Changed Times 3. The police station

A glimpse into the near future

Episode 1

Episode 2

Chief Inspector Brown slid open the inspection grill to the cell and looked in. He wrinkled his nose with disgust. The combined stench of beer, sweat, and he was certain a drop of urine, hit him. The repulsive young man was stretched out on a wooden shelf, snoring gently.

“Sergeant!” his call echoed down the bare grey corridor.

“Sir!” Sgt. Turner buttoned his tunic before he unlocked the heavy steel door and ambled towards his boss.

“What’s this?” Chief Inspector Brown twisted his head sideways, indicating the cell door.

“No quite sure, Sir. Vagrant, we think. Doesn’t speak English. Or pretends not. Romanian, we think.”

Brown scowled. “How many is that this month?”

“Not sure, Sir. Five at least. That I know of.”

“For God’s sake man. What’s he doing in a cell?”

“Drunk, Sir. Not much else we could do with him.”

Brown’s already ruddy complexion darkened. “You could have got rid of him man. What were you thinking?”

“Sorry, Sir, it was Gould, one of the new Neighbourhood Constables. He brought him in. Didn’t understand the procedure, I guess.”

“Well, it’s about time he learnt. I want him in my office at the end of the shift.”

Sgt. Turner flushed. That stupid git Gould. The last thing the Sergeant needed was another run-in with the Chief Inspector.

“Oh and Sergeant, get rid of this gyppo will you. You know what to do.”

Downstairs in a deserted police canteen, Neighbourhood Constable Gould was stretched out across two metal dining chairs. His back ached. This wasn’t the most comfortable way to try to catch forty winks. It was two in the morning and he had another four hours to fill before the shift ended.

Night shifts were usually dull. Once the pubs and clubs chucked out and all the drunks were safely home there wasn’t much to do. The economy had taken a nosedive after the UK left the European Union, so even the pubs and clubs were quiet.

Gould hated it when it was like this. He hadn’t joined the force to lie around in draughty canteens. He wanted action. The adverts had said Neighbourhood Constables would “protect the community.” That’s what he wanted to do. Protect the English against the foreigners.

“Harry!” Police Constable Clarke burst through the swing doors of the canteen. “Harry! What are you doing down here?”

“I’m on refs. I’ve just got in. I’ve brought in some gyppo.”

“Oh, you’re the one,” Clarke cracked a smile. “Chief Inspector’s not best pleased with you, bringing a stinking Romany into his nice clean station.”

Gould felt his face burn.

“Sgt. Turner wants you upstairs,” Clarke grinned.

“Am I in trouble?”

“Don’t think so. He wants me to round up a few of the lads. He has a special job for us.” He rolled the word “special” on his tongue. “Come on, let’s go.”

They hurried through the deserted corridors and took the stairs two at a time. Within seconds they were at the Sergeant’s Office. Two other Neighbourhood Constables eyed them wearily as they approached.

“What’s going on, Charlie?” Gould asked Charlie Reid. The two twenty-year-old pals had joined the force at the same time and trained together; both keen to “protect” their kinfolk.

“Don’t know,” Reid shrugged irritably. His feet hurt and the boredom of the shift was numbing him.

“Come on lads!” Sgt. Turner’s voice echoed through the corridor. “With me, down to the cell. All of you; quickly.”

Gould’s heart raced. Something was up. Something exciting. The four police officers ran.

The prisoner was still asleep when they arrived at the cell.

“In there. Grab him. Take him to interview room one.” Sgt. Turner commanded. Four fit young officers responded as a team. Two took an arm each and two a leg.

The prisoner’s ear-splitting scream bounced off the ceiling. He kicked and struggled and swore.

“What’s he saying?” Reid laughed.

“Don’t know,” Turner jerked the prisoner’s elbow and was rewarded with a screech of pain. “Something about his human rights probably.”

The prisoner stood no chance with a police officer at each corner. Within seconds they were in interview room one. It was a bleak room, dominated by an old worn table with a laminated top. It had been seconded from the canteen years ago. Three uncomfortable plastic chairs were stacked in a corner. There was a shelf where recording devices had once been stored, ready to record police interviews with suspects. It was empty. The day had long gone when suspects had rights.

“Right lads, you know what to do,” Sgt. Turner stood at the door. “You get him ready. I’ll be back in a sec.”

“Yeah, right,” Turner mumbled. confused.

“You haven’t done this before?” Reid beamed. “Take his trousers and pants down and hold him down across the table.”

The four police officers did not see the shine of terror in the prisoner’s eyes. He was face down in seconds, his pleadings ignored.

“Eeeekkk, poooo! What a stink!” Reid gurned like a gargoyle. A stench of stale urine wafted from the prisoner’s body when his trousers and underpants were ripped down.

“Lift him up. On the table,” Reid dragged the prisoner by the arm and hauled him so that his whole body was forced onto the cold laminated top. Each arm and leg was gripped by a police officer.

“Good work, lads. Good work.” Sgt. Gould had returned. In his hand he held a heavy leather strap with a wooden handle at one end.

used strop hold (15)

“A prison strap,” he waved it in the air. “They used them in Canada. Apparently.” He swiped it some more. The prisoner could not see it. He was held tightly face-down on the table. Reid’s left hand pressed his head into the hard surface.

“Right lads,” Sgt. Turner stood close to the table. “Pull his trousers and pants down more. I want to be able to get his arse and the back of his thighs.”

Reid did the deed.

“Okay lads. Let’s do this.” Sgt. Turner raised the leather strap high above his head, brushing it against the ceiling. Then he sucked on his teeth and brought it crashing down with extreme force into the prisoner’s bared buttocks. They shuddered. He screamed. Tried vainly to twist and turn his body to escape. A scarlet band three inches wide was scorched across his backside.

Bang! Another swipe landed a little lower. Only two strokes had fallen so far, but the entire arse was glowing bright red. The young man pinned across the table bellowed. Nobody understood a word he said. Crack! This one was directed at the thighs. The prisoner’s body rose from the table; he screamed, he struggled. It took all four police officers to keep him in place.

The leather cracked again and again. The howls turned to choking sobs. Tears and snot poured down the young man’s face.

Sweat soaked the sergeant’s shirt, but it did not deter him in his mission. At last twelve severe strokes whipped into the prisoner.

“Release him.”

The prisoner lay across the table gulping for breath like a beached whale. Droplets of blood trickled down his buttocks. Not one square inch of cheek or thigh was unmarked. The apex of the bum looked like raw bashed meat.

Four police officers stood silently. Clarke did not try to disguise the leer that slashed his face in two. Reid’s heavy breathing sounded like a racehorse winding down. Turner stared at the prisoner’s pulsating buttocks, his own cock pressed hard against the front of his underpants.

It seemed like an age, but it was less than a minute before Sgt. Turner spoke. “Get him dressed. Clarke and Reid, get a car. Drive him down the A12 to the police boundary and kick him out. He’s somebody else’s problem now.”

The four officers busied themselves.

“Not you Gould,” the sergeant spoke bluffly. “You wait here.” Soon they had the room to themselves. Gould watched uneasily as his boss closed the door.

“The Chief Inspector is not pleased with you. And when he is not pleased with a junior that means he is not pleased with me,” the Sergeant’s beady eye bore into the Neighbourhood Constable.

“Take down your trousers and pants. Bend over that table.”

 

Look out for more stories of Changed Times later in 2016

 

Other stories you might like

The military camp

Footballer’s judicial caning

The sneak thief

 

 

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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