Billy five donkeys and the red fandango continued

Mark sat at the rear of the London bus. The diesel engine pulsed away beneath him, shaking last night’s beer with every throb. Through the steamed up window, he watched the crowd stumbling toward their unhappy fate. The bus hadn’t moved for six minutes.

Today was not the day to turn up late. He estimated it would take ten minutes to walk the rest of the way to the station. A large woman sat next to him. She stuffed cheese and onion crisps into her mouth and silently farted with alarming regularity. The bus, full of damp sweaty passengers, felt like a cattle truck. He decided to walk.

He squeezed his way through the herd of standing passengers. He arrived to where a bored bus driver sat fiddling with an i pod.

Mark flashed his warrant card, “Can you let me off here please mate?”

The bus driver slowly turned his head. He offered a look that clearly intimated he was not a ‘mate’ of Marks’.

The doors opened, the bus driver managed to perform this simple act with contempt.

“Thanks, you have a good day” Mark offered from the pavement. The doors slammed shut, Mark walked off into the crowd. He walked with the certain knowledge that he had just been called a fuckwit.

He looked at his watch, and realized at this exact time last week he had been sitting in his patrol car on the sea front at Cromer. He would watch the waves battering the pier, drink his tea and wait for nothing to happen. He missed home badly; the new job didn’t seem to be a step up.

A purple faced vagrant greeted him at the police station entrance. Her feet were wrapped in bin liners. From beneath a bombed out overcoat, she wrestled a pair of brown nylon trousers down around her knees. She carefully swung her backside away from her four packed carrier bags. She crapped on the station steps with a satisfied grunt.

Stunned, Mark made his way to the rear of the station. After a brief awkward encounter with the intercom. He found himself standing in front of a bored desk sergeant.

“Oh yes, you’re the new Detective Constable” he said with a sigh.

Mark had the distinct impression that he was just another lamb, going to the slaughter.

“Good morning, there’s a woman outside taking a dump on the station steps.”

“You haven’t nicked her have you?” the Desk Sergeant had a desperate pleading look about his face.

“No, thought I’d just make you aware” said Mark with a shrug.

“Thank Christ! we’ve just discharged her. That’s Ginger Anne. Be afraid, very afraid.”

“Make your way up the stairs, first left, third door on the right. You’re with Detective Inspector Buckley. Good Luck.” The Desk Sergeant didn’t look up, Mark heard him sman as he walked away.

Detective Inspector Buckley sat in his chair and gazed silently out of his window. A grey rendered wall spattered with bird droppings formed his view. ‘One year to go’, he thought to himself. A knock on his door brought him back to planet earth.

He wallowed in the chair, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His shirt lassoed with a tie thrown into place at some god forsaken hour. He had a grey mop of hair that badly needed a barbers help. Unkempt eyebrows and nasal hair that begged for attention. The room smelt of a slyly smoked cigarette.

“Good morning, I’m Mark Gordon.” Mark offered his hand.

“Take a seat, were going to see an interesting character today. I’ll give you a little background information on him.”

No tea offered. No handshake, no nice little get to know you chat. ‘Fuck you too’ thought Mark as he sat down.

“His name is Billy Parkin. In the nineteen seventies he inherited his dad’s rag and bone yard. He liked to think he was a gangster. He got involved in all of the usual stuff, receiving stolen goods, drug deals, etcetera, etcetera, and etcetera.”

Buckley waved his nicotine stained finger around, his chin dropped to his chest and he sighed.

“We’re often called to the property. The ambulance service usually deals with the situation. He shouts and hollers a lot you see. The neighbor’s, who have spent a lot of money gentrifying the street, get upset.”

He looked at Mark with two large blue rheumy eyes.

"In the early eighties he got himself involved with a five man gang. The leaders, one Derek Rand or Derek Eats Dogs to his friends and Otis Watson, were psychopathic to say the least. Gary the Pony was an illegal bookmaker. The other two were known as ‘Raised and Bumpy.’ That was a particularly horrific period in my career, one I never want to re-visit.”

Buckley stood up, his belly fell down. He pulled an old corduroy jacket from his chair.

“The address is a short walk from here; we’ll get a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich. I’ll fill you in with the rest of the case on the way. You don’t say much do you?”

“No” Replied Mark with a wry smile.

He found that he was warming to the old wreck.

© Stephen Pullman 2011