No Witnesses
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: The tale of a man of chivalry with an eye for the chance.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: The tale of a man of chivalry with an eye for the chance.
It started with a kiss. The shortest of movements but with maximum effect, it was a Glasgow kiss. For a man with no apparent neck, Bullet delivered the head-butt in a blur of explosive action, flooring Dec Hands before he could throw yet another punch in the direction of his poor wife. Hands, star centre-forward for the local football team had, until that moment, been considered untouchable since he was valued by the team and the town so highly.
The two passing cops saw what they saw. Despite the obvious bruise creeping over Pam Hands' face like a virulent rash, she wasn't for pressing charges; she knew better than that, knew exactly what the consequences of such an action would be. So, after trying desperately to explain the chain of events, Bullet, William Cartridge to give him his Sunday name, was marched off to the cells to await the attentions of the magistrates.
Previously of good behaviour, Bullet, having been charged with affray and having once again failed to convince the authorities on the reason for his assault on Dec Hands, was fined two hundred pounds and warned as to his future conduct.
Bullet was walking across the spare land on his way to the rugby ground when he saw them coming towards him, three of them, the central figure of which looked familiar.
Despite having been retired for five years or so, Bullet hadn't missed a training session in all that time and was now a well-respected member of the coaching staff. In fact, he was known to take to the field as A. N. Other when the injury list dictated. Now, Dec Hands and a couple of offsiders looked to have trouble in mind going by their swagger.
“I owe you big time, Cartridge,” said Hands, balling his fists with intent.
“Well,” said Bullet, nonchalantly, “come on ahead and pay up. I don't s'pose you brought these two along to hold the jackets?”
“Funny bastard, huh?” grunted Hands, telegraphing his move and somehow finding himself clattering into the guy to his left, with both men hitting the deck in a tangle.
Meanwhile, Bullet turned his attentions to the third man, delivering two ferocious head punches and a well-aimed kick as the guy went down. Hands was back on his feet, adopting the stance of a boxer with a mind to cause some hurt. His gut wasn't capable of coping with the fearsome barrage it was subjected to, although he did catch Bullet a glancing blow to the shoulder on his way back down.
Bullet turned to face the other two but they legged it before they could catch any more harm. Hands tried to follow but Bullet caught him by the scruff; he wanted a quiet word.
“Your woman works at the bank, yeah?” It was a rhetorical question. “I'm in there twice a week, more sometimes. If I see so much as a scratch on her I'll come looking for you, and that's the last thing you want. Now, fuck off out of my way, arsehole.”
The training session went well. Bullet had to fine a couple of late-comers, the money going towards the end of season piss-up but it was all good-natured. He was in the process of locking up when the cop car pulled in to the car park.
“William Cartridge?” asked the first cop.
“Yeah?”
“I'm placing you under arrest for assault and a parole violation. You have the right to remain silent .............”
“ …....... Hands? Has this to do with that Hands fella?”
“So, you admit it?”
“Did his mates press charges?”
“Mates?”
“Hands and two of his mates attacked me. One of them, the redhead, has a badly broken nose now and the other got off his mark or I'd have sorted him too.”
“All I know is that Mr. Hands has filed a complaint. Says you gave him a severe, unprovoked beating. Like I say, we'll have to take you in.”
There are three holding cells in the basement of the police station and Bullet was slotted into the same one as before. Half an hour later he heard the other two cells being made use of, with one of the occupants, a woman, protesting her innocence at the top of her voice before having a noisy conversation with her co-accused, a man. Bullet discovered from this that they had been caught shoplifting. The cops were having a busy day because soon a singing drunk was slotted in beside the male shoplifter.
Upstairs, the paperwork was piling up and the shift change was fast approaching.
A woman cop escorted Bullet to the interview room where his brief was waiting to see him. He was told to help himself to tea or coffee from the vending machine. The lawyer wrote copious notes, promised to follow up on his claims about the redhead and rushed off for another appointment while Bullet was reintroduced to his cell by a different cop. The place was silent for a time until the drunk started singing again.
Hands hadn't been idle. Cops saw him staggering home from his encounter with Bullet. He had refused medical treatment but took the opportunity to lay the claim against Bullet. At home, he laid waste to his substantial drinks cabinet and was behind the door waiting when his wife came home from work. It took two neighbours to drag him off her while another called the cops, asking for an ambulance at the same time.
Bullet's brief was as good as his word, better than good in fact. He tracked the redheaded man down to accident and emergency at the local hospital, called it in to the officer who had arrested Bullet and demanded that his client be released immediately; knowing full well that was beyond the officer's powers.
Under arrest, Hands was taken to hospital and had his injuries, a badly bruised upper body and shoulder, treated. They also pumped his stomach for good measure. He remained there overnight under police guard.
Bullet was eating breakfast when his brief came to accompany him to court. He was first up. He was told the charge looked likely to be dropped, and that his good name would then be restored to what it was before his earlier appearance. He was also told that Hands had put his wife in hospital and could well be facing an attempted murder charge. She was in a bad way.
The corridor to the cells was a trifle congested when Bullet was led out to face the magistrates. In his playing days he always had an eye for a pass, a gap in the play or maybe a chance to run interference; he was also adept at meting out retaliation if an opponent overstepped the mark. He came face to face with Hands in the corridor just as the drunk started banging on his cell door and shouting about his rights, causing enough of a distraction to take the attention of both escorting officers. When the situation was calmed they turned to see Bullet helping Hands to his feet and dusting him down like maybe he had fallen. He smiled to himself then suddenly shivered. Smiled because Hands would need another trip to the hospital for treatment to his newly broken ribs, and shivered when he realised Hands was about to be slotted to the same cell he had vacated; they could have been bunkies. Knowing what he now knew about the man, that situation could well have had a very different outcome.
The two passing cops saw what they saw. Despite the obvious bruise creeping over Pam Hands' face like a virulent rash, she wasn't for pressing charges; she knew better than that, knew exactly what the consequences of such an action would be. So, after trying desperately to explain the chain of events, Bullet, William Cartridge to give him his Sunday name, was marched off to the cells to await the attentions of the magistrates.
Previously of good behaviour, Bullet, having been charged with affray and having once again failed to convince the authorities on the reason for his assault on Dec Hands, was fined two hundred pounds and warned as to his future conduct.
Bullet was walking across the spare land on his way to the rugby ground when he saw them coming towards him, three of them, the central figure of which looked familiar.
Despite having been retired for five years or so, Bullet hadn't missed a training session in all that time and was now a well-respected member of the coaching staff. In fact, he was known to take to the field as A. N. Other when the injury list dictated. Now, Dec Hands and a couple of offsiders looked to have trouble in mind going by their swagger.
“I owe you big time, Cartridge,” said Hands, balling his fists with intent.
“Well,” said Bullet, nonchalantly, “come on ahead and pay up. I don't s'pose you brought these two along to hold the jackets?”
“Funny bastard, huh?” grunted Hands, telegraphing his move and somehow finding himself clattering into the guy to his left, with both men hitting the deck in a tangle.
Meanwhile, Bullet turned his attentions to the third man, delivering two ferocious head punches and a well-aimed kick as the guy went down. Hands was back on his feet, adopting the stance of a boxer with a mind to cause some hurt. His gut wasn't capable of coping with the fearsome barrage it was subjected to, although he did catch Bullet a glancing blow to the shoulder on his way back down.
Bullet turned to face the other two but they legged it before they could catch any more harm. Hands tried to follow but Bullet caught him by the scruff; he wanted a quiet word.
“Your woman works at the bank, yeah?” It was a rhetorical question. “I'm in there twice a week, more sometimes. If I see so much as a scratch on her I'll come looking for you, and that's the last thing you want. Now, fuck off out of my way, arsehole.”
The training session went well. Bullet had to fine a couple of late-comers, the money going towards the end of season piss-up but it was all good-natured. He was in the process of locking up when the cop car pulled in to the car park.
“William Cartridge?” asked the first cop.
“Yeah?”
“I'm placing you under arrest for assault and a parole violation. You have the right to remain silent .............”
“ …....... Hands? Has this to do with that Hands fella?”
“So, you admit it?”
“Did his mates press charges?”
“Mates?”
“Hands and two of his mates attacked me. One of them, the redhead, has a badly broken nose now and the other got off his mark or I'd have sorted him too.”
“All I know is that Mr. Hands has filed a complaint. Says you gave him a severe, unprovoked beating. Like I say, we'll have to take you in.”
There are three holding cells in the basement of the police station and Bullet was slotted into the same one as before. Half an hour later he heard the other two cells being made use of, with one of the occupants, a woman, protesting her innocence at the top of her voice before having a noisy conversation with her co-accused, a man. Bullet discovered from this that they had been caught shoplifting. The cops were having a busy day because soon a singing drunk was slotted in beside the male shoplifter.
Upstairs, the paperwork was piling up and the shift change was fast approaching.
A woman cop escorted Bullet to the interview room where his brief was waiting to see him. He was told to help himself to tea or coffee from the vending machine. The lawyer wrote copious notes, promised to follow up on his claims about the redhead and rushed off for another appointment while Bullet was reintroduced to his cell by a different cop. The place was silent for a time until the drunk started singing again.
Hands hadn't been idle. Cops saw him staggering home from his encounter with Bullet. He had refused medical treatment but took the opportunity to lay the claim against Bullet. At home, he laid waste to his substantial drinks cabinet and was behind the door waiting when his wife came home from work. It took two neighbours to drag him off her while another called the cops, asking for an ambulance at the same time.
Bullet's brief was as good as his word, better than good in fact. He tracked the redheaded man down to accident and emergency at the local hospital, called it in to the officer who had arrested Bullet and demanded that his client be released immediately; knowing full well that was beyond the officer's powers.
Under arrest, Hands was taken to hospital and had his injuries, a badly bruised upper body and shoulder, treated. They also pumped his stomach for good measure. He remained there overnight under police guard.
Bullet was eating breakfast when his brief came to accompany him to court. He was first up. He was told the charge looked likely to be dropped, and that his good name would then be restored to what it was before his earlier appearance. He was also told that Hands had put his wife in hospital and could well be facing an attempted murder charge. She was in a bad way.
The corridor to the cells was a trifle congested when Bullet was led out to face the magistrates. In his playing days he always had an eye for a pass, a gap in the play or maybe a chance to run interference; he was also adept at meting out retaliation if an opponent overstepped the mark. He came face to face with Hands in the corridor just as the drunk started banging on his cell door and shouting about his rights, causing enough of a distraction to take the attention of both escorting officers. When the situation was calmed they turned to see Bullet helping Hands to his feet and dusting him down like maybe he had fallen. He smiled to himself then suddenly shivered. Smiled because Hands would need another trip to the hospital for treatment to his newly broken ribs, and shivered when he realised Hands was about to be slotted to the same cell he had vacated; they could have been bunkies. Knowing what he now knew about the man, that situation could well have had a very different outcome.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and ten collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and ten collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.