A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 4

The securing officer of a murder scene is the unfortunate git who stumbles across the mess, often into it, without any kind of warning. The initial call out can be anything, from young kids smoking cigarettes around the back of a building to a neighbourly dispute, only for the despatched officers to arrive and find ears and teeth all over the place. The securing officer who called this crime scene was unfortunately meeker than most. He hadn't joined the police fantasizing of drug busts and gangland shootouts but rather yearning to do the paperwork and wear the tit-shaped hat. Ransack, Davies and Jenkins found him sitting out in the front yard, his arms clasped tightly around his knees, and rocking to and fro on the heel of his buttocks... humming.

“Mmmm mmmm mmm mmmm MMMMMMM Mmmmm mmm mmMMMMM...” and he went on, just like that, his brain even more lost than the Detective Inspector Ransacks.

As it was Jenkins who was still leading the party of three it was his form that moved in and towered over the securing officer. With the little light there was blocked out, the distraught officer withdrew even further inside of himself, and with his eyes shot through with an unspeakable horror his hums then turned to whimpers. Jenkins squatted down besides him.

“Constable... Constable,” he said softly, “now we understand this is a difficult time for you, that you've seen things which you weren't prepared for, but we need to take a quick statement from you... just a few questions, nothing more, and then we'll get you seen to properly and hopefully off home. Ok? Do You Hear Me? CONSTABLE!!?”


With the above as a response Jenkins suddenly gripped the officer by either side of his shoulders, steadied him and twisted him around so as they were both in each others faces. “Now Constable, you're gonna have to get a fucking grip of yerself... this is serious business! You can crack up afterwards, but right now we've got the fucking world ticking down on us and we need to take your statement before we can get on! Now what's your fucking name?”

The traumatised PC let out a series of noises like he was crying the wrong way. He was obviously trying to say something but no matter how hard he tried only incomprehensible drivvel came out. It also happened that the more he panicked the harder and faster his rocking became, until Jenkins was shaking too, vibrating away like he was holding onto a jack hammer. If it was not for the following words, from a new voice on the scene, Jenkins would very likely have tried to slap him into reality.

“His name's Jameson, PC Alan Jameson,” it said. “I'm PC Sanderson and was with him when he came across the scene. It was actually me who called it... not that I've seen it... but I did call it! He's been like that since it happened... well, it took just over three minutes of silence first and then he lost it.”

As the PC Sanderson spoke Inspector Ransack slyly eyed Jenkins and Davies to see what they were doing. Both had whipped out their notepads and were scribbling things down – though it didn't look much like writing. Ransack patted around his pockets, found his own notepad and a pen attached, and started scribbling down nonsense too. Just to make sure he could still write if he wanted to, that he hadn't forgotten that art, he wrote the word 'bumrub' and then crossed it out. And then he did something that even surprised him: he flipped over to a new page, and the moment he put pen to paper his mouth opened and he instinctively asked:

“And why was you here, Constable? What were the details of your initial call out?”

PC Sanderson now turned to Ransack. He began by pulling a face like there was not much to tell and then proceeded to tell it in the most drawn out manner possible...

“It was an anonymous caller, a woman, and for some reason she thought her friend may have been hurt or assaulted in her property. The call was traced to the phone box just around the corner on Perkins Avenue. The only other info we received along with the address was that the caller sounded 'toothless drunk' and so we thought we was gonna arrive and end up in the middle of one of these alcoholic domestics with both parties accusing each other of every kind of perverted crime under the sun.... You know the kind, Sir, her screaming and bawling rape and sodomy and when asked if she wants to bring official charges against her significant other she looks through you all blurry and you know the previous accusation is already forgotten. The next thing you're warning the man that if he tugs at your uniform once more he'll be spending the night in the cells and he answers by telling you that she sucked so and so's cock and that's why he walloped her. Then she's laughing and bouncing off him, saying “But I walloped ya back... good an proper, ya lousy maggot! I gave jist as good as I got! I ain't scared of no two bit shitheap like you... I've 'ad worse... you ain't nothing, Jack!” And then he's gone and smacked himself square in the nose and through a mouthful of black blood he's screaming: “No bitch has ever hurt me! I can take much more than any whore can ever give!!! 'Ere, ya see these fists? Ya see this one, it's knocked seventeen people sober... the best fucking rehab there is! The other... I save that one for me enemies!” And then she's showing you what she thinks is a secret, sexy smile, but actually it's a mouthful of missing teeth and those that are left are stained shit-brown and each one points to a different hour of the day and you hope she doesn't cough or they'll end up all over you. Then her smile has gone and her whole posture has sunken a foot and she's scowling through the demons of drink, and suddenly she's on her man again. And all the while it's a miracle he's still standing because since he stopped showing you his bloated grazed and cut fists he's been swaying around like one of those 'wibbly-wobbly toys' with his eyes nine tenths closed, and if he can see anything it's the faintest blur of light through singed eyelashes. And then the wind from her missed punch brings him around like it it was full of smelling salts, and he's wild drunk again and it starts all over... back to how she hasn't washed her cunt in years and if ever she did manage to prise her knickers off the stench would kill all the wildlife within a ten mile radius. And then her skirts hitched up and the filthiest pair of knickers bar none are whipped down and she's saying “You'll never get none of it, so dream on ya old fucka!!” And though it smells something rank nothing actually dies. And then they both need a drink, so suddenly they're working in cahoots, acting all piss-drunk lovey-dovey... waving us away, saying they've overdone it with the drink, and they're sorry for wasting our time but they'll just get on to bed and suffer the hell of it in the morning... You know, Sir, a drunken dispute where the most you'll ever get is a 'drunk and disorderly' charge and a car full of stink. Well, that's what we imagined we'd be arriving to. And when we got here, the door was open and sure as hell it smelt like we'd imagined, but it wasn't messy at all – as you know. Then as as I looked around in the front room PC Jameson went down the hall, and not even 30 seconds later he was back, staggering so wildly I thought he'd been shot or stabbed. I steadied him and led him outside and when I tried to re-enter, to see what was inside, he gripped a hold of me so tightly and with such fear shot through his eyes that I never did dare return and look at what he'd seen... and I couldn't really, not even if I'd have wanted to, because it was just then that he lowered himself to the ground and started up with his incessant shaking and humming. And That's when I called it, Sir... nothing much to it.”

By the finale of the Uniform's incredibly detailed monologue all eyes were on Ransack, waiting for his next question... Only it never came. Instead, as one member of the Metropilatn Police rocked to and fro on his haunches... humming, another had ceased up completely, stood there in freeze-frame, his pen on paper and a huge blue ink splodge breaking out across the page...

(to be cont'd....)


  1. humming and rocking...(and waiting)........

  2. I think I am more traumatised by the description of the woman's unwashed knickers and ... cunt.... xx

  3. Loved that relentless monologue.

    Reminded me of the Travel Agent Sketch from Monty Python ('And he drones on and on and on...')

    Just noticed he refers to a waiter called Manuel - wonder if that's where Cleese got the idea for the waiter Manuel in Fawlty Towers.

  4. Hiya Jim, will post a quick follow up over the weekend. It's strange how this story has completely taken on a life of its own. My initial writing of it was almost finished in three pages and I was going to post it as a single post. But I was unhappy with a little portion of the mid section, and it was delaying me posting, and so I took the first half and posted that so as not to keep everyone waiting further. I thought I'd finish the second part over the next couple of days and then get on to a different short. But now here we are, must be seven book pages in, and we've not even got Ransack back in the room yet! When it's finished I'll have a good look back and compare the long version to the short and see what I think we gained and what I think we lost and what would be the best way to write up future posts. Next stories after this one will be much more serious... I've a sci-fi(ish) tale and also a nice little ghost story I'm working on.

    Thanks for reading as ever Jim... Shane, X

  5. Hiya Ruth, a description straight from reality unfortunately. I spent my first twelve years around such drunks and lived with one until I moved out at 17. Chronic alcoholics are crazier than crazy people. There is no drug in the world that does what months or years of chronic alcohol abuse does to someone. And I'm not talking about someone who goes through a bottle of wine each evening, or 10 pints a night evening drinkers... I'm talking hard hard drinkers who can't walk by 10am and yet are still pouring it into themselves at midnight. Not even Penn & Teller can explain how these guys don't spill their drinks!


  6. Awww Joe video clips won't play on my PC just at the moment so I'll have to watch that little jewel tomorrow or sometime. I'm not too familiar with the Python episodes (although that'll soon change as I've just been given a USB stick with just about every episode they ever made on it). But one of the greatest sketches I know of and love is this one:

    Sir Eddie-Baby


  7. There are so many great Python clips. True originals.

    I don't know if you knew Antonio Urdiales through Facebook or DC's (perhaps before your time) But he's very ill with AIDS and the docs say he has only weeks left.

    He's another true original.

    There's an FB site up where you or anyone here who knew him can leave messages:

    Thinking about Antonio

  8. Hiya Joe,

    No, I never knew him but his face looks familiar and so may have seen a comment or his or something.

    That fucking disease!!! When the hell will something be done about it? I'd like to be here in 500 years time so as to see what the real agenda with it was. I've no doubt we are living in a time of dark conspiracy and history will show that some really fucked up things were happening. If you look at all the conspiracy theories which abound (some even now blatantly credible) most lead back to: fuel, the planet's dwindling resources, population control.

    And as there are dirty wars so as the big players are strategically placed for when the time is right, so there are dirty worldwide governmental/secret service conspiracies to control certain things which if left to run free would be to everyone's loss. I really wouldn't be surprised if in years to come AIDS was shown up in history as a twisted means to control the population, with a secondary effect of preserving the resources that we are in short supply of. If you look at the HIV virus it almost seems perfectly made for this kind of a thing: Wipes out huge numbers of people (in some countries not only not only stunts population growth but drastically cuts it); For those knowingly suffering from the disease it hugely discourages them from starting a family (population control); from those not wanting to suffer from the disease it discourages sexual proclivity, and encourages safe sex (both population controls). That coupled with the strange origins of the virus (and the time it originated) points to something ot only man made, but man-engineered... created and spread for a very specific purpose.

    I'm not saying that that is the case, but am saying it's a possibility and for anyone who thinks it's rather fantastic that it's not the first time disease has been used to control or clear populations - smallpox - although it may be the first time a disease has been engineered (created) for that end.

    Whatever the reason, Antonio's looming death is a tragedy and it's the reason at all why I even mention the above. I just can't comprehend how with so much cash poured into this virus, and with almost every country on earth researching it, how the fuck so little progress has been made... it's unbelieveable.

    Antonio's not going to get better... and I don't believe in miracles, but I'll still hope for him: hope that somehow the world puts a wheelchair on top of a church, that somehow what's not possible will happen. X

  9. I'm not a great one for conspiracy theories but when you look at the first (and still most common?) victims of AIDS - gays, blacks, junkies - you do wonder...

  10. oh yes, yes, yes that drunken domestic disturbance monologue is gold! i'm pretty sure i guffawed at this line: "And though it smells something rank nothing actually dies." gooood stuff... you are a talent.

  11. PC Sanderson is just fantastic. He demonstrates the English art of impersonating the image of an old boy as a young man. I bet he keeps a stiff upper lip.
    Quite a remarkable personality I would say...;-)
    Was he holding a cup of tea while he gave his report?

    In the end Inspector Ransack will turn out to be the only sane person among all the weird people in this story.
    Shane please don't lose the energy to finish this episode, because I am all curious and looking forward to the solution of this crime mystery.
    And this could well be the beginning of an Inspector Ransack series. The sloppy Ransack and his "most mysterious cases" with PC Sanderson as a running gag...oh, it's you again Sanderson?!
    The monologue and its background in reality is the proof that silly dime novel(or penny dreadfuls)stories can be as serious as any serious topic in a serious dress.

    Greets from Miss Maud Marple ;-)


If you're here to write something malicious I thank you in advance for wasting your precious time on me. X