Chase of the Tail

© 2011 Tom O’Sullivan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 3/14/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4520-1568-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-7746-3 (e)

Contents

Chapter One:

Chapter Two:

Chapter Three:

Chapter Four:

Chapter Five:

Chapter Six:

Chapter Seven:

Chapter Eight:

Chapter Nine:

Chapter Ten:

Chapter Eleven:

Chapter Twelve:

Chapter Thirteen:

Chapter Fourteen:

Chapter Fifteen:

About the Author

Chapter One:

Wednesday 8 November 6.00 p.m.

Richie Butler walked at a steady pace through the paved precincts of Coventry city centre. This post-war ‘architects’ dream’ had gone wrong because somewhere along the line, the planners, in their obsession with separating motorists and pedestrians, forgot that both groups are actually people. He observed the result of all this. To his left, a shop window being replaced by the only firm in town which had a guaranteed future – the emergency glaziers and shop front repairers. On the right, four or five shops completely boarded up, their proprietors having decided they no longer had the stomach, nor the cash, to keep on paying the repair firm each time their premises were vandalised.

Richie sniggered as he thought back, only a year or two, to when he himself was one of the young vandals out on the street. Only, he was already twenty eight years old even then. A lot of the fun he had been having had caught up with him about that time, and two convictions for criminal damage, in quick succession, had halted him in his tracks. He had actually tried to settle down – found himself a nice, clean girlfriend, and went steady with her for nine months, until the ordeal of almost leading a normal life drove him back to the streets where he really felt at home.

However, street life had moved on in his absence, and he no longer found it easy to pick up a tart in a pub or nightclub. He had been hitting the booze harder than ever, and the bouncers and pub landlords had in turn been hitting Richie. He used to be able to get a bar job at a moment’s notice, to top up his benefit payments. Now, nobody wanted him, and funds were getting low. It was November, and he could sense the approach of Christmas, and the merry jingle of cash pouring through his fingers.

Richie knew he would have to do something about that soon, but his main concern at the moment was sex. The shortage of it in his life had been at least as acute as the shortage of cash. So, on this bleak November Wednesday evening, Richie strode through the chilly precincts on his way to the ‘red light’ district, benefit cheque cashed only that morning, and every penny saved, through a tortuous lunchtime when he did not dare to venture even near to a public house. No, this week, the money was going to buy him some fanny. He did not care what the woman was like as long as it was a woman. He had no scruples, no pride. When you’re desperate, the ‘red lights’ will always give you a warm welcome.

He approached the bus station, dimly lit, and looking even more bleak than the rest of the city centre had. The number nine would take him to the heart of the area he wanted, but there was no vehicle waiting, and knowing the sparseness of the service at this time of day, he decided it would be quicker to carry on walking. It was only another half mile or so, and it would have been a cold wait anyway.

He walked through the labyrinth of subways and passageways beneath the rumbling, crumbling grey concrete mass of the Inner Ring Road flyover. This place was becoming known as ‘Muggers Alley’ due to a series of twilight attacks on citizens, conducted in the secluded corners of this maze of subways, only a few paces beyond the bus station.

Somehow, Richie knew he was not going to be mugged. Not only was he a slim, tall, fit individual with short blond hair making him look almost like a skinhead, and unlikely to buckle if attacked, his luck had been pretty low lately, so he could not foresee anything as exciting as that happening to him. A pity, he reckoned as he emerged from the maze not having met a soul, because his sexual frustration had put him right in the mood for a fight. His feet and fists were ready for action, but none came his way. Never mind, he thought, not far now – one way or another, he was going to relieve his frustration soon.

He almost missed the entrance to the street he wanted, He had been there before and remembered that there was always an old grey Jaguar saloon parked more or less opposite the brothel, just a few paces down from the main road. It had been a veritable landmark, usually standing out in a line of smaller, more down-market cars. Tonight, it was gone, as were the smaller cars. There was no traffic in the street at all. Still, he was sure it was the right place, even though he could not recall the name of the street.

He then realised why there were no vehicles in the street. Newly painted double yellow ‘no parking’ lines glared up from the gutters. Typical of the council, he mused. No money to spend on improving the city in general, yet cash was always found for hair-brained ideas like splashing yellow paint around, driving motorists into the over-priced official car parks. Richie was glad he was not a motorist.

With a little difficulty due to the absence of the landmark Jaguar, he found the correct door, and was fortunately recognised and allowed in. He wasted no time in getting his money down, and in a few minutes, he was getting his drawers down, sharing a room with one of the most voluptuous girls he had ever seen, a tart called Martha, who was wearing leather underwear. Richie had the hots for this one. The brown-haired girl tried to slow things down a bit, genuinely wanting to allow him to get his money’s worth, but Richie was interested only in getting on the job at the earliest moment, before he had an accident.

It was a real ‘wham-bam’ job. On, off, have a cigarette, on, off, have another, on, off, another fag, and finally off, with Martha deciding it was now becoming a little boring, and he had probably had his money’s worth.

They chatted for a while, but had nothing in common to talk about. The only subject they managed to agree on was their mutual annoyance about the city council and their damned yellow lines. As neither had a car, even that subject failed to last. A couple of hours after he had arrived, Richie was ready to depart, much refreshed by the evening’s jaunt. Looking back as he left the room, he saw Martha trying to force her enormous breasts into her leather brassiere, as she stood right in front of the uncovered first floor window.

Jesus! he hissed, sniggering through grinning jaws and shaking his head in disbelief. Get the place turned over, that’s what she’ll do! She’ll be well busted! Ha, ha! Busted! That’s a beauty! He cackled aloud at his own, inadvertent joke as he descended the stairs. He was seen out by the proprietor, an old friend of his named Shirley Brock.

Careful how you go now, Richie. You’ve been out of circulation for a while, you can’t come back to this sort of life and just pick up where you left off, you know. Your energy reserves, you know.

Energy? I’m like a f …flaming time bomb! he insisted.

You’re a couple of years older, for a start. She admonished him.

I’m f… flaming, twenty nine! What’s the matter, Shirley, do I look old or something?

Course not, dear. Just thought you looked a bit pale, that’s all.

You’d look bloody pale if you’d just knocked a few rounds off that big piece upstairs. Jesus, she was something else!

Martha? Yes. Shirley spoke knowingly as she straightened Richie’s collar and brushed dust, dandruff, or hair off the shoulders of his jacket with her hands.

You know what, Shirl? I’m gonna have another go! Richie swung round to go back upstairs, but Shirley halted him.

Richie! Don’t be silly! Business is business, and you’re skint now. You said yourself you’d blown all your dole money. I can’t make exceptions for old friends in this game. I can’t let you go back for more, can I? She put him in his place.

Aw. Not even one buckshee bang? he suggested, grinning.

I’ll buckshee you! she turned him around to face the front door again, but was having to push him towards it.

Is that a promise? he asked cheekily, still sniggering and grinning.

Out, you little bugger! Shirley opened the door for him. Do feel free to come back and visit us again, you know, as soon as, ….

I know, as soon as me dole money comes through again.

That’s my boy. Now, look after yourself in the meantime. You don’t look all that well, Richie, you been eating alright?

What are you, my bleeding mother or something? I’m all bloody right, Shirley!

OK, OK, darling, just remember to keep your strength up. I hope I’ll see you again soon.

Yeah, sure you will. I’ve got the taste back. He licked his lips as he spoke. That’s if I can find the bloody place again. What do you think of this lot? He motioned to the yellow lines outside the house.

Well, …

I mean, that old Jag always used to mark the spot for me. Without that in the street, I’ll have to knock every door and say ‘Any old bags? Any old bags?’ won’t I? He started sniggering again.

Cheeky bugger! No, I ain’t pleased about this lot at all. I thought you were supposed to get a warning from the council about this sort of thing. You see, nobody around here was told anything about it, so there’s a lot of the neighbours going down the council tomorrow to complain about it. Not exactly what I need, a big rumpus in the street. It’s going to put a lot of my clients off, you see.

Only just done it, have they?

Just this morning. That caused a row, because some of the residents had cars parked there at the time, and were told to shift them, just like that. I don’t need it, I tell you. I want peace and tranquillity around this street. Next thing you know, we’ll have coppers round here, poking their noses in.

Well, that’s coppers for you, always after kinky sex! Richie chimed in, convulsing with laughter.

Oh, go on, clear off, Richie. Shirley laughed with him, then shut him out. He turned away, continued to snigger for a few seconds, and then began to feel deflated. Despite his outer coating of mirth, he knew Shirley had been right. You could not go back and pick up where you left off. He had noticed it ever since ditching his girlfriend. He found his old friends did not seem to want to know him, and women were generally wary of him. Now, bloody Shirley was mothering him, telling him to eat properly, and to save his energy.

Good old Shirley. She was a gem, really. An attractive forty-something divorcee with a nice business going. He had only met her through using her premises, but she had immediately taken him to her heart, it seemed. They had become very good friends, and though Richie occasionally wondered what she might be like in bed, he settled for having one good friendship, rather than trying anything on and ruining it.

Sexual relationships with Richie tended to be torrid, entertaining, and short-lived. He could not let that sort of thing happen to his friendship with Shirley. He might need her one day. But he could do without her as a mother-figure. He was a bit unsure what to do for the best right now, because he had to accept that the silly bitch was right. He did feel pretty rough. He did not have any substantial meals these days. He was smoking too much.

That thought reminded him to light up another cigarette. He pulled the packet and his lighter from the pocket of his jeans, and shoved a fag into his mouth. He tried to light it as he started walking, but could not get his lighter to work. He stopped just before the corner of the main road, and after a few more attempts, finally puffed smoke gratefully into the thin evening air.

Relaxing, he stood for a moment listening to the sounds of the city. A general, grim, rumbling sound prevailed, overlaid with the screech of sirens in the distance. That started him sniggering again, as he thought of some young whippersnapper making an affray in the city centre, or some poor bastard parked on double yellow lines. He looked down once more at the lines recently painted in the gutter, then back down the side street, which looked quite forlorn without its clothing of cars.

His thoughts were just wandering back to the bulging leather underwear of Martha, when a motorised roar, and a scream of rubber under friction interrupted them, and Richie looked around quickly.

The little side street was about to get a visitor. A dark saloon car came hurtling around from the main road, bouncing over the kerbstones opposite to where Richie was standing.

Jesus! he remarked aloud, watching the dark car as it roared away down the street, accelerating to what he thought must be well over forty miles per hour, and in such a short, narrow road as well. He hardly had time to get the words Stupid bastard! out, when the roar and the screech was repeated, and another car, red in colour, followed the first one round into the side street.

This one took the corner very wide, its back end scraping and skidding across the road, and its back offside wing swinging straight into Richie, catching him a hard, but glancing blow in the midriff, at high speed. He screamed. A glancing blow it may have been, but it was enough to knock him right off his feet.

He lurched awkwardly to his right, and fell against a lamp-post, which the red car had missed by millimetres. He crumpled on the ground, having injured his stomach and groin, his right shoulder, and his right elbow.

Richie was perfectly conscious, but in some pain. He rolled over, into the gutter, and stared in horror at yet another pair of headlights, as a third vehicle came off the main road into the side street at high speed.

This car, another dark-coloured one, took the corner more safely than either of the first two, and missed Richie by a foot or so, merely spattering his face with a few bits of loose gravel. Richie forgot the pain, and hauled himself back onto the footpath. He scrambled to the foot of the red-brick wall of the first house in the street, just five feet from the kerb-edge, and lay there, fearing more lunatic drivers wheeling their vehicles around this sharp corner.

He realised the sirens he had heard just before being hit were getting louder, and guessed that a police convoy was now probably chasing the speeding motorists. Even though one of the cars had clobbered him, he still held a subconscious hope that they would escape from the police, who were certainly no friends of Richie’s.

He did not see the police cars, but heard the sirens as they shot past him on the main road. The police had lost their quarry.

More power to you, you bastards! Richie gasped out a muted salute to the perpetrators of whatever crime had been committed.

Things quietened down, and Richie realised no-one had seen him. It seemed no-one in the side street had opened a window or front door to see what the commotion was, unless some residents of the nearby high-rise block had popped their heads out of their high-rise windows.

It did not look as if anyone was going to volunteer any help for him, so he was forced to drag himself to his feet. He tried to stagger down the street, aiming to seek help from Shirley. It hurt him to walk, but at least he could actually put one leg in front of the other, despite agonising pain in both thighs. He thought briefly about walking back towards town, perhaps going straight to the local Casualty Hospital, which was less than half a mile away. However, the pain was too severe, so he stumbled back to Shirley’s door and rang the bell.

Shirley admitted him for the second time that evening. Richie had been keeping his language in check during his earlier visit, but was now less restrained.

Some fuckin’ bastard maniac has just hit me with a fuckin’ car! he yelled as Shirley, alarmed, pushed him into her small front lounge and sat him on a low sofa.

Richie, what are you on about? You’ve been hit by a car, you say? Shirley asked him to confirm his story, but he could not raise enough courage to speak again because he thought he was going to pass out.

Aw, …. Shit! Shit! was all that Shirley could get out of him. She moved to her front window, drew back the long drapes, and peeped round the edge of her roller-blind. Seeing no sign of activity outside, she returned to her patient, and saw that he was in quite a lot of pain.

Where are you hurt, darling?" she asked sympathetically.

Me, … fuckin’ balls! he gasped. He would have smiled if he had not been in such agony.

God. I might have known. Shirley muttered, then spoke quietly, close to his ear. You idiot. I told you to look after yourself not ten minutes ago, and here you are, back with a bloody injury to the one place I’d have banked on you to take care of! Come on.

Shirley slowly undid his belt, and carefully slid his jeans and underpants down, to have a look. The delicate parts appeared to be intact, but she could see a large red mark at the top of his left thigh, and the first sign of a big bruise about to come up. That in itself did not look too serious, but she was more concerned to see another red mark, equally pronounced, on the right side of his abdomen.

Gingerly, she laid her hand on the bruised thigh. Richie did not flinch. She then laid her hand very carefully on his abdomen. Richie almost doubled up and yelled aloud.

Ssshhh! OK, Richie, I’ll get that seen to right away. Don’t worry, love, just rest a minute while I get you something. She hurried to a drinks cabinet at the end of the room, and fetched him a large glass of whisky. He sipped at it, then grabbed the glass from her, and threw the drink down his throat in one gulp.

Shirley was worried about this injury. It looked like it might be bleeding internally, and she had thoughts about ruptured appendices. It could have been serious, so she had to get the lad to the hospital, but could not just call an ambulance. She still had a couple of