.
Jenkins saw the flashing light in the bedroom from way down the hall. Mostly it was bright yellow to dull but there were also some flashes of white light too. On top of that there were voices, or at least 'a' voice. It was Ransack screaming: “On/Off! On/Off! On/Off! On/Off!” while furiously flicking the lightswitch up and down. “Enough light now, Mackintosh, or d'you still insist on using that fucking flash of yours? Maybe destroying fragile evidence with it's harshness? Oh go on, get me again, I'll say 'cheese' this time! But I know your kind. The camera's just something to obscure your face while you perv in on death and rape and sexual violence. It's your own sneaky way to get a close up of a cunt.... get your nose right in there and then curse the job while your cocks standing at full mast! I'm fucking onto you Mackintosh!”
Jenkins entered the room and froze, slack-jawed. Not at the bloody mess laying in the corner, but at the bloody mess standing opposite it: his chief, Ransack, rattling the lightswitch.
“The man's crazy!” screamed Mackintosh. “Absolutely fucking crazy! You need to stop him and get him out of here! He's bleeding all over the fucking crime scene!”
At that moment Ransack flicked the light on and stopped. Although the room was now evenly lit for some weird reason Ransack seemed especially illuminated. It was as if the forces that be were shinning a light on him. He looked like some insane character you'd find staring back at you from a shop window display at Christmas time. Ransack composed himself. He adjusted his shirt, pulled his jacket to a straight fit, and drew his tie up. It was more out of habit than any serious idea that he could make himself look respectable. For that he'd need a bed bath, a whole new change of clothes, a case of make-up, at least one good doctor and a psychiatrist. All his meager attempt at composing himself managed to do was make him look even more crazier than before. In the weird light that lit him up Ransack grinned and clasped his hands before him. Blood ran from his temple and left nostril.
“Boys, boys, boys,” he said, in a kind of humorous way, “let's not try to rise above our ranks. I'm the senior officer here and you'd do well not to forget it.. The only real problem I see is the incessant flashing of that fucking camera. It's having an awful strange effect on me, making me feel unwell... dizzy. I can't support it, hence the light! So put your mutiny back in your pants and let's get on. Everything's to be noted down... that I insist on!
OK, Jenkins, quit gawping at me like that and pull your face back together – gravity's not that strong. Get your notes out and write this down: Victim: female. Height: 5'4 – 5'8. Age: early thirties. Hair: brown (medium length). Eyes: hazel. Married: unlikely. Children: none. Occupation: whore – and a cheap one at that. Mackintosh, listen up and listen carefully. This is an order and not an insult: take your camera and FUCK OFF! We won't be needing you anymore. Get back with your own sorry lot in the kitchen or garden, sugar dusting dog turds for prints. Go on, Fuck off outta my sight! And watch your step as you go... there's evidence everywhere.”
When Ransack had finished he stepped out of the spotlight and casually headed over towards the bed and body. Jenkins and Mackintosh stood staring at each other as if a ghost had just passed between them. It was Jenkins who moved first. As independent minded as he was he was still a policeman and rank and position were as much branded into him as the uniform he no longer had to wear. He had no choice but to obey the orders of a superior officer and so he followed Ransack over towards the massacre. Mackintosh, however, quite outside of Ransack's control, ignored his order and remained in the room. For a moment he just stood there looking like he was thinking (or taking a shit). Once done with that he turned around, raised his camera to his eye and observed Ransack through it – his finger on the button ready to catch anything that wasn't words...
A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 8b
.
The first strange thing was Ransack himself. Even now, fully conscious of himself and his work, he still continued to break protocol by smoking and flicking ash around the crime scene. If anything, he seemed worse than ever, as if deliberately laying down a challenge to the photographer Mackintosh and anyone else who may be against such things. “Here, get a personal of this!” boomed Ransack, flicking his latest half-smoked cigarette over towards the body. It landed a foot away from the mountain of flesh and sizzled out slowly in a pool of jellied blood. Mackintosh snapped the cigarette and then turned his camera onto Ransack, the flash lighting up an evil leer that had now corrupted the Detective Inspectors face. As the shot of intense brightness from the flash faded Ransack once again clutched his head and scrunched his face up in agony. He reeled back a little and seemed unsteady on his feet. Then, for the first time in this whole affair, he said, “My God , I've come over all queer... I'm really not feeling at all well!” Barely had the Detective Inspector finished than he stumbled back and only remained on his feet thanks to the open door and making a quick grab for the handle. Flash. Zmmmmm
Detective Davies, who up until then had remained pinned in horror to the back wall, now unstuck himself and rushed to the aid of his chief. He caught him around the back and under the armpits, dragged him a foot and then lifted him back into a respectable standing position.
“God, are you alright Sir?” he asked, righting him. “Shall I go get some help? There's a doctor in the kitchen.”
Ransack blinked the room back into focus and steadied himself with a hand on Davies shoulder. Mustering up the stubborn resolve of an invalid he pushed himself on, around his support and made his way over towards a distressed wooden dresser which sat in the opposing corner to the body. Ransack leant against it for support. “I'm not sure, Davies,” he said, “I've been feeling ill all afternoon but was trying to keep it under control, you know, hoping it was maybe just something I had eaten. But there, well, you saw it, I just nearly went arse over bollocks on that one... God! YOU SAW ME, didn't you? You both saw it!”
“Saw it, Sir?” said Davies, astonished, “Hells Bloody Bells I did! It was me who caught you, Sir... you'd definitely have gone for a burton if not. But you've been acting mighty weird all afternoon ... Jenkin's noticed too. He even noted it down. We thought it may have just been the case, the scene... especially as it seemed to happen just after you viewing it. But yes, I saw it.... you took a fair old wobble, Sir!”
“And you, Mackintosh... did you see what happened?” Ransack asked, now looking nothing but a little cunning. Mackintosh didn't reply. Not with words anyway. Instead he once again pointed his camera at Ransack and ever so deliberately took another full shot of him. It not only meant that he had seen it, but that he'd captured it on film too – the revered and celebrated Detective Inspector Ransack caught going bandy-legged because of something that a butcher's apprentice see's every day. Ransack gave Mackintosh a glare. It was full of hatred... and something else. Mackintosh smiled and turned away. Ransack lit another cigarette. He sucked and puffed it into good existence, so just for a moment his face was completely obscured in a mist of thick mysterious smoke.
It was Davies who broke the silence. He didn't really think it relevant anymore but he asked anyway. “Sir, will you be wanting the doctor? He's just next door and I need some fresh air myself.”
“No, no doctors,” replied Ransack, “we've only 25 minutes left, I'm sure I can make it through... Though I do feel awful strange, God... and these cigarettes are going straight to my head . But doctor, NO! The only thing I need right now is an ashtray! But look, if you need fresh air go and give Jenkins a call. Get him in here with me and you save your soul and take over the secondary scene. Now go on.”
As Ransack finished he eyed the dresser clumsily, like a drunk, and seeing a half used ashtray leaned across to use it. Just as Ransack tapped the head of ash from his cigarette he lost his footing and crashed right along the dresser knocking everything everywhere. This time not even Davies could save him. Ransack crashed right along and then slid off the side, down past the drawers, whacked his temple on one of the handles and landed, to a flash, flush level with the carpet. For a moment Ransack looked along the soft dirty beige pile he had landed on. His eyes came to rest on a pair of scuffed and beaten shoes, something like you'd find on a dosser. They belonged to Mackintosh. Ransack spat out a huge gob of blood and then rose to his knees. He swiped the back of his right hand under his nose taking a smear of bright red blood. Davies rushed in to help him but Ransack warned him away. “GET JENKINS,” he barked, “Get Jenkins in here now!”
The first strange thing was Ransack himself. Even now, fully conscious of himself and his work, he still continued to break protocol by smoking and flicking ash around the crime scene. If anything, he seemed worse than ever, as if deliberately laying down a challenge to the photographer Mackintosh and anyone else who may be against such things. “Here, get a personal of this!” boomed Ransack, flicking his latest half-smoked cigarette over towards the body. It landed a foot away from the mountain of flesh and sizzled out slowly in a pool of jellied blood. Mackintosh snapped the cigarette and then turned his camera onto Ransack, the flash lighting up an evil leer that had now corrupted the Detective Inspectors face. As the shot of intense brightness from the flash faded Ransack once again clutched his head and scrunched his face up in agony. He reeled back a little and seemed unsteady on his feet. Then, for the first time in this whole affair, he said, “My God , I've come over all queer... I'm really not feeling at all well!” Barely had the Detective Inspector finished than he stumbled back and only remained on his feet thanks to the open door and making a quick grab for the handle. Flash. Zmmmmm
Detective Davies, who up until then had remained pinned in horror to the back wall, now unstuck himself and rushed to the aid of his chief. He caught him around the back and under the armpits, dragged him a foot and then lifted him back into a respectable standing position.
“God, are you alright Sir?” he asked, righting him. “Shall I go get some help? There's a doctor in the kitchen.”
Ransack blinked the room back into focus and steadied himself with a hand on Davies shoulder. Mustering up the stubborn resolve of an invalid he pushed himself on, around his support and made his way over towards a distressed wooden dresser which sat in the opposing corner to the body. Ransack leant against it for support. “I'm not sure, Davies,” he said, “I've been feeling ill all afternoon but was trying to keep it under control, you know, hoping it was maybe just something I had eaten. But there, well, you saw it, I just nearly went arse over bollocks on that one... God! YOU SAW ME, didn't you? You both saw it!”
“Saw it, Sir?” said Davies, astonished, “Hells Bloody Bells I did! It was me who caught you, Sir... you'd definitely have gone for a burton if not. But you've been acting mighty weird all afternoon ... Jenkin's noticed too. He even noted it down. We thought it may have just been the case, the scene... especially as it seemed to happen just after you viewing it. But yes, I saw it.... you took a fair old wobble, Sir!”
“And you, Mackintosh... did you see what happened?” Ransack asked, now looking nothing but a little cunning. Mackintosh didn't reply. Not with words anyway. Instead he once again pointed his camera at Ransack and ever so deliberately took another full shot of him. It not only meant that he had seen it, but that he'd captured it on film too – the revered and celebrated Detective Inspector Ransack caught going bandy-legged because of something that a butcher's apprentice see's every day. Ransack gave Mackintosh a glare. It was full of hatred... and something else. Mackintosh smiled and turned away. Ransack lit another cigarette. He sucked and puffed it into good existence, so just for a moment his face was completely obscured in a mist of thick mysterious smoke.
It was Davies who broke the silence. He didn't really think it relevant anymore but he asked anyway. “Sir, will you be wanting the doctor? He's just next door and I need some fresh air myself.”
“No, no doctors,” replied Ransack, “we've only 25 minutes left, I'm sure I can make it through... Though I do feel awful strange, God... and these cigarettes are going straight to my head . But doctor, NO! The only thing I need right now is an ashtray! But look, if you need fresh air go and give Jenkins a call. Get him in here with me and you save your soul and take over the secondary scene. Now go on.”
As Ransack finished he eyed the dresser clumsily, like a drunk, and seeing a half used ashtray leaned across to use it. Just as Ransack tapped the head of ash from his cigarette he lost his footing and crashed right along the dresser knocking everything everywhere. This time not even Davies could save him. Ransack crashed right along and then slid off the side, down past the drawers, whacked his temple on one of the handles and landed, to a flash, flush level with the carpet. For a moment Ransack looked along the soft dirty beige pile he had landed on. His eyes came to rest on a pair of scuffed and beaten shoes, something like you'd find on a dosser. They belonged to Mackintosh. Ransack spat out a huge gob of blood and then rose to his knees. He swiped the back of his right hand under his nose taking a smear of bright red blood. Davies rushed in to help him but Ransack warned him away. “GET JENKINS,” he barked, “Get Jenkins in here now!”
The Sunday Limerick
.
The Scented Tweets of a Twit Twitter
There once was a twit fond of Twitter
Who tweeted his life from the shitter
He typed 'pfff' for a fart
and LOL when he laughed
And twice once a day a 'Heil Hitler!'
--- - ---
A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 8a
.
Something had changed inside Ransack. The calm he had first shown immediately after his little turn was now upon him proper and he felt like a different man. All nerves about fucking up the investigation left him, and as to what any of his colleagues thought, well, it was 'fuck them' too! This was the biggest case of his career and one he could not afford to lose. And maybe he wouldn't. Just as quickly as half his mind had flushed blank a little while ago, now it was back; his head a cistern full of clean and clever police forensic knowledge. Once again he was able to look at the crime scene and see all the little clues and traces and tell-tale signs left behind by the killer. It had all returned. In an instant he knew who his colleagues were, his position, his character. He remembered his book, and the lectures he often gave on forensic policing and the importance of the secondary scene. Even small things like where to get extra evidence bags and spare gloves, or what to do with uniformed officers who lay traumatized and humming to the Gods in public, had returned. Ransack straightened himself to full authoritative height and fixed his tie. He was back! Though that's when things got really weird....
Something had changed inside Ransack. The calm he had first shown immediately after his little turn was now upon him proper and he felt like a different man. All nerves about fucking up the investigation left him, and as to what any of his colleagues thought, well, it was 'fuck them' too! This was the biggest case of his career and one he could not afford to lose. And maybe he wouldn't. Just as quickly as half his mind had flushed blank a little while ago, now it was back; his head a cistern full of clean and clever police forensic knowledge. Once again he was able to look at the crime scene and see all the little clues and traces and tell-tale signs left behind by the killer. It had all returned. In an instant he knew who his colleagues were, his position, his character. He remembered his book, and the lectures he often gave on forensic policing and the importance of the secondary scene. Even small things like where to get extra evidence bags and spare gloves, or what to do with uniformed officers who lay traumatized and humming to the Gods in public, had returned. Ransack straightened himself to full authoritative height and fixed his tie. He was back! Though that's when things got really weird....
The Sunday Limerick #2
.
There once was a writer named Shane
Who frequently lied when he came
"I'll get hard again soon
We'll fuck all afternoon
But for now my cocks floppy and lame!"
(by S. Levene)
(by S. Levene)
--- - ---
--- - ---
There once was a homo called Tristram
Who murdered his boyfriend then missed him
He missed him so much
With sense he lost touch
But at least he escaped from The System!
(My first and last limerick!)*
by Joe M--- - ---
*Liar, he'll give us another winning entry next week!
A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - part 7
.
Ransack is smoking another cigarette. Mackinstosh's face is partly obscured by his camera. Davies legs have buckled and have somehow walked him backwards and stuck hid stiff straight up against the far wall. In the corner, directly behind the open door, and down off the left bottom edge of the bed, is the body. For Ransack it doesn't look as atrocious as the first time he saw it, and now looking closely, within the mess he can make out what would have been a flimsy nightgown and at least one average sized tit. The centre of the body is a big gaping hole. It looks like it has been stabbed through hundreds of times with a cooks knife. From this wound internal organs and intestines have been ripped out by the handful and are spilled down upon the floor. What was once the top end of a woman is now just a back piece of neck and maybe some windpipe. Who knows??? The entire face and head have been bashed in with such furious violence that there is nothing left except a lump of blood clotted hair. Pooled out a foot, around the entire length of the body, is thick black blood picked through with slithers of skin, teeth, bone and flesh. On the wall, about knee height, there is a round blood splattered imprint where a head has been brutally slapped against stone. Off to the right of the body the bed is trashed. The wooden headboard has been freshly split and has come away at the left side. The mattress is bare and grimy; stained by years of body fluids and spilt drinks. The sheets and covers have been pulled free and hang off the left bottom corner of the mattress and trail over towards the body. It looks like the victim was dragged off the bed by her ankles as she tried desperately to grip a hold of something. It was Crimescene Photographer Mackintosh who broke the silence:
“Inspector, please don't ask for any 'upskirt' shots... I'm suffering from gout and am worried if I go to ground I may not be able to get back up. The last thing we need right now is another player out the game.”
Ransack didn't respond. He just took the words in and thought Mackintosh an even viler specimen of human maggot than he had done so before. From another angle, however, it was interesting what Mackintosh had said. Ransack understood from it that it was down to him to direct the photographer. That all he had to do was show a few discerning looks and order Mackintosh to capture whatever it was he wanted. Ransack tapped an inch of ash onto the carpet and thought. .
“Davies, get yourself over here... you need to start getting this room noted”
“I can't, Sir.... Really... I need a moment....” replied Davies, still pinned to the far wall, his words sounding as though he was chattering with the cold.
“Well, a moment is just what we haven't got!” replied Ransack. “I need you now, Davies.. Right this instant, please!”
“I'm sorry, Sir.. I.. am... but I can't.... I really can't!... I'm sorry, Sir...”
Ransack felt worn, exhausted. It seemed that even when he honestly tried to get on with his job that everything conspired against him. He lowered his head and with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand began to slowly massage his temples, working the stress around in a circular motion .Even with his eyes closed he could still see the blood.
Suddenly, as if someone had connected live electrodes to the sides of skull, there was a flash, and with the flash a sharp pain went right through Ransack's head and deep into his brain. Then it happened again, and again. And each time it happened, not only was there the paralyzing pain, but now the body in the corner seemed to light up electrified and become visible even through the skin of the Detective Inspector's eyelids. Ransack let his cigarette drop to the floor and now clenched his head in both hands and scrunched his face up like he was experiencing a torturous migraine
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
It was Mackintosh, shooting frame after frame after frame... a perverted leer visible just under his camera.
“MACKINTOSH WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!!!” screamed Ransack. “STOP IT THIS FUCKING INSTANT! STOP!!!!”
Mackintosh rifled of a couple more frames, sending Ransack into spasms of pain, and then quit. “Sorry, Sir, just a few personals for a rainy day... You never know when the internet may go down!” he said, aiming his camera down towards Ransack's smoldering cigarette on the carpet and taking a snap of it. “Don't worry Sir, that's for personal too,” he finished, “probably!”
Ransack grinned and stared hard at Mackintosh. Mackintosh gave a squirmy puzzled look back and then gripped a little tighter to his camera as if it could somehow save him. Ransack, once again, produced his pack of John Player Blacks, and still staring intensely at Mackintosh ever so carefully drew a cigarette loose, placed it between his lips and lit it “Don't worry Mac,” he said, in a frighteningly calm tone, “this time I'll use the ashtray.”
(To be Cont'd....)
Ransack is smoking another cigarette. Mackinstosh's face is partly obscured by his camera. Davies legs have buckled and have somehow walked him backwards and stuck hid stiff straight up against the far wall. In the corner, directly behind the open door, and down off the left bottom edge of the bed, is the body. For Ransack it doesn't look as atrocious as the first time he saw it, and now looking closely, within the mess he can make out what would have been a flimsy nightgown and at least one average sized tit. The centre of the body is a big gaping hole. It looks like it has been stabbed through hundreds of times with a cooks knife. From this wound internal organs and intestines have been ripped out by the handful and are spilled down upon the floor. What was once the top end of a woman is now just a back piece of neck and maybe some windpipe. Who knows??? The entire face and head have been bashed in with such furious violence that there is nothing left except a lump of blood clotted hair. Pooled out a foot, around the entire length of the body, is thick black blood picked through with slithers of skin, teeth, bone and flesh. On the wall, about knee height, there is a round blood splattered imprint where a head has been brutally slapped against stone. Off to the right of the body the bed is trashed. The wooden headboard has been freshly split and has come away at the left side. The mattress is bare and grimy; stained by years of body fluids and spilt drinks. The sheets and covers have been pulled free and hang off the left bottom corner of the mattress and trail over towards the body. It looks like the victim was dragged off the bed by her ankles as she tried desperately to grip a hold of something. It was Crimescene Photographer Mackintosh who broke the silence:
“Inspector, please don't ask for any 'upskirt' shots... I'm suffering from gout and am worried if I go to ground I may not be able to get back up. The last thing we need right now is another player out the game.”
Ransack didn't respond. He just took the words in and thought Mackintosh an even viler specimen of human maggot than he had done so before. From another angle, however, it was interesting what Mackintosh had said. Ransack understood from it that it was down to him to direct the photographer. That all he had to do was show a few discerning looks and order Mackintosh to capture whatever it was he wanted. Ransack tapped an inch of ash onto the carpet and thought. .
“Davies, get yourself over here... you need to start getting this room noted”
“I can't, Sir.... Really... I need a moment....” replied Davies, still pinned to the far wall, his words sounding as though he was chattering with the cold.
“Well, a moment is just what we haven't got!” replied Ransack. “I need you now, Davies.. Right this instant, please!”
“I'm sorry, Sir.. I.. am... but I can't.... I really can't!... I'm sorry, Sir...”
Ransack felt worn, exhausted. It seemed that even when he honestly tried to get on with his job that everything conspired against him. He lowered his head and with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand began to slowly massage his temples, working the stress around in a circular motion .Even with his eyes closed he could still see the blood.
Suddenly, as if someone had connected live electrodes to the sides of skull, there was a flash, and with the flash a sharp pain went right through Ransack's head and deep into his brain. Then it happened again, and again. And each time it happened, not only was there the paralyzing pain, but now the body in the corner seemed to light up electrified and become visible even through the skin of the Detective Inspector's eyelids. Ransack let his cigarette drop to the floor and now clenched his head in both hands and scrunched his face up like he was experiencing a torturous migraine
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
It was Mackintosh, shooting frame after frame after frame... a perverted leer visible just under his camera.
“MACKINTOSH WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!!!” screamed Ransack. “STOP IT THIS FUCKING INSTANT! STOP!!!!”
Mackintosh rifled of a couple more frames, sending Ransack into spasms of pain, and then quit. “Sorry, Sir, just a few personals for a rainy day... You never know when the internet may go down!” he said, aiming his camera down towards Ransack's smoldering cigarette on the carpet and taking a snap of it. “Don't worry Sir, that's for personal too,” he finished, “probably!”
Ransack grinned and stared hard at Mackintosh. Mackintosh gave a squirmy puzzled look back and then gripped a little tighter to his camera as if it could somehow save him. Ransack, once again, produced his pack of John Player Blacks, and still staring intensely at Mackintosh ever so carefully drew a cigarette loose, placed it between his lips and lit it “Don't worry Mac,” he said, in a frighteningly calm tone, “this time I'll use the ashtray.”
(To be Cont'd....)
The Sunday Limerick
.
King David Copperfield
A biblical king of the Now
Turned magician to empty his bowels
an illusion of sorts
his shit travelled north
and turds became words in his mouth
(by Shane)
--- - ---
An Anorexic's Limerick?
(by Shane)
--- - ---
An Anorexic's Limerick?
There was a young lady named Maud,
Who was the most terribly fraud.
She never was able
to eat at the table
but when in the larder, Oh gawd
(by Joe M)
--- - ---
Who was the most terribly fraud.
She never was able
to eat at the table
but when in the larder, Oh gawd
(by Joe M)
--- - ---
A friend and occasional commenter said something to me today which reminded me of a long lost passion, and one which was passed on to me by my step-father who recently passed away: the limerick form of poetry... especially the dirty Limerick. As these are fun and quick little rhymes to invent I thought I'd make it a weekend feature of Bubblegum. From today forth every Sunday will be Limerick Sunday, and if anyone would like to take part and get one ready over the week, please do so. You can mail me entries ad I'll post them along with mine, or send your limericks as a comment on the day and I'll paste them into the post. They don't have to be dirty, or humorous... whatever you like...
Hope you enjoy, Shane. X
(A Bad Case of Forgetfulness will continue tomorrow... )
A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 6
.
If great photographers can make the camera lie, then the primitive, heavy-footed beast who sloped onto the scene next, with his knuckles nearer to the ground than his knees, would have been one of the best. In the past, when occasion had called for it, this man-thing had made swollen black eyes look like shotgun wounds, and brutal police beatings look nothing more serious than restraining marks. Though not a corrupt man in himself, he was corruptible. His historical fault was doing what he was told, just because he was told to do it. Mackintosh, the Crime Scene Photographer, was going to hell on someone else's command.
Davies waved the photographer over towards Ransack who was sucking the entrails out of his cigarette. He introduced the two men, and failing dismally to keep his smile an internal one, said “Well, you did ask for a smoker, Sir.”
Now at a stop, standing there slouching in his white elasticated forensic suit, Photographer Mackintosh cut out an even sorrier sight than what he appeared at a distance. Here was a man who lived vicariously through his camera... pointed it towards any number of perverse scenes and felt innocent because he was looking at it indirectly. His instrument of work was his access to forbidden and secret pleasures; the lens and viewer his own personal little glory holes.
Ransack may not have known quite what to do with a photographer but he somehow knew that men who get to forty-five and have greasy, livery skin, a nose full of blackheads, and who are hunched over through years of mischievous wanking are often not the most sterile of souls. And even if others could support them, Ransack couldn't, and for some reason he detested such squalid, living low-life with a passion.
Ransack looked at Mackintosh like he was a cockroach. “I hope your abdominal muscles are stronger than they look,” he sneered, “beause if not, what lays to the left of this door... what you're about to get down and dirty with, will make you shit and vomit at the same time. Now don't say you've not been warned!”
Mackintosh's eyes crunched into a squint and a sick leer rode upon his lips. He brought his wrist towards his mouth and spat a dollop of foamy gob onto its underside. With it he began cleaning and buffing up the lens of his camera. “Well I hope that's not all boast, Inspector,” he said, never once raising his eyes to his subject, “the last time I saw anything worthy of a few personal frames was over five years ago during my time with the traffic police. That was some gig! Though after you've done road kill there's nothing left. Anyway, if we're all set shall we get on? With a bit of luck maybe I can still make use of the little light that's left.”
Ransack gave the faintest of nods, and together the three men entered the room...
If great photographers can make the camera lie, then the primitive, heavy-footed beast who sloped onto the scene next, with his knuckles nearer to the ground than his knees, would have been one of the best. In the past, when occasion had called for it, this man-thing had made swollen black eyes look like shotgun wounds, and brutal police beatings look nothing more serious than restraining marks. Though not a corrupt man in himself, he was corruptible. His historical fault was doing what he was told, just because he was told to do it. Mackintosh, the Crime Scene Photographer, was going to hell on someone else's command.
Davies waved the photographer over towards Ransack who was sucking the entrails out of his cigarette. He introduced the two men, and failing dismally to keep his smile an internal one, said “Well, you did ask for a smoker, Sir.”
Now at a stop, standing there slouching in his white elasticated forensic suit, Photographer Mackintosh cut out an even sorrier sight than what he appeared at a distance. Here was a man who lived vicariously through his camera... pointed it towards any number of perverse scenes and felt innocent because he was looking at it indirectly. His instrument of work was his access to forbidden and secret pleasures; the lens and viewer his own personal little glory holes.
Ransack may not have known quite what to do with a photographer but he somehow knew that men who get to forty-five and have greasy, livery skin, a nose full of blackheads, and who are hunched over through years of mischievous wanking are often not the most sterile of souls. And even if others could support them, Ransack couldn't, and for some reason he detested such squalid, living low-life with a passion.
Ransack looked at Mackintosh like he was a cockroach. “I hope your abdominal muscles are stronger than they look,” he sneered, “beause if not, what lays to the left of this door... what you're about to get down and dirty with, will make you shit and vomit at the same time. Now don't say you've not been warned!”
Mackintosh's eyes crunched into a squint and a sick leer rode upon his lips. He brought his wrist towards his mouth and spat a dollop of foamy gob onto its underside. With it he began cleaning and buffing up the lens of his camera. “Well I hope that's not all boast, Inspector,” he said, never once raising his eyes to his subject, “the last time I saw anything worthy of a few personal frames was over five years ago during my time with the traffic police. That was some gig! Though after you've done road kill there's nothing left. Anyway, if we're all set shall we get on? With a bit of luck maybe I can still make use of the little light that's left.”
Ransack gave the faintest of nods, and together the three men entered the room...
A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 5
Davies is looking at Jenkins and Jenkins is looking at Davies. They are both wearing 'What the Fuck?' expressions across their faces. Ransack is a way back down the hall, hanging behind to see if he can figure out what he ought to do next. He knows his colleagues are finding his behaviour somewhat bizarre, and not just his working practices, but the way in which he keeps losing concentration and drifting off into distant realms of utter blankness. After filling his chest with a good helping of air, Ransack straightened himself an inch and concentrated on looking authoritative. He knew he had to somehow do something normal, something that would take the eyes off him and allow for a few moments of serious thinking time. And so, he took out a pack of John Player Blacks, and shuffling a cigarette free he stuck it between his lips.
The clicking of the Detective Inspector's lighter carried through the house like it was the timing device on a bomb. Just about everyone jumped to a stop and looked his way. Some of the white suited forensics who were still shuffling about taking measurements in the kitchen even lowered their masks and stared at him in disbelief. Jenkins went into some kind of a panic that sounded like flapping bird's wings. He ended by shoving Detective Davies into a run and hissing, “Geddit'offa 'im... fer' fuck's'ache!”
In front of Ransack, Davies used his larger frame to shield the Inspector and in a second manoeuvre tried to coax him around and walk him off in the opposite direction. It's a technique that the Metropolitan Police refer to as 'cloaking' and one which Davies had excelled at during his early days of training at Hendon. It was probably the reason why his first ever active port of call was escorting the mentally ill out of public buildings. Well, Davies hadn't lost his knack for 'cloaking', although he felt quite uncomfortable pulling it on his superior.
“Sir, sir.. what are you doing?” he whispered, “You can't smoke in here! Good God... You'll have to go outside.... really, Sir you can't...”
“Can't?” said Ransack, stopping and straightening. “Well it seems I can! I'm Detective Inspector Ransack and I'm running this operation. I can do whatever I think fit and act in whatever way I think will best help me crack this pot of worms! And if there's a man here who'll stop me I'd like to see him try! No? Ha! Didn't think so! So look here, Davies, and listen because this is how it's going down: I'm smoking this here cigarette, and as I smoke I'm going to think, and as I smoke and think and bring some general calm to this investigation you''ll be off looking for the photographer. And when you've found him, or if we're unlucky 'her', we're gonna walk the primary scene and record it: You with words, the photographer with pictures, and me using guile, experience and logic. If that breaks protocol, well, FUCK IT!... it's never stopped me before. Jesus, I've smoked, drank, lunched, pissed, farted and shit in previous scenes and I believe I cracked the lot! This is how I work Davies, and it's usually why I work alone. Now go and find a photographer, make sure he's a smoker, and be quick about it!" And with that Ransack pushed Davies aside and wandered down towards the Jenkins, down towards the bedroom, smoking and dropping ash on the way...
The clicking of the Detective Inspector's lighter carried through the house like it was the timing device on a bomb. Just about everyone jumped to a stop and looked his way. Some of the white suited forensics who were still shuffling about taking measurements in the kitchen even lowered their masks and stared at him in disbelief. Jenkins went into some kind of a panic that sounded like flapping bird's wings. He ended by shoving Detective Davies into a run and hissing, “Geddit'offa 'im... fer' fuck's'ache!”
In front of Ransack, Davies used his larger frame to shield the Inspector and in a second manoeuvre tried to coax him around and walk him off in the opposite direction. It's a technique that the Metropolitan Police refer to as 'cloaking' and one which Davies had excelled at during his early days of training at Hendon. It was probably the reason why his first ever active port of call was escorting the mentally ill out of public buildings. Well, Davies hadn't lost his knack for 'cloaking', although he felt quite uncomfortable pulling it on his superior.
“Sir, sir.. what are you doing?” he whispered, “You can't smoke in here! Good God... You'll have to go outside.... really, Sir you can't...”
“Can't?” said Ransack, stopping and straightening. “Well it seems I can! I'm Detective Inspector Ransack and I'm running this operation. I can do whatever I think fit and act in whatever way I think will best help me crack this pot of worms! And if there's a man here who'll stop me I'd like to see him try! No? Ha! Didn't think so! So look here, Davies, and listen because this is how it's going down: I'm smoking this here cigarette, and as I smoke I'm going to think, and as I smoke and think and bring some general calm to this investigation you''ll be off looking for the photographer. And when you've found him, or if we're unlucky 'her', we're gonna walk the primary scene and record it: You with words, the photographer with pictures, and me using guile, experience and logic. If that breaks protocol, well, FUCK IT!... it's never stopped me before. Jesus, I've smoked, drank, lunched, pissed, farted and shit in previous scenes and I believe I cracked the lot! This is how I work Davies, and it's usually why I work alone. Now go and find a photographer, make sure he's a smoker, and be quick about it!" And with that Ransack pushed Davies aside and wandered down towards the Jenkins, down towards the bedroom, smoking and dropping ash on the way...
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!!?”
“MmmMMMMmmMMmmmMMMMmmMMmm.....”
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....)
“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!!?”
“MmmMMMMmmMMmmmMMMMmmMMmm.....”
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....)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
