the animal police

Johnny Mondays was fast becoming the least popular private dick in all Norwich, and he wasn’t even a private dick. He was one third of an outfit self-dubbed ‘The Animal Police’: bored freelance journalists, ex-heroin addicts and crime fighters unextraordinaire. Petty stuff, mainly: lost dogs, tired cats, loud birds. It wasn’t that their rather paltry detective skills were limited exclusively to the animal kingdom, but Mondays and his associates did have an almost preternatural ability to solve these dull cases with a half successful rate of accuracy.

They’d hit East Anglia when times had drawn hard in the capital. The smack had been getting out of hand for a while. Billy Dryskin had taken a series of hard line beatings from his dealer in the street, and Jack Oddbins got fucked dissolving his fix in lemon juice and wound up blind in one eye, that now lingered dead-looking and lazy after the rest of him looked away. They all three decided to get out while they could, get some help, get clean, get the business back on it’s feet. Norwich seemed like the place to do it.

How wrong they’d been.

They’d only been in the city walls for a month and already the cases were flooding in, five maybe six a day. It shouldn’t have been like this, Mondays thought, reaching for the scotch from the desk drawer that he shared with Dryskin and Oddbins. Animal Policing was as much about trust building as it was solving the cases. No one was going to come and start puking their guts out to a perfect stranger, especially one with a blinded fungal eye and needle tracks spread up his arm. It should have been a long process, but the phone only stopped ringing when they unplugged it. What the fuck was going on in this town?

He heard the door going, his already acute sense of hearing heightened by withdrawal. His mother had thought he must have some dog in him, some wolf maybe, due to his powerful brain and his acute sense of hearing, but Mondays knew that was bullshit. It was Oddbins; he could hear his stupid voice. Yeah, and Dryskin. Back from the clinic, pacified with methadone and ready to sleep. Not this morning. Mondays knocked back a hunk of scotch and slipped the bottle back into the drawer, 10:24 am.

“Mondays,” said Dryskin. “You missed your fuckin appointment.”

“And who gives a shit?” asked Mondays.

“Longo. She was not happy. She’s gonna stop the script if you miss another one,” said Oddbins, one eye engulfed in a dull yellow sheen.

“We’ll see about that.” Mondays plugged the phone in and it started ringing immediately. He took the receiver and hung up, then dialled a number from memory. Good memory. He looked at the other two and nodded, and mouthed ‘ringing’ with hand over the mouthpiece. They heard a muffled answer, unclear past Mondays scruffy hair. “Maria Longo,” he said quickly. “Johnny Mondays.” A few seconds happened and they could hear more noises on the end of the phone. “Maria?” he said. “Mondays. What? I know. I’ve got nothing to say. I missed it. Of course. Is that a threat? I wouldn’t, Longo. I just wouldn’t. Fuck with me. Yeah, fuck.” He smiled at his buddies. “It’ll be ready next week? Right.” And he hung up.

“Sorted?” asked Dryskin.

“Yeah,” said Mondays. The phone started to ring again. Mondays snatched the receiver. “Animal Police,” he said. “Uh-huh. Sure. Address?” He wrote some words down on the back of an envelope. “Okay.” He hung up and pulled the phone out of the wall socket. “Fuckin phone won’t stop.”

Dryskin and Oddbins sat down on the two chairs in front of the desk and they all lit smokes.

“What the fuck’s going on, Mondays?” asked Oddbins. “That’s the third time this morning I’ve found the car burnt.”

“And the sixteenth time this week,” said Mondays, his fingers sliding into a steeple. “Interesting,” he spoke slowly, methodically, contemplatively.

“What’s going on?” said Dryskin this time. “This was on the doorstep when we came up here.” He passed a plastic supermarket bag over the desk towards Mondays, who took it between thumb and forefinger, weighing it up. “Be careful man,” said Dryskin gravely. He leaned in a little and whispered. “It ain’t human.”

Mondays opened the bag and looked in. “Shit,” he said. “Day old, solid mostly.” He lowered his nose slightly, to the opening, and inhaled deeply. “Dog, medium size.” He sniffed again, two short sharp pumps. “Spaniel?” Another sniff. “There’s some cat in there.” He shook his head disapprovingly, tied the bag up by its handles and threw it out of the open window. “A bag of shit,” he said rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “A burnt out car. A bag of shit and a burnt out car. Very, very interesting.”

“What do you think, Mondays?” Oddbins was sweating heavily in his customary way.

“I don’t know boys,” he said, looking at his watch. “I don’t know.”

*

Maria Longo left the hospital around half past four, as always. She’d only worked at the clinic about a month, transferred from London. Change in pace, she’d said, spend time with the family. An Italian, definitely, and probably a lesbian, most people thought, heavy-built and moustachioed, ripe with sweat and easily worked up, stretched into plain crew neck t-shirts of the primary colours. Despite the Italian roots her family were Norwich-dwellers, she said, but she didn’t like to talk about her family. It was personal details, and Longo wasn’t into being personal.

Back at the three bed redbrick house she lives in it was 4:45 pm and Longo glanced surreptitiously over her meaty shoulder joint. No one. She pulled out the keys and hulks through the front door, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror in the hallway. In the confines of the house she seemed nervous, and jumping a little she puts her bag down and is straight in the kitchen, drying her face down with a tea towel. The place smells of animal but there’s nothing in sight.

“Maria!” boomed a male voice, the accent thick heavy Italian like the noise of meatballs. “Maria, come-a the fuck-a in here-a!”

Longo crossed herself and rushed in the direction of the voice. It looked like there were tears in her eyes. She opened the door off of the hallway and into the living room and went through it. Seated in the middle of the bay window on a threadbare armchair there was a fat octogenarian dressed head to toe in black vestment-like garments. His fingers are weighed down with countless gold rings and he wears prescription sunglasses on his vast football shaped head, his body a rack of solid fat. Not the flexible, doughy fat of the English but the solid, compacted fat of the Mediterranean, unmoving and dangerous.

“Well?” he snarled gruffly, his skin the colour of cigar clenched between his black teeth. Longo dropped to her knees in the doorway.

They’re here!” she said, herself heavily accented. “I’ve-a seen them!”

“All of them?”

“All but-a the one they call the Mondays.”

“Mondays,” he repeated, his eyes narrowing behind the glasses. “Perhaps the Mondays should get a little visit? Show him the way things a-go in the Norwich. That we don’t need no fucking Animal Policemen. That-a we-a do-a things our own-a way in-a the East-a the Anglia.”

“Yes Ambassador!” said Longo, hands clenched together in ecstatic agreement. The Ambassador smiled.

“Now get-a the fuck outta here woman, you fucking stink.”

“Yes Ambassador, yes!” said Longo, edging backwards out of the room.

*

The Animal Police pulled up at the address. The car was in a bad state, windows smashed and upholstery still damp from the fire extinguisher, but somehow it still moved. It was 4pm and the sun was still hot in the sky.

“What the fuck’s this place supposed to be?” asked Dryskin. “Looks like a factory.”

Mondays nodded, peered over the metal frame of his sunglasses. “It does, doesn’t it?” He rifled about in his jeans pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. He checked the address. It was right. “I don’t see no Mrs Fucking Michaels.” He opened the car door and stepped out onto the dry gravel floor. “Sonofabitch.”

“What’s it supposed to be, Mondays?” said Oddbins past a pencil thin cigarette, also getting out of the car, along with Dryskin from the back.

“Stolen pooch, she said.”

“Why here?”

“Said this was her place. Residential address, she said.”

“Residential?” said Dryskin. “This is a fuckin abandoned factory. There’s nothing here.”

“Hoax,” agreed Oddbins. “Another one. Let’s get the fuck outta here Mondays. It’s a fuckin prank.”

“Just shut up,” said Mondays, sitting himself slightly on the bonnet of the car. He looked around the scene. Something wasn’t right about this set up. “Let’s take a look around,” he said. “Nobody fucks with the Animal Police.”

“What’s the point?”

“The point is, dickhead, that people don’t just make pranks calls and drag poor bastards out here without reason. Trying to fuck us up? Then they’re probably here right now, watching. They’ll wanna see it. See us fucked up. In fact,” he said, lighting a smoke with a match, “I’d fuckin bet on it.”

“He’s right,” said Dryskin. “Let’s take a look around. See what we can find. If there’s anyone here I wanna have some serious fuckin words. That fuckin phone isn’t for bullshit.”

“Boys,” said Mondays, raising a hand for silence. “Let’s Animal Police.”

They wandered forth towards what looked like an entrance, which gave in quickly to the forceful sole of Mondays boot. “Michaels?” he growled. “Michaels?” Met with stolid silence his voice echoed around the space. They moved in further, an awkward half-light making it through the dirty windows, until they reached the foot of a metal staircase. Dust was spread thickly throughout the building, and the floor looked hollow where the machinery must once have been. Now it was littered with empty drinks cans and cigarette butts and tissue paper. Always tissue paper, thought Mondays. He raised a foot to the bottom step but stopped when something caught his eyes, just underneath the lowest part of stairs.

“Wait,” he said, pointing to what he saw. It was pink and fresh and raw looking. Like some kind of meat. But what was it, and what was it doing here.

“What is it?” said Oddbins.

“And what’s it doing here?” said Dryskin.

Mondays knelt down next to the pink matter and reached out a hand to pick it up, which he did slowly, raising it to his lips. He darted his tongue out in lizard-like flecks, gently dabbing at its surface. Swallowing a few times to get an idea of what he was dealing with and his face suddenly turned with recognition and he spat, spat until nothing was left to spit out, and threw the matter back onto the floor.

“Fuck,” he said, rubbing his tongue onto his sleeve and reeling backwards. “Fuck!”

“Jesus Mondays, what is it?”

“It’s a cock,” he said angrily, “it’s a fuckin dogs cock!”

“Christ,” said Dryskin authentically.

“You better believe that,” snarled Mondays, putting his fingers down his throat.

“What kind of monster?” said Oddbins.

“You don’t wanna know,” said Dryskin.

“On the fuckin contrary,” said Mondays, shaking his head with something way beyond scorn. “I wanna know very much.” He stamped his foot down on the disembodied dick. “There’s some sick bastards at work here,” he said. “And this ain’t no coincidence. This was left here for us. Some kind of threat. A warning, maybe. Someone’s got something they don’t want us to know, that’s for fuckin sure. Something big. The car, the phone calls, the dogshit, and now the cock. Well I don’t give a pound of shit. No one cuts off a dog’s cock on my watch. Not in my town. Or my name ain’t fuckin Johnny Mondays.”

His fists were clenched as he spoke, and they jumped when they heard the roar of tearing metal coming from outside.

“What the shit was that?” said Oddbins.

“Sounds like the fuckin car,” said Mondays.

“Move!” said Dryskin.

They ran back the way they came and outside. Sure enough, the car was ablaze, torched out, ripped in two like a sandwich by the heat of the blast.

“What did I say?” said Mondays. “They’re here.” Bang on cue the ambience was pierced by squealing car tyres and a huge black Merc drove off at speed, kicking up a cloud of dust as it hit the B-road and flew out of sight.

Mondays walked around the car. Spray painted onto the side were large poorly executed letters. It read: ANAL POLIC FUK OF. Illiterates, he thought. “Look at this,” he said, pointing at the text.

“Anal polic? What the fucks that supposed to mean?” asked Oddbins.

“I’d hazard a guess it means Animal Police,” said Mondays.

“Mondays!” blurted Dryskin, pointing. “Look.”

Monday followed the path of the finger and saw it, there on the floor. Another bag. He opened it. “As I suspected,” he said, and tossed the bag to Dryskin.

“Dogshit,” said the latter, tossing it Oddbins.

“Dogshit,” he agreed.

They looked at the car, didn’t even bother trying to put the flames out. Mondays was about to speak when he saw something else, about thirty feet from where he was standing. He walked over to it and picked it up. A white handkerchief. He smelt it. Garlic. Garlic and olive oil.

“Italians!” he shouted.

“What?” said the others.

“Fuckin Italians,” he said, passing Dryskin the handkerchief. “Smell that.”

Dryskin did as he said. “Garlic.”

Mondays nodded. “Garlic,” he said. “It’s the Italians.”

“Fuck me,” said Oddbins. “What would the Italians want with us?”

“That’s what were going to find the fuck out,” said Mondays aggressively. “No fucker burns my car beyond repair and gets away with it. Not with spelling like that.”

“Let’s Animal Police,” said Dryskin. They all shook hands and set off towards Norwich, slowly and on foot, sweating, the smell of petrol oppressive in the heat.

*

The Merc swung fast into the garage and farted to a halt. Longo jumped out of the drivers seat, her eyes hidden behind a pair of reflective sunglasses. She peered out of the garage door, checking that no one had followed her. The road was clear so she looked at her watch. 4:45pm. The Ambassador would be waiting. Longo felt in her pockets for her handkerchief but couldn’t find it, instead wiping her forehead with a dishcloth left blackened and oily on the workbench in the garage. The heat was unbearable.

She removed the black leather gloves and placed them into a yellow plastic medical waste bag that she had taken from the hospital, along with an empty petrol can and a dead German Shepherd dog, dickless and thick with drying blood, flies already covering it. She tied the bag closed and put it inside an old tumble dryer in the garage.

Longo pulled the garage door down behind her as she left and skulked around to the front door, feeling observed. She was starting to think that she wasn’t really cut out for this type of thing, but she had no choice now. Besides, the Feminist Mafiosi needed every penny they could get, and the Ambassador paid handsomely for satisfactory efforts. And the Animal Police were nothing, no one. Junkies and pigs, trifling interferences. She hadn’t enjoyed killing the dog, but needs must. She was working for powerful men, for whom powerful symbolic gestures were a prerequisite. There’s little more powerful than a dog’s dick, she thought hungrily. If it hadn’t been her it would have been someone else, she thought. Killing the dog. Old age or a traffic accident. Or it would have gone to the Ambassador’s business partners for reformation. Its time was already up, before she made the incision. There was always death. As good this way as any other.

A small part of a grand plan. A catering plan.

Where was that handkerchief?

In the house the voice of the Ambassador. “Maria! Get-a your fat-a fuckin ass in-a here!”

She did as commanded, the Ambassador in that same chair.

“It’s-a done,” she said, on her knees. “Ka-boom!”

“Magnificent,” he beamed, eyes sunken gleefully into his doughy countenance. “And-a
these Animal Police?”

“Stranded,” said Longo with pride.

“You mean-a,” his face turned from the smile. “You mean-a you-a didn’t kill-a them?”

“I… no, but-a they are-a stranded, Ambassador.”

“You stupid woman. They may-a be a-stranded but-a they can walk. You were supposed to-a kill them, Maria. Kill them! Instead-a you just-a burnt their car? What are you the fucking stupid? You-a can’t-a be trusted, Maria, can’t-a be trusted!”

Longo sobbed apologies. “But I too sprayed-a their car a-with the nasty words.”

“Oh-a you a-sprayed their automobile! Shut up!” screamed the Ambassador, head engulfed in a thick cloud of cigar smoke. Longo honked as she tried to stifle her fear. “Do we-a look-a like we are in-a the playground Maria? Do we?” She fell to her front, sobbing in ugly tears, her face pressed into the carpet.

“Maria, Maria,” said the Ambassador, his voice quieter, “this-a may not be the end of-a the world,” he went on. “Stop-a your crying. We scare them, yes? We burn their car and put-a the dogshit in the letterbox. But-a still they don’t-a know it’s us. We are-a calling the shots Maria, yes? Hmmm? We are-a pulling the strings? We will get-a those-a Animal Police exactly where we want them, and then-a bang! Next time there will be no mistakes! We must-a make them afraid to walk-a the street of Norwich, Maria, make-a them fear their own shadows and-a even themselves. Of course!” He clapped his hands together. “It’s-a so simple. Intimidation. To chase-a them outta town and-a outta my-a animal business! Bellissimo!”

He laughed, laughed and laughed, clutching his thick abdomen with one massive hand. Longo crawled towards him, along the floor.

“Yes-a, the masterful Ambassador,” she said.

“And-a there was nothing to a-lead them here?” he asked.

“Nothing, nothing, I-a swear!”

“Very well, a-Maria. Now suck-a my dick, you fat-fat bitch!” he roared, unzipping his fly. “There is still a-much-a to do before-a da opening!”

Mouthful: “Yes! Oh-a yes!”

Groaning orgasm: “We-a make-a the facking rules.”

*

The Animal Police were back within the city wall, walking now in an intense silence. Mondays was shaking and needed something to take the edge off of it. It’d have to wait until they were back in the office. He sneered as they walked past a kebab shop, opening up for the evening shift.

“Fuckin stinks,” he mumbled, peering through the dirty glass with disdain.

“Like a dogs dick,” snorted Dryskin without thinking. He looked apologetically at Mondays, who involuntarily clenched his fist. “Sorry, John,” he said quietly, head slightly bowed.

Unexpectedly Mondays face dropped to slack, struck by a revelation. He clicked his fingers and grabbed Dryskin enthusiastically by the shoulder. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s fuckin it! Kebabs, dog dicks, that’s it!” He let go of the shoulders and paced backwards, gripping his jaw in concentration. Dryskin and Oddbins watched him, and watched the dusky boys by the kebab shop grill, amused as they were by the unusual. “But who?” said Mondays rhetorically. “Who? What’s the link? Who? What?” He paced more, in tight circles, drumming fist into palm and whispering hurriedly to himself.

It hit him like motorcar. Something about the rotating doner and the godawful stench made him think of Longo.

Longo. Italian. Greedy. Meaty. That was it. She was their keyworker, knew them, knew their business, knew their address. And she was Italian. It was all coming together.

Feeling the smile stretch across his face Mondays turned to his colleagues. “Longo,” he announced proudly.

“Longo?” they replied simultaneously.

“Longo!” he said again, shouting this time.

Oddbins noticed the eyes of the kebab shop goons widening with repetition of the word Longo, as though someone had uttered a swear word. Or a secret. The smallest of the three ran to a phone and started punching in numbers, then talking animatedly into the receiver and gesturing towards the window. The middle sized one kept watch of the grill, while the biggest threw his cloth down onto the stainless steel surface and came to the door.

“Junkies fuck off,” he said harshly, in a thick unidentifiable accent.

“That fuckin Longo.” Mondays, oblivious, said it again.

“No fuckin Longo here man,” said the kebab goon. “Now get the fuck off from outta here.”

“Mondays,” said Dryskin, shaking him from his reverie. “I think this gentleman wants us to leave.”

“Huh,” said Mondays, looking to Dryskin and then the Arab, arms folded like tree trunks and blocking the entrance to the shop. “Leave?” he said. “We only just got here. Doner and chips.”

“You’re Mondays?”

“My reputation precedes the fuck outta me,” said Mondays, smile locked onto his face.

“No doner for you. Fuck off.”

“And what about Longo?” said Mondays.

“What you want?”

“Longo.”

“There ain’t no facking Longo neither. Now don’t you ever facking come here again with your facking Longo. There ain’t nothing we need to talk about.”

He spat down onto the street, a thick yellow emission, pointed at each of the three Animal Police in turn, then went inside the shop and locked the door behind him.

“What the fuck’s going on?” asked Oddbins. “What’s this Longo shit? And why the kebabs?”

“I have a feeling it’s simple,” said Mondays. “See…”

A screeching of brakes shredded the sentence. Mondays looked up to see a black Merc, the same black Merc, tearing around a corner just up the road. It was headed straight for them, and didn’t look like it was going to stop.

“Son of a…” he said.

“They ain’t fuckin stopping,” said Oddbins.

“Agreed on that,” said Dryskin.

“Get the fuck out of here,” said Mondays.

“Agreed on that too,” said Dryskin, and they erupted into a run. They hit the riverside walk, knew the car couldn’t get down there. Mondays looked back and saw the car pulling to a halt by the footpath they’d taken down to the river. No one was getting out and he couldn’t see through the tinted windows.

“Stop,” he said to the others. “They’re not getting out.” Oddbins and Dryskin walked back to Mondays reluctantly, stared at the car. It was an absurd standoff. Slowly the car pulled away and was gone. None of the Animal Police tried to follow it. Left in its place at the head of the pathway was the stub end of a thick cigar. Mondays approached it. There was something else next to it, wrapped in the same kind of white handkerchief as before. He lifted it up and unravelled the handkerchief. As he suspected.

It was the severed paw of a German Shepherd.

Fresh.

Mondays beckoned Dryskin and Oddbins over to him. “Let’s get some smack,” he said, and gave the paw to Dryskin. It was 7:52pm.

*

“Ah, Maria, you piggy piggy,” said the Ambassador softly. “We are a-gaining on them, huh? One-a step closer, huh?” He prodded her flanks playfully with his sausage-like fingers as he spoke.

“The car-a, Ambassador, it-a wouldn’t fit a-down the footpath.”

“No no Maria, you are-a misunderstanding me. Everything is a-working as I a-planned.”

“But…”

“No-a buts, Maria. This is a-part of-a the plan. The Mondays will-a come-a to us, it is-a only a matter of time. He has a-had-a his clues, and-a he is-a the big-a-shot-a detective. I have laid-a the map Maria, and-a all he must do is-a follow it into my trap. He will know-a the truth if he-a follows the clues. Right-a where we want them.”

Longo bit one corner of her lip, concerned expressing on her face. “And-a then?”

“And-a then? We kill-a the shit of-a the Animal Police! And-a without-a them to stand in-a my way, the multi-a-million pound takeaway industry of-a Norwich will-a be mine! All mine!”

His laughter ricocheted around the leather upholstery of the Merc as Longo drove it North, towards the warehouse.

*

Mondays tried to open his eyes and puked, twice, three, even four times. What did they do last night? Oh yeah. The smack. Without remorse he stood up. 8:29am. Dryskin was draped over the table, entirely naked, widthways, his body in a crippling crescent shape, his ribs covered with bruises; Oddbins was underneath the same table, completely flat, straight and with his arms by his sides. The phone rang and woke them up with a start. Monday grabbed the receiver, lighting a smoke with his free hand.

“Yeah?” he said, voice sounding like it was being scraped out of him. “Hello? Hello?” There was a laughing at the end of the phone, male and persistent. “Hello you sick fuck? Fuck it,” he shouted, and threw the handset into the wall. It didn’t break.

Dryskin screamed as he pulled himself up, spine grinding back into a vertical stance. “Who was that?” he said, looking for some underwear.

“Laughing boy,” said Mondays pulling hard on the cigarette and pouring a scotch. “Again.”

“Laughing boy?” asked Dryskin.

“From last night,” said Oddbins, who was now laying face down. “The fucker was ringing last night.”

“Right,” said Dryskin, given up on the underwear and slipping on a pair of jeans.

The Animal Police looked at each other, around the office. It was a state.

“Fucking Longo,” muttered Mondays, spitting the scotch back into the glass, drinking it back and then smashing the glass against the wall. “Fucking fucking Longo.”

“Shit yeah, Longo. That was it!” said Dryskin excitedly. Mondays nodded. “What’s the story, John?”

“The Longo Story,” said Oddbins.

“It’s not a story you dickheads, it’s a theory.”

“Tell us then.”

“It’s Longo, all of this. The dogshit, the paw, the car, the handkerchief for Christ’s sake. The fat fucker’s up to something. She followed us here from London, got in as our keyworker, found out our fuckin address, burnt out our car and planted that dog dick in the factory.”

“But… why?”

“Simple,” said Mondays. “Kebabs and takeaway.”

Oddbins and Dryskin gave each other a look, like he’d lost his mind. “Are you alright, Mondays?” asked the latter.

“Course I’m alright, and I’m telling you: kebabs.”

“What do you mean kebabs?”

“Exactly that. They’re using dogs and cats as meat.”

“Shit.”

“Explains all the missing pets,” offered Oddbins.

“Right,” Mondays went on, “and the body parts. And that fuckin stench. I recognise grilled dog meat anywhere and that shit last night, that was dog meat. Even the paw,” he said enthusiastically, picking it off of the floor. “Look at that,” holding up the severed limb for inspection. “Cut with a fuckin catering knife.”

“Jesus,” said Dryskin.

“But this doesn’t make sense. Why Longo?” asked Oddbins.

“Well that’s the difficult bit. Aside from the fact that the big bastard’s probably got a thing for kebabs, I don’t really know. And she doesn’t have the brains to be organising a racket like this, so she must be working for someone. But she’s in on it. This kebab job’s got Longo and the Italians written all over it.”

“Maybe,” pondered Oddbins, wandering to the window. “Maybe.”

“Maybe nothing,” said Mondays. “It’s the only explanation. Why do you think we’re getting such a hard fuckin time? Last thing you want sniffing around a racket like this is Animal Police. We’re enemy number fuckin one. Longo’s just a stooge, but I don’t doubt that those filthy Italians are supplying half the county with cheap animal meat. I mean, how many people’d really know the difference.”

“Not many, it would seem,” said Dryskin.

“Fuckin bingo,” smiled Mondays.

“I don’t get it though,” said Oddbins. “Why the Wops? Isn’t it the Arabs that make kebabs?”

“That doesn’t matter for shit,” said Mondays, “although it is odd, I grant you. Must be money in it. And power. It’s the way of the world – everybody respects the man who gets the meat. Maybe it’s a respect thing, I don’t fuckin know. All I know is that it’s happening, and Longo’s in on it. And if that bitch will burn up our fuckin car, what’s her boss gonna be prepared to do to us?”

Dryskin whistled through his teeth. Oddbins watched a twitch pass over Mondays’ face. “You okay, Mondays?”

Mondays shook his head and poured another drink. His was having a memory, that much was clear to anyone.

“Mondays?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, but then looked guilty for his aggressive reaction. “I’m fine,” softer this time.

“You don’t look fine.”

“Fuck you!” he shouted, face reddening. Oddbins recoiled and Mondays caught himself, grabbed some lungfuls of air. “I’m… sorry,” he said. “It’s just… the memories.”

“Kebabs?” asked Oddbins.

Mondays nodded. “Kebabs. I had a bad experience once. A bad experience.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I don’t know if I can. I’ve never talked about it before.” He slumped down into the chair behind the desk.

“Take your time,” said Oddbins, perching on the windowsill. Mondays knocked back the drink in one.

“It was ’97,” he started. “Summer. It’s hard to believe it looking at me now but I didn’t always used to be… like this. I wasn’t always a scumbag. Used to be somebody, with a job, a wife, a place. And then it happened.”

“Go on,” encouraged Oddbins gently.

“Oh, you know how these things go. It was a hot day, the wife and I were having a drink, feeling a bit toasted. I had whiskey, she had pints of lager and lime in half pint glasses. Then off home, feeling a bit peckish, so what do you think to do?”

“Kebab,” said Dryskin quietly, reverently.

“That’s it,” intercepted Mondays. “What more normal thing is there?” His eyes had glazed over, somewhere awkward between tears and anger. “We got our kebabs – lamb doner for the gent, chicken shish for the lady – and thought we’d walk them home. Only lived a few minutes away. That’s when it happened.” He brought his fist down hard on the desk, displacing the bottle of scotch. It broke on the floor.

“It’s okay man.”

Mondays shot him a glance. It wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay.

“These fuckin... two bit muggers. Followed us a way and then jumped us. They knocked us both over but pulled me up, to my feet, asking for my wallet. I was a bit drunk and I didn’t want any trouble, Jesus I just tried to give them the fuckin thing, but they weren’t having it. Start laying their hands on my wife, whose still on the floor. They’re holding her down.” He has tears running the length of his cheeks, but he doesn’t sound like he’s crying. “Fuckin touchin her, the dirty little bastards. And they start unwrapping her kebab, fuckin laughing while they’re doing it, and all I can hear is her crying and crying, but I can’t do nothing because they’re holding me. I can’t do nothing.” He shouts, frustrated, wipes his eyes. “Fuckers force the kebab into her mouth. She’s gasping for breath and they force the kebab in her mouth, dripping garlic sauce and grease and limp fuckin salad. And they laugh while they rape her. She isn’t gasping by then. She isn’t nothing. Just lying there.”

“Mondays I...” managed Oddbins. “I had no idea.”

“By the time they’re through I kneel next to her but I know she’s dead. Choked on a kebab. A fuckin kebab! They murder my wife and they take my wallet and what am I left with? A tepid doner. What could I do?” he said, bleary eyed, stung by the pain of the past. “What the fuck could I do? I lost everything, and for what? Kebabs? It was no fuckin good. I threw myself into the heroin and never once came up for air. I wanted to obliterate every shred of myself that was leftover from that mess. I didn’t want to see it again.”

Dryskin wiped the sweat from his face with a t-shirt, then put it on.

“And now we’re here,” said Mondays, slapping his thighs as though he hadn’t said a word. “Present fuckin day.” He lit a smoke.

“Mondays...”

“Another day in paradise,” he scoffed.

“You don’t have to bullshit us Mondays,” said Oddbins.

“I’m bullshitting no one man. I fuckin hate kebabs, and that’s why. Kebabs killed my wife, they took everything I had. And it was all because of kebabs. That I can almost live with. But using dogs? Fuckin cats? And Italians fuckin doing it? It’s not right boys, I’ll tell you that much.”

“I think you might be right,” said Dryskin, looking at the clock ever-frantically.

“That’s why we’re going to track the bastards down and put a stop to this. Put a fuckin stop to kebabs in the Norwich area. For the animals. For my dead wife. For the future.”

“Right,” said Oddbins.

“Starting with that ape Longo. Make the cunt talk.”

“Right,” said Dryskin.

“First things first we better get to the chemist,” he said. “Get us a medicine breakfast.”

“Nothing like methadone in the mornings to get you going,” said Dryskin.

“It’s what detective work was founded on,” said Mondays, pulling his old brown suit jacket from the back of the chair and opening the door. They’d be at the chemist in five minutes, 9:15 by the yellowed wall clock.

*

By 11 they had Longo tied up to a straight-backed wooden chair. She smiled pathetically as Mondays drove a fist hard into the centre of her face, nose popping under the force of the punch.

“We want answers Longo,” he said. “Answers.”

“I know a-nothing,” she said, apparently unfazed.

“Nothing is it, tough guy? You know nothing? Well I know this much, and that’s you’re fucking dead if you don’t spill the sauce.” He tossed Oddbins a nod who, nodding back, brought his fist down like a gavel on the top of her head. “Now tell us about the fuckin animals.”

“What a-fucking animals?” she said slowly. “I don’t a-know no fucking animals except-a you!”

“Very, very stupid, Longo,” said Mondays, enjoying a cigarette. He tossed another nod, to Dryskin this time, who responded by slapping a firm backhand across Longo’s broad face.

“What-a you want me to say?” she asked, tasting blood on her tongue.

“Tell us about the meat, Longo. About the kebabs. About who the fuck would let a stupid lump like you loose working for them.”

“I don’t know the kebab,” she said. “I know a-nothing about-a no meat or no animals.”

“You’re an Italian liar, Longo, like all Italian liars.”

“You bullshit,” she said.

“Bullshit nothing,” snarled Mondays. “Are you gonna tell us what the fuck we wanna know, or are we gonna fuck you up?”

“I say not a word,” she said in the kind of defiant way that required folded arms, but she couldn’t move because of the rope.

“Wrong answer Longo,” said Mondays.

“You murderous kebab mongering mothershit,” said Dryskin, leaning in close and accentuating the words as he said them. “People like you make me fuckin sick.”

Mondays strolled around the behind the chair and stood in front of Longo. He was holding a knife and loosely gesturing towards Longo. She panicked, visibly, her breathing deepened.

“Oh-a shit,” she said. “Not-a the knife.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this Longo,” said Mondays softly, dragging the blade gently across the flesh of her neck. “We don’t want it to be like this, we just want the answers. There’s some bad shit at work in this town and we’re here to put a stop to it. And you,” he said, flicking the knife against the back of her ear, where it joined onto her cannonball head, “are a big old part of that bad shit.” He started whispering, into her ear. “But we know you’re not pulling the strings Maria. Do yourself a favour a fuckin talk. Tell us. Who’s in charge? Who’s running the racket? Who’s pimping the kebab meat?”

“I...”

“Who?” he shouted.

“I don’t-a know,” she pleaded desperately, almost childish.

“Who,” he said, stabbing her right shoulder with about two inches of blade.

“Boss,” snapped Oddbins, interjecting and pulling Mondays back some.”This is a lot fuckin more than gentle persuasion.”

“Shut it,” said Mondays. “We need the bitch to talk and I’ll get the fuckin job done.”

“Just don’t become one of them,” said Oddbins firmly.

Mondays lunged behind Longo’s chair and grabbed her by the forehead, pinning her head back against his chest as he held the sharp end of the blade right against her throat.

“Do yourself a favour Longo,” he said over her terrified screams.

“No-a! A-please!” she was shouting, trying to free herself from the ropes but it was hopeless. “Please! The-a Ambassador will-a never...”

“What Ambassador?” interrupted Mondays. He threw the knife to one side and ran to face Longo. He slapped her, trying to calm her but she was trembling violently, delirious with fear. He slapped her again. “Maria, what Ambassador? Is he the one, Maria? Is he doing all this? Is that who you’re working for? The kebab giant? The meat cunt? Dog eater? Longo, who’s the fuckin Ambassador?”

“My a-brother!” she said, sobbing in frenzy. “My a-brother! The Ambassador is-a my brother. He-a made-a me do it!”

“Fuckin Italians,” said Dryskin, punching his palm.

“Good fuckin work Longo,” said Monday, tweaking her cheek like a kid. “Now you’re gonna fuckin take us to him, understand. Right now. And don’t make a peep or I’ll slit you throat” – and he made the throat slitting gesture – “from ear to fuckin ear. Got it?”

“Ah shit-a,” she said in woe.

“Shit-a indeed, Longo. Oddbins. Cut the ropes.”

*

The Animal Police pulled up outside of Longo’s house in a borrowed car, Longo stuffed in the back seat between Oddbins and Dryskin, Mondays driving. It was 1pm by that point, and thoughts had turned to revenge. Nobody makes Johnny Mondays taste a dog dick, and certainly not this Ambassador Longo.

“This the place?” Mondays snarled, looking at Longo in the rear view mirror.

She nodded in the affirmative, snorting tears back. “Please a-don’t-a do this!” she begged. “The Ambassador, he will-a kill me.”

“Kill you? He’s your fuckin brother,” said Dryskin.

“Exactly,” she replied wretchedly.

“You both should have thought have that before you fucked with the animal police,” said Oddbins. “Right Mondays?”

“Right,” said Mondays. “You burnt our car and left dog shit through our letterbox. But maybe even worse than that, you sick fucks are selling dog meat for kebabs. Kebabs, for fuck sake! Scourge of the drunk. And we will not tolerate dog meat in Norwich.”

“Fuck-a,” she said.

“Let’s do it,” said Mondays, cracking his knuckles. “Get her out of here.”

Oddbins and Dryskin struggled with the bulk of Longo from the back seat while Mondays lit a cigarette. This was it. The big one. This was so much more personal than dogs, or faeces, or burnt out Ford Escorts. This was about memories. He imagined himself crying as he sucked on the smoke and looked at Longo’s hunched form, snivelling before him like a broken child.

“Open the fuckin door,” he said. “Now!”

Muttering curses under her breath Longo pulled out her keys and lifted them to the lock. She looked back at the Animal Police, stood about a foot behind her and all frowning. Hopelessly she turned the key and the door opened with a clunk. The stench of sweat and cigar smoke hit Mondays like an eighteen-wheeler, and he shoved Longo through the door and beckoned in his colleagues with a hand, signalling for their silence with a finger to his lips.

“Maria?” came a heavy Italian accent from what looked to be the living room. “Maria, get-a the fuck in here!”

Mondays nodded to Dryskin and Oddbins. “That’s the cunt,” he whispered, pointing to the door.

“Maria? Maria?” The voice sounded angrier, louder. Mondays slapped her on the shoulder, to get her to reply.

“Ambassador,” she said eventually, struggling to keep the panic out of her voice. “It’s-a me Ambassador.”

“Of-a course it’s-a fackin you, Maria. Who-a the fuck else-a would it-a be? You-a fackin live here.”

“Yes Ambassador,” she said.

“Now-a come in-a here, you fat-a bitch.”

She looked to Mondays for guidance, who nodded. She went for the door. Mondays quickly grabbed her, counted to three and then threw her through the door, where she slumped in a heap at the Ambassador’s feet. Mondays lunged through after her, and came face-to-face with Ambassador Longo, dog meat baron of the East Anglian kebab racket. He was sat in his decrepit looking chair, beaming like a fat doll and half enshrouded in a thick cloud of cigar smoke. Enormously fat, he was stretched into an off-white vest, evidently well tailored trousers open at the waist. Fuckin Italians, thought Mondays, feeling his teeth clench. The Ambassador sucked a vast breath on the cigar, thick as a baby’s arm. With the exception of his currant-like eyes, everything about him was enormous, oversized.

“Mr a-Mondays,” he said, smiling as he spoke. “We meet at last.”

Without warning Mondays swung an open-handed slap into the side of his fat face. It knocked the cigar out of his mouth but otherwise the Ambassador didn’t move an inch, almost as if he hadn’t noticed. There was a dot of blood in the corner of his lips, which he licked happily, relishing its flavour. “That’s Johnny Mondays to you, you filthy bastard.”

“Johnny Mondays,” he said, trying the words out for size. “Johnny Mondays.” Longo had crawled to the side of the Ambassador’s chair, and was prostrating herself at his feet. She picked up the dropped cigar and passed it back to him, spitting out muttered pointless apologies. The Ambassador took the cigar and with one huge hand held Longo by the head and drove the burning tip of the Stogie into her cheek, holding it until the cigar went out. She screamed and he pushed her backwards into the wall. The screaming stopped and she fell unconscious to the carpet. “Fuckin-a bitch,” he said, throwing the spent cigar to one side.

Mondays was looking on disgusted. “Hey,” he snapped. “Hey! Look the fuck at me!” The Ambassador slowly turned to him. “That’s right you fat sack of shit. I’m here to bring you down.”

“Is-a that a-right, Mr Mondays?”

“You can fuckin bet it is, porkchop,” he said, grinning himself.

“And-a why would-a you want to do-a that?”

“Why? Are you really that fuckin stupid as well as fat?”

“Humour me,” replied the Ambassador, pulling another thirteen inch cigar from the table next to him and striking a match for it.

“Because, git, you’re a canine racketeer.”

“Is-a that a fact?”

“Yeah, it is. Your selling dog meat to all the fuckin takeaway’s round here. Kebab shops. You’re stocking the bastards with this filthy dog meat and it ain’t fuckin right.”

“And-a why is that?”

“What?”

“Why is-a that so wrong?”

“Because the dog’s have gotta come from somewhere and your fuckin nicking them. For food.”

“So? Does it really matter what-a happens to these dogs? They are everywhere, my friend.” He leaned forwards in his chair, happy with the cigar. “Everywhere. We-a take-a them off people’s hands, sure, but they get over it. They-a get another dog. The cycle goes on, Mr Mondays. People are-a fickle creatures. They don’t-a give a shit.”

“Fuck you,” said Mondays, pointing at the Ambassador. “You’re full of shit. People do mind. That’s why I’m here. Animal fuckin Police. People like dogs. I fuckin like dogs. It’s not okay to kill them, not here. You’re not in fuckin Italy now. People don’t want to eat dog meat. Not in their burgers, not in their chow mein, and not in their fuckin kebabs.”

“Oh but-a they do, Mr Mondays. They do eat it.”

“But they don’t know about it,” Mondays was losing it, shouting, slurring his words, Oddbins and Dryskin could hear it from the hall. They exchanged a glance that asked whether they should go in. Not yet. “You’re not telling them what they’re eating. These are our pets.”

“One man’s pet is another man’s bitch-a, Mr Mondays.”

“You’re only interested in the fuckin money,” said Mondays. “That’s all you people are interested in. Not the love of the animals, or the meat. Just the money.”

“We all-a want money,” smiled the Ambassador behind his cigar.

“Fuck money.”

“No, Mr Mondays. Fuck you.” He clicked his fingers three times, the Ambassador. Heavy footsteps, and Mondays turned around to find two vast figures, more ape than man, standing right behind him. One punched his face as the other punched his stomach, and then both grabbed an arm in an iron grip and held him fast in place. Blood poured from his busted nose and he coughed from the gutpunch, which had knocked the wind out of him like a heavy fart. They held him up and pointed him to face the Ambassador.

“This is-a worth-a too much to let-a you to fuck it up,” he said. “The dogs, the meat, a-the kebab. You can’t-a stop it. It’s too late-a for that. We run-a the meat in a-this a-fuckin town, and no-a fuckin Animal Policeman is-a going to fuck-a that up.”

“Fuck you,” mumbled Mondays.

“I like-a your spirit, Mondays. Perhaps we could-a work together, if-a you weren’t such a fuckin bastard.”

Mondays tried to struggle, as pointless as it was in the hands of the bodyguards. In the confusion he somehow managed to get an arm loose and crunch an elbow into one of their faces, smashing their sunglasses and blacking their eye, but he got a broken arm for his trouble, snapped painfully with a twist of the bare hands.

“Dear-a Mr Mondays,” continued the Ambassador. “This is-a very amusing for me.” He stood up from his chair, slowly, and fastened his trousers as he did so. They were pulled up over a huge chunk of his stomach. Towering in front of Mondays he was huge, seven feet up and as many around, like a radioactive disaster. He leaned in to Mondays, who was in a bad shape, hanging limp and hurt and busted up. “This isn’t about-a the dogs, is it? This isn’t about-a the dog meat. The dog’s is just a bit-a money for you.” He lifted Mondays chin up with a finger that was as thick as the cigar clenched between the other digits. Mondays tried to open his eyes, to focus on the Ambassador’s grotesque head, which was difficult because of the perspective issues associated with its incomprehensible size. “It’s about-a the kebabs, isn’t it. The kebabs.”

“You son of a bitch,” said Mondays, spitting into his face. “You son of a bitch.”

“That’s a-right, Mr Mondays. The dogs are-a just your excuse-a. It’s a-the k
kebabs you want-a to stop, and it doesn’t matter to you whether it’s-a the lamb, the chicken, or the fuckin dog-a, because it’s a-the kebabs that-a killed-a your wife.”

In the hallway Dryskin and Oddbins looked at each other horrified.

Mondays face dropped. The Ambassador grinned victorious.

“That’s-a right Mr Mondays. I know all about-a that a-little accident. It was a long-a time ago, but I can still-a remember it so clearly. You-a were-a helpless then, as-a you are helpless now.”

“I’m going to fuckin kill you,” said Mondays with more than a shred of sincerity.

“No, Mr Mondays, you’re not.”

“I am.”

“Just admit it, Mondays, admit that you don’t-a care about the animals. What-a you want is a-revenge for-a your wife’s death. It’s a-kebabs you hate, not-a me, and not-a the dog meat.”

“I want revenge alright,” said Mondays. “For my wife, and for the dogs. They need us, you see, you piece of fat shit. They need us to protect them from people like you.”

“Us?” laughed the Ambassador heartily. “And-a where are your-a Animal Police now? Huh? Where are they?”

“We’re right here,” said Oddbins, and both he and Dryskin pulled a knife across the throats of the bodyguards, who fell over, swamped quickly in their own thick blood, spluttering meaningless threats in the throes of their imminent deaths. Mondays looked back at them with an appreciative nod, then turned immediately to the Ambassador, mouth still open in surprise. In a well practised movement Mondays had pulled his own knife from his worn-out Chelsea boots and slashed it once across the Ambassador’s face and once across his throat. The fat Italian lay on the floor, looking up at Mondays with his good eye, breaths becoming shorter, fewer. He opened his mouth as if to speak but Mondays kicked him in the face, so hard he could hear the skull fracturing under his feet. He threw the knife on the floor and pulled Longo to her feet, slapping her awake.

“Longo,” he said. “Hey Longo, wake the fuck up.”

She opened her eyes. “I’m-a sorry Ambassador,” she said in delirium. “I’m-a sorry.” Mondays shoved her onto her brother’s body, a mountain of flesh rising from the carpet.

“He’s dead Longo, and so is your business.” She sobbed, soaked in the Ambassadors plentiful blood. “Now get the fuck out of Norwich before I cut your tits off.” She looked at Mondays, lost and confused. “Go!” he shouted, and she squealed and ran out of the house with nothing but the sweaty t-shirt and jeans she was standing up in.

“You okay Mondays?” asked Dryskin.

“That was pretty fuckin intense,” said Oddbins.

“You think,” said Mondays, smiling. There was a sadness in his eyes, but it could have been the light. He tied a bit of rag into a primitive sling and eased his arm into it. He’d have to get to hospital. “Come on,” he said, and walked out of the room and down the hallway to the kitchen, and then out of the back door. All around the perimeter of the sizeable garden were cages, and each of the cages contained five, ten sometimes as many as fifteen dogs, all different sizes, all different breeds.

“Shit,” said Dryskin. “That’s a lot of meat.”

“No, Dryskin,” said Mondays, resting his good hand on his buddy’s shoulder. “That’s a lot of dogs.”

Oddbins started unlatching the cages and the dogs burst free in a frenzy of barks and excrement. “Poor bastards,” he said, “they’re this fuckin excited to be in Norwich.”

“Open the gate,” said Mondays, and Dryskin did. The dogs surged out onto the street, running to freedom and not looking back.

The Animal Police looked at each other.

“So what now?” asked Oddbins.

Mondays looked back to the gate, the last dog sniffing the concrete and thoughtfully trotting off on its way, wherever that might be. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Maybe we should take the Merc,” suggested Dryskin. “We need a car.”

“Good idea,” said Oddbins.

“Yeah,” said Mondays. “Let’s take the Merc and get fucked.” Dryskin laughed.

“What about the arm?” asked Oddbins.

“We’ll worry about that tomorrow,” said Mondays.

“Tomorrow it is,” said Oddbins. “Tomorrow it is.”