CRISIS

CHAPTER ONE

‘Crisis, remember, we are in a crisis!’ Christine yelled down the stairs at her husband Tim, still sat behind the television trying to work out which lead went where, he was getting no where fast, and she didn’t expect him to. Harold, her son Tom’s over fed mongrel was sitting at her feet, she could feel the fleas attaching themselves to her legs like tiny little magnets with razor sharp teeth. ‘Bugger off you bloody mongrel.’ She went to kick the offending hound out of the way, but only succeeded in dropping the pile of clean, ironed washing that she was holding in her hands, she watched it fall, in slow motion, straight onto the pile of shit that Harold had deposited beside her, he looked up totally unaware that he was within a second of having his overstuffed backside unceremoniously bounced down the stairs. ’Shit, shit, shit, Tom, put that bloody dog outside, and tell your father to start packing the car, or I’ll go without him’. What she really wanted to say was that she would rather go without him, she would rather go without the whole lot of them. For a moment she allowed herself to fantasise, golden beaches without her husband, the now bald, pot bellied unemployable, unemployed millstone around her neck, golden beaches filled with sun tanned lithe young men, their nationalities not important, their bodies, very important. And then there were her children, Thomas, all fifteen years of him, and what had he achieved in all those years except the ability to Hoover out the entire contents of the fridge in one sitting, and an addiction to bringing home strange animals and girls, some of which she couldn’t work out which category they belonged to. But she thought, she still had high hopes for Sophie, her adoring little princess, still wearing Barbie costumes and still playing with Barbie dolls, precocious, but then that could be worked on, so, at least there was a glimmer of hope. ‘Shit.’ she muttered to herself. ‘Sophie will blow when I tell her she has to leave them behind….shit…shit..shit.’ Christine was swearing a lot these days, it helped. She picked up the pile of washing and headed down the stairs to deposit back in the washing machine from where it had only just come.
Harold had got no further than the bottom step, she trod on him as she passed, he didn’t even yelp, he rolls of fat protecting him from pain and humiliation she thought as she scratched at her ankle, another bite coming up red and swollen to add to the others.
‘Tim, stop doing that, please, we can not take the telly, we’ll get a new one, please just go and pack the car, we leave in twelve hours, remember, crisis, just think crisis, perhaps then you might understand.’ He didn’t, she knew he didn’t, he had given up understanding years ago when his first invention failed to sell, the electric bed maker. Ha, stupid man, anyone could see it was a non starter, but oh no, not Tim, the electric bed maker would make him his fortune and put him up there with Sir Clive Sinclair, perhaps he would even get a gong, she shook her head in defeat and left him to it.
‘I’m making tea, anyone want some?’ She always asked, no one ever answered, then when she didn’t make them any, they always complained, ‘sod it‘, she thought, they can make their own, she started to fill the kettle with just enough water for one cup, they would have to fill the kettle themselves.
The washing machine jerked into life, making her jump, it always made her jump, she turned to see Sophie, stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her pink Barbie fairy princess costume covered in blood, in one hand she held what looked like the mangled remains of a doll, in the other was Harold’s now severed ear, spots of blood still dripped from it, making a little puddle on the floor. ‘Harold ate Supermodel Barbie.’ It was said very matter of fact, she then handed the bloodied ear to Christine, pirouetted and left. Outside she could hear Harold yelping, he was running around the garden, only stopping momentarily to scratch at his now missing ear and rub it on the grass. Tom came into the kitchen, his complexion paler than normal, his t-shirt proclaiming the end of the world, he didn’t speak, just took the offending ear from his mother, for once thanking her, left silently, found his sister, sat on her and began the slow and very loud act of cutting her princess outfit into a thousand pieces, whilst she was still wearing it, the noise eminating from them now being so loud it even stirred her husband into action, he stood, looked at the managed mess of his two children, fighting furiously with scissors, picked his way between them, avoiding getting stabbed by one or both, and made his way out to the peace and quiet of the car. The car, or rather, Christine’s new shiny black,V8 Range Rover was in a state of undress, boxes lay spewing their contents across the drive, bags which had previously been packed neatly, labelled and stacked in a pile now resembled a jumble sale. Tim gathered them all up and stuffed them in the boot, those that didn’t fit he hid in the wheelie bin’s of both his neighbour’s, tutting at their rubbish as he did so, and removing what he knew to be useful items for later use in one of his inventions.
‘Tim, what the bloody hell are you doing?’ Christine stood beside him, he hadn’t heard her creep up on him, it was something he prided himself on normally, knowing when she would spring one of her surprise visits on him, he spun round keeping his left hand behind his back, ready to drop the retrieved booty on the ground if she asked to see what he had. ’Tim, do I have to repeat myself.’ Obviously she did as he hadn’t taken any notice of her so far. ’Tim, let me say this one more time, we are in a crisis, we owe six months mortgage, not to mention god knows how many thousands of pounds we, sorry, you, owe the bank…’ Her tirade was interrupted by Sophie, silhouetted by the security light, all that could be seen of her was her shredded costume, a pair of scissors held out in one hand, and gripped tightly in the other the remnants of her brothers t-shirt. ‘Actually, its £86,197.20.’ Both Tim and Christine starred at her in disbelief, Tim stuttered, ‘What, how do you know that…I mean, when did you know that….’ Sophie was enjoying herself now, she had total control of her parents, all eyes were on her. ‘The man from the bank phoned this morning, said…’ She thought for a moment, trying to remember the exact words. ‘He said…Tell Mr Wright that I want my money back as the bank has run out and other people need it more than him.’ Pleased with herself she stepped forward and handed the scissors and mangled t-shirt to her mother. Christine stood open mouthed, unable to speak for a while, when she did, it came out in a high pitched squeak. ‘Sophie, bank managers do not speak to eight year old girls, how…’ Sophie raised her hand to stop her mother, she really was in her element now, her acting classes paying off. ‘I told him I was your assistant.’ She looked at her father, he was fiddling with the lock on a suitcase that one of his neighbours had thrown back over the fence having seen him stuff it into his bin. Christine turned to him, slapped his hand away from the suitcase and kicked him. ‘See what you’ve done now, the bank thinks you have a bimbo as an assistant.’ With that she stormed off into the house, slamming the door behind her, leaving her father to explain to his eight year old daughter that it was normal to owe the bank so much money, everyone did, and that one day, when his inventions sold, they would be rich, and that he would buy her all the Barbie dolls ever made, the thought of which satisfied Sophie who promptly skipped away from her father, towards the kitchen to tell her mother what she had been promised.
‘Yes, yes, of course, your wonderful father will buy you all the barbies in the world…….and what with? Scotch mist?’ Christine’s voice rose in octaves as she spoke, her exasperation lost on her daughter. ‘Is that what Daddy’s inventing now, what is it, scotch mist, what does it do?’ Sophie wanted to know more about scotch mist, but was distracted by the odd sensation that she had on her head, it felt lop sided, she gently inspected her previously perfectly plaited locks, only to discover that one was missing, sheared off by her brother, the blood curdling scream that accompanied her discovery being heard half way down the street by the occupant of number fourteen, it was unfortunate, as the occupant of number fourteen was a policeman, a very nosey, play it by the book policeman; he placed his warrant card in his trouser pocket and went to find his house keys.
‘Right that’s it, I’m off to do my hair, if we’re going to do this, I for one, want to look the part, I always wanted to be blonde, and now’s my chance, Tim, I do not want to be disturbed, I shall be in the bathroom with a bottle of dye.’ Christine left them all to it, she had given up caring about what had or had not been put in the car, she didn’t care because as soon as she could she intended to dump the lot of them, leave her adoring kids with her adoring husband and do a Shirley Valentine. She closed her eyes and thought of Tom Conti (or any foreign male), his hands running not just over her head, but over her body as well, perhaps her own Adonis would kiss her arm pits as well, she looked, not with those hairs she thought and grabbed for Tim’s razor, not wanting to blunt her own.
Tim continued to stuff various items into the rear of the car, then removing them, only to re-stuff them in different positions, somehow he knew that he would find room for TV, his neighbour watched him through the slates in the fence, intrigued as to the activity, he had never in five years seem him so animated, and as for the suitcase that Tim had stuffed in his wheelie bin, well he’ll be getting it back, he can fill his own bin he thought, not mine. Tim, unaware that his every move was being scrutinized continued to push, shove and squash his families possessions’ into ever smaller spaces, he was within inches of getting his TV to fit, if need be he thought the kids could sit on each other’s laps, then he would certainly get it in, the idea seemed reasonable, and off he went to retrieve his pride and joy, not wanting to leave it for the bailiffs.
PC McDonald locked his front door, two chub dead bolts and the old Yale, you can never be too careful he thought as he shut and padlocked the garden gate behind him, patting his trouser pocket that contained his warrant card, he strode purposefully up the road to where the scream was heard. Tim’s neighbour took advantage of his disappearance and hurried down his drive to remove the suitcase from his wheelie bin, he wasn’t interested in what it contained, his only interest was in returning it from where it came, that being his neighbour, with an almighty swing he hurled it over the fence, it spun in the air, the lock coming undone, allowing the contents to fly freely in all directions. Realising what he had done, effectively throwing all of his neighbour’s wife’s underwear over the entire street, he made a quick exit to the sanctuary of house, where he could keep an eye on things from his bedroom window, he slunk back around the house to the back door, unaware of the commotion taking place on Tim’s drive.
PC MacDonald walked straight into it, or rather he walked head first into it, the suitcase came tumbling out of the sky knocking him to the ground, a pair of Christine’s underpants, her best red silk ones, now draped over his head, leaving only his ears free, poking out where normally Christine’s legs would be, he sat on the drive where he fell, one hand wedged down a drain hole, the other right smack in the middle of one of Harold’s piles of shit.
Sophie banged on the bathroom door, she needed to see the damage inflicted by her brother, she held on to the remaining plait with one hand and tugged at the other, as if by performing such an act would make the hair grow, her crowning glory restored to its former beauty. She didn’t see her brother creep up behind her with a tin of paint, red paint, the same colour that adorned his bedroom, it made an awful mess as he upended its contents over her head. Her scream only made Christine more resolute to stay put in the bathroom, the peroxide doing its best to burn away her scalp, she kept her mantra going, believing the louder she chanted the further her family would be away from her ‘…no pain, no gain…’. Tom shouted at the top of his voice, ‘I hope you die, you evil witch, you cut off Harold’s ear, you psychopath, you…you…you…oh I give up, just die!’ he then returned to his bedroom, locking the door, baring his sister from entry and exacting her revenge. Sophie continued to scream, though the louder she got the more paint went into her mouth, making it a sound like the gargling of being strangled, she had, for a small child, an exceptional set of lungs, and she was using them to their fullest.
Tim continued to unwind and detangle the mass of wires that had accrued over the years behind the TV, he was quite unaware of his children, over the years he had learnt to retune his mind, to pretend they weren’t there, he was quite happy, listening to his ipod, the outside world kept at bay, if only he thought, if only I could get rid of the children and my wife just by plugging in a pair of headphones, wouldn’t life be so much better, he was unaware of the frantic banging on the front door, and carried on searching for the end of the TV cable.
As the screams got louder they brought PC MacDonald back to reality, he shook his head, and for one moment believed that he had been hit by a flying suitcase, assaulted with a pair of French knickers had his hands forced into a drain and dog shit, he shock his head again and tried to stand, only his left hand was stuck in a drain cover, and his right hand was covered in dog shit, he also had no vision as it was blocked by red silk. He yanked his hand out of the drain, the cover remaining firmly wedged over his hand, cutting off the circulation of blood to his hand, and after several tries to relieve himself of the underwear he finally managed to stand, though the smell emanating from his other hand almost knocked him out again, he wiped it on his trousers, vowing to throw them away the moment he had called for back up and had investigated the origin of the screams, it was obvious to him that someone in the house was in mortal danger, that who ever the assailant was, had now assaulted him, and that the dog had obviously bravely tried to save its owner, only to be scared into pooping on the drive when its ear was severed. He reached into his pocket, ‘Shit!’ He meant it in more ways than one, he had left his phone in his house. It would take too long to go back to his house, open up all the locks and make the phone call to the station, he would have to apprehend the assailant himself, he hammered on the front door, insistent to be let in, ready and willing to save a life.
Tim’s neighbour watched through his bedroom window, he could see Tim in the living room, his arms flailing wildly, it looked like some weird kind of rain dance, his neighbours antics worried him, it was one of the reason why he thought about putting his house on the market. Then he noticed the figure at the door, hammering away, he couldn’t make out who, but what he could see was what looked suspiciously like a drain cover in his hand, or was it around his hand, either way, he knew that it was going to turn out to be a long and exasperating evening, to be on the safe side he took out his camcorder and set it up to record the on goings, should things get too out of hand. If ever that happened, he would speak to the policeman who lived down the road, he rummaged in his desk to find his phone book, finding at last the number for PC MacDonald, ‘damn it’ he thought ‘I’ll ring him now, better safe than sorry‘, he was not impressed when the phone rang with no answer.
The hammering on the front door didn’t abate, Christine eventually unlocked the bathroom door to ask Sophie to answer the door and tell who ever it was to go away, politely, she didn’t bat an eyelid when presented with her daughter covered in what look like blood, holding her head and screaming at the top of her voice.
‘Sophie, go and answer the door, tell them to go away, oh and be polite.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I asked you to!’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have hair dye on my head.’ Christine wondered why she was having the conversation with her daughter, she couldn’t be bothered to ask why she was covered in what looked like blood. She repeated her request, it was met with a shrug of the shoulders, more belonging to a child ten years her senior, but in the end Sophie relented and turned to go and answer the door.
Ignoring the paint that was now setting in globules over her hair and body, Sophie skipped towards the door, only giving her father a cursory glance as he pranced around the living room, ecstatic from the fact that he had finally released the TV cable from the clutches of the myriad of other cables. ‘Coming’ She cheerily called as the hammering continued. PC MacDonald thought he could hear the voice of small child, and could only hope that he had not got there too late, what must the poor thing be going through, she opened the door.
The sight that greeted PC MacDonald was one of a small child, half her hair missing and covered in what could only be described as blood, he knew he had no time to waste, he swept her to one side, instructing her to stay and not re-enter the house. ’Don’t worry little girl, PC MacDonald, you stay there and let me sort this out.’ Sophie merely shrugged her shoulders and followed him into the house, he didn’t notice her shadow him as he set about checking the downstairs of the house. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest, his head still hurt from the injury inflicted from it by the assault with the suitcase, and his hand now resembling a purple football. He pushed open the kitchen door, all clear, he didn’t know if it was a good thing or not. He could hear a banging and crashing noise coming from what he assumed was the living room, he readied himself for what he would find behind the door, he imagined the bloodied body of the man’s wife lying lifeless, her husband dancing around it manically. He inched along the hallway towards the door to the living room, followed every inch of the way by Sophie, red paint dripping from her with every step. He stood by the door and listened, all he could hear were the whoops of delight coming from the occupant inside, he decided that there was no time to waste, a woman’s life was in danger, it was up to him to save her, he burst through the door.
Tim continued to dance around the room, merrily conducting to his imaginary orchestra playing on his ipod, his arms making wild arcs as he instructed the brass section to play at full volume, he threw his arm up and around, though just as it reached its apex it was stopped in its tracks, he turned to see what was impeding his orchestral manoeuvre. PC MacDonald stood still for a moment, initially shocked by the impact of the fist that greeted him as he entered the room, a split second later he fell like a rag doll, knocked unconscious by the vicious blow inflicted upon him.
‘Bloody hell!’ was all that Tim could say as he inspected the lifeless body at his feet. ’Daddy, you killed the policeman.’ was all that Sophie said, before running upstairs to inform her mother of her father’s wrong doing.
They all stood over the body, reassured that it was still breathing, that Tim had not in fact killed the intruder, and pondered what to do.

‘He said he was a policeman.’ Sophie said
‘When did he say that?’ Christine said
‘When he came to the door, silly’ She replied.
‘When who came to the door?’ Tom asked.
They all looked at him in disbelief and pointed to the crumpled body on the floor.
‘Shit Tim, what if he’s from the court, come to repossess the house or something!’ Christine, her head now a mass of red blotches and bright yellow hair threw her arms up in the air.
‘Shit, you’re right, we’ll have to do something with him, put him somewhere, say he never got here, deny, deny, deny…’
Tom for once had the only solution. ‘We’ll put him in the pantry, lock the door and make a run for it.’ they all looked at him, even Sophie could now see the sense in making a dash for freedom, even she realised the magnitude to half killing a policeman. So, it was agreed, they dragged the lifeless body into the pantry, locked the door, put the key in the food blender and prepared to leave.
‘We’re not going without my TV.’ Tim was adamant, he wanted his TV, no matter what, it was going with them as well, even if it meant leaving one of the kids behind.
With a lot of huffing puffing, eventually the TV was tied to the roof of the car, the house fully locked, Christine herded her dishevelled and dysfunctional family into the car, she uttered innumerable profanities as Tom grabbed the now subdued Harold and sat him on his lap, the dog looked more bemused than ever and just a little perturbed at having lost one of his ears.
From his vantage point their neighbour was still keeping his vigil, he could feel it in his bones that something bad was happening in the house, and wanted to catch it all on film, he watched his neighbours drive off, more than a little jealous of their new shiny Range Rover, he made a note to inform his local tax office of his neighbours recently found wealth.
The pantry was dark, the light switch being on the other side of the door, only a faint glow came from under the door, making finding a solution to his predicament almost impossible. He felt around to see what was at hand, finding by chance a drawer full of cutlery, the top half of his finger testament to the effectiveness and quality of the knives. Trying to prise the door open with one hand bleeding profusely and the other swollen beyond recognition was proving to be difficult, if he could just get the blade in behind the lock then it would pop, he forced the knife into position, bending it backwards until it was nearly at a right angle to itself. It was a good plan until the blood that was dripping down his hand made the knife slip, it sprung back from itself like an over active metronome, until finally it worked itself free and flew through the air, embedding itself into his right arm.
They drove away at speed until Tom suggested that they slow down, ‘Mum, the cops look for speeding cars, if you drive more slowly they wont suspect a thing, and what is wrong with your head?’ He inspected the back of Christine’s head, how covered in large red spots, with what hair that was left turning more yellow as he spoke. ‘I’m dying it, going blond, no one will recognise me, it’s a new look that’s all.’ She slowed down passing a police car that thankfully took no notice of them. ‘Oh yeah, it’s certainly a new look mum, very, um, modern.’
With the knife firmly embedded in his arm PC MacDonald made furious attempts to kick the door open, the wood simply refused to budge until his foot slipped missing the frame of the door which he had been kicking and aimed itself at the centre panel, which unknown to him was only thin plywood, with the shattering wound of both wood and bone his foot reached the other side, allowing light to flood his now precarious position, it also allowed him to see the blood oozing from his ankle, the bone sticking out, where before it was covered neatly with skin, ’Oh, shi…’ he started to say out loud, before remembering himself and everything that his mother had taught him, ’god will punish you!’ , he quickly changed what he was about to say, replacing it with something his mother would not have disapproved of, ‘Oh, crickey, look what’s happened now, I’ve gone and broken my ankle.’ it was again quickly followed with ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, god you’re a bastard, get me out of here!’, his outburst made him feel a lot better, and he was more than pleasantly surprised when god did not in fact strike him down, but then neither did he help him, he pondered for a moment if his mother really knew what she was talking about, and if god really did exist, snapping himself out of his reverie as he knew he was wasting time and his assailant was getting away, he called out to the little girl who had answered the door to him, he needed her help. ‘Hello, little girl, help me, dial 999, tell them an officer of the law needs help, hello, hello.’
With his leg still stuck through the door, his hand swollen to an all time record and a carving knife sticking out of his arm, PC MacDonald decided that there was no time like the present to react to his situation, he screamed, he didn’t stop screaming, it was fortunate for him that the next door neighbour was keeping a vigil, sat in his upstairs bedroom he was monitoring the exploits of his neighbours when he heard the screams, at first he thought it was just kids, then he realised, something awful was happening next door, against he better judgement he decided to investigate. Keeping the camera rolling he removed it from its tripod and set off to help who ever was in distress.
PC MacDonald stopped screaming, as it was obvious that no one was coming to his rescue, there was nothing else for it but to smash down the remainder of the door, having worked out that it was mainly made of plywood getting himself out and into the kitchen took no time at all, he remained cautious, the assailant could still be at large in the house, he hopped to the door, but turned quickly when he heard a noise coming from the back garden, his assailant was escaping, without his handcuffs or means to subdue the culprit he picked up a dog lead and a bottle of bleach, hugging the bottle between his arm and body as his hand was useable, the carving knife still sticking out of his arm kept on catching on the lead, there was nothing else for it but to remove it.
As he entered the back garden the neighbour thought he could hear movement in the kitchen, he hurriedly flattened himself against the rear wall of the house and slunk towards the back door, holding his camera before him, if nothing else it would serve as a formidable weapon he thought, imagining smashing over the head of who, or what ever was inside the property. Inside the kitchen PC MacDonald took hold of the knife with his teeth, it was impossible to use his other hand due to the swelling, with an almighty yank the knife came flying out, his instant reaction was to grab it, which he managed to do, and felt such victory that he let out an almighty shout, he had temporarily forgotten about his ankle, the bone protruding through the skin, though suddenly it made its presence felt, sending a searing pain up through his whole body making him fall forward at the same moment as he caught the knife.

He was not at all sure of what to expect, but with camera held aloft the neighbour opened the book door into the kitchen, the knife came down with an almighty thump, followed by the body that carried it, it missed his main artery, but managed to find a comfortable home close to his groin, embedding itself to the hilt.
‘I am making a citizen’s arrest.’ The words didn’t come out with the gusto that was intended for them, due to the knife sticking out of his going, but the neighbour was sure that he had caught a dangerous criminal, and it certainly wasn’t Tim, therefore he was sure that the guy was up to no good in his house. He also heard a strange echo, though the words were slightly different from his own. ‘I am arresting you…’ PC MacDonald was sure that he had caught his assailant, and forgetting his normal by the book method decided that with his one good foot and hand to metre out some rough justice before his colleagues turned up, the ensuing fight was captured not just on the camera still rolling in the upstairs bedroom, but by the owner of the house over the road, who, having had enough of the shenanigans’ of his neighbour over the road decided to call the police, sirens could be heard coming from all directions.
‘Slow down Mum, that’s the second police car I’ve seen, maybe they’re onto us, take a right here.’ Tom was assuming control of the situation, he was using his knowledge of police chases accrued from many hours sat in front of his play station to out wit the law, he was in his element, Sophie sat expressionless, tugging at her hair and peeling red paint from her skin, she was on the brink of an all time paddy.

‘Tim’
‘What?’
‘Find the map’
‘What map?’
‘The map’
‘What map?’
‘The map Daddy, the fucking map, even I know what a fucking map is!’ Tim, Tom, Christine and even Harold all turned to face Sophie, her face now as bright red as the paint that she was peeling from it, the side of her head minus the plait had hair sticking up in all directions, her eyes appeared to have come out on stalks. Christine was too taken aback by her daughters use of language to speak, she was also too taken aback to drive, the range rover lurched from side to side, clipping the shopping trolley of an elderly lady, sending her spinning into the road, her weekly shopping becoming road kill as other cars swerved to avoid her now spread eagled body lying across the road. If nothing else it brought Christine to her senses, ‘Shit, fuck, shit, Sophie don’t swear, only unintelligent people swear, now swear to me you wont swear ever again.’ Again she turned away from the road to look at her daughter, ‘All right, sorry Mummy, I promise never to fucking swear again, sorry, ever, fucking, again - happy?!’ The car fell silent, all the occupants aware that Sophie was on the verge of one of her ‘episodes’, they collectively held their breath waiting for the inevitable.
Christine held on tightly to the wheel, it was the only thing that she could do, the air in the car seemed to be being sucked out by the lung full, every last drop being consumed by her daughter, needing fuel for her outburst, the noise level rose to an ear shattering pitch, the back of the seat that Tim sat in received such a pummelling that it no longer resembled that of a brand new leather seat, more a crumpled mass of rags, then as quickly as it started, she stopped, regained her calmness and sat back in her seat, but not before Harold, so disturbed by her outburst emptied the contents of his bowels over what was left of her Barbie fairy princess outfit, she fainted in disgust, to everyone’s delight, for once Harold received a pat on his head, though he winced when Tom’s hand brushed his ear, he wondered when any of the humans were going to notice his injury and replace his ear to its former glory.
As the sirens neared the house the two men continued to fight, each with a fervent belief in his righteousness, hair flew in tufts, bones were crushed, noses broken, and laying beside them all the while the camera caught it all on film.
‘I am an officer of the law!’ His cries could be heard for streets, but were eventually muffled by the sound of his head being rammed into the back of a police car, the neighbour was equally as insistent as to his status, unfortunately he did not duck in time when being hurled into the back of a different police car, the bang to his head knocking him out cold, it made the accompanying officer’s job of subduing him far easier, he was bundled onto the back seat and driven off, sirens wailing.
Christine had the sudden urge to scratch her head, she didn’t like what she found attached to her fingers when she inspected them, long strands of hair accompanied by copious amounts of what looked like blue gunk dripped from her hands, she realised that she had forgotten to rinse the peroxide, it had, in its wisdom decided to act as a very efficient hair remover, her scream startled the passengers and driver of a passing car, sending the driver careering off the road, ploughing head first into a lamp post, his pride and joy almost sliced in two, he just caught the registration number of the offending range rover as it sped off into the distance, he was not going to let this go, he wanted revenge, his thoughts were cut short, as when Christine turned a corner the TV flew from the top of the car, still attached by the rope that was previously holding it and was now being dragged lumpily behind them, It half bounced, half flew through the air, it knocked the driver of the other car full on the head as he clambered out of his wrecked car, rendering him unconscious.
It seemed to PC MacDonald to take an inordinate length of time for his so called colleagues to verify who he was, it seemed that no one was taking any notice of his ankle, the prospect of gangrene setting in now very real, his hand too had now turned to a blackened purple, the wound in his arm still seeping blood, he writhed in agony on the cell floor, having to listen to the protestations of his assailant in the adjoining cell. ‘I’m a pillar of the community, last years chairman of the neighbourhood watch, I pay my taxes, I’ll sue you, I know my rights‘, and so it went on, until a particularly large and unfriendly policeman suggested that he keep quiet, the option for not keeping quiet so appalled the neighbour that he immediately became mute, PC MacDonald was for once pleased about police brutality and intimidation.
‘Right, that’s it, I’ve died and gone to hell, Tim will you at least say something, do something, don’t just sit there, for fuck’s sake do something, anything…’ Christine was ranting, the pain from the burns to her head starting to make her eyes water, it was either that she decided or the smell emanating from the dog shit that covered her daughter, she didn’t really care which it was, she knew she had to get out, she pulled over into a motorway services, parking her previously perfect range rover next to an almost identical one, she envied them, no TV, no children, no husband, no dog shit, in fact no anything, she fantasised about her sun tanned Adonis, which only brought home to her the fact that she now looked like a reject from Chernobyl, she needed head wear, and fast. She yanked up the hand brake, ‘Careful, you’ll break it’, it was the first thing that Tim had said, after a quick and particularly vicious undercut, it was the only thing he said for some hours, his head lolled to one side, his nose and mouth pushed hard up against the window, making him look like some grotesque escapee from madam Tusauds.

‘Hat, I need a hat, clothes, Sophie needs clothes’ Christine bellowed at her son, who was more interested in the number plates of the neighbouring vehicle.

‘Mum.’
‘What?’
‘Number plates.’
‘I don’t want number plates, I want a hat!’
‘I’m changing the number plates.’
‘Why?’
‘Hey, now you sound like me!’
‘Oh fuck do what you want, some one get me a fucking hat!’

Christine left Sophie in the car, deciding that the sight of her might frighten other people, and only draw attention to them, she neglected to think about what people would think about her head, but then it hurt too much to care; Tim, having regained consciousness, shaking his head and trying to remember how and when he had been hit, was studying the remains of his TV, it lay behind the vehicles most of the casing now smashed and splintered, defiantly holding onto its rope, he patted it, whispered something encouraging into its speaker as if it were an ear and fell in line behind his wife. Sophie sat in the back of the car glowering at Harold, he glowered back, it was not a match made in heaven, meanwhile, Tom got to work.
‘Sir, Sir, looks like he was telling the truth, one PC MacDonald, though his station officer says if we want to give him a good kicking to go ahead, shall I ask the boys to go ahead and do it sir.’ It was the most exciting evening of PC Smith’s career, he was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Your very young, aren’t you PC Smith, firstly you do not ask me if can give a suspect a kicking, you just go ahead and do it, and when I ask if you did it, you deny, deny, deny…now run along, oh, and give him one for me, I was supposed to be at a lodge meeting tonight, not sorting out this little prick.’ The Inspector clicked his heels and marched into his office, the thought of the large bottle of whiskey in his drawer beckoning him.
Back down in the cells PC MacDonald was already receiving a welcome gift from a couple of burly police officers, who had taken it upon themselves to subdue his moaning the only way they knew how, it was therefore a very pissed off PC Smith who came in during the last few kicks, they had ruined his fun, but determined not to be left out, he swung his foot as far back as he could get it and brought it forward with all his might, his aim was supposed to be at the prisoner, it was unfortunate that it landed on the ear of one of his colleagues, PC Smith began to understand what police brutality meant as he was ushered into an ambulance, his broken ribs protruding through his shirt.
Christine came running out of the service station just as Tom had finished his work of exchanging the number plates, the other range rover was now sporting the wanted plates, it also had attached to its bumper, and unbeknown to Tim, one very sad looking TV set. ‘In the car, in the car.’ She herded her son and husband into their seats before jumping in herself, adjusting her new head wear and spinning out of the parking lot. She threw a bag of clothes over her shoulder, Sophie was not impressed with the contents, an AC/DC t-shirt and a pair of camouflage trousers three times her size, it took some cajoling, and a lot of struggling to get her into them, the final result made her look like a miniature version of her brother, they both sat, arms folded in silence, if only it had always been that simple Christine thought. Tim though was happy amusing himself doodling on a piece of paper, his inventive mind working overtime, he always worked best under stress he thought, this was going to be his shinning hour, this time he would become the great inventor he always knew he was, then it would be stuff the family, and off he would go to LA or somewhere equally as inviting, where the girls had long blonde hair, big tits and would coo and aarh at his masterfulness, his scribbling became more fervent the more he thought.
‘Tim, what the fuck are you doing, get the bloody map, how do we get to the tunnel?’ Tim wasn’t listening, he had other ideas about crossing the channel, he was designing a very ingenious new type of boat, unknown to Christine it involved removing most of the working parts of her prized range rover, he hadn’t thought about what they would use for transport once reaching the other side, if they ever did, he continued to scribble.
‘Tim!’
‘What?’
‘Get the fucking map your moron!’
‘Hey that’s more like it, Mum just called Dad a moron, moron, moron, moron.’ No sooner had Tom spoken the words than both of his parents turned around and in unison shouted. ‘Shut up you fucking moron!’

‘Mummy I’m not going.’
‘What do you mean, your not going, of course your going, you have to go, you don’t have a choice.’ It was the first coherent sentence that Sophie had put together, it was met with audible derision by her mother, and ignored by the other occupants of the car, except for Harold who was quite pleased that she didn’t want to go, if he could talk he would suggest that she get out of the car now, save herself any further heartache and inconvenience by going any further, he slunk further down into the foot well and sighed, still scratching at his missing ear.
‘What I mean is, I’m not going in these clothes, I want my Barbie wedding dress, its in the back, I want it, I want it, I want it!’ Sophie started to stamp her foot on the floor of the car as her voice reached a high pitched wail, Harold instinctively shifted his body, he knew not to tangle with ’THE SOFIE’.
After a lot of huffing and puffing, and words which her mother certainly didn’t know that her daughter knew, let alone understand, Sophie emerged victorious, her Barbie wedding dress was yanked out its box, along with twenty seven other items of clothes, now strewn across the back seat, and being inspected by Harold, he found their taste quite appealing and carried on chewing. Christine continued to drive, the speed creeping up, she was clocked doing one hundred and thirty seven miles an hour by a normally bored patrol car, the speed at which the range rover sped past them made the dozing officer spring into life, his cup of hot coffee thrown out of his hand landing on the lap of his colleague, hot coffee, and hot tempers preceded what they knew was going to be an exciting hot pursuit.
‘OK, PC MacDonald, of Brecon Street Station, you say, oh and please stop fiddling with that ankle, the ME will be here soon, no need for hospitals and all that malarkey, STOP IT!’ PC MacDonald was now ensconced in the inspectors office, much to the dislike of the inspector himself, but he had been assured that the man sat in front of him was in deed an officer of the law so he begrudgingly allowed him to be treated as one, what he really wanted to do with the little twerp was to stamp on his already damaged ankle and pepper his body with bullets, for the time being he would have to simply satisfy himself with watching the little oik suffer a little, he knew his time would come. ‘Right where were we, oh yes, you heard a noise, went to investigate, then you were assaulted with a suitcase, blinded by a pair of French knickers, had your hand violently inserted into a drain….and all this before even entering the house, what a busy night your had!’ He chuckled to himself then continued. ‘Oh yes, you say a small child covered in blood with half her hair missing let you into the house, where upon you were knocked unconscious by, who you now believe to be the owner of the house, dragged, in your unconscious state, into the pantry where you were locked in, you then, and this is by your own admission, stab yourself in the arm and break your ankle. Am I right so far?’ PC MacDonald bent down to try to push the piece of bone back into place, he gave up trying when he started to vomit on the inspectors carpet, nodding in agreement as he spewed. The inspector looked at him in disgust, in his day, men acted like men and didn’t throw up over their superiors carpets and whinge about gangrene and pain, the man was a wimp in his eyes. He continued his summary of the evenings events. ‘May I continue, that is if you have finished redecorating my office?…Anyway, as I was saying, you then managed to release yourself from the pantry, claim to have seen your assailant in the back garden of the property, where you then claim he set about again assaulting you, however this time, as we now know the so called assailant was not the owner of the house, but a concerned neighbour - whose injuries are quite substantial.’ He forgot to mention that the majority of the neighbour’s injuries had been inflicted whilst in the cells down below, but who would argue with him, he was after all the boss.
PC MacDonald shook his head in agreement, before sliding unconscious onto the floor, he, in the inspectors mind a useless witness. Down in the cells sat a subdued neighbour, his broken nose, inflicted when the larger of the two policemen sat on his head in an effort to muffle his cries, he could feel the ends of his ribs poking through, and was sure that every one was broken, as were most of his fingers and right arm, he flinched as the cell door was thrown open.
‘Ah, yes, there you are, I hope that the boys have been treating you well?’ The sight that greeted the Inspector was of a man who could not stand, was covered in blood and who, like the unconscious idiot upstairs in his office had been, was groaning and writhing in agony, he smiled at how well he had taught his men, gratuitous violence always worked he thought. He had no time for modern day practices and codes of conduct, and the annoyance of The Police and Criminal Evidence Act, suspects needing softening up, and a bloody good kicking always worked. The neighbour looked at the Inspector, relieved that a senior officer had come to his rescue, his delight was short lived as he found himself a crumpled mess on the floor, felled by a karate chop that seemed to come out of no where, but was aimed at his chest, making direct contact with his already broken ribs.