Chapter 12: An Iron in a Fire

1800 hrs Saturday 6^th April 2019 27 Castle Street

DAY 6

The house was dark and deserted, which matched my spirits. Molly had left a pile of food in the freezer with instructions as to how long it needed microwaving but I had no appetite. I opened a can of Murphy’s and sat and necked it in Molly’s lounge and felt extremely sorry for myself. Eventually, I dragged myself up to my room showered and changed into my Saturday night clothes that were much the same as my everyday clothes. I walked over to the Goat and Compass, bought a pint of draught Murphy and sat up at the bar staring into space.

“You’ve a face on you like a slapped arse. You must be an Ipswich Town supporter,” a voice said at my shoulder.

I couldn’t be arsed to turn around. “It’s even worse than that, mate. I’m an Iron, a West Ham United supporter.”

“You poor sod!”

I turned to see Jack Dodge grinning at me. I cast my eyes around the room expecting to see Sharon Douglas. If she was here and made me an offer I would grab it, and her, with both hands.

Jack smiled. “No Shazza tonight. She’s shagging Mick Proudfoot’s brains out somewhere on the A14, and I’m on me tod. Any chance of us pairing up and pulling those two birds in the lounge bar?” He pointed to a couple of young girls with long hair, long legs, short skirts, and arms covered in tats.

“I’m not in the mood, or into painted ladies, Jack. Besides which I’m engaged, and I thought you and Sharon were an item?”

He snorted in amusement. “Me and Shazza are just mates and fuck buddies. I like variety and she likes even more, and we only shag each other when there’s nothing else available.” He took a swig from his pint of Greene King bitter. “But getting back to those two randy tarts. Some vodka down yer neck will get you in the mood. Shut your eyes when you’re poking the girl so you won’t see her ink, and if your fiancée ever finds out tell her you were getting in some much-needed practice You’ve been without your girlfriend for a week – use it or lose it, AJ.”

I admit I considered his suggestions for a second but before I had made a decision a statuesque blonde entered the bar.

“Hang about,” Jack said. “I pulled over that piece for speeding last week and then had my end away with her in a lay-by. ‘Scuse me, AJ, but you will have to go it alone with them tattooed birds. That blonde shags like a rabid mongoose on speed.” He slid off the barstool and within minutes he and the blonde were laughing together and I knew in the not too distant future The Jammy Dodger would be making the beast with two backs.

I left the Goats, ie, both Jack Dodge and the pub, and went back to my lonely bed.

0400 hrs Sunday 7^th April 2019. 27 Castle Road

DAY 7

I woke long before my alarm sounded, in fact, it must have been at sparrow’s fart. I had spent a restless night filled with weird dreams. Rebecca, Maddy, Molly, Debs, Janice Rawlins, Sharon Douglas, Eloise Donizetti, and Liza with zed and her partner Gloria, all featured in my dream. The females were seated around a table in the lounge bar of the Goat and Compass discussing me.

Rebecca told them I had never made her climax whereas her new husband – Aloysius van Krantzen the III – made her scream in ecstasy every time he entered her. I was then treated to a scene of Rebecca writhing in passion as a hulk of a man who I assumed to be Aloysius van Krantzen the III, a composite of George Clooney and Tyson Fury, shagged my former fiancée into a frenzy “We offered him but he refused,” Liza with zed said, “He just didn’t have it in him to have it in us!” She then dragged Gloria to the carpet where they gave a master class in mutual muff-munching technique.

“I know what you mean, dear,” Eloise Donizetti said. “I flashed him my tits and thighs but it only raised a slight bump in his trousers. I think the poor boy may be undersexed and is no use to a female other than to open doors for her or get spiders out of baths.”

“He is a very polite and well-mannered young man,” said Janice. “It is such a shame he hasn’t the balls, or the dick, to give us panting females a good seeing to.”

Sharon sneered. “I doubt he has had much experience. You kept him short of his rations didn’t you, Becks?”

Rebecca was much too polite to speak with her mouth full. We waited until Aloysius van Krantzen III discharged his load and Rebecca had daintily wiped her mouth before replying. “It was hardly worth the effort to get my kit off and open my legs for his weak attempt at intercourse. I often fell asleep while AJ was shagging me. Not that he ever noticed.” She and van Krantzen III then returned to shagging like dogs.

“I thought he might try his luck with me,” Molly said. “I rubbed my quim against his puny prick but he didn’t take up the offer. It was probably just as well, as I like a big, hard, thrusting cock in me, which is why I have Martin shag me senseless each time I go to London and see Deborah off to Portsmouth.” She turned and beckoned to a no-necked young man built like a weightlifter who was hovering on the edge of the group. “Come here, Marty. Show the girls what they are missing.” Marty picked Molly up as if she was a doll and slid his twelve-inch long dong into her dripping twat. She gasped as he entered her, and then screamed and creamed as he began thrusting into her like a piston, her legs wrapped around his waist and her nails raking his back.

“AJ makes me laugh,” Maddy said, “and that is a bonus in a relationship.”

“Shrieking with laughter is not the same as shrieking in ecstasy,” Debs said. “And I know you like hot steaming dick almost as much as I do, Micky.”

The girls laughed, and two men, one I assumed to be Peregrine Lindt as he was the Aryan ideal man, and the other a middle-aged man with a military air about him who I took to be Debbie’s squeeze, took their respective partner by the hand and soon both pairs were writhing on the carpet of the lounge bar. Customers of the Goat and Compass took no notice as rutting couples; on the floor, on top of the bar, and up against the walls, groaned, moaned, shrieked, squealed, and screamed in a cornucopia of fornication. The cacophony of noise built to such an extent I placed my hands over my ears to shut out the sounds.

A soft pair of hands covered my eyes. “You don’t have to torture yourself any longer, Sergeant.” Sammy’s voice was tender, gentle, and pitying. “Wake up!”

I jerked awake and sat bolt upright in my bed as the sights and sound of my dream gradually faded from my memory. I was sweating and trembling as if wakened from a nightmare. What the hell was the matter with me?

Dreams are supposed to be images, memories, and events dragged from the deepest recess of the brain. But as I had never met Peregrine Lindt, or Rebecca’s husband, or Debs lover, or the eponymous Martin that Molly was probably still shagging in a London hotel bedroom, how could I put features to them? I also knew I had often brought Rebecca to a climax, even if not as many times as I would have liked. It was true she would sometime lie as if dead or asleep but I can assure you she was neither.

I was not a virgin when I met Rebecca, and neither was she but probably had more sexual experience than me. Nevertheless, I have had several sexual partners and knew what went where and how important foreplay was in the mating game. However Rebecca was often reluctant to allow me to demonstrate the various foreplay techniques I had accrued over the years.

I was fortunate to be taught how to eat out a female by Joyce Henderson in Year Nine at Barking Comprehensive School. Joyce charged £5 a lesson and if you passed her final examination she would give you a blow job. I spent most of the money I earned on my paper round on her lessons and passed her examination with flying colours. Joyce also recommended me to her friends, one of whom was Annie Groves. I got infinitely more value from Joyce’s certificate of excellence than from the handful of GCSE’s I left school with.

So, if my dream was a lot of bollocks what did it mean? I knew I was in a fit of depression and knew full well the reason for that mood. Michelle Devereaux had entered my life and my heart and just as abruptly was going to leave both. I had faced a similar event when in the second year of my studies at college – not an ivy-covered icon of Academia, merely a lowly College of Further Education – where I trained as an electrician. At the tender age of sixteen, I had fallen in love/lust with Alice Maitland. We were both first-year students at Dagenham College of Further Education, me learning to be a sparks and Alice doing an IT course. Alice was the first girl I made love to. The others, and there hadn’t many other than Annie Groves and her friend Maggie Kermode in Year 10 at Barking Comp, had been shags and nothing more. Alice and I knew we had found our life partner, and for two years we were inseparable and lovers. Any place and at any time we would make love; hard, fast and frantic or slow, sensuous, and romantic depending on where we were copulating. She was the first girl I saw naked and the first girl I ‘went to bed’ with. All my previous sexual encounters had been undertaken with the minimum removal of clothing and usually out in the fresh air; knee tremblers up against a wall, or spread out on the grass down at the local rec’ -- Recreation Park, occasionally on the settee or carpet of the front room when parents were out, or even more occasionally in a car.

Ford of Dagenham, just up the road from Barking, was the location of the largest car-making plant in England, and the major employer of the area. Some wags referred to Dagenham College of Further Education as Henry Ford University. In 2000 Ford decided to cease car assembly at Dagenham and concentrate on the manufacture of engines. It was the writing on the wall and the beginning of the end. Over succeeding years the workforce at Ford’s Dagenham plant dropped by thousands due to retirements and not taking on new staff. Alice’s father, a white-collar manager in sales, sought a new future in Canada and in October 2009 Alice and her family flew out to Toronto. I was heartbroken.

At first, Alice and I kept in touch with e-mails and Skype but slowly and surely we drifted apart. In February 2010 I received the final email from Alice. She had met someone and now knew what true love really was. She said what we had shared in college was merely teenage puppy love and infatuation. She was going to marry the new love of her life, James Burton, and she hoped one day I too would find true love. True love? Bollocks to that! Alice had been my true love and look where that got me. No more true love for me, just honest to goodness shagging was my goal.

After being dumped by Alice I was disillusioned about true love and was content just to find a lusty shagging partner. The opportunity appeared six weeks after being dumped by Alice when I bumped into Annie Groves at a pub in Ilford, The Unicorn. She was a barmaid, and out in the car park ten minutes after closing time, her legs were clamped around my waist with her knickers hanging off one ankle and her tongue halfway down my throat, while I had my cock all the way up her twat as we shagged each other’s brains out.

Over the next three months we shagged every day, or rather every evening. When she had the rags up I either had her suck me off or I plumbed her big fat arse. Annie had put on a bit of weight since Year Ten and although I am not a tit man I did appreciate her massive pair of knockers swinging in time to my thrusts when I did her doggy, or have my prick encased in her soft breast flesh when I fucked her cleavage.

Annie also furthered my education when it came to titty loving.

‘Don’t just squeeze them or flop them about and wobble them, AJ, stroke and caress them. Use your tongue and fingers. Nuzzle, lick and suck them. Pay particular attention to nipples. A girl likes having them licked and sucked and tweaked, and even bitten gently.’

I did as advised, and says it myself as shouldn’t I’m now considered by ladies of my acquaintance to be a better than average tit-lover. Big, small, medium, I treat them all with the same care and consideration, and other than Rebecca who was super-sensitive in the mammary area, I have had no complaints, and rather good results, from my ministrations.

The one problem with having Annie as a friend with benefits was her family. They were a bunch of scrotes and toe-rags. Her father spent more time in Wormwood Scrubs than the prison’s Governor did. Her mother had been on the game and would still help out the girls on the street when they needed an extra hand – well, not a hand exactly but you can guess which part of her anatomy was utilised. Two of her brothers were in Young Offenders Institutions (YOI), and the third brother had recently graduated from YOI and was now in ‘The Ville’, Her Majesty’s Prison Pentonville. Annie’s younger sister was following her mother’s profession ‘Up West’ and already had three convictions for soliciting, and not for a firm of lawyers. Compared with the rest of the Groves Annie was a paragon of virtue, although three months after we hooked up she was caught nicking bottles of vodka from the Unicorn and was sent down for six months, sharing a cell with her sister in Holloway.

That was the end of our relationship. I was still attending college but saw no future as an electrician in East London with the continued downsizing of the workforce at Ford’s, and I quit the course with one year left to complete. I thought about joining the army but didn’t fancy being target practice for the Taliban so opted instead for the Metropolitan Police. I started my six month’s training at Hendon in June 2010, and on completion was posted to Neasden.

Neasden? I had never heard of the place and had to look it up on Google. I was amazed to find it wasn’t too far from where I had done my police training at Hendon. Mind you we had little spare time at Hendon College to go out on the town and in fact, we weren’t allowed out of the grounds of the training college for the first three months of our training.

Once nicknamed ‘the loneliest village in London’, Neasden is a characterless suburb cut in two by the North Circular Road and separated from Wembley by the River Brent. It is part of the London Borough of Brent and is as far from my home in Barking, in the London Borough of Redbridge, as England is from France across the Straits of Dover. Neasden’s name may have derived from ‘nose hill’, a reference to its location on a small promontory at the end of the Dollis Hill ridge. Transport developments of various kinds shaped Neasden’s subsequent growth.

The North Circular Road was built in 1923, and over the next decade massive private housing estates swallowed up almost all the remaining farmland. Some Neasdenites claim the M1 Motorway, England’s first, starts from Neasden, but the inhabitants of Brent Cross also claim the motorway starts in their manor. What is not in doubt is that Neasden is not only the location of the largest Hindu temple outside of India – Shri Swaminarayan Mandir – but is also the birthplace of an icon of Swinging Sixties London -- Lesley Hornby -- better known as Twiggy. A statue to commemorate the model/celebrity was erected on the village green in 1975 but some inebriated and disconsolate Arsenal fans, leaving Wembley Stadium after seeing their team thrashed in the 1980 FA Cup Final by West Ham United, mischievously turned the statue through 90 degrees, and Twiggy vanished from sight/site.

It was in Neasden I learned what policing really entailed. I was a uniformed Plod, and my beat consisted of the best and the worst of the Borough of Brent. There was not much of the former but more than enough of the latter. I came to realise that most of the ‘criminals’ on the manor were inept, low intelligence losers, who imbibed too much alcohol or Class A drugs and were spaced out of their tiny minds most of the time. They were just a bunch of stupid and brainless tossers who were easily apprehended, and then banged up in prison. After being released they returned to Neasden and their feckless lives. There was a kingpin criminal boss in the borough who had a legion of dumb foot-soldiers to do his dirty work, and massed lawyers if ever a hint of illegality came anywhere near him – he was also a local councillor.

It was in Neasden I discovered one of the major perks of being a policeman-- police groupies -- known as Badge Bunnies. These females had a thing about truncheons, bobbies’ helmets, and handcuffs and such like and would congregate at venues where off duty policemen hung out. Mostly in their late teens and early twenties, badge bunnies were readily available for sex, especially in a patrol car or section house, the accommodation for single police personnel. There were some badge bunnies in Neasden well into their forties who still could blow the mind, and balls, of males half their age, and I speak from experience.