Pulling in the clutch, the rider hits the kill switch and cuts the engine, coasting about 200 yards before braking. He kicks down the side stand and climbs off the bike. A specific car parked just down the street tells him he has arrived in time to do what he had to do.
He looks around, only a couple of houses are still showing lights, otherwise the street is in darkness. He slips through the gate and walks toward the house; he does not approach the door, instead walks down the side and picks up the piece of wood he knows to be there and settles down to wait in the shadows.
He does not have to wait long, less than five minutes pass before he hears water flowing down the drain and knows that someone is using the shower, another minute or so and he hears the front door opening.
He is grateful that the porch light does not come on. Keeping low, he moves from his hiding place and watches the man close the front door. As the man turns and begins walking, perhaps it is his need to keep the meeting he has just had secret, it may be that the blow is not as hard as was intended, whichever the reason, he only lets out a low groan as the wood strikes him on his knees.
The assailant expects him to scream in pain, at least cry out, but the only sound other than the impact of wood hitting kneecaps is a stifled uughhh as his reflexes force him to take a step back. Standing, the aggressor takes a backstroke for another swing, this time; the blow is straight to the face and puts the recipient down. The only sound other than the impact is the sound of the unconscious body hitting the floor.
Methodically and systematically, the antagonist breaks the arms, legs, hands, elbow and knee joints of the unconscious man, the only reason to suspect he is not a professional is the small gasp of surprise at the popping sound the kneecaps make when they are broken. The victim does not regain consciousness as he is beaten.
Aside from the one blow to the face, the assailant is careful not to damage the head, ribs and genitals of his prey.
Less than two minutes after the attack began, the attacker walks back to the motorcycle.
An ambulance siren pulls me from my thoughts, it overtakes and it seems to be going the same direction I am. In fact, I follow it all the way to my home. A home currently brightly illuminated with a multitude of blue flashing lights coming from three police cars and now the ambulance. A number of uniformed people are milling about the front garden.
I pull up in the nearest available space and run toward my house.
“What the fuck is going on?” I scream,
One policeman tries to stop me, I dodge past him, firing out questions at everyone and no-one and start shouting. “Anne, Anne, where are you? Anne. Where the fuck is my wife? What has happened?” and finally, “who the fuck is that and why is he laying on my doorstep?”
Another copper gets in my way; I fire similar questions at him.
“Sir, please identify yourself and your reason for being here.”
Shit, me asking about Anne and calling her my wife should make those questions redundant, how can these pricks, the people that are supposed to solve crime not have a fucking clue.
“I fucking live here, now where is my fucking wife?”
“Sir, please restrain yourself and stop the abusive language, there is really no nee...”
“Really? How the fuck do you know? You ever come home to find your house crawling with you fuckers doing whatever the fuck it is that you’re doing, No one, not one of you will tell me where my fucking wife is, let alone how she is, never mind telling me who the fuck that cunt is, and why he is laying on my fucking front doorstep?”
“The lady of the house is being interviewed inside sir.”
“But she’s alright?”
At last, a straight answer, I thank the copper and duck around him as he is distracted by the bloke on my doorstep being relocated via stretcher.
With PC Brightcunt running after me, I go inside and find Anne and a couple of plain clothes coppers in the front room.
“What the fuck is going on Anne? Why is some cunt half dead on the doorstep?
She starts wailing and one of the cops says, “Mr Dougan, calm yourself down.”
“Why? more to the point how? I demand, “I get home after a long day and find all this shit going on and no fucker will tell me why.”
The two plain clothes look at each other and the one that told me to calm down speaks, “At 11:49 a call was made to the emergency services and reported a man being beaten at this address, a car was despatched but by the time it arrived on scene the assailant had left the area. The officers assessed the victim and called for an ambulance and support. Now where were you at ten to twelve?
“Coming down the A1, at a guess, probably around the A605 junction. Why, you think I did this? What fucking reason would I hav... ?” I break off and look at my wife, “were you fucking that arsehole?”
She wails again, burying her face in her hands.
“You were weren’t you?” I shout.
She continues to cry into her hands, I give a snort of disgust and look at the copper. “If you find out who did this, tell him I owe him a beer or two. Now if it’s all the same to you I’ll go for a shower.”
“Sorry sir, we need to make sure you were not involved in the attack, check you for blood and such.”
I give him a look that I hope is shows disbelief before I bend and start to remove my boots. I kick them off and then remove my sweatshirt, tee shirt and my jeans as I defiantly stare him in the face clad only in my socks and shreddies and gesture to my clothes on the floor and ask, “anything else?”
“Sir,” he takes a deep breath before continuing, “Please put your clothes back on.”
“Why? So you can drag me down the nick in a bit, make me take them off again and wear some paper jumpsuit until you deign to release me, no, you can fuck off, in fact, I’m not going to put any clothes on, I’m going for a shower.”
“Sir ... you can’t.” He says as I walk away from him, instead of heading toward the door I walk to the sideboard and pour myself a deep glass of Jamesons. Stark bollock naked, I turn and stare at him as I down it and pour myself another, I raise my glass to him and smile before downing the second, watching as he is now frantically discussing something with one of his colleagues.
He and his colleague begin walking toward me as I am pouring a third.
“Sir we need you to refrain from drinking, we will need to formally question...”
“You need, you need, it’s all about your fucking needs, well I needed to come home and not find a herd of cops and ambulancemen in my front garden. I needed to come home to a loving and faithful wife. I did not need to find my wife’s fucking boyfriend on my fucking doorstep and right now I fucking need a fucking shower, a fucking drink and you cunts out of my fucking house, feel free to take the slag with you.”
Another pitiful wail comes from the bitch, I glance over to her, I didn’t intend to, an involuntary action, a reflex. I look for less than a second, she is standing alone, crying. Her hands have dropped uselessly to her sides; she looks weak, helpless and beaten, staring at me, her eyes pleading, probably for understanding, perhaps sympathy, something, anything, to comfort her. Well fuck her, she caused this, she can deal with it.
I drain my glass and head up to go and change, I don’t get far before some bird in a yellow plastic coverall accosts me. After a few demands from her, I reluctantly allow her to check me over for signs that I have been in an altercation, of course, she finds none and after I give her the clothes I have just taken off, gives me permission to clean up and get dressed. She declines my offer to wash my back.
The foetid aroma of treachery assaults my nose as I enter the bedroom, the acrid stench of regurgitated whiskey almost instantly adds to the fug of sweat and sex.
With painful spasms clutching at my abdomen, anger overcomes me and I drag the soiled mattress off the bed, down the stairs outside and leave it on the front lawn. Returning to the bedroom, I fling a window open and start flinging her clothes and other belongings out of it.
“Mr Dougan ... MR DOUGAN.”
Hearing my name I pause briefly and then continue to eject the detritus of my marriage out of the window.
I turn to him.
“Mr Dougan, I need you to come with me so I can formally take your statement.”
“You know damn well why.”
“You already have my statement and unless you arrest me I will not go to the cop shop with you,” I say smugly, “In fact I will make sure you are completely to blame in my suit for wrongful arrest. I, unlike the majority of your customers, HAVE ... DONE ... NOTHING ... WRONG.”
I didn’t add anything more, I have no need, I can prove it and I’m sure he’ll find that out later.
I watch him as the anger builds, his eyes, the rising colour of his neck to his face. He reminds me of one of those cartoon characters, Donald or Daffy duck about to blow, maybe Yosemite Sam, yeah, Yosemite Sam, all he needed was a orange droopy moustache and a ten gallon hat. I see him struggling to keep hold of his temper.
Eventually he gains control and manages to force out some words. “Mr Dougan, you are giving me no alternative, so I am placing you under arrest on suspicion of assaulting Mr David Pratt. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. If you do not have, or cannot afford a solicitor, one will be appointed for you.”
Grinning like a Cheshire cat, I pull on some jeans and tee shirt and say cheerfully, “shall we go?”
He leads me out, as I pass the open living room door I can’t resist and say, “happy now, pick your shit up and fuck off. Go to your mothers or whatever brothel you work at.”
I’m handed over to a couple of plods and they stick me in the back of a car and drive me to the nick. On the way one of them says, “You really made a mess of that bloke, not that I blame you, I would’ve probably done the same if he’d been shagging my misses.”
“If I’d known about him,” I say through gritted teeth, “I would’ve done more than that. How is he, will he live?”
“Tell me, that copper, the detective, is he always such a prick?”
I hear two stifled sniggers, but neither offers an opinion. A short while later I am booked in and left in an interview room.
Expecting a long wait, I rest my head on my arms and try to go to sleep.
It seems every time I manage to nod off someone comes barging in and wakes me up, eventually detective dipstick comes in and sits the other side of the table. After asking me whether I want to have legal representation, he cautions me again and informs me the interview is being taped.
He states his and my name and the time (4:57) and charges me with assault, both aggravated and grievous bodily harm and tells me they are considering charges of attempted murder. He advises me again, that I should really get a solicitor.
After I decline again, he asks me where I was at the time of the assault on Mr Homewrecker.
I speak as if I found him mentally deficient in some way, enunciating slowly and carefully I say, “As I told you last night, I was returning home from Newcastle, I drove straight home with no stops and followed an ambulance to my home after it overtook me on the Huntingdon road.”
“Upon arrival I discover a parcel of police officers, yourself included. Is it parcel, perhaps drove or drift would be more appropriate. Nevertheless, there were a lot off you and some bleeding pig fucker on my doorstep, shortly after I also discover that my wife was the pig he had been fucking. Since then I have had my clothing taken from me, not allowed to clean up after a long days work, even though I vomited and remained nauseous for some time after both seeing and smelling residual confirmation of my wife’s betrayal, also, I have been prevented from sleeping, I have now been awake for over 25 hours.” I pause briefly. “All of this I told you at my house shortly after I arrived home.”
I watch his anger rising again, I note earlier I had missed the reddening of his ears as the first sign of his displeasure the first time I had goaded him.
“Have you any way to substantiate this?”
If he could have gotten away with it I swear he would have punched me, instead, he asks, forcing the words out, “why didn’t you say this beforehand?
“Why didn’t you ask?”
I think a full two minutes pass before he speaks again, “what proof?”
“Has he still got his bollocks?”
“Has he still got his bollocks? I would have thought that is an easy question to answer. A straightforward yes or no.”
“Now look here...”
“Whats wrong? Question too difficult for you? I’ll try to make it easier for you, if I had known that I’m married to a deceitful slag and she was fucking some arsehole, I would have chucked the bitch out and castrated said arsehole. Therefore, if he still has his bollocks, it wasn’t me.
“Mr Dougan, I don’t think you are taking this seriously.”
“Christ, maybe you’re not as stupid as you look.” I grin and pretend to be shocked.
“I will ask you again, have you any proof you were not there?”
“Not on me but if we go back to my van I can prove where I was at half seven.”
“And what good would that do?”
I just sit and shrug, he looks at me in a way that makes me think he is trying to stare me into submission, the thought makes me laugh and he snaps at me. What is this fucking proof?”
“Oh maybe just a signed, dated and timed proof of delivery stating I was in Newcastle at half-sevenish, will that do?
I try not to grin as I watch him trying to work out the time necessary to drive the 252 miles. I fail, in-fact I laugh again when he starts counting on his fingers.
His ears are glowing red enough that if he was stood on the side of a road, the traffic would stop. Finally, he says triumphantly, “What’s that, about 200 miles, mostly dual carriageways and motorways, if you put your foot down you could have done it no problem, no no matey, that don’t give you an alibi.”
“It must all add up then mustn’t it?” I smile and raise my eyebrows at him several times, taunting him further.