Hell on Earth

‘Think before you drink before you drive.’

That was one of the old slogans that came to mind… when I got home and found a police car waiting for me.

“Ah fuck!”

Another expression, this time from pulp films, came next; I’ve been set up.

“Good evening, sir. A bit tired, are we?”

I was nearly twice the legal limit, a result, no doubt, of a few vodkas being slipped into my lager. Before I could say anything I was bundled, none too gently, into the back of a police car. I ended up in a cramped police cell with all my possessions – including my belt and watch – removed.

Arty, you fucking bastard!

I really hated the police that night, but I knew who my real enemy was; prison had changed him alright; he was even more vindictive than ever.

*

A week later I was travelling to the courthouse on a bus, all my options gone.

I’d taken a lot of advice, but all I could do was plead guilty and hope for a short ban. Arty had vanished – and you can bet I’d looked for the fucker – and I was told that ‘some tosser spiked my drink’ was the oldest excuse in the book, and unlikely to get me off the hook; so I waived legal representation, spoke one single word to the Magistrate (Guilty), was banned for eighteen months, fined £250 and sent on my way.

I needed a drink.

*

I got home and made a cup of tea, picking up a free local rag that had been dropped through the letterbox. Who knew? Maybe I’d read about someone who was worse off than me.

And you know; I did.

I was soon caught up in the story of a retired man who had been arrested after popping into a public toilet for a quick ‘George Michael’.

I knew this man; he was the former owner of a firm that had once fired Arty.

Coincidence?

The line ‘acting on information received’ really struck a chord;

‘Having received a ‘phone call’ were the four little words that explained why the police car had been waiting outside my address that day; someone, it seemed, was very keen to co-operate with the police all of a sudden.

I started asking around, but no one had seen Arty for ages (and if they never saw him again, I was told, it would be too soon!). So I tried to forget it, but Arty wasn’t finished yet.

*

I work for a cheap security firm and our boss, Jeremy, is always trying to snag an extra payment; pulling one guard off a site that’s paying for two, occasionally leaving a site unattended for hours on end. He certainly rode his luck, and it was a wonder that he kept getting away with it.

Luck of the Irish, we used to say, as Jeremy came from Londonderry.

We all thought he would get rumbled one day, and one day he very nearly did.

*

It was an old abandoned hospital in the East end of the city; once a bustling denizen, now a slum area where crack addicts, prostitutes and wino’s hung out. No one bothered with it much; not the vandals, who’d smashed all the windows, or the gypsies who’d taken their share of the scrap metal; and certainly not the council, who were paying for the security. It was almost a forgotten building … until someone made a malicious ‘phone call to the police.

Yes, and we could all guess who!!!

They arrived to find a door kicked in, security report books strewn across the floor, and not a single night watchman in sight. Thankfully they called the firm, and so (with a lame excuse about a guard being taken sick) cover was arranged and the whole thing covered up; but the building had been a useful source of cash, money in the coffers of the firm that should, by rights, have been paid to the guards. That night, a cash cow died, for it was too risky to leave it unattended again. It could have been a lot worse; the loss of contract and a messy legal case could have finished us off; as it was, Jeremy’s days of cheerfully riding his luck were over.

*

One thing was sure; I had to find Arty.

Soon I was getting e-mails and text messages, all untraceable, but I knew he had sent them. ‘Another payback’, said one text, while the e-mails went into more explicit detail. Then he started taunting me, dropping hints as to whom his next victim might be.

Why was he doing this?

And more to the point, why was he using me as his confessor? We hadn’t been that close.

But what could I do? I could hardly go to the police; they’d think I was off my rocker (apart from which, Arty was doing a splendid job of cleaning up their crime rate).

I kept the mobile ‘phone and computer switched off; catch me playing Arty’s game, I thought; but he knew where I lived.

Fine, let the bastard call around; I’d give him a warm welcome and no mistake!

But Arty was more elusive than Lord Lucan these days, and in the end, I convinced myself that this was for the best.

*

So I moved on, which was all I could do; there was no point obsessing over Arty for the rest of my life. I went back to work, caught trains and busses, and eventually got my driving licence back; I still harboured a grudge (and lets face it, who wouldn’t?), but it wasn’t the be all and end all of my life. As an old girlfriend used to say to me, get over it!

*

But the resentment festered; common sense and human nature have never been very good bedfellows. I never wanted to see Arty again (I knew I’d swing for the bastard if I did, and then where would it all end?), so I decided to turn the other cheek … but just let the bastard cross my path again!