Pulling in the clutch, the rider hits the kill switch and cuts the engine, coasting about two hundred yards before braking. He kicks down the side stand and climbs off the bike. A specific car parked just down the street tells him he has arrived in time to do what he had to do.
He looks around. Only a couple of houses are still showing lights. Otherwise the street is dark. He slips through the gate and walks toward the house. He does not approach the door. Instead he walks down the side and picks up the piece of wood he knows to be there and settles down to wait in the shadows.
He does not have to wait long. Less than five minutes pass before he hears water flowing down the drain and knows that someone is using the shower. Another minute or so and he hears the front door opening. He is grateful that the porch light does not come on.
Keeping low, he moves from his hiding place and watches the man close the front door. As the man turns and begins walking, perhaps it is his need to keep the meeting he has just had secret, or perhaps it is that the blow is not as hard as was intended. Whichever the reason, he only lets out a low groan as the wood strikes him on his knees.
The assailant expects him to scream in pain, at least cry out, but the only sound other than the impact of wood hitting kneecaps is a stifled gasp as his reflexes force him to take a step back. Standing, the aggressor takes a backstroke for another swing. This time the blow is straight to the face and puts the recipient down. The only sound other than the impact is the sound of the unconscious body hitting the floor.
Methodically and systematically, the antagonist breaks the arms, legs, hands, elbow, and knee joints of the unconscious man. The only reason to suspect he is not a professional is the small gasp of surprise at the popping sound the kneecaps make when they are broken. The victim does not regain consciousness as he is beaten. Aside from the one blow to the face, the assailant is careful not to damage the head, ribs, and private parts of his prey.
Less than two minutes after the attack began, the attacker walked back to the motorcycle.
An ambulance siren pulls me from my thoughts. It overtakes, and it seems to be going in the same direction I am. In fact I follow it all the way to my home, a home currently brightly illuminated with a multitude of blue flashing lights coming from three police cars and now the ambulance. A number of uniformed people are milling about the front garden.
I pull up in the nearest available space and run toward my house.
What the hell is going on? I scream.
One policeman tries to stop me. I dodge past him, firing out questions at everyone and no one, and start shouting, Anne, where are you? Anne, where the hell is my wife? What has happened? And finally, Who the hell is that and why is he lying on my doorstep?
Another copper gets in my way. I fire similar questions at him.
Sir, please identify yourself and your reason for being here.
Me asking about Anne and calling her my wife should make those questions redundant. How can these jerks, the people that are supposed to solve crimes, not have a clue? I live here. Now where is my wife?
Sir, please restrain yourself and stop the abusive language. There is really no need.
Really? How the hell do you know? You ever come home to find your house crawling with you doing whatever the hell it is that you're doing? No one, not one of you, will tell me where my wife is, let alone how she is, never mind telling me who that jerk is and why he is laying on my front doorstep.
The lady of the house is being interviewed inside, sir, the policeman replied.
At last a straight answer. I thank the copper and duck around him as he is distracted by the bloke on my doorstep being relocated via stretcher, with PC running after me. I go inside and find Anne and a couple of coppers in plain clothes in the front room.
What the hell is going on, Anne? Why is some jerk half dead on the doorstep?
She starts wailing, and one of the cops says, Mr. Dugan, calm yourself down.
Why? More to the point, how? I demand. I get home after a long day and find all this stuff going on, and no jerk will tell me why.
The two plain clothes look at each other, and the one that told me to calm down speaks.
At 11:49 a call was made to the emergency services and reported a man being beaten at this address. A car was dispatched, but by the time it arrived on the scene the assailant had left the area. The officers assessed the victim and called for an ambulance and support. Now where were you at ten to twelve?
Coming down the A1 at a guess, probably around the A605 junction. Why? Do you think I did this? What reason would I have?
I break off and look at my wife.
Were you being intimate with that jerk?
She wails again, burying her face in her hands.
You were, weren't you? I shout.
She continues to cry into her hands. I give a snort of disgust and look at the copper.
If you find out who did this, tell him I owe him a beer or two. Now if it's all the same to you, I'll go for a shower.
Sorry sir, we need to make sure you were not involved in the attack. Check you for blood and such.
I give him a look that I hope shows disbelief before I bend and start to remove my boots. I kick them off and then remove my sweatshirt, t-shirt, and jeans as I defiantly stare him in the face, clad only in my socks and shreddies, and gesture to my clothes on the floor and ask, Anything else, sir?
He takes a deep breath before continuing.
Please put your clothes back on.
Why? So you can drag me down the nick in a bit, make me take them off again, and wear some paper jumpsuit until you deign to release me? No, you can bug off. In fact I'm not going to put any clothes on. I'm going for a shower.
Sir, you can't, he says as I walk away from him.
Instead of heading toward the door, I walk to the sideboard and pour myself a deep glass of Jameson. Stark naked, I turn and stare at him as I down it and pour myself another. I raise my glass to him and smile before downing the second, watching as he is now frantically discussing something with one of his colleagues.
He and his colleague begin walking toward me as I am pouring a third.
Sir, we need you to refrain from drinking. We will need to formally question... the cop started to talk.
You need, you need. It's all about your needs. Well I needed to come home and not find a herd of cops and ambulance men in my front garden. I needed to come home to a loving and faithful wife. I did not need to find my wife with her boyfriend on my doorstep. And right now I need a shower, a drink, and you guys out of my house. Feel free to take the cheating woman with you.
Another pitiful wail comes from the cheating woman. I glance over to her. I didn't intend... an involuntary action, a reflex. I look for less than a second. She is standing alone crying. Her hands have dropped uselessly to her sides. She looks weak, helpless, and beaten, staring at me, her eyes pleading, probably for understanding, perhaps sympathy, something, anything to comfort her.
Well damn her. She caused this. She can deal with it.
I drain my glass and head up to go and change. I don't get far before some bird in a yellow plastic coverall accosts me. After a few demands from her I reluctantly allow her to check me over for signs that I have been in an altercation. Of course she finds none, and after I give her the clothes I have just taken off, gives me permission to clean up and get dressed. She declines my offer to wash my back.
The fetid aroma of treachery assaults my nose as I enter the bedroom. The acrid stench of regurgitated whiskey almost instantly adds to the fug of sweat and intimacy. With painful spasms clutching at my abdomen, anger overcomes me, and I drag the soiled mattress off the bed, down the stairs, outside, and leave it on the front lawn.
Returning to the bedroom, I fling a window open and start flinging her clothes and other belongings out of it.
Mr. Dugan! Mr. Dugan!
Hearing my name, I pause briefly and then continue to eject the detritus of my marriage out of the window.
Mr. Dugan, I turned to him.
Mr. Dugan, I need you to come with me so I can formally take your statement.
Why? I asked.
You know damn well why. You already have my statement, and unless you arrest me I will not go to the cop shop with you, I say smugly. In fact I will make sure you are completely to blame in my suit for wrongful arrest. I, unlike the majority of your customers, have done nothing wrong.
I didn't add anything more. I have no need. I can prove it, and I'm sure he'll find that out later.
I watch him as the anger builds, his eyes, the rising color of his neck to his face. He reminds me of one of those cartoon characters, Donald or Daffy Duck about to blow, maybe Yosemite Sam. Yeah, Yosemite Sam. All he needed was an orange droopy mustache and a ten-gallon hat.
I see him struggling to keep hold of his temper. Eventually he gains control and manages to force out some words.
Mr. Dugan, you are giving me no alternative, so I am placing you under arrest on suspicion of assaulting Mr. David Pratt. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. If you do not have or cannot afford a solicitor, one will be appointed for you.
Grinning like a Cheshire cat, I pull on some jeans and a t-shirt and say cheerfully, Shall we go?
He leads me out. As I pass the open living room door I can't resist and say, Happy now? Pick your stuff up and bug off. Go to your mother's or whatever brothel you work at.
I'm handed over to a couple of plods and they stick me in the back of a car and drive me to the nick. On the way one of them says, You really made a mess of that bloke. Not that I blame you. I would have probably done the same if he'd been shagging my missus.
If I'd known about him, I say through gritted teeth, I would have done more than that. How is he? Will he live?
Don't know, the cop replied.
Tell me that copper, the detective, is he always such a jerk? I asked.
I hear two stifled sniggers, but neither offers an opinion.
A short while later I am booked in and left in an interview room. Expecting a long wait, I rest my head on my arms and try to go to sleep. It seems every time I manage to nod off someone comes barging in and wakes me up.
Eventually Detective Dipstick comes in and sits on the other side of the table. After asking me whether I wanted to have legal representation, he cautions me again and informs me the interview is being taped. He states his and my name and the time and charges me with assault, both aggravated and grievous bodily harm, and tells me they are considering charges of attempted murder. He advised me again that I should really get a solicitor.
After I decline again he asked me where I was at the time of the assault on Mr. Homer.
I speak as if I found him mentally deficient in some way, enunciating slowly and carefully. I say, As I told you last night, I was returning home from Newcastle. I drove straight home with no stops and followed an ambulance to my home after it overtook me on the Huntington Road. Upon arrival I discover a parcel of police officers, yourself included. Is it a parcel? Perhaps drove or drift would be more appropriate. Nevertheless there was a lot of you, and some bleeding pig guy on my doorstep. Shortly after I also discovered that my wife was the pig he had been engaged in love with. Since then I have had my clothing taken from me and not allowed to clean up after a long day of work, even though I vomited and remained nauseous for some time after both seeing and smelling residual confirmation of my wife's betrayal. Also I have been prevented from sleeping. I have now been awake for over twenty-five hours.
I paused briefly.
All of this I told you at my house shortly after I arrived home.
I watch his anger rising again. I note earlier I had missed the reddening of his ears as the first sign of his displeasure. The first time I had goaded him.
Have you any way to substantiate this?
Yes, I replied. If he could have gotten away with it I swear he would have punched me. Instead he asks, forcing the words out, Why didn't you say this beforehand?
Why didn't you ask?
I think a full two minutes pass before he speaks again.
What proof has he still got his private parts?
What? the officer asked.
Has he still got his private parts? I would have thought that is an easy question to answer. A straightforward yes or no.
Now look here, he started to drift away.
What's wrong? Question too difficult for you? I'll try to make it easier for you. If I had known that I was married to a deceitful cheating woman and she was found with some jerk, I would have chucked the cheating woman out and castrated said jerk. Therefore, if he still has his private parts, it wasn't me.
Mr. Dugan, I don't think you are taking this seriously.
Christ, maybe you're not as stupid as you look, I grin and pretend to be shocked.
I will ask you again. Have you any proof you were not there?
Not on me, but if we go back to my van I can prove where I was at half seven.
And what good would that do? he asked.
I just sit and shrug.
He looks at me in a way that makes me think he is trying to stare me into submission. The thought makes me laugh, and he snaps at me.
What is this proof?
Oh, maybe just a signed, dated, and timed proof of delivery stating I was in Newcastle at half sevenish. Will that do? I replied.
I try not to grin as I watch him trying to work out the time necessary to drive the two hundred fifty-two miles. I fail. In fact I laugh again when he starts counting on his fingers. His ears are glowing red enough that if he was standing on the side of a road the traffic would stop.
Finally he says triumphantly, That's about two hundred miles. Mostly dual carriageways and motorways. If you put your foot down you could have done it no problem. No, no mate, that don't give you an alibi.
It must all add up then, mustn't it? I smile and raise my eyebrows at him several times, taunting him further.
Glowering at me he spits out that he has suspended the interview, tells me to stay put, and leaves the room.
Five minutes later he comes storming back into the room.
You knew I was out on my calculations, didn't you?
I say nothing, my only reply being a wide grin as I imagine him shouting whoo hoo, firing six guns, and claiming to be the rottenest, toughest, shrewdest detective in all of East England. It's a real shame he doesn't have a droopy orange mustache.
I do chuckle a bit when I think of his knowledge of geography and math skills being recorded for posterity.
He leaves the room again, and after ten minutes I decide to try and get my head down again. It does me no good. I can't stop sniggering.
Eventually, and somewhat subdued, he tells me that I can go. It's not that simple of course. I have to be formally de-arrested and sign forms before I am allowed to go about my merry way.
Parts of me are happy. The cheating woman is still at home when I get there. The part of me that forgot to pick up my keys last night and the part that didn't want to make the choice of breaking into my own house and have a window to repair or camping out on the mattress on the front lawn.
To be honest it doesn't look like she has had much more sleep than I have. Of course as she lets me in she's full of apologies. How it was a mistake and she would never do it again. I managed to contain myself even when she said it was the first time. I had to be careful and maintain my ignorance. After all, if I had known about it beforehand it may have been possible to have instigated the attack in some way.
Ignoring her platitudes, I go up and have that shower I had promised myself last night.
As the warm water washes over me I start to plan my day. The first thing I think of is to see a solicitor. Do they work on Saturdays? I resolve to hit the net when I've done one other job and have a look.
I towel myself dry and go into the bedroom for a clean shirt, shreddies, and socks. Nothing has changed since I was last in here. I cast a look out of the window and give a nod of satisfaction seeing her clothes still adorning our and two neighbors' garden.
Seeking a solicitor becomes third on the to-do list.
As I get to the bottom of the stairs she calls through telling me she has made a coffee. I must admit I could really use one. I join her in the living room. She is standing looking at me. Her eyes are red and streaks from them run down her cheeks.
Who is he? I asked.
No one. I mean no one you know, she replied.
I stand looking back at her, waiting for an answer to my question. I'm not sure how long it is before she breaks down.
Steans, armed with the name, I walk over to the phone and dial the hospital. A few words with someone on the other end and I am put through to his ward. I inquire about his health, and of course they spout the normal nonsense about how they can't tell me anything at all. So I ask if he has any family with him. I smile when they tell me his wife is there and she will go and fetch her.
I listen to the clip-clop of her footsteps leaving and then returning before the receiver is picked up.
Hello, this is Julie Stebbings. Who is this?
Hi Julie. My name is Colin Dugan. You don't know me. For that matter neither does your husband. I am calling to let you know where I live.
I don't understand. Why would I want to know your address? she asked.
I thought you might like to come and meet my wife, Anne Dugan.
And why, Mr. Dugan, would I want to meet your wife? she asked.
Oh, I just thought you would prefer somewhere a little more private than a hospital ward when you first meet, you know. You can talk about things, you know, things that women talk about, knitting, housework, and such. Maybe swap recipes and discuss the length and width of your husband's activity and what it is exactly that makes him such a terrific lover that my wife has chosen to be my ex-wife for the love of it.
Anne had been watching me, listening to my every word in disbelief, but finally she screamed, No!
I expect Mrs. Stebbings to slam the receiver back in its cradle. Instead she asks me for my address. I give it to her along with my mobile number, and she tells me she will come right away. I tell her I will put the kettle on.
While waiting I think about spreading a plastic sheet down on the living room floor, but after checking how much yogurt and whipped cream in the fridge I decided against it.
Much quicker than I would have thought possible, a screech of tires announces her arrival. I hope she allowed for the two speed cameras. I would rather she not get any tickets on top of everything else.
I open the front door before she gets to it. I'm pleased I have. The way she comes in, I think she may have knocked it down if it were closed.
Seeing my wife she demands, Is it true?
Look it's not like, my wife started to say something.
A sound reminiscent of a bullwhip fills my ears.
Don't you dare lie to me, you cheating woman! Julie screams.
You have to understand, Anne sobs.
We didn't mean it to happen.
What? I wonder. You didn't mean to dress in underwear for him? Didn't mean to invite him here when I wasn't here? I wonder silently to myself as the little drama plays out before me.
We, you mean you and you did nothing to stop it, Julie's voice now a mere ninety dB.
We just could, Anne blusters until I hear that sound again.
You, you could have said no, I am married, or no you are married. He should have said the same. But no, instead you chose to be a cheating woman, Julie's voice now low enough to be called shouting.
No, no it wasn't like, my wife started.
Well I hope you'll be happy with him. Look after him when they let him out of hospital. They tell me he will need a lot of looking after. You'll have to dress him, feed him, even wipe his fat back. Your husband has done a damn fine job educating him.
She looks over to me and says sweetly, Thank you.
Excuse me, but as I told Detective Brain Surgeon last night, if I had done it he wouldn't still have his private parts. Nah, I'll wait till he's back on his feet before I let him know how much he has annoyed me.
Tea or coffee?
Coffee please, she says with a smile.
We leave the cheating woman and go sit in the kitchen, the innocent and cheated partners, to talk of many things, of sleazy cheating women and faithless husbands, of marriages and things, of why the cheats are lying bastards and the tarnishing of our rings.
We speak for a while. Several times I hear Anne come out to the hallway and then go back into the living room. Perhaps she doesn't enjoy listening to us sharing our hurt and betrayal.
When we feel we have said enough, I walk her to the door and say goodbye.
I follow her out and drag the mattress around to the back garden. I pick up the cheating woman's clothes and other bits and bobs and pile them on top.
When I fetch the green petrol can out of the shed I hear her scream, No!
Again I start pouring the contents over the pile as she runs to me.
Have you got a light? I asked her and then add, Not the red one you hang outside when I'm not here.
No please don't. Don't burn my stuff please. No.
I've got one job to do that I was leaving until after this was burning. I'll do that first, but when I get it done I'll come back and burn whatever is still here.
Please Doug, don't do this. I'm sorry. I love you.
Yeah sure you do, I replied.
I do Doug. I didn't mean it. I didn't think.
Didn't think what? Didn't think I'd find out? Didn't think it mattered? Know you cheated, eating woman. You didn't think I mattered. Well damn you. Now pick up your stuff and get the hell out before I throw you on the pile with the rest of the crap.
I go inside, and a few minutes later I'm looking up solicitors. I settled on one, but it's not open today so I will have to wait until Monday.
I go back outside to find Anne has picked up most of her clothes and other stuff and gone.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I set the mattress alight and pick up any bits she has dropped and throw them on top.
Fourteen months go by before I received the decree absolute changing my status to single. Anne's brats are now six months old, and they are definitely not mine, so I haven't got to pay for the little bastards, which is nice.
Pastor Donald Stebbings is still trying to get his wife to forgive him. Personally I think he just wants a familiar hand to wipe his back because he can't do it for himself yet.
As for Detective Brian Small, seriously that is his name, he has never found out who did it, although he did pull me in a couple more times to help him with his inquiries, but I wasn't very helpful.
There are a few things I didn't tell him. I didn't tell him that my mate Stu called on me a couple of weeks earlier. I didn't tell him that she had answered the door to him dressed in a negligee and told him to get on his bike, or that Stu had hung around by his bike for a smoke and to call another mate and just happened to see the pastor roll up and get greeted by Anne.
I didn't tell him that Stuart met me up in Newcastle with a very quick motorcycle, a Hayabusa if you're interested, or that we switched vehicles and I got home as the pastor was finishing worshiping at my wife's altar.
And I definitely did not tell him how I explained a couple of the Ten Commandments to him, or that I rode to a pre-arranged spot, took off the coveralls I wore for the ride down, etc., how I then met Stuart in a layby a few miles down a dark country road and swapped vehicles again before I went home.
And that's the end of today's story.