Chapter 15: Déjà Vu

We had expected to return to York when our tour of duty in Bosnia was over, but the bastards at MoD sent us to bloody Catterick. There were two good reasons why that posting was not well received by the Erbs. The first because most of us were looking forward to re-establishing relationships with the fair maids of York, or in Russ Stilkins' case the fair maids of Nippon. The second reason was that, for those of us 'rejected' by 2 RGJ, it would be returning to face their derision.

Since our deployment to Bosnia a battalion of the Light Infantry had taken up residence in Marne Barracks at Catterick, so now those Erbs 'let go' by the Light Infantry would also have their 'rejection' ridiculed. However we had no choice but to swallow our indignation, and grin and bear the taunts and sneers thrown at us by members of our former regiments–not easy.

If that wasn't bad enough, I had another kick in the bollocks when I was relieved of my acting corporal rank and returned to Lance Corporal, and Domby Anson, a substantive corporal, formerly with 2RGJ mortar platoon, was made section commander of #4 section of Bravo 6 in my stead.

Domby would have been a shoo-in to be an Erb when 2RJG was getting rid of their undesirables, but he was in hospital, in intensive care, at the time.

The reason for his stay in hospital will tell you all you need to know about Domby Anson. He was home on leave, about to marry his girlfriend after three years, and two children, together. He spent his stag night drinking heavily, which was normal behaviour for him, and then picked up a slag in the boozer, who took him back to hers for heavier drinking and extensive shagging, also normal behaviour for him.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning of his wedding day he woke up, still pissed out of his skull, and went for a slash. He came back into the tart's bedroom, and as he did the wardrobe door swung open. Domby saw a figure of a man approaching him. He threw a punch at the man, karate kicked him and head butted him – all bad moves, for what Domby had taken to be the tart's husband or boyfriend was his own reflection in the mirror inside the wardrobe door. He lost over 3 pints of blood from the shattered shards of mirroe glass inflicting severe cuts to his arms, legs, and face, and spent the next two months in hospital. Oh yes, and the wedding was cancelled – permanently.

I know Big Ben was really pissed off that he had been saddled with Domby Anson, but there was nothing he could do about it. The only silvery gleam on the horizon was that Domby had failed his Battle Fitness Test (BFT), which every infantryman had to pass annually. He was allowed another two attempts to pass the test, but if he failed both times he would be discharged as medically unfit.

A week after returning to Catterick I was given ten days leave; it was Big Ben's way of making up for the loss of my corporal stripes.

Back home in Plaistow Miriam was warm and loving, and in her comforting embrace the memory of what I had seen and done in Bosnia was blunted, if not entirely forgotten. I finally met Vivian, and was pleasantly surprised to find I liked the man – not an emotion I had felt for many of my mother's 'men friends'.

Miriam worked for the national supermarket chain OCSET; the same company she had joined straight from school as a shelf filler. Now she was middle management, and part of a trouble shooting team that sorted out problems – be they personnel, suppliers, union, property or legal, –throughout London and the Home Counties Area. OCSET had recently opened a regional HQ on a newly built business park just twenty minutes' walk away from 23 Kitchener Road – Miriam had not driven her car since the death of her parents.

She was based at the regional HQ, except when her expertise was required elsewhere in the regional area. The downside of this ease of getting to work was that she was first on call in time of trouble, and although she had been allowed a week's leave, only three days after my return home she was called in to work.

"It shouldn't take me long to deal with the problem," she said beforer she kissed me goodbye. "All I need to do is talk to the manager of the supermarket reporting the problem, and then determine what needs to be done. I will then write up a quick action plan and the team can carry it out without me."

I was impressed with her confidence, and obvious skills, in dealing with sudden problems, and waved to her as she trotted down the street, admiring the swing of her hips, and relishing the thought that I would be clutching them in bed later tonoght. There was a midweek home game at Upton Park, kick off at 12.45 pm, so I took myself off to see the Hammers – first chance I'd had to see them play for nearly a year.

The final whistle blew, and I despondently made my way out of the ground. The team went to pieces in the last fifteen minutes of the game and got well and truly stuffed. I wouldn't have minded too much but it was Manchester bloody United that did the stuffing. I was making my way north along Green Street towards Kitchener Road, when I heard a voice behind me. "Dave, you old bugger! Long-time no see."

I looked around and saw Andy Rowe, the bloke who had been my best man.

"Bloody hell Andy, you're a sight for sore eyes." We shook hands, grinning at each other, mindless of being bumped and barged into as the fans streamed past.

"I've got a table reserved in the Boleyn Tavern," he said. "It's always best to reserve one on a match day. Let's go have a drink; there's a lot to catch up on."

The bouncer on the door of the Boleyn nodded to Andy. "Good afternoon, Mr Rowe." I was well impressed, and even more so when, once inside the heaving bar room, the bartender said. "Your usual order, sir? And a table is reserved for you in the Snug."

Andy had joined the Metropolitan Police after leaving the Royal Navy in 1984, and publicans always keep well in with the Old Bill. A waiter brought over two pints of Bombardier, and we both took long pulls at our drinks.

"Bloody well needed that after seeing such a poor game," Andy said. "Billy Bonds will need to spend some dosh and buy in a new striker, and someone to keep the back four tight – they were diabolical."

I wasn't too well up on football tactics so just nodded my agreement.

"Anyway," he continued, "how are you doing? We haven't seen each other for ... what is it ... ten years? Are you still married to what's-her-name, Miriam?"

I nodded again and took another swig of my pint.

"You know," he leaned towards me and spoke quietly, "on your stag night I was in two minds to let that Bunny Girl take you back home with her and fuck you rigid, and you not turn up up for the wedding next morning." He grinned. "Not that you would have been able to do the business with her when she got you back to her gaff, you were as pissed as a rat." He laughed, and once again I nodded.

He continued with his reminiscences. "I remember seeing Martin Hodge at the wedding ... he was a nasty piece of work then, and he hasn't improved over the years. You know the Drug Squad have eyes on him?"

I didn't, but wasn't too bothered, as I hoped Miriam and my mother had taken notice of what I said about not letting him visit.

"Isn't he over in Spain?" I asked.

"He was, but came back to the Smoke about four months ago. He's got a gaff in Plumstead."

"How do you know all this, Andy? Is he Public Enemy Number One?"

"Nah, he's just a minor obnoxious scrote that I came across a few years back. Some brass he was pimping tried to get out from under him, and had acid thrown in her face for her pains. She was a nice young thing, came from a good family, who are friends of mine, and the silly mare had got herself into the drug scene and went on the game to feed her addiction. Hodge had her working for him. He's a bully and a thug, who beats up his girls, and I'm sure it was him that did the acid. He's a nasty vicious bastard."

We went on to talk of other things but my estimation of Martin Hodge hadn't been increased by what Andy told me. Just before we left the pub, after a couple of hours catching up with what each had been doing, he handed me his card.

Detective Sergeant Andrew Rowe.

Specialist Crime and Operations Section,

New Scotland Yard.

"Blimey Andy, you're in the Sweeney, the Flying Squad?"

He laughed. "We don't call it that these days, but yes it's the name we used to go by. In the job we are known as the Heavy Mob." He wrote his telephone number on the back of his card. "I can always be reached here if you get into any trouble with the Bill, or if you just want to meet up with me. Take care, Dave, it's been great seeing you again."

I made my way home thinking about Martin Hodge, and if Miriam had been visiting him. I didn't like to think that the Drug Squad might have been clocking her. I walked up Green Street and just as I turned into Kitchener Road one of those black, bull barred, tinted windowed, four wheel drive, wannabe gangster cars, came screaming down the road and turned the corner with tyres screeching. 'Stupid boy racer twat' I thought, 'some tosser thinking he's Al fucking Capone'.

I arrived home to find my mother sitting on the settee wiping Vivian's face with a towel, which I could see was bloodied.

"What the hell's going on?"

She glanced round at me. "That bastard 'Odge paid us a visit. I told 'im Miriam weren't 'ere but 'e pushed past me ... knocked me over, the ill-mannered sod. Vivian swung a punch at 'im..." The look she gave Vivian was as if he had rescued her from a dragon. "but 'Odge punched 'im in the guts an' then punched 'im in 'is face. 'Viv's got a split eyebrow an' needs stitches."

"I'm OK, Sonia; I've had worse than this at work." Vivian was a line manager at Fords of Dagenham, and I'd heard the workforce there are a bit handy with their fists when it comes to making a point to management.

"I'll take Miriam's car an' run you up to the clinic, Viv, an' 'ave some stiches put in." That was the first I knew that my mother could drive. Always surprises me does my dear old mum. Vivian said nothing, he had been with my mother long enough to know when her mind was made up.

They had only been gone about ten minutes when Miriam came in. "I've just seen your mother driving my car up the road. Where's she going?"

"Your brother punched Vivian and split his eyebrow. They've gone to the clinic to have it stitched."

She sat down wearily on a kitchen chair. "Martin has been here? He knows not to come here when you are home on leave; it must be something serious."

"He could have phoned you if it was serious. He either forgot I was on leave or he was taking the piss." I thought it was probably the latter, but I kept that to myself.

Miriam stood up. "I'll make a cup of tea and then ring him to see what's going on."

She looked tired so I said. "I'll make the tea while you go and have a shower, you look knackered."

She gave me a swift warm kiss. "Thanks Des – it's been a trying day."

She went up to the bathroom and I put the kettle on.

The tea was not long brewed when she came down stairs. She looked much better, not so tired, and with her hair still slightly damp and smelling of roses.

I poured her a cup, and she sat at the table and sipped at it gratefully. She then told me that Martin Hodge had been visiting her while I was on deployment in Bosnia. She knew I wouldn't like him doing it but her remonstrations had been pushed aside by him. 'I'm your brother, Sis; I have a right to see you.'

"I've only got a 'phone number for Martin. He came back from Spain a few months ago and is living somewhere south of the river." She opened her handbag and rummaged around until she found her address book. "I'll finish my tea then give him a ring."

I heard her talking on the telephone in the hallway and the annoyance in her voice as she asked him why he had called around. She was on the 'phone for about ten minutes before coming back into the kitchen.

"He had come to invite us out for the evening. According to him your mother slammed the door in his face, and it hit his foot then swung back and knocked her over. He was trying to pick her up when Vivian attacked him, and he defended himself." I didn't believe a word of it, but she obviously did.

"Martin sends his apologies for what happened, and to make it up to us he wants us to meet him tomorrow evening, at some trendy nightclub he knows. All the drinks, and a meal, will be on him. What do you say?"

I could see that she wanted me to agree to the meeting. I wasn't keen on the idea of a night out with Hodge, in fact I thought a drink from him would probably choke me, but to please Miriam I accepted the invitation.

The trendy nightclub turned out to be Lorenzo's, and my bottle twitched as I wondered what would happen if that red headed sort, Louise Tyndall, who had picked me up the Christmas before last, was there. I wouldn't recognise her, but she might recognise me.

As Miriam handed her coat at the cloak room I took a quick look around the bar for any red heads, but none that I saw fitted the bill of being both posh and a bit mature. Hodge was already in the lounge bar with two attractive young girls, who couldn't have been more than 16. They were both dolled up like expensive 'escorts', and were probably being pimped by him.

He introduced them as 'my young friends from Europe – Marta and Pinza.'

I thought they were probably Eastern Europeans, Polish or Russian or some such, but later, when I heard them quietly talking to each other, I realised they were speaking Serbo-Croat.

He had placed his hand on each girl's arse when introducing them, and I saw the repugnance flame in Marta's eyes; Pinza just looked resigned to whatever he did, or would do, to her.

I tried, for Miriam's sake, to be pleasant to the bastard, but it was hard going. We had a couple of drinks, with Hodge doing all of the talking, bragging of the deals he had done lately which had netted him a tidy sum of money. It was obvious from what he said that he was dealing drugs and pimping girls, and I expect he had chosen Lorenzo's for this meeting so that he could carry out both enterprises with the merchant bankers – I'm using rhyming slang here as the place was full of bankers and politicians – who frequented the club.

The two girls kept their eyes down, and said little, but I saw plenty of men lusting after them, and calculating whether their expenses could be fiddled to afford a night with one, or both, of them.

Miriam went to the ladies, and then Hodge showed his true colours.

"I only made the invite because Sis asked me to." He snarled. "I will come and see her whenever I want, and you won't stop me." He glowered at me, daring me to reply.

I leaned over the table and said, calmly and coolly. "If I ever see you round my house I will stuff your head up your arse so far you will pass shit through your gob – even more than you already do."

We both glared at each other, and it might have developed into a punch up if he had any balls, which I knew he hadn't. Marta, probably hoping to avoid any conflict, asked me to dance. I'm not overly attracted to young girls, although I must admit that Marta was very easy on the eye, and had one of those megawatt smiles when the occasion merited it.

I walked onto the dance floor with her, and her body melded to mine like a wet suit. The last time I had danced with a 16 year old girl had been at Wurzel Colcott's wedding, and if Miriam had not been at Lorenzo's with me it could well have ended up the same way as it had then – four bare legs in a bed, and me being shagged to exhaustion by a teenager. Having young, barely legal, female flesh pressed closely and sensuously against me swiftly aroused my prick, which soon started to bore into Marta's soft, pliable body.