Chapter 8 Missing in Action #3
The drive to the retirement home took less than ten minutes, and Johnny could already feel his insides shrivelling at the sight of two white birds criss-crossing one another behind the words Turtle Doves Care Home.
The gravel driveway was immense, and it took them as long to navigate as the high street.
“Just pull up outside those big bay windows,” Wendy said, pointing towards three massive arches surrounded by ivy. “They love it when we put the lights and sirens on; gets them hopping right out of their recliners.”
Johnny sighed, turning on the lights.
“There they are!” she said, smiling as a dozen or so wrinkled faces appeared in the window.
It reminded Johnny of Dawn of the Dead (something else Taylor had made him watch multiple times), and he fully expected to see the reception doors boarded up, with ‘DO NOT ENTER. DEAD INSIDE’ spray painted across it.
Glancing towards reception, he steeled himself and followed Wendy inside.
She giggled as a receptionist led them through a set of flaking white doors and down a parquet floored hallway.
Wendy had a big black sack thrown across her shoulder that she refused to let him see inside, stating it was a ‘surprise,’ but he was pretty certain it had something to do with all the fake money.
He could smell the piss and incontinence pads already, and it got even worse as they were swept into the huge, oval shaped dining hall.
“Look out, everyone! The police are here!” Wendy called, which was met with a round of excited squeals and grunts.
The receptionist gave Johnny a sympathetic smile and said, “They’re all yours,” before nodding towards an army of care staff in their blue tunics.
“Thank you kindly,” Wendy said, wiggling her eyebrows and shifting the sack to her other shoulder.
There was a chorus of zombie-like groans, followed by gummy smiles and shaky hands heading straight for them.
Johnny stepped back, but Wendy grabbed his wrist. “Let them scent you,” she whispered as a tiny old man rubbed his hand up and down her arm.
“Some of them can’t see, so you have to let them smell you. ”
Johnny pressed his lips together and looked up at the ceiling. “Right,” he said, gritting his teeth as two dozen rough and wrinkled hands descended upon him.
He could do nothing but stand there and let them run their hands all over him, the taller ones making a beeline for his hair. They pulled and pinched, acting as though it was some kind of curiosity.
“Oookay,” he said, dipping out of their grasp and backing towards the care staff. A few of them giggled and batted their eyelashes at him but did nothing to help.
Taylor would have been in his element—he loved touching things and being touched, which meant kids and old people fucking loved him.
“And now for the big surprise,” Wendy said, smirking as she tossed him the bag. “Go on, open it.”
The smile on her face made his balls wither, even more so when he pulled open the draw-string and found a custody tracksuit with the words BAD BOY printed across it, along with a swag bag full of the fake money.
Wendy’s smile grew even wider. “Changing room’s thatta way,” she said, pointing towards a door at the other end of the hall. “Come on, it’s a rite of passage. We’ve all done it, even the sarge.”
Hell.
He was in hell, and it was going to be a slow and painful death.
After nearly two hours of cops and robbers they were finally back on the road, and Johnny was in an absolutely foul mood.
Wendy hummed, fingers laced together across her lap as she grinned at him. “Well, your people skills need some work but you had the scowl down pat. I think you’d even give Amil a run for his money.”
Johnny scowled some more. “My people skills are fine.”
Wendy laughed, resting her foot against the dashboard. “It’s all part of policing Dingly, I’m afraid. They loved having a big strong alpha to manhandle, and who are we to deny them a little bit of fun before they croak it?” She batted her eyelashes, which did nothing to put him in a better mood.
“Taylor liked the outfit though,” she continued. “Said it really brought out your eyes.”
Johnny let out a long, long breath, because of course she’d sent him a picture. “Did you have to?”
“Of course I did. Your arse looked fantastic in those trousers.”
“Because they were about three sizes too small.”
Wendy shrugged. “You say too small, I say just right. Like I said, it’s a rite of passage. Taylor’s time will come, don’t you worry. Honestly, you should have seen Amil the first time he was the bad guy. Funniest thing I’ve ever witnessed. He didn’t talk to me for days.”
That raised the tiniest of smiles from Johnny’s stony expression. “Can I get away with not speaking to you for days?”
Wendy grinned. “Why? Gotta get away with teasing you whilst I can.”
Johnny had been about to say that perhaps she should think about retiring when the radio crackled to life. “Delta three six.”
“Oh that’s us,” Wendy said, pressing her thumb to her radio. “Go ahead, control.”
“Thank you. Three six, we’ve got a disturbance coming in at Tumpnel’s grocers, are you free to attend?”
Wendy groaned. “Ah fuck, I know exactly who that is,” she said, rubbing her cheek. “Actually, control, we’re—”
“Delta three six. Yes, we’re free,” Johnny said, pressing his own radio.
Wendy’s face blanched in a look of horror. “No, you idiot!”
“Thank you, three six. We’ve got reports of a male causing damage to the premises. The owner called it in, and the call handler could hear glass smashing in the background.”
Johnny nodded. “Understood. We’re making our way there now.”
Wendy threw her head back and groaned. “Now you’ve done it.”
“Why?”
She sighed. “You’ll see. But glove up. In fact, double glove. You’re going to need it.”
People parted like the red sea when he and Wendy entered the shop. Some were hurrying to get out, others looked like they were about to vomit, but everyone, everyone was covering their noses. Johnny’s nostrils twitched as the acidic stench of shit hit him in the face like a wet sock.
“Jesus,” he said, throwing an arm over his face.
“Here we go,” Wendy said, snapping her blue latex gloves into place. “You asked for it, big man. Now, prepare to meet Sylvester.”
“Sylvester?” he said, pulling on his own gloves as they made their way through the shop aisle by aisle.
What presented itself to Johnny was the most repugnant thing he’d ever seen. A man with dirty blond hair and a crooked jaw lying on his back, legs and arms flailing around, like a very fat, very naked upside-down turtle.
Except, the turtle had a Rosé wine bottle up its arse and an erection that pointed straight up at the ceiling.
“Yep. Sylvester the Molester in all his glory,” Wendy said, throwing her arms out like a ringmaster at the circus.
“Alrigh’, Wend?” Sylvester slurred, his long, greasy hair sticking to his forehead as saliva dribbled down his cheek.
“Mhm,” she replied, handing Johnny a blue face mask. She squatted next to Sylvester and shook her head. “Really, fella? You just had to go for white Zinfandel?”
Sylvester grinned and went to reach between his legs but Wendy slapped his hand away.
“I was only gonna offer you a swig, Wend. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
He leered, palming his balls as he wiggled his hips, making the wine bottle sway from side to side. Johnny heard Wendy dry heave behind her mask as she stepped back.
“Says putting the bottle in his arse gets the alcohol into his system quicker,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I mean… scientifically speaking he’s probably right, but—”
“By giving himself a Rosé enema?” Johnny replied, snapping his mask into place. “The guy’s going to develop alcohol poisoning at this rate, not to mention the internal damage.”
Wendy shrugged and ushered the last two traumatised looking customers out of the shop.
“Eh, don’t feel too worried. The guy’s a beta, lives in one of those yellow ribbon houses on the outskirts of town.
Ex-convict, released from prison earlier in the year after raping a High Enfield woman in the early two thousands.
Hence the nickname. Sylvester the Molester. ”
Johnny baulked. “You’ve got yellow ribbon houses? Here? In one of the most vulnerable communities in Falkington?”
“Yep,” she replied, tugging at her mask.
“The council had to build so many social houses, and that’s where they stuck them.
They keep themselves to themselves most of the time, but Sylvester…
well, let’s just say he’s becoming a bit of a nuisance.
” She sucked in a breath and bent down again.
“But hopefully you’ll die soon, eh, Syl?
Then we can stop smelling your arse every other week. ”
Sylvester scoffed and planted his feet on the floor with an audible slap. “What did you say?”
“I said, hopefully you’ll die soon!” she replied, louder that time.
Johnny rubbed between his eyebrows. The town was fucking nuts. Absolutely bonkers.
Sylvester suddenly swung at Wendy. There was barely any force behind it, but Johnny lurched forwards and stepped on Sylvester’s forearm to stop him flailing.
Unfortunately for everyone, Sylvester tensed, making his body clench, which caused the wine bottle to shoot out of his arse.
It skidded across the tiled floor and smashed into a shelving unit, sending half a bottle of wine splashing everywhere.
Some of it splattered onto the back of Johnny’s hand, some on his leg, and he knew beyond all reasonable doubt that his entire uniform was being burned that night.
Wendy groaned and pulled a foil blanket out of a side pocket in her stab vest. “I’m only winding you up, Syl. Chill your beans. Let’s get you home.”
Johnny frowned. “Home?”
“Yeah. Home. No use taking him anywhere else because he’ll just cause more trouble.”
Johnny looked at her incredulously. “The police station, maybe?”
Wendy waved the comment away. “What’s the point? CPS won’t charge given that he’s got a list of conditions longer than my arm, he’s diabetic, and the prison diagnosed him with schizophrenia. He’s too ill to go back to prison, so what’s the point?”
“Wendy,” Johnny began, dropping his voice to a whisper, “the man’s a registered sex offender. He’s damaged the shop and caused public outrage. Besides, I’m betting the shopkeeper is getting pretty fucking tired of him constantly driving away customers.”
“Oh, they don’t care about—”
“Yes, we do!” a woman called from the next aisle along. “We’re pretty sick of it, actually.”
Johnny tipped his head and gave Wendy a look that said ‘See?’ And that was that, so without taking his foot off Sylvester’s arm, Johnny slid his handcuffs out of his utility belt and bent down.
“Mr… er—” He looked at Wendy.
Wendy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Pearce.”
“Mr Pearce, I’m arresting you on suspicion of criminal damage and offences under the public order act.”
Sylvester leered up at him with narrowed eyes, as if only just realising he was there.
“You do not have to say anything but—”
“What?”
“It may harm your defence if you do not—”
“Wend?”
“Mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court—”
“You can’t do this. You always just take me home!”
“Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
Johnny let out a breath. It’d been a long time since he’d read someone the caution, but it slid off his tongue like a penguin across an ice rink.
Tucking his boot under Sylvester’s ribs, he flipped him over and gripped his arms behind his back. The handcuffs went on with a satisfying click and Johnny hauled him to his feet, ignoring the fresh wave of shit that wafted through his mask.
Wendy scrabbled to wrap the foil blanket around his waist before Johnny started walking him out of the shop. A cheer rang out as they strolled onto the street, the staff and customers smiling and nodding.
“Delta three six,” he said into his radio, “one coming in. Please inform Sergeant Wilson that she will need to re-open the Dingly Heath custody suite.”
“Copy that, three six.”