Just Another Day - Clark Steven (читать полностью книгу без регистрации TXT) 📗
She always knew, well before the punishment, that it was on its way as the two of them, Da and Uncle Joe, could be heard two streets away as their hob nailed boots would sound loudly on the cobbled granite sets. Da’s boots made a very distinctive sound as a consequence of a limp from a shipyard accident when she was a baby.
A cotton bale had fallen from a sling as it was being lowered onto a wagon. As it hit the edge of the trailer, the gang of Dockers had all scrambled clear but her Da didn’t move quickly enough and his left leg was smashed in two places. She often wondered whether or not God had punished him for being a bad man or did he only become a bad man after the accident? Either way, there was many a time when she used to wish that the bale had fallen on his head instead of his leg.
With her lifestyle and foul mouth when drunk, Dave didn’t expect her to live a long and happy life.
Sometimes, when on patrol in the early hours of the morning, he would see a figure slumped in the door way of one of the dock sheds. On many occasions, she had a split lip or a black eye as a consequence of mouthing off at a punter who would consider that as he had bought her services he could knock her about either whilst having sex, or afterwards instead of paying for it. Most of the blokes were ok; but there were others, a fair few of them, who got their kicks from violent sex.
Even when she knew the identity of her attacker, she would never make a complaint; as far as she was concerned, it was an occupational hazard. There was definitely no happy ending in sight for her way of living. Pain, suffering and drunkenness was the world she lived in. He didn’t think that world was likely to get much better any time soon.
The revving engine brought him back once more, another glance at the watch; nearly there.
What Dave didn’t like, and what most of his colleagues disliked the most, was working the gates. “Freeze your bollocks off in winter; sweat like a fucking pig in summer. Fancy that do you?” He remembered the words of the recruiting Sergeant when he had first applied to join the force after leaving the army.
He hated doing it but also understood that it was one of the most important jobs. They were the entry and exit to the Docks where everyone, people, cars, Lorries; all had to go through to either enter or leave the Dock Estate.
At each gate was a ‘bobby’ whose job was to check people, wagons, cars; anything that went in or out of the gates, to make sure that they had legitimate business within the Port and to be certain that the more dishonest were not attempting to take the docks home with them! Anything or any one who looked a bit suspicious or dodgy would be ‘pulled’ and searched before leaving the gate.
Hundreds, if not thousands of Lorries, the lifeblood of the Port, went in and out of the docks each day carrying every conceivable commodity from bulk cargos of timber, steel, animal foodstuffs: to containers carrying clothing, furniture, through to high value cargos of bullion, used bank notes or spirits. Some containers carried dangerous cargos of firearms or explosives.
Whatever item you can think of, it has probably gone in or out of one of those Dock gates at one time or another.
The gate officers hardly ever know what the containers consist of but for security purposes, each driver as he leaves the docks has to give a gate pass to the officer and once he has checked the pass details of correct date, time, container number, vehicle registration number etc, the Lorry would leave the docks for some far flung location such as sunny Birkenhead!
Another day, another dollar, another night shift nearly done. Not long now before his Morning Duty colleague would relieve him from the furthest outpost of the Port of Liverpool known to all and sundry as the Bramley Moore gate and home to a warm bed which would soon be vacated by the lovely Mandy. He smiled once more at the thought of her warm knickerless cheeks snuggled beneath the duvet. You never know, thought Dave, maybe a quick one before the kids wake up.
He looked down the dock avenue in the direction of the accelerating engine and saw the headlights approach. As it drew nearer he could see the Mercedes HGV pulling a forty foot trailer with a container on the back destined for some exotic location he knew not where.
He sometimes played a little game whereby he would try to guess the intended destination of the load. North or South, he wondered. Scotland or Birmingham. ‘Scotland’ said Dave to no one in particular. ‘Glasgow I reckon for today’s little excursion.’
As the wagon approached his gate, he recognised the driver as a regular. He didn’t know him well; only that his name was Joe and that he had worked for McAdams Transport firm for a few years. He was a local bloke who was a fervent supporter of Everton FC for his sins; still, he supposed, someone had to support them.
Dave, being a Liverpool fan, liked to share a bit of banter with Joe and usually a few friendly insults about the others team passed between them.
Another glance at the watch. Nearly there now. Another 20 minutes or so and the morning bobby will be here and time for the off.
Dave thought about the saying he had heard countless times over the years, A policeman’s lot is not a happy one. Well, thought Dave, I’m pretty happy right now; nearly time to go.
Chapter 3
The wagon pulled up at the gate a few yards from Dave with a hiss from the air brakes and dust, kicked up from the stone granite sets of the road surface, swirled around. He went to the driver’s side of the cab and the window slowly wound open and Joe reached down to give Dave the police pass.
‘Mornin Joe,’ said Dave. ‘How’s that shite team of yours then?’ He looked up into the driver’s seat expecting to see Joe grinning that toothy grin with a fag hanging out of his mouth.
Joe wasn’t smoking, he wasn’t grinning. In fact, he wasn’t even looking at Dave. He was staring straight ahead staring out of the windscreen.
‘You’re a happy bastard this morning. What’s up, either your piles are giving you gip or you didn’t get your leg over last night. Which one eh? No shagging, or a sore arse. Mind you, if I was your missus and married to you, it would have to be a sore arse as you definitely wouldn’t be getting any shagging off me you fat miserable old git.’
As he spoke, Dave moved to the front of the wagon to note that the registration number matched the details on the Pass. After doing the gates for so long, it was an instinctive reaction and more often than not all the details were correct. Sometimes it was necessary to send a vehicle back to the point of loading if there was an error in the paperwork. No problem today. Everything okay.
Again, out of habit, Dave glanced up at the passenger side of the windscreen to check that the Tax Disc was displayed in the lower left hand corner. It was still quite dark at this time of the morning on a damp early March day and at first, Dave didn’t see him.
Sat in the passenger seat, he could barely make out the figure of a man wearing a dark jacket and baseball cap. Joe didn’t usually have a passenger at this time of the morning, must be another driver getting a lift mused Dave. ‘Mornin mate, pity you sat next to this old fart, hope you don’t have far to go,’ said Dave as he turned away.
He went back to the driver’s side window and handed the copy of the pass back to Joe. ‘OK you miserable prick, better get your sad arse up the road before it gets busy and you might just get back in time to see your lot get stuffed again.’ Dave thought that; piles or not, the friendly insults would bring a grin from the old bugger.
Joe sat rigid, hands gripping the steering wheel and still staring straight ahead. As Dave looked up at his unsmiling normally friendly adversary, he saw a small trickle of sweat appear from under his flat cap and run slowly down his right temple onto his cheek. Even a fat fucker like Joe wouldn’t be sweating on a cold morning like this thought Dave.
