Chapter 6
Thursday 14th September
LOCAL FARMER OUTRAGED
BY LACK OF POLICE SUPPORT
Farmer Donald Brock was shocked and outraged when Winchester Police told him they were unable to remove a squatter from land which borders his.
Mr. Brock, from Hill View Farm close to Butser Hill, first noticed there was a squatter living in a farmhouse at the foot of Butser Hill, which borders his land, on the 4th September but did not call the police until four days later.
However upon seeing the farmhouse for their selves Winchester Police told Mr. Brock there was nothing they could do. The reason being that squatting is only illegal if property has been damaged or the house is being lived in without the owners consent and since no one has lived in this particular farmhouse for many years and no damage has been done to either Mr. Brock's property or land the squatter is not breaking the law.
Annoyed
When interviewed yesterday Mr. Brock was said to be: "Rather annoyed by it all." Commenting that he feels he's been left to deal with the situation himself since the police won't help him.
Description
Mr. Brock described the squatter as being a middle-aged white male with cropped blonde hair. He was wearing a blue demin jacket and jeans with a cream t-shirt.
Nothing we could have done
When question about the incident Winchester Police replied that there was nothing they could have legally done. Which begs the question, dear reader, where is the justice in all of this? And if the police are going to take something like this lightly then it does not bare thinking about what their reaction to a more serious crime would be?
Kurt Wilson
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Well if that doesn't get th' local farmers on Mr. Brock's side then I don't know what will,' muttered Kurt to himself.
Kurt Wilson was a young journalist, only twenty-nine years of age, who had been born and raised in the Winchester area. He had been named after Kurt Russell who had been his mother's favourite actor.
When he was no more than a year old his mother had caught his father cheating on her but with another man, rather than another woman as one may have assumed, disgusted she had packed his bags one, stormy, November night and thrown him out into the cold. The poor woman never found anyone else and was, therefore, left to raise Kurt entirely on her own.
Throughout his early secondary school life Kurt was a trouble-maker and a truant, prone to moments of teenage rebellion, mainly refusing to attend school, which some blamed on a lack of father figure in his life while others clamed it was simply a normal product of his age, when he had bothered to attend classes many of his teachers wished he had not as he was disruptive and a complete nuisance. Despite all of this Kurt was not a stupid boy in fact he was quite the opposite it's just the way Kurt saw life at that time was this: no adult was going to tell him what to do. Indeed his poor mother had long given up trying and the school was so big that the headmaster did not recognise him by sight or character, no more than he did with sixty percent of the pupils in his school.
Kurt might have continued on his downward spiral and left school with no grades to waste his life away on the dole if, when he was fourteen, the newly-appointed English teacher at his school had not recognised his talent for persuasive writing. With her encouragement he joined the school newspaper and within a fortnight has been well and truly bitten by the journalism bug. Not only had he begun to find his calling in life but he also began to realise that perhaps school did have some purpose other than being a place that your mother enforced you to go to so that she could get a bit of peace from your teenage behaviour and attitude, as was his previous belief. Throughout his GCSE years Kurt studied hard and in the end he left school with six GCSEs including an A (the highest grade possible) for English. Kurt stayed at school for the extra two years of sixth form and did his A-levels.
After his A-levels Kurt studied Journalism at what was then known as King Albert's College but is now known as Winchester University. Where his obvious skill and enthusiasm for journalism shone through yet, despite this, for the first few years after leaving university Kurt found it difficult to find work in his chosen career. To make ends meet he ended out doing one shitty job after another from checkout operator in a hardware store to cleaner for the local cinema.
At last Kurt, at the age of twenty-four, was given his big break when a former university friend informed him that local paper The Downland News were seeking a young, fresh-faced journalist to join their team. Upon hearing this piece of information Kurt sent his CV to Mr. Hammond, editor of The Downland News, and was given an interview within a week,
I shan't bore you, dear reader, with the details of Kurt's interview but shall say that he left quite a positive impression on both Marcus Hammond and his assistant editor, Samuel Clark. Within a month he was working for both men.
Within the next four years he progressed from the new-boy to a popular journalist capable of grabbing and retaining the reader's attention and it was this ability that earned him admiration and respect from both Mr. Hammond and Mr. Clark and that admiration and respect meant he was entrusted with more and more news stories. Kurt's ear was well and truly close to the ground and he soon developed a web of reliable contacts and sources of information. Had a child been murdered by a psychopath on Salt Hill? The poor child's mother was unable to evade Kurt's barrage of questions. Was there a fatal accident on the M3? A school head teacher accused of interfering with a twelve year old girl in Winchester? A knifing, a shooting, a rape, the brutal beating of an elderly man in Stroud? In short Kurt was the lad to make sure the good, farming, public of the Hampshire section of the South Downs did not miss a moment of it.
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'Please!' cried out Mickey, as Delaney thrust into him once more, 'Please stop!'
His lip began to quiver.
'What's the matter, Mickey-boy?' mocked Delaney.
'I want to go home!'
'You are home, Mickey-boy. This is your home.'
'No, no my 'ome is Sun Hill not 'ere! My colleagues are going to find me.'
'Your colleagues are glad you've gone, Mickey. They didn't want you around. Nobody wanted you. You're an insignificant thing!'
Mickey felt the tears roll down his cheeks.
'Aww… is the poor baby crying again? God you disgust me, crying like a wee bairn, try being a man for once!' mocked Delaney.
Then raising his fist he brought it smack down on Mickey's arm, relishing the cry of pain the young DC made as he was hit.
'Now say it with me: "Nobody wanted me. I am an insignificant person!"' he continued.
Mechanically, and with no emotion in his voice Mickey repeated those lines: 'Nobody wanted me. I am an insignificant person.'
'Good, good, now what about these next ones: "I am a bad person because I will not let Mr. Delaney have sex with me when he wishes!"'
Again with the mechanical voice and the lack of emotion Mickey repeated the lines: 'I am a bad person because I will not let Mr. Delaney have sex with me when he wishes.'
'I hate having to do these things to you, Mickey; but I do them because I care about you and because I care about you I know you have to learn what is right and what is wrong and that have to teach you. You understand that, don't you?
Mickey made no reply.
Suddenly he felt his head being jerked back. When he had made no response Delaney had grabbed him by his golden hair and pulled his head back.
'I SAID YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, DON'T YOU!'
'Yes…I…I…understand,' replied Mickey, fearfully.
'You understand what?' asked Delaney, pulling tighter on Mickey's hair.
'Mr. Delaney, sir,' Mickey answered back, as quickly as possible, terrified of what Delaney would do to him next if he didn't.
'That's better,' said Delaney, satisfied.
He let go of Mickey's hair and the DC's head dropped to the pillow, heavily, like a stone sinking to the bottom of a stream.
Friday 15th September
Donald Brock, having been revelling in his five minutes of fame after just reading yesterday's addition of The Downsland News to everyone present in the Ye Olde Inn, sat in his chair awaiting Fred Dickinson's return with the beer.
'Fancy that then,' Fred said to him when he returned. 'Getting yoursel' int' th' paper.'
'Yeah well so long as th' community knows just what our police force's views on squatters are.'
'Yeah well they'll be crapping 'emselves now, Don, mate.'
'You reckon.'
'Yep. That Wilson lad sounded like 'e was a real 'andy fella. Sound like 'e 'ad th' local farmer's best interests 'as 'is top priorty. Like 'e wanted t'get answers from Winchester police as much as we did.'
'Too roight. After all 'e is a local lad not one of them faceless London types what comes in worite their bit then piss off back to th' big city again when th' story gets old an' a fresh new one comes up somewhere else, leaving us no further forward, Freddy, 'e's in it for th' long haul, this lad is, 'til th' matter is resolved.'
Saturday 16th September
It was early morning, sometime around six a.m. and Delaney, who had a tendency to get up early, was searching through the cupboards of the old farmhouse, desperately looking, for something that he could use to cook for his and Mickey's breakfast but the cupboards were bare. This was no good he needed to eat. As for Mickey he could torture, abuse and rape the DC but no matter what he couldn't let him starve; starving Mickey did not come into plans for the reason that, if left long enough, starvation would led to death and if Mickey was dead it would mean he would be free from the suffering Delaney was causing him and Delaney wanted him to suffer just as he himself had done in prison. No there was nothing for it he would have to go and get some food, he would have to walk, of course, he could not risk the local police catching and arresting him in a stolen vehicle if he took Mickey's car but if he set off on foot now he could go and come back before Mickey awoke and realised he was gone.
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Petersfield is a Hampshire market town, situated on the northern border of the stretch of chalk hills known as the South Downs. The town was founded at the end of the 11th Century, growing up as a coach stop on the Portsmouth to London route, and even today is still situated on both the main rail and road link between the two cities. The late George Best, the great Manchester United and Northern Ireland player of the 1960s and 1970s, lived in Petersfield at one point.
In The Square, opposite the statue of King William III (William of Orange), who defeated the then deposed King James II at the Battle of the Boyne. This particular statue is the only one of King William III to be found in the United Kingdom outside of Northern Ireland. Opposite the statue lies a small shop and it is a general store, selling everything from sweets to DVDs. It is owned by two un-wed, middle-aged twin sisters, Mary and Jennifer Dodson.
The shop was closed this early in the morning but a little thing like that did not concern Delaney, who had no intention of paying for his supplies in any case.
Mary and Jennifer were trusting people or perhaps a little too naïve to today's society, whichever way you want to look at it, and had left the key in the inside door of the lock. Seeing this, and not believing his good fortune, Delaney picked up a stone the threw it through the shop window the glass flying in every direction as the stone shattered it, leaving a hole which was large enough for Delaney to squeeze his hand and arm through. He turned the key in the lock, pulled the handle down, and the door eased open, gently. Delaney entered the shop and after glancing round for a few moments to get his bearings he began pocketing things in a large rucksack which he had brought with him; unaware he was being watched from the doorway in the corner which led up to where Mary and Jennifer lived above the shop.
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Mary Dodson awoke with a start, looking at her watch she saw that it was only seven a.m. Something had awoken her – a noise – something unusual. But what? Someone banging on the door, demanding them to open up? That would be unusual as she and Jennifer were always up and open promptly so as not to that their loyal customers down, this was becoming more and more important what with more people going to shop in the big supermarkets, such as the Waitrose around the corner in Park Road, which were open twenty-four hours a day. But it could not be someone demanding to be let it as the shop did not open until nine: another two hours away. But it might be someone trying to break into the shop realised Mary. Best to go and have a look see.
Mary got out of bed, slipped on her pink dressing gown and slippers, and – carefully and quietly – crept down the stairs, which led down to the shop floor. When she got to the bottom of the stairs she opened the door (which was behind the shop counter) a fraction; just enough to see over the counter and onto the shop floor. It was from here that Mary could roughly see the outline of an adult male with blonde, cropped hair who, every so often, kept putting his hands into a rucksack which lay beside him. It didn't take Mary long to realise that whoever the man was he was stealing their stock.
Mary made a way back up the stairs, as quietly yet quickly as she possibly could, and into Jennifer's room.
'Jenny! Jenny! Are you awake?'
'Yes I am.'
'Jenny there's a man downstairs, in th' shop, I mean. 'E's got this big ol' rucksack with 'im an' e's putting stuff from th' shop in it!' Mary said, suddenly.
'What? Show me.'
Mary once more made her way down the stairs, her two minute younger sister following behind her. Both women peered through the crack in the door. The blonde, cropped haired man was still in the shop and still helping himself to their stock. Suddenly the man turned round so that both women could get a good, clear, look at him.
'Oh, Mary, look!' said Jennifer, clutching at her sister's arm. 'Blonde, cropped hair white male, wearing demin jacket, cream T-shirt and jeans. That's 'im!'
'Who?'
'Don' you remember th' report in Thursday's Downland News; th' one about th' squatter that's livin' in th' ol' abandoned farmhouse at th' bottom of Butser Hill?'
'Yes. By your roight, Jenny, that is him!'
'D'you reckon we ought t'call th' police, Mary?'
'Yes we'd better. I'll go an' give 'em a call now.'
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Two hours later and as he drove down through Petersfield's Market Square on his way to work Kurt realised he had not had anything to eat yet. As he passed Mary and Jennifer's shop he noticed the police car parked up outside. What's going on there, then. Even though he knew it was none of this business the journalist in him was curious as to what was going on in the shop. I best check this out it might be important and interesting. Plus I may be able to get something to eat while I'm here. He pulled into the next available space and walked back along to the shop.
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Kurt had stood by the counter with a packet of crisps and a bottle of Dr. Pepper, in Mary and Jennifer Dodson's shop. He had been standing there for at least the last fifteen minutes. He was starting to get bored and impatient and began tapping his fingers upon the counter. He needed to get on his way to work soon. Sighing he called out:
'Hello is anyone actually serving here!'
At that moment Jennifer popped her head round from the door behind the counter. Seeing Kurt standing there she immediately came out from behind the door with an apologetic look upon herself.
'Oh I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting, sir,' said Jennifer, apologetically, 'I didn't realise there was anyone waiting otherwise I'd have been straight out.'
'That's quite alroight,' replied Kurt. 'Anyway who'd want to rush in a town like this? With it's Old English charm. Real peaceful here, I bet.'
'Well, sir, there's certainly plenty that see it that way,' replied Jennifer, 'but actually we've 'ad a bit of a commotion s'morning.'
'Really what sort of a commotion?' asked Kurt, trying to keep the lack of surprise out of his voice. 'Can I have Stake and Kidney pie as well, please.'
Jennifer bent down and plucked out a Stake and Kidney pie from the glass-fronted shelves below the counter.
'That'll be £2.60 in total, please.'
Kurt handed her a £5.00 note.
'I was about to tell you about the commotion we 'ad s'morning, wasn't I?' asked Jennifer as she handed Kurt his £2.40 in change.
'Yes. I believe you were.'
'Well early s'morning, around seven, we 'ad someone break int' th' shop anyway we comes downstairs and sees a man with a rucksack pocketin' our stock. 'E'd mashed the window an' put 'is 'and through and opened th' door and was pocktin' our stock, like I said, anyway we gets a good look at 'im and I realises it's th' squatter that was mentioned in th' local paper, th' one squattin' in th' ol' abandoned farmhouse at th' foot of Butser Hill. 'E was exactly as th' journalist 'ad said Mr. Brock 'ad described him: blonde, cropped hair, middle-aged, white male an' wearing jeans, demin jacket and cream T-shirt.'
Inwardly Kurt could not help feeling pleased that someone had read and taken notice of his article outwardly he gave none of this away: rule number 1 of being a journalist: don't brag about it. Keeping quite can get you into places bragging never would.
'Did you call th' police?' asked Kurt, politely.
'Oh yes. There's an officer come over from Winchester upstairs now taking a statement from my sister. That's why I wasn't 'ere straight away when you comes in before.'
'What's 'appened to the squatter?' asked Kurt.
'Unfortunately 'e got away. Th' officer tired t'stop 'im but 'e was t'quick.'
Thank goodness for that. The last thing I need is for this story to die out this early.
'Oh that is rotten luck,' he replied. 'So the poor police officer 'as come all this way from Winchester for nothing.'
At that moment both Mary and the police officer entered the room from the stairs.
'An' 'f either of you 'appen t'see 'im again,' the police officer was saying, ''f you see 'im round th' place at all, anytime of day or noight, don't 'esitate t'telephone us.'
'Thank you, officer,' Mary replied, 'although I must say I rather hope he doesn't come back, though.'
'I've been hearing something of this situation of yours to do with a man who broke in,' Kurt said, politely, to Mary, 'I only hope he didn't take to much stuff.'
'Well thankfully he didn't take too much stuff but he's completely smashed th' front door window and made a terrible mess what with th' glass scattering everywhere but th' police officer, 'ere, 'e's done a wonderful job of cleaning it all up for us,' replied Mary.
'And I suppose you'll be keen to catch a hold of the culprit, won't you?' pursued Kurt, turning to the police officer.
'Well, sir,' began the officer, 'Winchester Police take breaking an' entering an' stealing as a very serious matter, you know.'
'Yes but I would be fair to say that you lot aren't popular among the local farmers at the moment what with the fact that you lot failed to arrest and remove a squatter from next to Mr. Brock's land, at least that's what I read in the paper, and now this Miss Dobson here (he pointed to Jennifer) is sure that their burglar this morning is the same man.'
The police officer swallowed, nervously, he did not like this interrogation. Who the hell was his young man, anyway? To come wondering in here and asking him all these questions he should just bloody well mind his own business. 'Well I can't say yet whether our not th' man that broke in 'ere was th' same that 'as been squatting next t' Mr. Brock's land,' replied the police officer, recalling, as he spoke, his Superintendent's policy of silence when faced with tricky situations and questions like this.
'I still need t'get a good, clear sighting of th' man that robbed th' Miss Dobson's 'ere s'morning. It might be th' same man as 'e that is squatting in th' ol' farmhouse next to Mr. Brock's land but then again it might not.'
'Did you not get a good look at 'im when you chased 'im down th' street?' asked Mary, 'I'm telling you he fitted the description of th' man described in th' paper on Thursday to a tee; blonde, cropped hair, middle-aged, white male wearing demin jacket, cream T-shirt and jeans,' she continued, echoing Jennifer's description of the man earlier to Kurt.
'There you are officer; both of the Miss. Dobson's have now given me the exact same description of the man which, if I recall from Thursday's Downland News matches the description that Mr. Brock gave.'
'Be that as it may but I still didn't get a good look at the man myself, I just saw th' back of 'im as a I chased 'im up th' street an' the point I'm trying to make 'ere, sir,' replied the officer, looking directly at Kurt, 'is that 'e could 'ave been anyone. I mean 'ow many men are white an' have cropped hair and wear jeans, t-shirt and demin jacket.'
Everyone looked at him as if expecting him to say more.
'We need to get 'old of s'morning's burglar an' question 'im down th' station an' then we can find out 'f 'e an' Mr. Brock's squatter are indeed one an' th' same.'
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As soon as he had heard the sound of the police siren Delaney decided to make his getaway quick. He dashed out of the door and up the street. Halfway up the street he noticed that a male police officer was chasing him. A small smirk crept on Delaney's face. When it came to out running and escaping the law Martin Delaney was the expert! Putting on an extra spurt of speed he ducked down into the archway in the High Street, which was a pedestrian walkway that led up to Rams Walk and the Waitrose Supermarket, and waited until the police officer had gone past him, seen that he had disappeared, assumed that he had lost him, and return back down the street, before coming out of his hiding place and making his way up the bank.
When he was sure that all was clear Delaney came out of his hiding place and continued right, along the High Street until he came to a fork in the road at the bottom. He continued on, straight a head and through Heath Road, following the road as it curved down to Heath Pond.
All the time Delaney had thought he had remained unseen, but he was mistaken. Conley Jennings (his mother had originally come from Ireland hence why he had been given the name Conley), the most skilful angler in the whole of the South Downs, was fishing upon Heath Pond, which is a favoured place by the local fisherman. He had been out since eight-thirty and, as yet, had failed to catch anything; not even a little nine-inched stickleback (which is Britain's smallest fish). Becoming bored and rather frustrated at his lack of success Conley found his eyes leaving the pond and veering off to west. Following the road down from Heath Road West, past the children's play area, he saw that twisted man, Martin Delaney, making his way up the road. A minute later Conley hooked a three-quarter pound trout and thought no more of the man he had seen; but it was to recur to him later.
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Contrary to Delaney's notion Mickey was, in fact, well awake before he had returned from his expedition to Petersfield.
Mickey's half-naked body shivered. How long had he been here? He did not know anymore. The days and nights all seemed to role into one. He no longer had any concept of time apart from getting food meant it was breakfast, dinner, lunch or supper time and that Delaney coming in and removing his own clothes meant that it was mid-afternoon and that he, Delaney that is, was wanting his daily sex in between waiting for either one of the aforementioned events to occur Mickey was left alone with only his own mind, which was slowly cracking and breaking from the psychological and sexual abuse imposed upon him by Delaney, for company.
As he lay shivering on the bed Delaney's words from the previous night came back to him:
Nobody wanted you. You are an insignificant person! And "I am a bad person because I will not let Mr. Delaney have sex with me when he wishes!"
It's true. It's all true. Nobody does want me otherwise they'd have found me by now, Mia, Jack: none of them care! I don't why they don't care but I do know one fing I'm not going to be a bad person anymore. I'm gonna be a good person, now, an' let Mr. Delaney 'ave sex with me because he cares about me an' I know that 'cause 'e told me so 'imself yesterday. 'E wouldn't lie to me like Jack, Mia an' everyone else at Sun 'Ill would.
