Horse's Arse Read Online Free Page A

been
able to get up in time he'd have shagged the crack of dawn. Even at this
ungodly hour Bovril was thinking about sex. He cast a glance behind him at
Amanda Wheeler, known as the Blood Blister, 'D' Relief's only WPC, briefly
considered having a crack at her later, thought better of it and went back to
sleep.
        
        
        Amanda
Wheeler had seen Bovril leering at her and wondered if her hour had come. Every
fibre of her fifteen-stone body yearned for him. The red, bloated face that had
earned her the nickname - often shortened to just the Blister - glowed more
than usual as she lusted after him. She'd previously made him an offer at a
party he all too easily refused.
        'I'll
need a couple more gallons and a lobotomy,' Bovril had gallantly told her.
Despite the rebuff, the Blister was still very much in love with him. A veteran
of the old Womens' Police Department that had dealt with female prisoners and
juveniles between office hours, the Blister found her new role an onerous one.
She was vehemently opposed to the Equal Opportunities gurus who had got her
into this mess and longed to turn the clock back to when she was the secret
other half of a detective inspector who kept her on her back and in the dry.
Now the Blister sighed deeply and took another long drag on her cigarette,
drawing the smoke deep into her ruined lungs.
        She
blew the smoke vacantly at the neck of the officer sitting in front of her. He
had a large spot forming in his hairline and was rubbing it with his fingers.
Alan 'Pizza Face' Petty was covered in spots and one more would make no
difference to the stick he got on a regular basis. Each new arrival on his body
was a fresh worry for him to pick and scratch at. With only three months in the
job he was the butt of every practical joke and was little more than an errand
and tea boy. He'd not been allowed out in the cars yet and spent his days
wandering aimlessly around the depressing pedestrianised town centre taking
regular calls to deal with shoplifters at the only supermarket. The other
officers in the group generally ignored him. Recently turned nineteen he was no
match for them and could feel himself unravelling.
        He
lived in horrendous lodgings in the town with an old puff adder of a landlady.
She was unprepared for a lodger who worked shifts and the only meals she served
were breakfast, lunch and dinner. Too bad if he was working nights. He'd
considered moving into the local YMCA hostel, but H had convinced him he'd be
raped by the legions of homosexuals that inhabited the place. He'd lost a stone
in weight since joining and his physical and mental deterioration was becoming
a real worry to his doting parents. When he'd gone home for a weekend, haggard
and hungover following a 'D' Relief invasion of Calais, his reaction of 'What
the fuck is that?' to the lovingly prepared Sunday lunch had his mother in an
apoplectic fit. Only his heart-rending apologies had persuaded his father not
to phone the station to complain about his son's rapid descent into moral hell.
He sat there totally alone amongst the group.
        Next
to him was Ray 'Piggy' Malone, so called because of his uncanny resemblance to
a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig. He crewed one of the beat vehicles with whoever
happened to be spare. Piggy had the gait of primitive man and with his ever-
open mouth and a forehead that protruded far enough to keep his feet dry had
convinced his colleagues that he was the missing link. He spent large periods
of the year off sick with a bewildering array of illnesses and injuries, all of
which he managed to obtain doctors' certificates for. Never one to miss an
opportunity, he had plunged down flights of stairs in sudden power cuts,
slipped on wet floors and been deeply affected by the carnage at road
accidents. He had let it be known that he had instructed his wife to arrange
for him to be deposited in the back yard of the nick in the event of his
passing away at home.