Read Online Soldier Of The Queen by Bernard O'Mahoney - Free Book Online
Authors: Bernard O'Mahoney
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long acquainted with the bizarre and the violent, was most concerned about the shed. Her only reference to Jerry's shotgun was her suggestion that perhaps it would be easier in the future to let the cat deal with any rats.
I stayed in Codsall for a while, but I kept getting into trouble with the police, who hated me. I was in a local pub one evening; a group of about nine men were singing rugby songs and generally being loud. They were nothing to do with me. A woman of mixed race came into the pub with her white boyfriend, who was about 30. The rugby group started singing a song which included a line about Zulu warriors. The woman's boyfriend must have assumed I was with the singers, because he came over to me and told me to tell the men to stop singing as his girlfriend was getting upset. I told him the singing was nothing to do with me. He became aggressive and said he would "do" me if the singing did not stop. I was not going to wait to get done by this man, so I hit him over the head with a cider bottle and ran out of the pub. He chased after me. I ran down someone's driveway and picked up two empty milk bottles from a step. The man lost his nerve and began walking away. I ran after him, but stopped after 100 yards. I thought the matter was closed, but the man called the police and moments later I was arrested. I was charged with assault occasioning actual bodily harm, threatening behaviour, possessing an offensive weapon and theft. "Theft? What the fuck did I steal?" I said. "Two milk bottles," said the jubilant policeman. The Codsall police had hit me with every possible offence, presumably in the cherished hope that I'd finally be sent to jail. I think they almost regarded that end as a performance-target. I was already under a two-year Supervision Order for the Birmingham mugging, so having breached that I thought there was now a good chance I'd be sent to jail at my next appearance before the magistrates. I had turned 18 some months earlier and I knew that the leniency usually extended to juvenile delinquents tended to cease sharply when they turned into adult delinquents. I was given bail and a date was set for my case to be heard.
I decided to move to Telford in Shropshire where I stayed with a friend called Chris. I started selling eggs and potatoes door-to-door from an old Transit van and was earning a reasonably good living. Chris only worked sporadically, so I started paying the rent, leaving him the money every Friday. At weekends I would take him out and buy him drinks. This arrangement existed for months, but the more I did to help him, the less he did to help himself. On top of that I felt he was becoming almost resentful of me.
One Sunday evening we went for a drink at a pub which we hadn't visited before. The locals of our own age made it clear that we were not welcome. They divided their time between glaring at us and mimicking us. I felt it was pointless waiting for the inevitable, so I punched one of them in the face. Others joined in, while Chris stood on the sidelines watching. I do not know why, and I have not seen him since to get the answer, but instead of coming to help me Chris started punching me as well. I knew I had not always been wise in my choice of company, but this was extraordinary. I got a good beating — my eye was split and someone smashed a bottle over my head. I staggered home, dazed with alcohol and violence, but through the haze I felt pure rage at Chris's treachery. I waited up all night for him, but sensibly he stayed away.
He knew I had to go to work, so I assumed he would sneak back when I was out. I decided to forgo work in order to have a chance of catching the treacherous shitbag. I hid in the laundry room, having armed myself with a bread knife from the kitchen. I was not going to stab him: I just wanted to torture and terrorise him with it before giving him a good beating. Around 10 a.m. there was a banging on the front door. I thought that either he had forgotten
I stayed in Codsall for a while, but I kept getting into trouble with the police, who hated me. I was in a local pub one evening; a group of about nine men were singing rugby songs and generally being loud. They were nothing to do with me. A woman of mixed race came into the pub with her white boyfriend, who was about 30. The rugby group started singing a song which included a line about Zulu warriors. The woman's boyfriend must have assumed I was with the singers, because he came over to me and told me to tell the men to stop singing as his girlfriend was getting upset. I told him the singing was nothing to do with me. He became aggressive and said he would "do" me if the singing did not stop. I was not going to wait to get done by this man, so I hit him over the head with a cider bottle and ran out of the pub. He chased after me. I ran down someone's driveway and picked up two empty milk bottles from a step. The man lost his nerve and began walking away. I ran after him, but stopped after 100 yards. I thought the matter was closed, but the man called the police and moments later I was arrested. I was charged with assault occasioning actual bodily harm, threatening behaviour, possessing an offensive weapon and theft. "Theft? What the fuck did I steal?" I said. "Two milk bottles," said the jubilant policeman. The Codsall police had hit me with every possible offence, presumably in the cherished hope that I'd finally be sent to jail. I think they almost regarded that end as a performance-target. I was already under a two-year Supervision Order for the Birmingham mugging, so having breached that I thought there was now a good chance I'd be sent to jail at my next appearance before the magistrates. I had turned 18 some months earlier and I knew that the leniency usually extended to juvenile delinquents tended to cease sharply when they turned into adult delinquents. I was given bail and a date was set for my case to be heard.
I decided to move to Telford in Shropshire where I stayed with a friend called Chris. I started selling eggs and potatoes door-to-door from an old Transit van and was earning a reasonably good living. Chris only worked sporadically, so I started paying the rent, leaving him the money every Friday. At weekends I would take him out and buy him drinks. This arrangement existed for months, but the more I did to help him, the less he did to help himself. On top of that I felt he was becoming almost resentful of me.
One Sunday evening we went for a drink at a pub which we hadn't visited before. The locals of our own age made it clear that we were not welcome. They divided their time between glaring at us and mimicking us. I felt it was pointless waiting for the inevitable, so I punched one of them in the face. Others joined in, while Chris stood on the sidelines watching. I do not know why, and I have not seen him since to get the answer, but instead of coming to help me Chris started punching me as well. I knew I had not always been wise in my choice of company, but this was extraordinary. I got a good beating — my eye was split and someone smashed a bottle over my head. I staggered home, dazed with alcohol and violence, but through the haze I felt pure rage at Chris's treachery. I waited up all night for him, but sensibly he stayed away.
He knew I had to go to work, so I assumed he would sneak back when I was out. I decided to forgo work in order to have a chance of catching the treacherous shitbag. I hid in the laundry room, having armed myself with a bread knife from the kitchen. I was not going to stab him: I just wanted to torture and terrorise him with it before giving him a good beating. Around 10 a.m. there was a banging on the front door. I thought that either he had forgotten
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