Pulling in the clutch, the rider hits the kill switch and cuts the engine, coasting about 200 yd before breaking.

He kicks down the side stand and climbs off the bike. A specific car parked just down the street tells him he has arrived in time to do what he had to do. He looks around. Only a couple of houses are still showing lights, otherwise the street is dark. He slips through the gate and walks toward the house. He does not approach the door. Instead, he walks down the side and picks up the piece of wood he knows to be there and settles down to wait in the shadows. He does not have to wait long. Less than 5 minutes pass before he hears water flowing down the drain and knows that someone is using the shower. Another minute or so and he hears the front door opening. He is grateful that the porch light does not come on. Keeping low, he moves from his hiding place and watches the man close the front door. As the man turns and begins walking, perhaps it is his need to keep the meeting he has just had secret. It may be that the blow is not as hard as was intended. Whichever the reason, he only lets out a low groan as the wood strikes him on his knees. The asalent expects him to scream in pain, at least cry out, but the only sound other than the impact of wood-hitting kneecaps is a stifled uh as his reflexes force him to take a step back. Standing, the aggressor takes a backstroke for another swing. This time, the blow is straight to the face and puts the recipient down. The only sound other than the impact is the sound of the

unconscious body hitting the floor.

Methodically and systematically, the antagonist breaks the arms, legs, hands, elbow, and knee joints of the unconscious man. The only reason to suspect he is not a professional is the small gasp of surprise at the popping sound the kneecaps make when they are broken. The victim does not regain consciousness as he is beaten. Aside from the one blow to the face, the asalent is careful not to damage the head, ribs, and private parts of his prey. Less than 2 minutes after the attack began, the attacker walked back to the motorcycle. An ambulance siren pulls me from my thoughts. It overtakes and it seems to be going in the same direction I am. In fact, I follow it all the way to my home. A home currently brightly illuminated with a multitude of blue flashing lights coming from three police cars and now the ambulance. A number of uniformed people are milling about the front garden. I pull up in the nearest available space and run toward my house. What the hell is going on? I scream. One policeman tries to stop me.

I dodge past him, firing out questions at everyone and no one and start shouting, “Anne! Anne, where are you?

Anne, where the hell is my wife? What has happened?” And finally, “Who the hell is that? And why is he lying on my doorstep?” Another copper gets in my way. I fire similar questions at him. Sir, please identify yourself and your reason for being here. Me asking about Anne and calling her my wife should make those questions redundant. How can these jerks, the people that are supposed to solve crimes, not have a clue? I live here now. Where is my wife? Sir, please restrain yourself and stop the abusive language. There is really no need.

Really? How the hell do you know? You ever come home to find your house crawling with you, doing whatever the hell it is that you’re doing? No one.

Not one of you will tell me where my wife is, let alone how she is. Never mind telling me who that jerk is and why he is laying on my front doorstep.

The lady of the house is being interviewed inside, sir, the policeman replied. But she’s all right. Yes, sir, he answered. At last, a straight answer.

I thank the copper and duck around him as he is distracted by the bloke on my doorstep being relocated via stretcher.

With PC running after me, I go inside and find Anne and a couple of coppers in plain clothes in the front room. What the hell is going on, Anne? Why is some jerk half dead on the doorstep? She starts wailing and one of the cops says, “Mr. Dugan, calm yourself down.” Why? More to the point, how I demand. I get home after a long day and find all this stuff going on, and no jerk will tell me why.

The two plain clothes look at each other, and the one that told me to calm down speaks. At 11:49, a call was made to the emergency services and reported a man being beaten at this address. A car was dispatched, but by the time it arrived on the scene, the asalent had left the area. The officers assessed the victim and called for an ambulance and support. Now, where were you at 10 to 12? Coming down the A1 at a guess, probably around the A605 junction. Why do you think I did this? What reason would I have? I break off and look at my wife. Were you being intimate with that jerk? She wales again, burying her face in her hands. You were, weren’t you? I shout. She continues to cry into her hands. I give a snort of disgust and look at the copper. If you find out who did this, tell him I owe him a beer or two. Now, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll go for a shower.

Sorry, sir. We need to make sure you were not involved in the attack, check you for blood, and such. I give him a look that I hope shows disbelief before I bend and start to remove my boots. I kick them off and then remove my sweatshirt, t-shirt, and jeans as I defiantly stare him in the face clad only in my socks and shreddies and gesture to my clothes on the floor and ask anything else, sir. He takes a deep breath before continuing. Please put your clothes back on. Why? So you can drag me down the nick in a bit, make me take them off again and wear some paper jumpsuit until you dain to release me.

No, you can bug off. In fact, I’m not going to put any clothes on. I’m going for a shower. Sir, you can’t, he says as I walk away from him. Instead of heading toward the door, I walk to the sideboard and pour myself a deep glass of Jameson.

Stark naked, I turn and stare at him as I down it and pour myself another. I raise my glass to him and smile before downing the second, watching as he is now frantically discussing something with one of his colleagues. He and his colleague begin walking toward me as I am pouring a third.

Sir, we need you to refrain from drinking. We will need to formally question. The cops started to talk. You need you need. It’s all about your needs. Well, I needed to come home and not find a herd of cops and ambulance men in my front garden. I needed to come home to a loving and faithful wife. I did not need to find my wife with her boyfriend on my doorstep. And right now, I need a shower, a drink, and you guys out of my house. Feel free to take the cheating woman with you. Another pitiful whale comes from the cheating woman. I glance over to her. I didn’t intend to.

An involuntary action, a reflex. I look for less than a second. She is standing alone, crying. Her hands have dropped uselessly to her sides. She looks weak, helpless, and beaten, staring at me, her eyes pleading, probably for understanding, perhaps sympathy.

Something, anything, to comfort her.

Well, damn her. She caused this. She can deal with it. I drain my glass and head up to go and change. I don’t get far before some bird in a yellow plastic coverall accosts me. After a few demands from her, I reluctantly allow her to check me over for signs that I have been in an altercation. Of course, she finds none, and after I give her the clothes I have just taken off, gives me permission to clean up and get dressed. She declines my offer to wash my back. The feted aroma of treachery assaults my nose as I enter the bedroom. The acrid stench of regurgitated whiskey almost instantly adds to the fug of sweat and intimacy with painful spasms clutching at my abdomen. Anger overcomes me and I drag the soiled mattress off the bed down the stairs outside and leave it on the front lawn. Returning to the bedroom, I fling a window open and start flinging her clothes and other belongings out of it. Mr. Dugan. Mr.

Dugan.

Hearing my name, I paused briefly and then continued to eject the detritus of my marriage out of the window.

Mr. Dugan, I turned to him. Mr. Dugan, I need you to come with me so I can formally take your statement.

Why? I asked. You know damn well why.

You already have my statement, and unless you arrest me, I will not go to the cop shop with you, I say smuggly. In fact, I will make sure you are completely to blame in my suit for wrongful arrest. I, unlike the majority of your customers, have done nothing wrong. I didn’t add anything more. I have no need. I can prove it. And I’m sure he’ll find that out later. I watch him as the anger builds. His eyes, the rising color of his neck to his face. He reminds me of one of those cartoon characters, Donald or Daffy Duck about to blow. Maybe Yoseite Sam. Yeah, Yoseite Sam. All he needed was an orange droopy mustache and a 10gon hat. I see him struggling to keep hold of his temper. Eventually, he gains control and manages to force out some words. Mr.

Dugan, you are giving me no alternative, so I am placing you under arrest on suspicion of assaulting Mr. David Pratt.

You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. If you do not have or cannot afford a solicitor, one will be appointed for you. Grinning like a cheshure cat, I pull on some jeans and a t-shirt and say cheerfully, “Shall we go?” He leads me out. As I pass the open living room door, I can’t resist and say, “Happy now? pick your stuff up and bug off. Go to your mother’s or whatever brothel you work at. I’m handed over to a couple of plots and they stick me in the back of a car and drive me to the nick. On the way, one of them says, “You really made a mess of that bloke. Not that I blame you. I would have probably done the same if he’d been shagging my misses.” “If I’d known about him,” I say through gritted teeth. “I would have done more than that. How is he? Will he live?” Don’t know, the cop replied. Tell me that copper, the detective. Is he always such a jerk? I asked. I hear two stifled sniggers, but neither offers an opinion.

A short while later, I am booked in and left in an interview room. Expecting a long wait, I rest my head on my arms and try to go to sleep. It seems every time I manage to nod off, someone comes barging in and wakes me up. Eventually, Detective Dipstick comes in and sits on the other side of the table. After asking me whether I wanted to have legal representation, he cautions me again and informs me the interview is being taped.

He states his and my name and the time, and charges me with assault, both aggravated and grievous bodily harm, and tells me they are considering charges of attempted murder. He advised me again that I should really get a solicitor.

After I decline again, he asked me where I was at the time of the assault on Mr.

Homerecker. I speak as if I found him mentally deficient in some way, annunciating slowly and carefully, I say. As I told you last night, I was returning home from Newcastle. I drove straight home with no stops and followed an ambulance to my home after it overtook me on the Huntington Road. Upon arrival, I discover a parcel of police officers, yourself included. Is it a parcel? Perhaps drove or drift would be more appropriate. Nevertheless, there was a lot of you and some bleeding pig guy on my doorstep. Shortly after, I also discovered that my wife was the pig he had been engaged in love with. Since then, I have had my clothing taken from me and not allowed to clean up after a long day of work, even though I vomited and remained nauseous for some time after both seeing and smelling residual confirmation of my wife’s betrayal.

Also, I have been prevented from sleeping. I have now been awake for over 25 hours. I pause briefly.

All of this I told you at my house shortly after I arrived home.