West Yorkshire Police are cunts. I’d been sat in that tiny, filthy cell for what felt like three or four hours. There was no clock on the wall, and they took my watch off me when I was booked in at the front desk. My watch, my wallet, my phone, and a small plastic bag containing the smallest remnants of MDMA powder – leftovers from a night at The Kestrel. Not my car keys though; these were still in the ignition when I was dragged from the vehicle, shouting and cursing the interfering bastards in their shitty black uniforms.

I could still taste blood in the back of my throat. The ambulance guys cleaned me up at the side of the road, they checked me over thoroughly before the police bundled me into the back of one of their cars. This blood wasn’t from a cut though – it had trickled down from my right nostril whilst I sat in the back of the car, watching as the fire brigade set to work trying to free the Volvo driver. The blood had gathered in my moustache and started to thicken, depositing a small amount down onto my lips and into my mouth every few minutes. Drip-feeding me a harsh reminder of tonight’s bad decision.

Was it a bad decision though? Not according to the endorphins that had been running through me for the last few hours. Not according to the massive release of pressure that took place within my brain at the moment of impact. I might have even got a little bit hard in the seconds following the crash. I might have even spunked.

I should check.

I looked down at my blood-spattered jeans, specifically at my crotch. I’d not even been for a piss since leaving the pub. Maybe I hadn’t been sat there as long as I thought? I undid my buttons and pulled my jeans open.

Where’s my belt? Oh shit yeah – the bastards took that too.

Apparently I might have used it to hang myself in the cell. I can’t imagine anything sadder than being found hanged by a two pound fifty fake-leather belt from ASDA. Fucking thing probably wouldn’t have held my weight anyway. If I was going to hang myself then I’d choose something expensive like a Gucci or Armani belt – or at least M&S.

I pulled the front of my boxers down, and started inspecting my penis for evidence of dried semen.


“Mr Fury, they’re almost ready for you now. Mr Fury! What on earth…”

The hatch cover slid shut with a solid bang.

“Please, Mr Fury, put that away before I open this door.”

Fuck’s sake.

I scrabbled to get my boxers back into place, and my jeans buttoned up.

“Yep!” I shouted.

The cell door slowly slid open, and a thick-set female police officer stepped in.

“No need for cuffs,” she said, “as long as you don’t try pulling that thing out again. Follow me.”

She led me through a series of dimly lit corridors with concrete floors and yellowing paint on the walls. No sign yet of a window. I wondered if it was still dark outside.

“What’s t’time please?”

“Please keep against the red line on the wall!”

I looked to my left. A single red line ran the length of the corridor, right along the wall at about waist height. I moved in closer to the line and kept walking.

“Sit here, they won’t be long. Can I get you owt? Coffee?”

“Vodka?” I said with a smirk.

The officer smiled as she closed a blue metal gate between us. She locked it and disappeared back down the hallway towards the cells, leaving me trapped in a short stretch of corridor secured at both ends by the kind of huge prison gates you only see on the telly.

I sat on the middle of five brown plastic chairs which were lined up against the wall. Opposite me there were two doors: Interview Room A and Interview Room B. One of the lights in the ceiling was flickering and strobing. I felt a bit sick, and was acutely aware that I hadn’t eaten anything for probably twelve or so hours. I shuffled around in my chair and rested the right side of my body against the back of the chair, my face against the cool wall, and closed my eyes in an effort to shut out the flickering light and the sickness…

“Mr Fury?”

The officer was back, gently rocking me awake by my shoulder. She handed me a plastic cup of water and a tissue.

“I musta dropped off!”

“Your nose is bleeding. I can ask PC Grogan to delay t’ interview if you want me to get it looked at first?”

I sat up straight in my chair. “Nah it’s fine. I just wanna get out o’ this fuckin’ place.”

“Okay. They’re ready for you now.”

She led me in to Interview Room A as I dabbed at my top lip with the tissue.

“This is PC Grogan, and PC Gaye.”

I messily plopped my cup of water down on the table in front of them, creating a small puddle on the varnished wooden surface.

PC Grogan was a short, stocky man with a shaved head. He leaned forwards in his chair.

“Please Mr Fury, take a seat.”

I took a seat.

PC Gaye looked out of shape. A fat, balding man with little round glasses. He looked like a proper cunt too. He unwrapped two cassette tapes, removed them from their cases, and inserted them both into a little tape deck with an attached microphone. He pressed the record button and the mechanism clicked in to action.

“Interview commences at 6:15am,” he said into the microphone, then sat back in his chair and looked at me.

PC Grogan leaned in. I’m guessing this is his show.

“Mr Fury. Are you aware that you almost killed someone last night?”


I picked a bit of dried blood out of my moustache.

“Alison Walker, a nursery administrator from ‘alifax, was on her way to visit ‘er elderly, sick mother in an ‘uddersfield nursing home last night. Poor lass has dementia and screams out for Alison at all hours. Most nights for t’ last five weeks she’s made that journey to ‘elp calm ‘er down.”

I’m not sure why I needed her fucking life story.

“Alright,” I say.

“Last night, abart half past twelve she were drivin’ up Elland bypass and came off Ainsley Top roundabout towards Rastrick. She sez she noticed your little red Fiesta following behind her just after she passed t’carvery, tailgating her up over t’tops.”

“Where’s me car now?”


PC Gaye brought his fist down on to the table top with an intensity rarely seen in such a fat, unhealthy man. I think even PC Grogan shat himself.

PC Gaye had gone red, and was staring unblinkingly into my soul. His jowls wobbling with pent up anger.

“This isn’t about you Mr Fury! You’ll get your car back later. What’s left of it. PC Grogan – go on.”

I looked back at PC Grogan, as he composed himself following PC Gaye’s seemingly disproportionate outburst.

“Thanks, PC Gaye,” Grogan continued.

“Mr Fury, we see a lot of accidents up on t’ A643. It’s a fast road. We get a lot of boy racers up there. What’s confusing us about last night’s accident is that there were no other traffic abart. If you wanted to get ‘ome faster than Mrs Walker was allowing, then all you ‘ad to do was overtake her. Instead, according to Mrs Walker, you tailgated her all t’ way ta t’motorway underpass.”

PC Grogan pulled out a small black notepad and started flicking through the pages, probably recapping his interview notes. He threw his notepad down on the table and looked back up at me.

“You then clipped the back right ‘and side of ‘er bumper, sending ‘er up on t’t pavement an’ in t’t wall under t’M62. ‘Ow fast do you reckon you were goin’ at that point Mr Fury?”

I looked down at my plastic cup, slowly rotating it on the table in an attempt to deflect the room’s focus away from my face.

“I dunno.”

“Well Mr Fury,” PC Grogan continued. “Poor Mrs Walker, feeling more than a little bit intimidated by your somewhat enthusiastic driving, reckons she sped up to abart eighty in order to try an’ create a bit o’ distance between you. Reckons you ‘it ‘er at abart that too. Sound realistic?”

“Don’t remember”


PC Gaye was positively vibrating by now, red-faced and sweating.

“Look, you goofy little twat,” he growled. “We know you were driving too fast. Cars don’t get that fucked when you’re driving like Miss Daisy. She ‘it a wall and ‘ad to be cut out of a Volvo. A fuckin’ Volvo! Those things are built like tanks! And your car Mr Fury – looking at t’tyre marks it span at least three-sixty. Ended up facing t’wrong way. It’s little boy-racer fartdicks like you wot destroy good people’s families!”


PC Grogan dug a gentle elbow into PC Gaye’s side, and nodded towards the tape machine. PC Gaye nodded back at him, and pulled a white handkerchief out of his trouser pocket. He pursed his lips and blew a long sigh, as if trying – but failing –  to whistle. He relaxed back into his chair, and dabbed the sweat away from his forehead.

PC Grogan’s turn again.

“All we want to understand, Mr Fury, is why you were drivin’ that way. We know you’d ‘ad a drink, but you were under t’limit according to’t test results.”

I’d forgotten I’d even been tested. I instinctively moved my right hand up to feel the cotton wool ball taped to my inner left arm. That was a lucky result, I swear I was pretty fucked before leaving The Kestrel. Maybe it was the drugs though. I do remember doing a lot of hugging.

“We also know,” PC Grogan continued, “that you were carrying a bag of powder. We identified it as MDMA. Largely cut and only abart twenty five percent pure.”

Twenty five percent? I’ll kill that fucker Stephan. Dodgy rip-off cunt.

“Unfortunately for us, maybe luckily for you, we don’t yet ‘ave t’technology to test for drug use at t’station. They ‘ave it in London, but it ant yet reached us in ‘uddersfield”

I smirked, causing the dried blood on my top lip to crack.

“Does that mean I get my drugs back?”


PC Grogan quickly moved a hand to PC Gaye’s shoulder.

“PC, I suggest you get some air. Go an’ grab a cigarette and a coffee. I’ll stay ‘ere with ‘im.”

PC Gaye nodded in agreement. He stood, shot me a look of utter disapproval, and wheezed his way out of the room. PC Grogan leaned in to the microphone.

“Interview suspended at 6:27am.” He clicked the stop button, then turned his attention to me.

“Mr Fury, I need you to understand t’seriousness of this situation. PC Gaye in particular ‘as spent t’last few years tidyin’ up after boy racers. Only last week we ‘ad a lad over from Sheffield – young lad like you, abart twenty two years old – picked ‘is seventeen year old girlfriend up from ‘er parents place in ‘uddersfield. Went out showin’ off in ‘is Imprayzer…”


“Aye. Took ‘er up on’t Snake Pass an’ wanged it into a tree. ‘e survived wi two brokken legs – she kem away in a body bag.”

I didn’t need to hear this shit. They’d got me all wrong.

“It were PC Gaye wot ‘ad to tell t’poor lass’s parents. Hopefully, Mr Fury, you can see why my colleague views problem drivers wi’ such contempt.”

Don’t we all. Little did he know about my own predisposition. I nodded and tried to put on my best sympathy-face. Oh boo hoo. Fucking pricks.

“When can I go?”

“Not quite yet Mr Fury. We’ve still got a few more bits to discuss. I reckon you could do yourself a big favour Mr Fury – just be straight wi’ us. The quicker we understand wot ‘appened last night, the quicker you can go ‘ome. Coffee?”

“Just water please.”

PC Grogan nodded, then he got up and left the room – reappearing a minute later with my water. PC Gaye followed him back into the room.

They both took a seat opposite me, and PC Gaye re-started the tape recorder.

“Interview recommencing at 6:35am,” he said in to the mic.

PC Grogan cleared his throat and placed both his elbows on the table, his hands clasped in front of his chin.

“We have a witness Mr Fury. An old gentleman oo was out walking ‘is dog. He’s given a statement sayin’ you were less than a metre from Mrs Walker’s bumper when you shot past him on’t A643. Reckons it looked closer to a ton you were both doin’, but to be ‘onest that bit’s not important.”

PC Gaye adjusted his glasses and once again gave me that stare. It’s the look I imagine him giving his kids when he finds out they’ve been playing sword fights with his favourite golf clubs. He looks like a golfer. Probably considers himself a sportsman just coz he walks around a field twice a week, followed by ten pints of beer and a large pie in the clubhouse. I bet his wife hates him and his small dick. If she hasn’t left him yet.

“All we need to understand,” PC Gaye began impatiently, “is whether this was malicious, or just a bit of bravado gone wrong.”

He seemed a lot calmer since he took a breather.

“All the evidence points to’t fact that you targeted Mrs. Walker. If that’s t’case then it means it’s premeditated. Do you know what that means Mr Fury?”

I swear I wanted to punch that fat cunt in his red nose. Instead I just nodded politely.

“It’s attempted murder Mr Fury. You targeted Mrs Walker. But why? Mr Fury, as far as we could ascertain from Mrs Walker at ‘ospital she’s never ‘eard of you. What reason could you ‘ave to want to ram that poor woman off t’road like that?”

I’d already spent enough time in that interview room. They’d practically told me what I needed to say to get out of this. I looked at them both, drew a deep breath, and leaned forwards in my chair.

“I’m really sorry,” I said. “I were just goin’ for a drive after leavin’t pub. Listenin’ to some tunes an’ that. I just got carried away and decided I wanted to race someone. Just wanted to shit ’em up a bit for a laugh.”

The cops looked at each other. We all knew that they had nothing on me. I was a boy racer, not a murderer.  Sure, I couldn’t go unpunished for this – but I didn’t care. I knew what I was getting myself into. It’s just collateral damage.

“Okay Mr Fury,” said PC Grogan. “You’re goin’ to be released on police bail. That means we’ll be settin’ a date for you to come back for further questioning around the collision with Mrs Walker. We’ll also be issuing you wi’ a caution for possession of Class A drugs. Follow me and we’ll get you processed.”

PC Gaye leaned in to the mic.

“Interview concluded at 6:42am,” he said, and then stopped the recording mechanism with a click. He took both cassettes out and returned them to their cases.

“Both of these copies will be ‘eld ‘ere. Please sign this form to confirm you’ve witnessed me seal ’em up.” He wrapped a seal around each one, and passed me the form and a pen. I signed and passed them back. He peeled off the blue carbon copy and handed it to me.

“Please contact us on that number if you or your legal representative need access to a copy of t’interview.” I nodded and stood up.

“Follow me Mr Fury,” said PC Grogan. “Please stay against the red stripe.”

PC Grogan led me back to the front desk, where I was given paperwork explaining my caution for possession of the MDMA. He said I needed to return to the station in two weeks to answer my bail, Friday morning at 10am, and then arranged for the thick-set lady to fetch my belongings.

After watching me put my watch and my belt back on, PC Grogan led me to a large reinforced door. He opened it out into the police station’s reception area. It mustn’t have been much later than 7am, and the room – which looked no different to a doctors surgery waiting room – was empty except for a bedraggled looking young lady asleep across three of the seats. She looked frail and skinny, with long, tangled, greasy blonde hair. Her acne-pitted skin hung loose and gaunt from her angular cheekbones. She was probably a looker once upon a time, before years of heroin use and prostitution had begun to erode her pretty appearance. I’m just guessing of course. Maybe she’s just here to report a break-in, and happens to be a minger.

PC Grogan nodded towards the main entrance, my gateway to freedom.

“You’re free to go Mr Fury. Just one last thing before you do, though. Just a quick chat off t’record.”


“Aye. You see the thing is Mr Fury,” he lowered his voice, almost to a whisper. “We know that you targeted Mrs Walker last night. We know it, and we’ll fucking prove it.”

He moved to within an inch of my face. I could see the spit gathering around his mouth, his face turning red. He poked his finger hard into my chest.

“We’ll fucking prove it, and we’ll fucking ‘ave you Mr Fury.”

I took a step back, if only to avoid further attack by his acrid coffee breath.

“PC Grogan. I swear on me mother’s life. In fact I swear on me whole family’s life. I did not crash into her on purpose.”

I turned and headed through the exit, and out into a slumbering Huddersfield.

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