted Harry Ledbetter, recently returned from a trip to the Mid-East, and Harry being Harry, came over post haste.

"Dave, what is it? He asked solicitously. "What's happened to you?"

I babbled on how Sharon and I loved each other but now she hated me and I didn't know what changed her and how I couldn't get a job because of my criminal record and couldn't win Sharon back without a job. It was complete gibberish, and I doubt Harry understood more than one word in three of my drivel, although he picked up on the job situation.

"When I heard you were found guilty of GBH it occurred to me you wouldn't be able to take up a teaching career, so I asked around at MoD for job prospects for you." He pulled an envelope from his pocket. "This contains an invitation for a job interview at Military Systems PLC. They are recruiting ex-servicemen for a recently acquired MoD contract. My office will be doing the security checks so your conviction will be ignored." He stood up to leave. "I have to be at a meeting in an hour, Dave. Meantime go home, take a damn good shower and get yourself cleaned up. You stink to high heaven."

I was still babbling on about Sharon, and how we were meant for each other. Harry butted into my drunken, maudlin monologue. "It was all in your mind, Dave. I didn't attend the trial, but by all accounts this Sharon person almost went to prison for perjury, in her attempt to see you convicted." His voice hardened. "At the moment you are making an exhibition, and a fool, of yourself. Take yourself off home, and I will see you here tomorrow, clean, sober, and ready to present yourself at the interview." He stuffed the envelope into my pocket and snapped out a command.

"Rifleman Desmond! Brace yourself up, and get a grip. In this state you're a disgrace to yourself and the regiment." If he thought his words would bring me out of my self-pity and melancholy he was wrong.

"Go fuck yourself, Ledbetter." I said, and staggered out of the pub.

I sat slumped, drunk and disgustingly dirty, in some dive of a pub. I don't know how I got there or even where it was. I held a double vodka in my hand, with several others already in my gut, when I saw her, a young, slim, dark haired, long legged, Miss Pouty sort of girl. She was sitting at a table with a crowd of what appeared to be druggies: unkempt young men and girls. She glanced over at me, and our eyes locked. It was unalloyed sexual magnetism, and I was consumed with lust. We kept eye contact for a few seconds, and when she got up from the table and made her way out of the bar room I followed her, into the ladies bogs, where we set upon each other like dogs in heat.

There is no other way to describe what happened.

She pulled down her knickers as I approached her, unzipping my fly, and I went into her like a stallion. No foreplay, no kissing, no lubrication, no talking. I simply rammed into her, grunting like a pig. She backed onto a wash basin, and brought her knees up to her ears; her cunt already dripping wet, and she bucked into me as I fucked into her. I took a slim ankle in each hand and forced them back over her head. She squealed as my balls thudded against her arse, and I felt her cunt muscles contract and her hands grip tighter around my neck, nails digging in. After a dozen or more brutal thrusts I came, my spunk spurting hotly into her, dripping out over her thighs. She shrieked as she climaxed. I withdrew my prick, wiped it on her discarded knickers then zipped myself up and left. Neither of us had uttered a word during those few, frenzied, minutes of feverish feral fornication.

I ordered another double vodka at the bar before returning to my table; she re entered the room and rejoined her companions a few minutes later. Last orders was called, and people began leaving. I walked over to where she sat, grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. We left the pub and took a taxi to my place, and spent most of the next week fucking and drinking, but rarely sleeping or eating.

I returned to the pub the next morning and bought her a week's supply of Ecstasy, Speed, and amphetamine tablets; afterwards I went to a Booze R Us outlet and resupplied with vodka and bourbon. It was the only time I left the house during the ensuing week of degenerate madness.

I'm not proud of what I did to that young girl during those seven days of drunken depravity. I used her body solely as a lump of fuck meat.

Her name was Hannah, who I assumed came from a good background by the way she spoke. Not that she spoke a great deal. She screamed, swore, shrieked, yelled and howled, but conversation didn't figure high on our agenda.

Hannah's age could have been any where between 16 to 26. She possessed the similar sultry, pouty, air of Jenny Walsh, together with well-defined cheekbones and dark blue eyes. With her striking looks and slender body she could have been a top model. She was an addict, and a masochist, and I did everything sexual to her that can be done between a man and a woman, short of snuff, and I came bloody close to that; Hannah loved being choked when we fucked.

We didn't make love, we fucked; purely and simply fucking each other's brains out, or rather impurely, and in a number of entangled positions, fucking each other's brains out.

We never kissed; we sucked and licked and bit and scratched and slapped and spat, but never kissed. We never washed, or changed our clothes, we ate little, other than each other, but we drank, a lot.

What really astonishes when I recall that week was the amount of sperm I produced.

I would fill her vagina, anus, and mouth two or three times a day, and not just a dribble but enough for it to flow out of each hole, dripping down her chin, sliding like glistening string down her thighs, and bubbling out of her arsehole like cream from a squashed éclair. She seemed to climax every time I fucked her, no matter which hole of hers my prick invaded. I'm sure she didn't fake her orgasms, she had no regard for me and I had none for her. I used her as a sex toy and she used me as a spunk machine; she couldn't get enough of it, sticking her fingers in her cunt when I emptied a load, then licking it into her mouth.

She also couldn't get enough of pain.

I would thrash her with my leather belt, raising crimson welts on her soft white buttocks, over which she would lovingly run her fingers. I would knot a tie around her neck, slowly tightening it, as she built up to her climax, until her eyes bulged, and she came, screaming and yelping and choking. I had never hit a woman before, nor deliberately caused them pain, but with Hannah I enjoyed doing both. I never realised I harboured such a dark and dangerous side until that week with Hannah; the knowledge dismayed me.

After three days of having Hannah as a houseguest Harry Ledbetter arrived at 23 Kitchener Road. The disgust on his face when he saw the state of the house, and me, would have brought me up sharp if I had been thinking straight, but I wasn't, and if didn't. Harry could see berating me over the shit house I had become would be pointless.

"Here is the residue of the money raised by the regiment for your trial, David," he said. "The legal fees have been paid, and this is what is left from the ten thousand pounds raised." He put a large manila envelope on the table. "I hope to God none of the regiment gets to see you like this. It would break their heart, as it has mine."

Harry left, and I regarded his retreating figure with a glazed, bemused stare, taking a swig of vodka from the bottle I had been holding when I opened the door to him.

"Who was that?" Hannah asked, coming in from the kitchen, dressed only in the skimpy petticoat she wore in and out of bed. Her dirty denim skirt lay discarded in the hall, torn off her seconds after arriving home, along with her ripped knickers and buttonless blouse.

"Fuck knows," I said, and took another swig from my bottle, before raising the petticoat up to her waist and spitting a mouthful of vodka over her cunt — then greedily lapping it up.

We descended into a depraved bout of animal-like fucking. I pushed her face down on the carpet and poured more vodka over the cheeks of her arse; then, pulling them further apart, I tipped a large measure into her anus.

"Fucking hell, that stings," she cried out in a Roedean educated accent, "lick it out."

I stuck my tongue up her arsehole as far as I could, and licked and sucked the vodka out, as she whimpered, wriggling her arse in painful enjoyment. "Whip me, whip me," she begged.

I got my leather belt and whipped her ferociously; across her quivering buttocks, over her arsehole, now running with vodka and her juices, and over her back and shoulders.

God forgive me, I really hurt her. She screamed in pain, and blood flowed from the belt stripes I gave her. I stopped, made her go on all fours, and then buggered her, mercilessly and cruelly. Her screams got louder, and I pulled back on her hair until her throat became so taut hardly a sound came from her, just whimpering, and gurgling gasps. My cum spewed into her arse, and I pulled out, enjoying the sight of spunk bubbling out of her as she lay on her face moaning and gasping, with blood, cum and vodka intermingling on her body. Eventually she rolled over on to her back, and, looking me straight in the eye, raised her legs over her head and opened them wide. She started fingering herself, while giving me a wicked smile. I emptied the bottle of vodka over her pubic hair, twat and arse, and then went down on her, licking and gobbling, slurping and rooting, like a pig in a trough.

Hannah seemed to be in a constant state of sexual arousal; her labia lips always engorged, and moist in anticipation. Was it me or the drugs she took which caused her to be so accessible? I could boast of a practically permanent hard-on, always ready to fuck her, and when I did it was like being eighteen years old again. I fucked her fast, hard, deep, and often, never giving a shit for her pleasure. Even so she would come, several times, often while I was still thrusting into her before shooting my load.

I can't explain it. I was drinking vodka and bourbon, but not taking any stimulants. Was Hannah causing me to be so aroused? Or was it the mental state I was in?

And what about her? Was Hannah merely an addicted nympho, or did I bring out the animal in her, as she certainly did in me?

We often fell asleep where we had been shagging. Sometimes in the bed, more often than not on the floor. On the stairs, in the bathroom, on the kitchen table, we tore into each others flesh in hot animalistic fucking everywhere in the house. We even did it outside, with a naked Hannah pinned by my plunging prick against the house wall as I ravaged her. The roughcast covered wall scraped her already red raw back, and her screams, shrieks and squeals had the neighbouring house lights switching on, and people coming out in to their gardens to see what the row was about.

Once I did her doggy style in the bathroom, with Hannah on her knees clutching onto the WC pedestal. I pushed her head right down into the pan and pulled the flush, pounding into her as she choked and gagged with water pouring over her. She was so turned on by the experience her juices gushed out of her cunt like the water from the cistern.