You know, I'd thought they were dreams. Night after night. The same dream eating away at me. I'd wake up every morning just the same as usual, no cold sweats, no crying. They just felt normal.
I had thought they were dreams. Then I remembered.
You see, I'm actually there you know. It's not my mind. It's really me. I'm here and I'm not here, if you know what I mean. That's what makes me different to 'em all. They're not actually Here. They're There. Their bodies have been found. They got a grave and a headstone. Here lies Bolly, here lies Chris, here lies Shaz, Ray, Viv. They got mourners, they got a funeral.
And here I am, three inches under in a bloody field! I'll never get my head stone. They find me in 2008, for Christ's sake. What would I be then? Shot in the face at point blank range and maggots munching away at my carcass for fifty five years. Even my dashing good looks might be hard pushed to endure that.
It's so cold every night. That's the worst thing. I can't move and I can't feel much, but I feel cold. The soil presses in around me, on my face, in my mouth, down my throat. I'm just there, lying there with half a face and my warrant card tucked in my top pocket. I was going to pull it out you know, once I got in there. Thought I'd go for the grand effect, scare the bastards half to death with the sheer might of the metropolitan police and their answer to John Wayne . As it turned out, though, I didn't end up having time to show it.
I wasn't dead when they buried me. Yeah, I was on my way out , but I still knew. I felt the impact as I was dropped in. I tasted the blood on what was left of my tongue. It filled my mouth and dribbled down the side of my face pathetically. I just lay there, impassive.
I can feel how much I've decayed and all. I feel a lot lighter than I used to. I think my face is pretty much gone now, what's left of the skin clinging to bone like a ripped up carrier bag.
I felt the thud of the soil as it was shovelled onto me. My last thoughts were desperate. In terror, I thought of the one thing I wanted right at that moment. I thought of he smell and the feel of her hair, her touch, her voice. I wanted Mum. Then, inexplicably, a long forgotten memory floated to the forefront of my brain as the bullet which should have killed me instantly finally did its job.
Once more I was breathing her in again as I drifted off. She held me to her chest as she sang softly.
Little boy blue, come blow your horn, The sheep's in the meadow, the cows in the corn Where is the boy who looks after the sheep? He's under the haystack, fast asleep-p-p-p
And I suppose after that it was goodnight Vienna. I've come over all puffy. Sorry lads.
I'm never leaving here, am I? I'm never going to see the lads again, I'm never going to drink that pint, despite the fact they bloody owe me one. I'm not going to see Bolly again… my Bolls.
Looks like I'm never getting that shag after all.
Mind you, I got what I wanted though, didn't I? I'm the big-shot infamous copper I thought I was when I kicked that door down. I got that. But at what price exactly? I'm always the one who has to stay behind and help the next ponce who stumbles in here shooting his mouth off about some sort of future bollocks.
It's not fucking fair.