Authors: John Macrae
“Training….” he muttered. “But what if you’ve killed him? I’ll be…”
“Then you’ll be an accessory to murder, won’t you? But don’t worry. I’ve not killed him. I hope….” I looked at him sideways. He was shitting himself. “Best run along,” I said. “Remember what I told you about clearing up the job.”
“Some job,” he muttered and drove away like a frightened rabbit, still shaking his head, the wig and heavy duffle bag under the blouson jacket on the floor. I watched him go, still driving too fast.
Of course, it wasn't 'just a job' - it had been a bloody good job. But you have to be a professional in my game to appreciate things like that
And, to tell the truth, I’d rather enjoyed belting Heinemann. He deserved it.
In fact, I’d avenged a few old scores there.
London
Have you ever felt the desire for revenge?
I mean good, old fashioned, an eye for an eye, get your own back at any price revenge? I never really had in quite that way, until that lunch-time when I walked out of the Ministry and bought the noon edition.
I was about to go on two weeks' holiday. I was feeling pretty good, I remember; the Heinemann job had been a great success. I’d just finished an after action briefing for the secret squirrel club in MoD and it had gone well. Even the good Brigadier Peters had been uncharacteristically complimentary, so I knew that Special Forces Group was happy with a clean job, professionally carried out. The guy from Six had even murmured ‘well done’ as he walked out. It's not often that we work directly for the Cabinet Office or the boys from Legoland out at Vauxhall, but when we do and it's turned out well, you can't help feeling good. After the Heinemann busine
s
s, we'd heard no more about me being 'dropped down a well' or hung out to dry by a court martial. Although it had been odd to make an after action report as a presentation to a bunch of suits.
For once the Whitehall warriors from MoD were pushed to the back. I never liked the career arselicker types from the Central Staffs; pretend warriors who usually turned out to be pushy Group Captains
(Engineering) from the RAF in pin
-
striped
disguise
, and who wouldn't know one end of a real gun from another. I think I preferred the civil servants' questions. I looked for Henderson, but to my surprise, he was nowhere to be seen.
Still, it's nice to feel appreciated. The sun was shining, and under its influence the leaves were budding on the Embankment's trees, while the typists' nipples were budding against their dresses, making the pretty ones look exciting and even the plain ones interesting. In fact, it had all the makings of that rare event, a beautiful London day in spring--until I read the Standard in the pub.
I read my horoscope first. I always do. The front page was the usual rubbish; one party had split, or shortly would if the Editor had his way. The PM was in trouble – again - and London’s transport would grind to a halt one day…. But it was the right hand column that drew me. It was as miserable a story as I've seen.
The headline caught my eye: '
MOTHER SWEARS REVENGE
'. It was a not uncommon tale. We've all seen something like it, dozens of times. A particularly nasty paedophile sexual assault on a young schoolgirl followed by an unproven case. The guilty man had got off scot-free and, having been found 'not guilty', had walked out of the court in Snaresbrook, doubtless to do it again. But this one had a twist. Although all this had happened months ago, a couple of days ago the girl in question - who was only twelve - had slashed her wrists. Despite being rushed to hospital, it had been too late.
She was dead on arrival and that would have been the end of it but for two things: in the ambulance before she died, the girl had again named her attacker as the man discharged by the court. Apparently the child's dying words were, "It really was him, Mum, I promise it was him ... I'm sorry for all the trouble ... " With that she had died, and the press were really milking the pathos of it all. Quite rightly, too - it was a pathetic tale, even for hardened stomachs.
The second twist was that when the mother and the ambulance crew had told the police, they had said they were powerless. Despite the child's deathbed statement, the case was closed, according to the those well paid guardians of justice, the fat cat lawyers of the Crown Prosecution Service.
What happened next was inevitable. The mother had told her husband, who had gone round with some of his mates to the paedophile's house and had been involved in what the police spokesman primly called 'an affray'. This particular affray involved a baseball bat, according to the paper. The police had been called and then, to add insult to injury, had arrested
the father,
who was now awaiting trial for grievous bodily harm. The policeman in question had been quoted as saying, "Well it's the law... we can't have every Tom, Dick and Harry taking the law into their own hands, can we?" He then made the statement, “There’s no place for vigilantes in British society. Well, even paedophiles have legal rights, don’t they?” However right that might have been in theory, the gutter press had gone barmy.
According to the journalists, the father, who had only done what any reasonable guy would have done in the circumstances, had every chance of going down for a couple of years, like a similar case a few years back. The press pack was in full cry. Apparently accused paedophiles had more rights than their victims.
Even by the bizarre standards of the law, it was an extraordinary case. The Police Federation spokesman called the law an ass, the Commissioner of the Met Police was claiming they were only enforcing the law, and I won't tell you what the leader writers and my fellow drinkers in the pub were calling it.
It all seemed to make an absolute nonsense of justice. The bright day had lost a bit of its charm as I read that squalid little story. My lager tasted thin and sour, and I wasn't alone in my reaction. The bloke standing next to me must have noticed my disgust. I don't normally draw attention to myself in pubs - or anywhere else for that matter. In my game that's considered unprofessional.
He jerked a grubby thumb at the paper. “Bad business. Them paedos. Eh?”
I grunted
non-committally, but he was
intent on practising his communication skills. "I mean, think
abaht it, bastard's gorraway withit, 'innee?"
The barmaid, a skinny, cheerful soul wearing a blouse thin enough to draw the customers' eyes but opaque enough to prevent their disappointment, joined in. "That that story about that little girl 'n 'er Dad? Terrible, innit? "
"'N they can't do nuffink abaht it, neither.'
By now I was beginning to be overwhelmed by too much company and too little grammar. To keep them quiet, I agreed. "Yes, it's difficult isn’t it? I expect the police….” I didn’t get far.
“Police?” said my drinking friend. “Police? Don’t talk to me about the fuckin’ police, mate. Bloody waste of time, that lot. Oh, they’ll do you for speeding and send support officers round and all that counselling rubbish. But when did you ever see one walking on the beat nowadays, eh? Comin’ round to a burglary? All they do now is fill in forms and watch bloody speed cameras.”
“And persecute decent people,” chipped in the barmaid. “Did you see that story about them threatening that Christian couple ‘cos they wanted to put a poster up about them homos? Disgraceful, I call it…. And as for that little girl bein’ molested and then killin’ herself, well, you just don’t know what to say, do you?”
Law and order was obviously high on the bar agenda. I tried to back out. “ Yes; that was a sad business ... "
"Sad?" The barmaid was indignant. "Sad? It's not bleedin' sad - it's bleedin' disgraceful, that's what it is, bleedin disgraceful..…" She went off huffily to pull a pint for someone else.
"She’s right you know, “ said my drinking companion. “Dead right. Bloody waste of time, the police. Fuckin’ rubbish nowadays. But someone should do something about them paedos, that's wot. I don’t hold wiv messin’ abart wiv little kids. It ain’t right. They should never've stopped 'anging."
My new friend was clearly about to give me his personal political philosophy on the law and order issue, so I hastily drained my glass and left. The trouble was, by the time I'd got outside, the bloom really had gone off the day.
Now, you can't get personally involved in my game. That's how you end up as one of the statistics. But the people in the pub were right; it
was
a scandal, and the mother's desire for revenge was probably shared by about 95 per cent of the country, too. But that's the trouble with democracy, isn’t it? It makes you think you're right just because everyone else feels the same way.
I wandered around all afternoon. Did a bit of shopping. I even called in to another pub or two and then did a lot of walking. I suppose I was trying to persuade myself not to, but I'd got time on my hands, and the desire to do something constructive during my leave was strong. I was itching to
do
something. I reasoned that having acquired special skills at the taxpayers' expense, the least I could do was to repay them for their investment.
Why I decided to do it I'll never know. Creepy little Hepworth would have had some psychological theory, I'm sure; probably some crap about 'sublimated sex', if I knew him. He was probably a paedo himself, on the quiet. He was certainly the type. He was certainly a sicko in some way. The thought of Hepworth as a sex deviant warmed me. Now, there’s someone who really needed to see a shrink. Cheered by the idea of Hepworth as a pervert, I ambled around Trafalgar Square and Charing Cross Road looking for some decent CDs.
Anyway, by the time the commuters were rushing for their trains home, I had formed a vague idea of doing something positive. The people in the pub were right. Someone should be avenging these things. It was only justice. Natural justice. And if the police and the law couldn’t – or wouldn’t – do it, then who would stand up for people? I couldn’t get it out of my head. Nusret was in there somewhere, and Iran, and the little goatherd – poor little bastard - and a feeling of relief that they weren't going to try and court martial me and get rid of me now. Hell, I was good at what I did. Everyone said so. So do something as a way of saying 'thank you'. Quite what, I wasn't sure. But first, I had to know what the dead girl's family felt.
I looked up the family in the phone book. They lived in what sounded like a council house in Essex, out Dagenham way. I pondered my next move carefully. After all, I was about to do something unprofessional, but then if I didn't help them, who else would? The family would only do something silly again and they wouldn't get away with it. No, it had to be an outsider, a disinterested professional - someone like me
I telephoned the house from a call box. No mobile phone for me. A young man answered. His voice was flat and dispirited.
"Can I speak to Mrs Meekin?"
"No, you can't. She's gone to bed. We're not disturbing her. The doctor's given her some tablets. Are you another reporter?"
"No, I'd just like to help, if I can."
"Well, she's had enough for one day." His voice softened slightly. "I'm Wayne. Wayne Meekin. Do you want me to give her a message?"
Of course, the seventeen-year-old brother - the papers had mentioned him. "Is your father there?” I asked.
“No. He’s still banged up with the filth. Fuckin’ police. What’s this about, anyway?”
“Look, just tell your mother that I can help her. Ask her to ring this number at half past nine tomorrow morning. Have you got a pencil?"
There was a pause while he went and got something to write with. When he came back I gave the number. It was a call box near Charing Cross, but he wouldn't know that. When he had got it clear, I rang off before he could chat. The less he knew the better.
I went off to my flat and cooked scrambled eggs and had it with a rather tired salad and a bottle of some kind of Muscadet in front of the television. The Standard had been wrong; according to the news, the party hadn't split. Everyone seemed disappointed. But the PM was definitely in trouble.
As I dozed off, I thought to myself what a stupid stunt I was thinking of pulling: I mean, having a go at some paedo
weirdo
… I must have been barking. Best forget about it. Anyway, they probably wouldn’t ring back in the morning. No, let it drop... Stupid idea. Must drink less lager..
Then the newsreader said something about the early newspaper headlines and jolted me back to reality. I was awake.
“….the Express headline, “
You Call this Justice
?” refers to the Crown Prosecution Service’s insistence on bringing charges against Bill Meekin, the 43 year old father of Sandra Meekin who died last week. Other papers comment on the case. The Sun’s headline ‘
Scandal
!’ also re
f
lects the widespread public indignation over the Home Office’s statement….”
It seemed that someone really did need to do something about it all, after all. I’d better see what they said in the morning.
Next morning, still feeling a bit of a clown, I went to the public phone box. Of course, it was being used. I might have known. Hadn’t these people got bloody mobiles? I drifted away and watched it. To my relief, the woman came out and I got in with about thirty seconds to spare. I might as well not have rushed. I studied the tits and bums on offer all over the inside of the box. Some of them were really quite tasty. Personally, I fancied the busty Ukrainian called Helga. By twenty five to ten the mother still hadn't phoned. I was just about to call it a day as a stupid idea anyway when it rang
"Hello?" The voice sounded querulous and had a trace of East London. She repeated the number. It was Mrs Meekin.
"Yes, it's me; I phoned last-night. I spoke to your son. Wayne."
"Who are you?"
"Mr Smith," I lied. "Alan Smith."
"Oh. What do you want?"
"I thought I could help you. Over Sandra."