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666 Great Junction Street

Part 22

There was an almighty thud as Whitney attempted to force open the police station doors using Shadney's Burberry buggy.

As the child/thing burst into tears, Ryan rained invective all over the entrance, accusing the inhabitants, fittings and furniture of abuse, harassment and mental cruelty.

'Ma bairn's trommitised. Dae somethin'!'

Sgt Sturgeon, after mentally unleashing another Gattling gun type blitzkrieg on the latest clients, sighed so heavily that Jakey Rolling's witch's hat swayed gently atop her grey mane.

'Can I help you sir?' he asked, his teeth clenched into a smile so tense he almost ground the upper and lower sets into each other.

'Aye, ye can help me,' barked Ryan as he swaggered purposefully through the disjointed crowd, shouldering all before him aside. 'Whit are ye gonny dae aboot this?'

He indicated his bawling offspring. A collective shudder rippled threw the crowd.

'Feed it through the department's shredder,' popped immediately into the sergeant's head. However, out came, 'What appears to be the problem, sir?'

'Problem? Problem, is it? I'll tell ye whit the problem is. The problem is youse!'

Jakey Rolling eyed the animated young urchin up, down , sideways and diagonally. 'Excuse me, young man, but I was here first….'

'Shut it, ya freak! Ma bairn's been scarred fur life cos o these eejits and thur megaphones and shoutin' and that.'

'And what is your point, sir?' Sgt Sturgeon was a picture of calmness and composure. (But only because, inside, mass murder on an apocalyptic scale raged unfettered and rampant through his superego).

'Point? Point, is it? I'll tell you whit the point is,' spluttered Ryan. 'The point is…' There followed a prolonged silence, during which the chemical particles and thought patterns leaping around Ryan's brain juggled helplessly with the electrical impulses engendered by his last statement in a hectic attempt to construct some kind of logical conclusion to the sentence spilling out his mouth unchecked by the numbskull inspectorate wandering aimlessly round the caverns of his mind. He couldn't think of what to say next. A complete blank. Like some numbskull minion had just tripped over a wordpower cable and pulled the plug.

This didn't often happen to Ryan. Usually when he was stuck for words it was because he just couldn't be bothered to finish what he was saying. For Ryan, talking was what you were supposed to do to fill in the spaces between action and sleep. Making sense wasn't really necessary. It was the noise that counted. When the mouth sounds stopped, telly could take over.

The assembled throng swiveled and stared expectantly at Ryan, eager to hear just what the point was. He stared, transfixed by the bank of eyes trained on him, bristling with sensitivity and unsure of who to shout at first.

And then, Seraphema Fox-Mangler and Sylvester Rambling flounced through the doors and marched straight up to the sergeant's desk.

'I wish to register a complaint about my neighbours,' announced Sylvester authoritatively. 'They have tendrils.'

Next week: Neebs



The Soundtrack