A case study of self-delusion

It could be said that one of the greatest ‘crimes’ against the self is self-delusion – the deliberate denial of one’s own true nature. This is especially pertinent if that denial leads a person to delegate all consequence or responsibility for their actions to a mental aberration or ‘condition'. An ego of this persuasion could exist beyond the confines societal morality and become a law unto themselves; untroubled by conscience or regret. Although such a person might superficially exhibit unorthodox behaviour, does it always follow that there is anything acutely wrong with them? Could it be they’re so captivated by their unfettered existence that they’ll stop at nothing to convince themselves, and the world, that they’re incurable?

I believe that I’ve met such a person and I would like to explain why. However, you can draw your own conclusions as I guide you through the toe-curling, gruesome and occasionally hilarious events that unfolded during my cohabitation with this individual.

Welcome to the world of Riley…

The life of Riley

The following is my account of events, although names have been changed for privacy reasons. Please don’t read any further if you’re of gentle birth or have a delicate disposition. Note: I’ve opted to write this as a vague pastiche of a gothic horror – well, it seemed appropriate somehow…

1. A DATE WITH FATE

Some years ago, having just returned from a stay overseas, I found myself in the unenviable position of being unemployed, broke and looking for accommodation in London. A close friend of mine suggested I might contact his ex-playmate who had a vacant two-bedroom apartment near London Bridge. How could I forsee that my acceptance of this ‘fantastic opportunity' would lead me straight into the clutches of a libertine…?

Riley appeared delighted at the idea of having a reliable ‘flat-sitter’ (since he was now living with his mother) and assured me that his visits would only be occasional - at most, overnight stays. Having met him, my first impressions were that he was an affable person, somewhat shy, but well-intended. The kind of person who might linger in the background of a social function and be infinitely grateful for even a passing exchange of platitudes. Briefly, we traded backgrounds.

Riley had been brought over to the UK by his parents at eight years old and originally hailed from Nigeria. Of diminutive stature, he had a portly build, was bespectacled and sported an unkempt beard. Much of the time he wore an inane grin that imbued him with a childlike, almost imbecilic quality. Although I had reservations regarding his previous involvement with a cult known as the ‘Seventh Day Adventists’, on balance, I decided to pursue the arrangement to move. I collected the door keys and decamped from a friend’s sofa where I’d been temporarily installed.

2. GRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY.

The apartment was situated in a 1930s style, three story block – social housing intended for the poor of that era. Although unlovely in appearance, it was well-tended and recessed from an airy, tree-lined street. In fact, my first impressions of the surroundings were favourable.

In stark contrast, my crushing sense of chagrin at the condition of the apartment was matched only by an overwhelming urge to gag. There was a pervading smell; one of damp and mouldering. In fact, walls that hadn’t already divested themselves of their wallpaper were, in places, blackened by mould. Riley had already instructed me not to open windows in order to guard against stray gusts of wind and a perceived threat of intruders. I surmised that the windows had not been opened for months, if not years. In fact, many of them were sealed with duck tape and blanked-out by refuse bags.

As I ventured warily along the hallway, I found myself wading through discarded fast-food packaging (some containing rotting food), crumpled pages of longhand, used tissues, dirty laundry and a brick-a-brack of miscellany such as astronomy journals, condom packets and chocolate wrappers. (Ferrero Rocher being a clear favourite although I fear that famed ambassador from the commercials might have found the setting less than convivial for one of his opulent soirees.)

My intended (spare) bedroom contained one single mattress almost lost to a deluge of assorted rubbish and dust. Short of hiring a snow plough, I was perplexed as to how I might shift all the crap and begin utilising such a festering garbage heap as my boudoir. To my horror, I discovered that it was inhabited by a species of arachnid called ‘Opiliones’. This species dart around on long, spindly legs and survive by eating fungi, animal remains and also by sucking the juices from their prey. (I would later discover that these creatures shared this latter mode of predation with the owner of the property…)

Greatly disheartened, I lurched toward the kitchen, girding my loins for what other horrors may await. I discovered it thick with grease on work surfaces and walls. Evidently, this had tar-like quality which had ensnared legions of hapless insects. Surely all but the most steadfast etymologist would have quailed in terror? Those creepy-crawlies that had survived this peril were rewarded with a bounty of rotting cereal, flour and spices, etc. In fact, the kitchen represented an entire ecosystem all feasting greedily in a living, seething carpet of compost. The infestation had spread throughout the cupboards, shelves and drawers. It was, in short, vile.

The sitting room was in a similar state to the bedroom excepting that there was a preponderance of discarded cell phone numbers and hastily scrawled mantras such as ‘…must build muscles. IMPORTANT: either have to build them or touch them…’ Initially, I didn’t interpret any sinister connotations in such notes. (I use similar, apparently nonsensical, jottings in my own writing - phrases that, to a casual browser, might appear ludicrous.) At that point, I assumed that Riley shared my passion for composing skits and poems. This supposition was compounded when I perused dusty bookshelves which were brimming over with poetry anthologies, manuals on creative writing and various esoteric publications concerning the healing power of crystals and evangelist teachings.

The walls of the bathroom were glistening with condensation and the porcelain discoloured with limescale. The bath itself was clearly blocked and exhibited a tidemark of scum and pubic hair[?] that had evidently bubbled up from a blockage in the drains. Ever practical, I decided that this would be my first point of attack in my stratagem to wage war on grime.

The toilet was unlike anything on earth (or, I suspect, in the known universe). The pan was encrusted with russet-coloured limescale up to the waterline and bore testimony to countless ill-considered evacuations. In fact, in the course of my life, I’ve witnessed crack-houses that were less squalid. It was at this point that I began to wonder if Dante’s inferno might have been slightly more hospitable…?

Needless to say, I spent the next two weeks scrubbing, disinfecting, sweeping and polishing the festering mountain of grime, filth and decay. I was fortunate in the discovery of some rusted tools in my bedroom since it required a chisel to remove the near-fossilised crud from the toilet pan.

At last, satisfied with my Herculean accomplishments, I resumed my writing in an environment finally fit for human habitation. This period of my life heralded a peculiar odyssey into the psyche of a self-deluded mind.

3. TEA AND SYPMPATHY

I consider myself a compassionate human being; a good listener and generally pretty tolerant. Tales of injustice or illiberal attitudes are vexatious to me. I was therefore moved by what I came to regard as Riley’s tortured existence (or ‘condition’ as he preferred to call it).

As a child, his parents had forced him to attend a ‘church’ that abounded with theories of demonology and damnation. To my mind, this represents an abhorrent and inverted perspective of the human condition that ignores its more sublime and transcendent qualities. Doubtless, such scaremongering took its toll on poor Riley’s young mind. His father also regarded beating to be the mainstay of good parenting practices. Riley attributed much of his ‘condition’ to his brutal father.

When Riley first visited me at his flat, he was thrilled by its transformation from a hovel into home. He wasted no time in explaining that his various childhood traumas had rendered him incapable of performing even the most basic housewifery tasks. ‘Really…?’ I remember commenting with a wry grin. However, moved by his plight, I told him that I was more than happy to maintain the place, pay rent and even prepare (vegetarian) food for him should he stay over. Compassion, in hindsight, isn’t always the best policy.

Within a month, Riley had moved in to the apartment and ensconced himself in his old bedroom. Although I’d had no forewarning of this change of living arrangements, he proved to be amiable (if eccentric) company. At this point, I was fortunate in finding an offer of employment.

Things settled down into a kind of domestic ‘normality’ - although I found Riley’s insatiable curiosity about work, friends and past relations disconcerting at times. There were other matters of concern too; he rarely ventured out of the flat, he still insisted (vehemently) on windows remaining closed and obsessed over washing his hands (around 40 times a day, I learned). There was also the matter of him asking to massage my chest and arms - to which I consented since he claimed this was ‘therapeutic’ for his condition. Initially, these idiosyncrasies didn’t worry me unduly. So I indulged, humoured and entertained his whims.

I decided to help Riley apply for a higher rate of state benefits, encourage him to socialise and generally persuade him to forgo his daily diet of TV chat shows and Ferrero Rocher. I even organised an introductory consultation with a psychotherapist in the hope that it might help him to overcome his ‘condition’ and bolster confidence.

The meeting itself was a startling revelation for all concerned parties. As well as covering Riley’s obsessive-compulsive disorders, the psychiatrist went on to pry into sexual behaviour (well, what more could one possibly expect from your average kwack?). It transpired that Riley was often consumed by a desire to grope and fondle and had already done so in public on several previous occasions. Of more concern was the blithe and jocular manner with which he described these lapses of judgement. The victims of these unwelcome trysts had tended to be men of muscular build who were, understandably, enraged by his amorous advances. I speculated that Riley was lucky not to have been afforded a sturdy punch on the nose. Naturally, the psychiatrist suggested that he voluntarily signed the Sex Offenders Register. Riley refused, became agitated, and requested that the session be terminated. Latterly, he did attend further appointments after much cajoling on my part. However, after only a few sessions, he opted to end the treatment since it was ‘unhelpful to the condition’. Inevitably, I began to wonder if he either wanted to be helped or desired to change. That said, he did agree to take a mild course of sedatives to alleviate ‘agoraphobia’ (his term - not the analyst’s).

4. THRILLS AND SPILLS

Some months into my cohabitation with Riley, further unsavoury details came to light – some trivial, others less so. In many ways, both categories delineated a manifestly odious bedside manner.

Bathing time for Riley entailed frantic and repetitive scrubbing followed by several hours of basting in his own juices. The resultant layer of scum around the bathtub was only removable with bleach. The copious quantities of ‘healing oils’ poured into his bath water also resulted in repeated blockages due to congealed fat. Consequently, much of the effluent water from flats above us gurgled straight up through the hand basin and bath in a mottled plume of foam and foul-smelling water. I suggested that he might start using bathing salts instead but the idea was resoundingly rejected.

If this wasn’t gross enough, then Riley’s toiletry functions were even more repugnant. (I include this simply to illustrate the increasingly fraught situation I found myself in.) Riley had already mentioned that he avoided foodstuffs containing fibre since he detested ‘letting go’ as he called it. Due to some extraordinary carbuncle in his mental landscape, he took great pains to avoid a regular defecation. A daily intake of raw eggs (and other binding foods like white bread and chicken) coupled with, doubtless, sheer grit-determination allowed him to evade normal bowel function for days on end. However, when that moment of doom finally arrived and the floodgates opened - dear God - all hell broke lose! To this day, I’m astonished that the man didn’t self-asphyxiate in those palls of sulphurous fumes whilst perched on his porcelain throne. I remember being woken up, gasping for air, as a putrefying stench enveloped me like a cloud of mustard gas. I was forced to retreat under my duvet, praying I might be spared suffocation, or worse, a severe decimation of brain cells.

As time went by, Riley stopped taking his medication and became predominantly nocturnal. He began to suffer mood swings and was, at times, churlish. He roused himself by late afternoon and then went about his rigid daily regime of feverish ablutions, feeding and then lounging in front of the TV whilst making notes. Occasionally, he might venture to the shops but was mostly housebound. By evening he was still fastened to the sofa savouring the delights of reality television, soap operas and ‘documentaries’ about extreme medical conditions that were - to all intents and purposes - latter day freak shows. Sometimes he would ‘converse’ with the characters on these programmes. I attributed this to him seeing them as some kind of surrogate social network[?]. He conducted all his viewings at high volume which began to cause me sleep deprivation. There were numerous occasions when I had to ask him to lower the volume during the early hours of morning.

On one occasion I decided to take him out for a beer and an informal chat regarding noise levels. It was a quiet local bar that I hoped he might not find too daunting. Unlike myself, he didn’t drink a great deal so by the time I’d meandered back home with him, he was still relatively compos mentis. I, on the other hand, was sozzled. He tailed me into my bedroom and we chatted about the usual silly things that tipsy people discuss. I guess I must have drifted off to sleep. When I finally stirred, to my absolute horror, I realised that I was under attack; there was a hand up my shirt and someone was performing fellatio on me. Was it was some monstrous succubus from the nether regions gorging rapaciously at my very own nether regions? Terror-stricken, I opened my eyes...but it was worse than I imagined! The assailant was none other than my predatory flatmate who busied himself bobbing up and down at my waist...

Even if Riley was my type (which he’s not), I’m still old fashioned enough to subscribe to the idea of ‘consent’. After challenging him, he responded by saying ‘Well…I didn’t think you’d mind…?’ I explained (as evenly as I could) that yes actually, I kind of did mind and he should kindly remove his paw and jaw. Judging by his reaction, my rejection was not well received and regarded as something of a snub. In the course of the next few days he became somewhat distant towards me - which was actually a welcome respite. It also gave me some spare time to fit bolt locks to my bedroom door.

5. PULLING A FAST ONE.

Throughout my stay, Riley was employing the services of rentboys (a vernacular term for male hookers). Initially, this was hardly a concern to me and, moreover, I hoped it might keep him off my back (as it were) and provide the titillation that his life so obviously lacked. The only inconvenience was that I’d be obliged to work late on occasion, while he entertained a ‘guest’ (as he euphemistically referred to these commercial liaisons).

However, there was one such occasion that still confounds me. I’d arrived home late from dinner with a friend and was unnerved to discover a recumbent body on my bed. As you might expect, I asked of the intruder to identify themself which was countered by: ‘Who the fuck are you?’ I provided my name and began to explain that it was in fact my bedroom and I’d be much obliged if he kindly remove his person forthwith. After hurling a tirade of expletives at me, the trespasser managed to rouse himself, gather up his accoutrements and stagger towards Riley’s room.

It was then that Riley entered the fray and enquired why I’d upset his ‘friend’. I explained in no uncertain terms that my status as a tenant bestowed certain privileges, namely, a basic level of privacy and respect. Although Riley found this remark amusing his associate clearly didn’t. With all the dazzling wit and repartee of a true raconteur he informed me that I was a ‘fucking cunt’. As you might imagine, in the ensuing days relations were rather frosty.

I recall a distant friend of Riley’s once dropped by to see how he was faring. He was a very pleasant Frenchman and I’m still in touch with him. He knew Riley from years back – even though Riley never bothered to contact him. Having enquired of Riley’s exploits, the friend was promptly treated to a ‘blow-by-blow’ account of a variety of tawdry encounters.

‘Oh my God Riley,’ the friend laughed, ‘all you seem to do is eat, sleep and fuck…?’

After pondering this, Riley said (without a trace of irony), ‘Yeah…well… it’s not such a bad life though, is it?’

…hardy the sentiments of a poor, tortured soul with a ‘condition’…I conjectured.

6. I CAN’T HELP IT – IT’S THE ‘CONDITION’.

An outside observer might ask why I lingered in such a place given that it brought me such anguish. The truth is that was convenient for work, a nice part of London and the rent was very reasonable. Perhaps I too was self-deluded in my assumption that matters might improve. I must also confess that I’d acquired an almost surreal and morbid fascination with Riley’s utter repulsiveness (maybe it was the writer in me?).

Nevertheless, as a conciliatory gesture, I decided to try to attain better understanding of Riley’s condition and thereby rekindle some sympathy for him. We chatted one evening to the less than dulcet tones of Big Brother. He went on to explain that he suffered from ‘graphomania’, which he described as an overwhelming compulsion to write. ‘Is that such a terrible thing for an aspiring poet…or writer?’ said I, ‘surely there’s worse conditions that can afflict a person?’ The remark prompted Riley to explain that he was ‘polymaniacal’ (in possession of a variety of manias affecting differing mental faculties). He then went on to detail some of his more troublesome bugbears:

Anemophobia; fear of air drafts or wind, automysophobia; fear of being dirty, coprophobia; fear of faeces, ablutomania; obsession with being clean, clinomania; excessive desire to stay in bed (or, in the common tongue, 'lazy').

‘There’s others too,’ Riley explained, ‘I discovered them all from my self-help books…’

‘Heavens!’ I exclaimed, ‘…what other ailments could a poor fellow possibly endure…?’

‘peotillomania,’ he explained casually, ‘it’s an abnormal compulsion for pulling on one’s penis…’

‘I…um…see…’ I stuttered, ‘but is that really such a bad thing? I mean we all indulge in the odd spot of that once in a while…surely? Where’s the harm…y’know?’

It was at this point that he revealed that he’d been placing his ear against my bedroom door late at night to ascertain whether I was masturbating.

‘Would it actually matter if I was?’ I blushed.

‘Yes,’ he insisted, ‘because it disturbs my condition...’

I began to speculate that he’d studied and collected manias and phobias in the same way others might collect postage stamps. These concepts were then enmeshed into a shroud of self-delusion that both justified his idleness and exonerated him from all accusations of wrongdoing. Thus, he could live the life of a libertine, be financed by the state benefits system and be free to transgress all parameters of decency and friendship without fear of guilt or reprisal. But underlying this dark tangled web, I suspected, was ‘hypengyophobia’ i.e. a fear of responsibility…

7. THE LAST STRAW

Gee was an American poet that I’d met at a bar. He’d captivated me with spellbinding verse. He was confident, charming and handsome. It was a joy to share his company. Yes, there were complications; he was out of work and also still dealing with emotional fallout from a previous relationship but overall, I had high hopes for the two of us. I think we both sought something uncomplicated so we were taking things slowly. Kisses, hugs, flirting; still wondering which one of us would be brave enough to take things to the next level…

Gee loaned me some music CDs and mentioned that he might collect them a few days later. He lived nearby so it was easily done. I asked Riley if he would mind passing on the CDs if Gee happened to drop by. Riley assured me it was ‘no problem’ and ‘I’ll handle it…’. Later on that week Riley informed me that Gee had indeed collected his CDs and passed on his regards. Great. By this time, I’d arranged to see Gee at the weekend.

‘Something happened,’ was the ominous remark when I next met Gee and thanked him for the loan of his music.

‘Eh?’ I quizzed anxiously, ‘what d’you mean?’

‘With Riley,’ he said, ‘but I needed the dough…’

‘Hang on Gee, I’m lost. What are you trying to tell me?’

Gee gazed at me searchingly. ‘It just freakin’ happened okay? First he offered fifty but I said “no fuckin’ way man!”. Shit, what does he take me for? But then the deal kept gettin’ higher ‘n’ higher. Hell, I ain’t workin’...and three hundred y'know? That's a lotta dough when you ain’t got nothin’…’

‘You mean...you…with Riley…?’

‘Yeah, that’s the deal. But don’t trip on it. I ain’t into his shit. It's you I'm into - I swear. So we’re still tight, yeah?

‘Gee, I’m going home.’

Despite Gee’s protestations, I headed back utterly crestfallen. Yes, he’d been incredibly candid with me (should I have been more forgiving?) but…the thought of him with Riley…? Euch! I was confused, distressed, messed up… I couldn’t think straight and lacked the moral fibre to discuss the matter further. What was done was done. I chose not to confront Riley about his actions that evening since my mind was in turmoil.

The next morning, I had a more rational perspective. It struck me as richly ironic that Riley would never have been able to make such a tempting financial offer to Gee had I not helped him to obtain extra state benefit. I confess that I found his actions treacherous, amoral and insufferably loathsome. As for Gee, well at least he’d only done it for the money! Despite this partial justification, regretfully, I opted not to see him again.

My thoughts turned to Riley. Did he, in some perverse way, illicit pleasure from my torment or were his actions simply down to an insatiable lust for anything in trousers? To this day, I’m still unsure. I have a theory, however, that he was so fascinated by my ‘normal’ life that he desired to live it by proxy. Indeed, he did his utmost to wheedle out every turn of events from me, every observation and insight to the extent that some evenings it was exasperating. Did he covet this perceived fulfilment, this richness and seek to share in those associated sensations, experiences, pleasures…boyfriends?

I don’t especially relish indecorous displays but sometimes I suppose they're inevitable. It all began in a gentlemanly enough fashion. I began to quiz Riley on his views about transgressions against friendship and personal ethics. Then I mentioned that I was aware of his seduction of Gee and asked him about his motives. I asserted that some might find his actions abhorrent, disloyal and even amoral. Predictably, Riley blamed the ‘condition’ for his behaviour. I argued that a ‘condition’ implies a spontaneous or involuntary act - not a calculated, considered and skilfully executed haggle over payment for sex. Moreover, striking a bargain like that required a reasonable degree of mental lucidity, cunning and even forethought. I demanded to know if he’d planned to reveal this despicable deed. Things got heated.

‘Things happen sometimes…’ he grinned smugly, ‘it is what it is…’

‘But what it actually is,’ I reasoned back, ‘…is testimony to your character.’

‘Yeah…well…welcome to the real world Edwin…’ came the sardonic reposte.

What, I thought, would you know of the real world? ...The sheer, towering conceit of the man was beyond human comprehension!

It was at that point I realised that neither explanation nor apology would be forthcoming. After all, in order to apologise one must first acknowledge wrongdoing. Riley’s propensity for self-delusion denied him this awareness. After all, Riley’s not responsible, is he? He might be patronising, evasive, even calculating…but accountable? No, impossible – responsibility lays squarely with his ‘condition' right?

The upshot of this argument was Riley placing a ban on all visitors of mine to his little tin pot dictatorship of a flat. In some ways, this was a relief since my sister was planning to stay over (and I subsequently discovered that Riley had occasional bisexual tendencies). I’m damn sure that my sibling would never have forgiven me if she’d been grappled by this degenerate. Oh yes - a narrow escape from the jaws of disaster.

It was all becoming an unfathomable mess, a mire…a theatre of the absurd. I realised one thing though – if I stayed at Riley’s place any longer, I’d end up nuttier than a squirrel poo. It was too high a price to pay. I’d had enough of the intrusions, the abuses, the betrayals and all those hackneyed excuses that inevitably followed in their wake. Time to move on…get the hell out...

To this day, Riley remains an enigma to me. Was he insane…? Was he a chameleon, a charlatan…a consummate actor striking the pose of a madman?

Ultimately, I shall never know.

© Edwin Black

The improbable case of the purple scrotum

Welcome back to this great bastion of discerning good taste…

The other day, whilst sprawling languidly at my escritoire, I was struck by an idea for a short story. To some, it might seem a tale that’s in excruciatingly poor taste. However, I’ve always subscribed to the notion that it’s better to be disapproved of and infamous than, ‘nice’ and ignored. The latter, of course, represents a state worse than death to any artist. Indeed, despite being the current whimsy of popular culture, insipidness has never been regarded as a virtue (excepting diplomatic circles). Furthermore, I’ve come to the conclusion that the unhealthy over-reverence of convention, good taste and ‘sacred cows’ is one of the great blights upon freethinking. In keeping with this, I’ll leave you with a little ditty I recently tossed-off entitled; ‘The improbable case of the purple scrotum’. I hope you find it amusing.

The improbable case of the purple scrotum

The events and characters in the following story are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, persons or organisations is purely coincidental. Opinions expressed herein do not necessarily represent those of the author. Please N.B. that no animals were harmed in the writing of this story.

PART I – Putting two and two together…

Detective Sergeant Collins was a woman on a mission. Having completed her brief training, she’d embarked upon the career of a lifetime. At thirty-two, she’d been seconded to operation ‘Trojan Barbie’; a clandestine arm of the Metropolitan Police Force. ‘Trojan Barbie’ comprised an elite band of men and women driven by a singular purpose - to eradicate criminality from the shadowy murk of the Internet. Popular wisdom suggested that this virtual world had become heavily infiltrated by pederasts, terrorists, con-artists and even the common-or-garden pervert. Indeed, thanks to the diligence of a few good men (i.e. hysterical tabloid newspaper editors), politicians had finally cottoned on to the idea that the vast majority of online users were latent criminals and should be treated as such. Consequently, considerable public funds had been urgently earmarked for a mass online surveillance operation. Afterall, western civilisation had to be saved from this festering behemoth.

Given D.S. Collins’s middling linguistic credentials, she’d been the obvious choice to deal with a particularly persistent menace. Tracking software had flagged up an individual who went by the name of ‘football*kid’. The subsequent debriefing had highlighted the fact that the screen name (in a popular teenager’s chatroom) represented neither a kid nor a fan of the beautiful game. Rather, it was the masquerade of a predator trawling the web in order to score rather more nefarious goals.

She’d been advised that ‘football*kid’ was almost certainly male in his mid fifties and a manual labourer. The expert profiler had also hypothesized that he was obese and had low self-esteem. There was also a distinct possibility that, although married with children, he had little or no confidence with women of his own years. The very idea that a family man, rather than some weirdo loner, could be culpable did not sit well with Collin’s preconceptions. This, in spite of her own home truths regarding her father.

It had been a long, and so far, tiresome night. Collin’s attempts to ensnare ‘football*kid’ in the guise of her own alter-ego, ‘pigtails’, had, so far, proven fruitless. However, Collins was certainly no quitter. Her sheer tenacity had already achieved unparalleled success in the conviction of a clutch of unwitting fiends. Although football*kid’ employed a more tacit approach than most, she would assuredly get him in the end.

Of course, it’s widely understood amongst the professional criminal fraternity that young people’s chatrooms and social-networking sites are so heavily populated by undercover police officers that the average age of its occupants is thirty-seven. In fact, career criminals such people traffickers, recruiting jihadists and Catholic priests avoided them like the plague. The most ‘Trojan Barbie’ could ever hope for would be to nab the occasional blundering halfwit.

Given these inordinately high concentrations of psyched-up law enforcement officers, the probability of an occasional misunderstanding was fairly high. Indeed, natural laws dictate that when prey becomes relatively scarce, predators invariably turn on themselves and resort to cannibalism.

It was unfortunate, therefore, that D.S. Collins remained blissfully unaware that her correspondent (none other than D.S. Pauline Ashcroft) was engaged in similar crime detection activities at a secret location in Shropshire. Indeed, it came as no surprise when ‘football*kid’ asked her if she ‘liked ball games’. She considered her response carefully before resuming the elaborate ruse. ‘Yes I like netball and hockey,’ she keyed, ‘what ball games are you into?’

Some miles north, D.S. Pauline Ashcroft, considered her response to such a leading question. After some careful deliberation, she resumed typing. ‘I like to play lots of different ball games. Oh yeah, I really like playing with my balls! And I love it when I score...’

Back in a rather nondescript office in London, D.S. Collins considered the subtext of the message (was there any?). This was surely a pretty blatant and disgusting insinuation? Apparently, the vile creature was deliberately steering the conversation toward a sexual agenda via innuendo. The balls in question needed grabbing pretty urgently and yanked down to the nearest cop-shop. She hastily resumed, ‘My mummy just gave me a new netball kit. Would you like to see it or wot?’

D.S. Ashcroft was suitably flabbergasted by such a brazen invitation. This sicko was seriously audacious! ‘Pigtails’ was clearly an absolute menace that had to be taken out at all costs. There was no time to lose. Her heart pounded as she deftly tapped in her reply. ‘Yeah…sure. If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine - I’d love to see your strip. Maybe you’d like me to shoot one into the back of the net sometime?’

Meanwhile, D.S. Collins squinted in disbelief. Every moment that this maniac was on the loose could spell dire consequences. However, ‘Trojan Barbie’ methodology required certain checks and balances. She needed to wheedle out a clear statement of specific intent. The monster would have to proposition ‘pigtails’ in some fashion. Inspiration was quick to arrive. ‘I want to be friends. Maybe we could play together?’

As the instant message appeared on her screen, D.S. Ashcroft raised her hands in triumph. ‘Yes!’ she exclaimed triumphantly, ‘you’re so under arrest, you perv.’ She redoubled her efforts into typing. ‘Yes, I’d like to play. Where do you live?’

This was it, Collins realised - this was the clincher! She promptly adjusted herself below the desk. She became aware of a rather peculiar sensation. In fact, she was experiencing a rather disconcerting sensation of arousal. As she re-focussed her attentions back to the job-in-hand, she realised that she’d still not managed to pinpoint the perpetrator’s location. Maybe he’d got anti-tracking software? It was certainly proof that she dealing with quite a criminal mastermind (relatively speaking, that is). Thinking quickly, she recalled an enclosed location that was well served by CCTV. A shopping centre appeared to be the obvious choice. ‘I live near Croydon. We could meet in town. There’s a pet shop in the shopping centre…’

Meanwhile, D.S. Ashcroft was already triangulating the location. It was quite a long drive but it could be reached in a matter of hours. Soon, she’d be able to substantiate her theory that behind every ‘pigtail’ out there lurked some grubby old arsehole. Ashcroft formulated a rendezvous time as she began typing ‘Yes, I know the pet shop. I can meet you there at three tomorrow. I like doggies and I like the position. And you?’

D.S. Collins immediately hit the red button by her desk to notify the rapid response unit. It looked as if the match would be played on home turf. It was reassuring to think that ‘football*kid’ was on the verge of scoring the biggest home goal of his entire worthless life. Then it would be game over for one hell of a long time. Despite the fact that he’d somehow eluded their location detector, this particular villain would soon discover that the second half of his nasty little game would be played out in HMP Wandsworth. She returned her attentions to the keyboard. ‘Yes, I love doggies. 3pm is good for me. How will I know it’s you?’

DC Ashcroft hit the ‘livelink’ button on her keyboard. All her team were now privy to the unfolding drama of her cyber chat. The evidence against ‘pigtails’ was unequivocal. The events of the next few hours would probably even gain her a commendation. There was no time to loose. ‘I’ll be wearing a red sweatshirt with a big yellow balloon on it. You like balloons? What will you be wearing?’

Collins pondered her wardrobe for a moment. Most of her skirts were so skimpy that her off-duty colleagues had often jokingly referred her to as the Met’s ‘finest asset’. However, she did have a pink trouser suit she’d bought for a staff fancy-dress party. It would have to suffice. ‘I’ll be all in pink. I’ll also have little pigtails and a pink sparkly handbag. I bet you’ll love it! And yes, I really like pretty balloons.’

For D.S. Ashcroft, the momentary vision of a faux-camp, burley, cross-dressing construction worker seemed somewhat incongruous with the psychological profile. However, experience had taught her that monsters appeared in many guises. After finalising the rendezvous she decided to quiz ‘pigtails’ a little further about the peculiar choice of clothes.

It was probable that the pair would never have met and engaged in mutual online entrapment, if it wasn’t for an oversight on the part of Piers Cunningham (a malingering pen-pusher in Whitehall). Piers was charged with the duty of alerting surveillance teams to incidences of ‘website overlap’. However, Pier’s highly professional level of incompetence had placed both Collins and Ashcroft in dire peril.


PART II – Getting the wrong end of the stick.

It was now a game of cat and mouse (and budgerigar, hamster, rabbit etc.). D.S. Collins and her team had positioned themselves strategically about the ‘Pete’s Pet Paradise’. Amidst the squawking, mewing and barking, she activated her walkie-talkie. ‘Any sign of him yet, Reid?’ There was a moment of static.

‘No, nothing front of shop ma'am. Suspect hasn’t showed. Think he’ll turn up? Just that the parrot’s crapped on me again.’

‘Stick with it Reid. He’ll show,’ Collins reassured her subordinate, ‘besides, it’s not quite three yet. I imagine this freak’s pretty fixated with timekeeping. Always the way.’

‘Ma'am.’

‘Okay. Is Lawley still outside with the balloons?’

‘Yeah, I see him. He’s attracted quite a lot of punters though.’

‘Just keep a look out, alright? I don’t want this guy catching us unawares.’ As Collins nonchalantly turned a carousel of pet care books she glanced surreptitiously at a woman and child. Was that the girl’s real mother, she wondered? Maybe something far more sinister dwelt behind the seemingly harmless interplay of childish exuberance and maternal assurances?

Her radio crackled into life. ‘Erm, hello? This Emil at control HQ. We got something on CCTV. Looks like the…ahh…‘person’ yes? With balloon logo. It’s a woman though. She head your way…’

‘Eh? A woman?’

‘Affirmative. Thirty-ish, brown hair. Could be wrong, but I don’t think she’s alone.’

Collin’s mind began to race. ‘Not alone? What do you mean?’

‘Well, a couple of guys follow her. I think so, anyway…’

Collins rapidly calculated various scenarios. What if this villain had sent a stooge? Or maybe they were dealing with a transvestite and a couple of stalkers? That was possible too. However, the presence of possible henchmen would complicate matters. She hastily radioed Reid. ‘It’s possible there’s three of them, maybe more. Think you can handle it?’

‘Oh yeah, definitely. Showtime! Get ready to kick some ass,’ Reid said excitedly with a poorly feigned American accent.

‘Well, I’m calling in backup. Where’s Strachen?’

‘Hampsters. There he is! Repeat, suspect approaching…’

‘Alright guys. Wait until they’re inside the shop. They must be cornered before we bring ‘em down. I want this one to be smooth and quick.’

‘Okay boss. Lock ‘n’ load.’ Reid enthused.

‘Jesus Christ, Reid, just stay focussed okay?’

Collins peered between the bars of a cage and caught sight of her ‘entrapee’ that Emil had described. He appeared to loiter at the balcony whilst talking to himself. Abruptly, the suspect made a sharp beeline for the entrance. There was something unnerving in the fact that he did indeed exhibit a superficially feminine appearance despite a butch, rather strident manner. But that was immaterial - there was no going back now.

‘Ok guys, on my order…’ she murmured into her walkie-talkie.

However, as soon as the suspect crossed the threshold, there was pandemonium. Reid, already bristling with youthful vigour, launched himself. As he collided with the suspect, there was a shriek as the pair barrelled into a cage of Parakeets. Even before the cage had clattered to the ground, an unidentified assailant charged at the recumbent forms. He leapt onto Reid, heaving him into his back, fists flailing. Strachen bolted towards the affray, truncheon drawn, bringing it down onto the accomplice’s shoulder blade. In the melee of punches and thrashing limbs, a goldfish bowl toppled over dousing the writhing forms with assortment of tropical fish.

‘Shit! Back up! Where’s the bloody back up for Christ’s sakes?’ Collins screamed into her radio.

Outside the shop, an incensed D.C. Lawley promptly relinquished his remaining balloons and charged towards the fight. The poor, ill-fated goldfish that he slipped on spent it’s last seconds couriering the officer into a stack of hamster cages sending them toppling against a stack of chinchillas which, in turn, felled an outcrop of bird boxes.

Unfortunately, Collin’s frantic cry of ‘Stop! Police officers!’ was interpreted by her northern counterparts as recognition of their own status. It moved them to redouble their efforts; now imbued with the belief that their attackers had deduced their identities and were attempting to affect a desperate escape.

Collins wisely held back, realising that the fracas was becoming decidedly vicious. Afterall, what could she do until backup arrived?

Somehow, Reid’s trousers had been wrestled down and the prime suspect appeared to be grappling with his testicles in an attempt to immobilise him.

‘Get yer fuckin’ hands of me yer nonce!’ He bawled, before issuing an agonised howl that punctured the frenzied cacophony of squawks and squeals. Meanwhile, Lawley was set upon by a third attacker who was promptly reinforced by the arrival of a fourth. D.C. Strachen broke cover and dived into the affray. One of the criminals had been fortunate in the discovery of a large dog chew, which was proving to be a very effective improvised cudgel. As the brawl spiralled into pitched-battle, a crowd of onlookers had gathered outside. Many of them cheered as the blows were exchanged and there was the occasional rallying call of ‘Go on my son, ‘it ‘im!’

However, one of the more civic-minded citizens opted to call emergency services, who in turn, referred the report on to the rapid response unit. In fact, the incidence of another random act of wanton destruction and brutality was entirely plausible for Croydon given the pugilistic nature of the populace. One only had to recall the riotous tantrum thrown following England’s defeat in the World Cup.

Collins slunk back of the shop but was swiftly confronted by ‘Pete’, the rather apoplectic shop owner.

‘Ere, ‘ave yer seen what they’re doin’ to all my bleedin’ stock? I’ll be fuckin’ ruined, I tell yer! I can’t afford this!’

Collins rounded on him, ‘Listen you, back off okay? Just stay out of this or I’ll have you arrested!’

‘Me arrested!’ he bellowed, ‘Listen, it’s you who should be bloody arrested. This is criminal damage mate! And someone’s g’nu ‘ave to pay for all this bleedin’ lot an’ all!’

Collins was incensed. ‘I’m warning you, yeah? If, you carry on with anymore threatening behaviour, I’ll do you for disturbance of the peace!’

The dispute was cut short by the sudden arrival of hoards of heavily armoured riot police who swarmed into the shop wielding Tasers which were promptly discharged. Collins gazed in disbelief as boots and truncheons rained down. Sheer force of numbers and a few well-aimed blows finally restored order. Bruised and battered, the ‘insurgents’ were forcibly dragged from what remained of the pet shop and promptly handcuffed. Despite their protestations and flash of the occasional badge, they were frogmarched, staggering and limping, into awaiting police vehicles.

Collins opted to avoid any potential personal injury and go quietly. It was a simple misunderstanding, she tried to assure herself. However, this rather charitable assessment of the situation wasn’t one shared by her superiors.


PART III – Swallowing one’s pride…

‘Tell me Collins, do the words ‘total fucking catastrophe’ mean anything to you?’ Detective Inspector Humes hissed menacingly from across the desk.

‘Sir, if you’ll just let me go over this, I’d like to…’

‘Like to what? Explain?' Humes balled. ‘Listen Collins, we’ve invested nigh-on three million in acquiring this tracking software. How hard can it be to apprehend someone? I mean, it should be easier than catching a turd in a shitstorm, surely?’

Collins shrunk somewhat, unable to meet the fearsome glare that verged on the belligerent. ‘Yes sir, I suppose so. But I…'

‘Listen, do you honestly think we can afford a repeat performance of the Portsmouth Paedophile riots? Christ, resources are already stretched to breaking-point without having to post a guard on every paediatrician, pedicurist and pied-à-terre owner in the fucking borough! We were set up to help avoid repeats of the braying rabble going loco, not to recreate it!’ Humes snarled.

Collins swallowed hard, words struggled to escape a parched throat. ‘With, erm…all due respect sir…I did follow procedures. If you’ve read my report you’ll see…'

‘Read your report?’ Humes seethed. ‘No I haven’t read your damn report. You wanna know why? Well, I’ve spent all morning trawling through forty-seven pages of shit from the Police Complaints Authority. After that, I’ve got to deal with compensation claims from Pete’s Pet Purveyor. And I note that the he’s demanding recompense for pig’s ears amongst the other damaged stock. Ironic, don’t you think? I mean, seeing as you’ve made such a fucking pig’s ear of this whole operation?’

Collins glanced up at the chief sullenly before returning her gaze to the floor.

‘Oh, and the shopkeeper’s also threatening to sue us for loss of trade!’ Humes barked, regarding the document he was holding. ‘Not forgetting, of course, a traumatised parrot, a crushed hamster, a gerbil with concussion and thirteen asphyxiated goldfish. Jesus, there must be more chance of finding residual animal life in an abotoirre!'

‘But sir, it was Reid,’ Collins implored, ‘He didn’t…’

‘I’m not interested in Reid. It was you heading up this fucking debacle and I ought to have you thrown out the force.’

Collins shifted uncomfortably in an unnerving silence.

‘And, of course, this isn’t the first little fuck-up from you, Collins. I mean, it was only last week when you arrested Mr Ortega for emailing residents in his care home photos of his great-granddaughter’s swimming trip. I mean the guy been incontinent and bed-ridden for nine years for Christ’s sake! He had no previous form either. Do you honestly think this person represents a threat? I mean you’d only need to follow the trail of piss to catch the poor old bastard.’

‘But sir, I followed procedures to the letter. If you’d only check my case notes you’d see that.’ Collins offered.

‘Listen Collins, you’d better have a damn good explanation for this latest fucking fiasco. If not, I think you’ll find that your career in the force is gonna vanish faster than of a bar of soap in nun’s bathhouse!’ Humes bawled. ‘I mean, I’ve just had the Chief on the blower who’s ready to turn my testicles into a novelty desk ornament.’

Collins sighed despondently, desperately trying to reorder the chaotic jumble of events that now threatened to engulf her.

‘I’ve now got the medical reports in front of me and they don’t make for pleasant reading. I mean, I’ve only glanced through them so far but I’ve already seen a partly chewed off ear, two broken noses and a dislocated shoulder. The sick leave alone for this little lot will haemorrhage our budget. And how the hell some poor bastard ended up with a distended testicle is, quite frankly, beyond me! Don’t you think I’ve got better things to do with my time than look through photos of purple scrotums? Hmm?’ Humes fumed.

Collins blanched under the withering stare. ‘But Sir, I followed our procedures. As I say, if you check my case notes…’

'I’ve don’t care about your report, damn it! There’s no excuse for this. What the hell were you all thinking of? I mean, there must have been one hell of a cock-up somewhere along the line?'

It was certainly true that Collins was no stranger to ‘cock-ups’. Yes, she’d had her time of being a good-time girl of Croydon but wasn't that was all behind her now? Besides, it was considered rude not to be a predatory nymphomaniac in that part of the world. Still, she felt increasingly indignant at being made into a scapegoat. ‘With all due respect Sir, I believe that it was our procedures at fault. I mean maybe we’ve moved too far towards the assumption of guilt and forgotten the presumption of innocence. We’ve stopped being dispassionate in these cases. I mean, the whole country’s turned paranoid.

‘Go on...’ Humes pressed testily.

‘We’re effectively second-guessing an intention using 'pet theories'; top-down processing. But despite following these operational procedures it's still, ultimately, just hunches. Technology hasn’t changed that, sir. Hunches can occasionally be way off the mark. I may have made the wrong assumption this time, but most of them have turned out to be spot on. I’ve saved many vulnerable people. But we’re still playing a game of probability here, Sir. I just think it’s something that’s been forgotten somewhere along the line, that’s all.’

‘Hmm, well, I suppose I can see your points.’ Humes conceded reluctantly, eying up his subordinate’s pert nipples. (He’d deliberately turned down the heating in order to bring out the best in her). She was certainly feisty too. It was a fine quality in a woman. Humes wondered longingly what other qualities lay hidden under her bushel. Of course, he’d heard the rumours of the ‘office letterbox’. Indeed as things stood, there was still a lot riding on her. She had great potential - way more than many of the other hopefuls.

Collins felt threatened by Hume’s silent deliberation. The last thing she needed was a disciplinary on her record. Fortunately, she was extremely well versed in the art of charm. ‘Sir, I love this job. I’m totally, one hundred percent committed to the work,’ She cooed breathily. ‘It was an honest mistake Sir. I just wish you could overlook it somehow. I’ll do anything to keep this job…anything. And, yes I do mean anything...” she pleaded coquettishly.

Humes got up purposefully and locked the door. Collins gave him a knowing look as he hastily unfastened his fly.

“Okay, Collins. I’m prepared to give you a second chance this time. I’ll accept your proposal, provided that you accept mine.”

“Your wish it my command, Daddy,” Collins cooed, whilst trying to appear bashful.

What began as a something of a tongue-lashing ended with one, although this time - it had to be said - it was a very happy ending.

© Edwin Black