Balls by Tommy Dakar
Still, he was made of sterner stuff and thrived on a challenge. He had his contacts, and he certainly wasn’t one to sit around twiddling his thumbs waiting for things to get better. Oh no, this wasn’t the first time he’d been through a crisis, and he was determined to come out trumps once again. After all, he was a lawyer, and Daphne’s parents were loaded! A little hard graft, pull a few strings, and once the whole mess has blown over, ride back on his now well publicised name to take office! Public office! Then the back-stabbers would have to tread very carefully indeed.
Today he was off to see an old colleague about a consultancy post. Part time but very well paid, and just up his street, dealing with all the right sort of people; Delegates, Under Secretaries and the like. He had his new document case, his umbrella, and a rather classy raincoat. His shoes highly polished. He hadn’t so much as given a moment’s thought to his mad brother. Daphne held open the porch door and he dashed through the constant rain to the Rover waiting sleekly and faithfully in the drive.
A flat tyre? For Heaven’s sake! He approached with a heavy sigh. Two flat tyres? Two slashed front tyres! And an enormous scratch along the driver’s side! His heart began to beat at a furious rate. He ran round to other side. No, no more damage, just the slashed tyres and the deep scratch. A screwdriver, or the same knife used to destroy the tyres. Daphne watched as he went round and round the Rover but didn’t get in. Was something amiss?
- Fucking bastards! Little fucking…..bastards!
- What is it? What’s the matter?
- Fucking mad, mad bastard! Bastards the lot of them!
He stormed back into the house and called the police. Daphne tried to catch his eye, to let him know that swearing was entirely out of order, and that she was more than a little scared. They have attacked us in our own home, Ronald. But Ron couldn’t care less what Daphne thought. Some bastard or bastards hade scratched and sabotaged his Rover, and he knew who was to blame. He thought it was a good job Paul had made a pre-emptive strike against his own body, because if not big brother Ron would have done it for him! And only last week they had cancelled the comprehensive coverage. Bastards.
Daphne realised that something had changed, that she no longer had any influence over her husband. He didn’t consult her anymore, and acted as if she wasn’t there. He was apparently overwhelmed by events, had lost control, was as frightened as she was if he would only admit it, and was unsure how to confront this new reality. After shouting out his personal details to the police he put down the phone and stared out of the rain streaked window at the maimed car, brought to its knees on the drive.
- This has gone too far Daphne. Too far this time, too far, too far……
But he didn’t cry.
We inherit a great number of things from our forebears, both collectively and individually – international borders, large noses, class stigma and the like. Cultural details too, like a love of chips, the inability to really enjoy life to its full, or a particular dress sense which, seen from the outside, is a source of constant amusement. Some nations have been blessed with a feeling of superiority; they are the economic driving force of the world, have the largest army, most bars per capita, the best beaches, the longest limestone ravine. Others have the sensation their Past, or Life In General, or something, has treated them unkindly and prefer not to mention their unimpressive statistics (State controlled culture, longest working day, least hours of sunshine). It’s a lottery, and you get what you get.
Along with the silver spoons and boxes of photos, we also receive a carefully edited History lesson, where we are informed of triumphant battles against treacherous enemies, and how, thanks to glorious leaders and our inherent moral fibre, we overcame. Perhaps a few hushed up sentences about the odd ignominious defeat at the hands of unscrupulous traitors, merely added to explain to what depths our foes are prepared to sink in order to strike a coward’s blow.
For betrayal can never be forgiven. Nor forgotten. And like a wedding ring or watch and chain, is to be looked after and handed down from generation to generation. That is why we ‘harbour’ a grudge, as if it were a tiny boat that needs protection from the storms, or why we ‘nurse’ a grievance, in case it should fall ill and die from neglect. Because one day, we hope, we may be able to right wrongs, to have our revenge and allow our ancestors to rest in peace.
For the Mortons that day had arrived.
The more astute of you will already be putting two and two together: the threatening letters and phone calls the police had taken so seriously? The attack on Ron’s car? Yes, the family had swung into action. They had a plan, a strategy. They wanted the Kavanaghs to suffer, to feel insecure, to feel fear on a daily basis. They would harass and threaten, but carefully so as not to raise suspicion or get caught. They would stalk their prey until the time was right for the final attack. The problem was they were not too sure which prize to go for. Paul was obviously off his head and had gone and chopped off his gonads for some nutty reason or other. That shouldn’t stop them, or make them feel pity, not for a Kavanagh, not for a fucking weirdo. But it did take the sting out of their hate a little. Ronald was the big fish, but as they had already found out, his house had a modern and very efficient burglar alarm. That’s why they had attacked the car, which had been carelessly left on the drive and had been easily accessible. He also spent most of his day in and out of government offices which were surrounded by security guards and cameras. Both of these brothers would be made to suffer severely, but were they the right candidates for the coup de grace?
Their attention turned to Ken and his family.
By now the rift between Ken and Jill had been certified. He had not moved out because he knew that if he did he would lose the kids, the house and most of his wage, would end up skint and living in the roofing van. So he had moved into the spare room, much to Susie and Robbie’s disgust – they had wanted to stop sharing a room and have one each.
So they were now living apart, together. Not a relaxing situation. An icy silence reigned at meal times. There were squabbles over chores and money. The parents talked to the kids, but not to each other. It was an arrangement that could not last and Jill knew she would win all in the end, but for now they suffered it as well as they could. They both thought ‘just when we needed each other more than ever’. But some things once broken….
Danny Morton and his dad concluded that they were the perfect target. It was here that revenge would be wreaked at long last, so caution was advisable. They told Tommy to keep on harassing Ron and his wife by throwing bottles against the house, or kicking over their rubbish bins, stealing the garden gnomes or pushing abusive mail through the letterbox. Laura was still free to ring Paul’s doorbell then run away, or to send her friends to jibe at the disciples as they clambered into their minivan. As long as it was all still low key and anonymous they could continue. But Ken’s house was to be left alone. They couldn’t run the risk of alerting them or frightening them too much in case the police decided to patrol the area more assiduously. Soon Chris Morton and his son Danny would leap into action, but for now Ken and his family would be left in peace. For now.
Johnny Swan’s feathers had been ruffled. There appeared to be some sort of orchestrated campaign against their spiritual organisation. Hate mail kept pouring in, they were ridiculed by schoolkids as soon as they left the flat, some bastard kept playing a stupid prank on them by ringing the doorbell then buggering off and try as they may they couldn’t catch the culprit. He had been physically attacked and threatened by Ken Kavanagh, and when he had complained to the police they had limited themselves to saying they ‘fully understood his worry’, but eff all else. And all this is all very well if you think you’re some kind of saviour or martyr or something, if you actually believe in all this nonsense, but he was in it for the cash, for god’s sake, cash and a lay if possible. A better life, not a worse one. And what’s the point in having money if you can’t even leave the house without being hassled, eh? Or even go dow
But what to do? If he gave up now he would lose his free lunch ticket. It would be back to odd jobbing on the bloody Costa del Sol, or worse. No, it was never that bad, something would turn up as always. But it would be a pity to give up just as it was all swinging into place. Still, can’t carry on like this either, it’s too damned dangerous. Maybe move out, into my own apartment, paid for by the sect, somewhere I won’t be so easily found and bothered? A modest penthouse on the other side of town, perhaps. Somewhere I can entertain in privacy and really get to grips with the restructuring of the organisation? He decided to put it to Paul.
He found him squatting in the shabby back yard with his meditation group. They were meditating, needless to say, which consisted of sitting in a ring in silence. They adopted yoga positions or invented others, they breathed rhythmically, they moved as little as possible, they said nothing. They meditated. This could last several hours, meditation being an essential part of their daily routine. Spiritual exercise apparently. Once they deemed they were spiritually fit, they would all snap out of it and carry on as before until the next session.
Paul listened and in his wisdom agreed to let the Swan fly. He thought the group offered better protection, but he understood, he sympathised, he empathised. It also suited him – the time had come to separate the Church from the State.
There are two sides to every ruler; one is divided into inches, the other into centimetres. Two ways to measure the same thing. It is the same with moral judgement. On one side it reads intolerable, outrageous, unacceptable, ought to be executed. On the other, justifiable given the circumstances, taken out of context, unintentional misunderstanding, give them a knighthood.
We all have our two-sided rulers, and Miss Catherine Prior was no exception. She had been savagely attacked by a sadistic maniac. It had been brutal, mindless, with a total disregard for her person, as if she had been some kind of throw away toy. She doubted that she had been the first, or the last, to fall into his murderous claws, and if a flicker of that moment in the past should ever raise its ugly head she would shudder in repugnance at such blind aggressiveness. Violence, she concluded, was abhorrent.
But she was no fool, and although she kept herself to herself she had eyes in her head.
Housing Estates across the country are dangerous places to live. They have been peppered with more than their fair share of broken homes, broken glass, broken limbs. There are neighbours it is best to avoid; keepers of genetically engineered breeds of dog, purveyors of yet-to-be-legalised substances, sensitive types who don't like to be looked at (who are you screwing?), petty yet oh so violent thieves. Usually you knew where they lived just by looking at the houses - the shabby, filthy, run down ones with broken toys and scattered motorbike parts in the paved-over gardens. The social workers did their innocent, well-intentioned, inadequate best, but were usually sent packing with a gruff 'fuck off'. Sometimes though, just to keep us all on our toes, the thug would come from a tidy home, with pleasant, well-mannered parents. Maybe he had got in with the wrong crowd. Maybe we mollycoddled him too much. Maybe he would have been a menace anyway. Maybe if we had only... Too late now.
They rule the roost, while the others peck on in fear.
The Mortons, she could not help but notice, feared nothing and no-one. Chris would park his car in front of his neighbour's house, even though there was plenty of space in front of his own. The neighbours never complained. He would borrow tools, but never return them. Keep them! He would play loud music at any time of the day. No, don't mind us, we like music. The boys would come home with bikes, footballs, video games. Apparently they were gifts from their admirers. But of course they were not admired, or even liked. They were feared. They were to be avoided at all costs. Why? Because they were dangerous. Aggressive. Violent.
She saw all this, and should have disapproved. But they were on her side. They were her family, her protectors. They were sister Trudy's hubbie and kids. They were all she had, and they made her feel safe.
But hadn't she been a student, hadn't she been to university, had she not received, unlike Trudy and Chris, Higher Education? How could she possibly defend these, these, (it's alright, they are out of earshot) bastards? Because she had sat Art, not how to understand a housing estate. Because she had been raped and all but murdered. Because now she sensed that perhaps there would be a little justice done after all.
Whenever Dr. Flynch mused over the Kavanagh cases, he would conclude either `highly unlikely` or `most probably`.
Highly unlikely that Sam Kavanagh had carried out the attack on Catherine Prior. It just didn't add up. Rapists of that calibre give off other signals. They don't suddenly transform from whore going husbands into sadistic sex offenders. He had studied innumerable cases, and though it is true that sometimes the culprit would manage to hide for years under a camouflage of normality ( 'seemed like a nice man', 'always said hello' and the like), if you scratched the surface a little deeper, then a pattern would emerge. This was not so in Sam Kavanagh's case, or at least he had been unable to unearth anything to suggest it.
Of course if Sam hadn't done it, who had? And where were both of them now?
Had Paul castrated himself because he believed Sam had done it? Most probably. It explained everything. He had taken upon himself the presumed sins of his father, and had hoped to pay for those sins by his sacrifice. By symbolically, dramatically, cutting off his own sexuality, he was searching for forgiveness for his father's execrable act.
Which would be a shame if father Sam should ever be pronounced innocent.
What were the chances of that? Well thanks to American movies and TV series we are all pretty hot forensic experts, so let's look at the evidence.
The poor girl was ferociously attacked. Surely there must be something; a hair, a skin particle, a trace of blood, semen stains? Did they look under her nails, did they swab her genitals, was she fully examined for saliva or sweat? Was the area combed for even the slightest suggestion of a clue? Car tyre patterns in the mud, shoe prints, a cigarette stub? A book of matches with the name of a nightclub?
No.
Unfortunately she was found by a milkman, who succoured her and sent for help. An ambulance team quickly arrived and whisked her off to hospital. As you may remember from many a script, this 'pollutes' the crime scene according to legal experts, and any evidence gleaned would be unacceptable. The case would be thrown out of court on a technicality. The local police, perhaps having watched the same programmes, limited themselves to piecing together the chain of events whilst trampling under boot all that vital evidence.
She was thankfully not murdered, therefore no corpse, therefore no autopsy. She was photographed it is true, but not covered in fine dust. No samples were taken of any kind.
Her torn clothes were kept for a while in a plastic bag, then lost, then found, hen accidentally disposed of. This is standard practice in Burton, where luckily few crimes of this magnitude are committed. Though if assassins and serial killers ever get wind of such incompetence things might change radically.
But for now Burton remains a relatively safe town, the Prior rape case is still 'open', as is the Kavanagh disappearance case. Thanks to Dr. Flynch the two are inevitably interwoven, though if there is indeed a direct link between them is a debatable point. Still, given the lack of solid evidence, Paul cannot be said to have made a fool of himself, and he is free to cling to his beliefs, if not his testicles.
The night Mr. Swan was stabbed to death, Ken had succumbed to his anger once more, thereby destroying his alibi.
On his way back from The Green Man, Mr. Swan rounded a large vehicle parked some two hundred metres from his new penthouse apartment straight into the arms of his killer. Three lethal knife wounds, one direct to the heart, and Johnny Eagle and all his aliases were no more. His
A little earlier on that very night Ken had lost it. 'She' would be back late tonight. 'She' didn't say why, as they neither asked for nor gave explanations any more, but he suspected it was all tied up with that Flynch creep and his cronies. The supper had not turned out as he had imagined, and both Susan and Robbie had rebelled. 'Just fucking eat it!' he had bellowed. Tears followed, and a grudge was born. Mum would be told all about it on her return.
Now, to Ken's mind, if you are not on talking terms, you are not on talking terms, end of story. It does not mean we are on speaking terms if YOU feel like it, and if YOU feel you have the right to admonish ME. Which you don't. But she did. And he hit the roof, again. He tore into her despite the kids, banged doors, threw whatever was at hand about the room as a substitute for strangling her, then stormed out of the house.