This Deserted Warehouse Place

How will a woman make ends meet? How will a woman meet her end?

The Force says it has a tradition. But not much of one; of seeing things through, of not stopping 'til the job is done, of doing whatever it takes.

The Force says it has a track record. But not much of one; everything is on the up; assault, murder, rape all on the up.

So here I am, searching now in the name of tradition; searching now in the name of track record; searching now hoping for applause. Searching now, in this place, this deserted warehouse place, searching; hoping for recognition.

The Force also says it has a problem. But not much of one; just the old belief that the Force never catches the really important criminals, never catches the ones that matter, never catches the rapists, the murderers or the muggers.

My fear told me 'no', my head told me 'no', but I listened to my heart and so I came to this deserted warehouse place.

This deserted warehouse place.

Problems? Tradition? Track record?

The Force doesn't know the meaning of the bloody words, not in the fucking slightest. The victims are the ones with problems, the families of the murdered, the girls who can only think about the mistakes they made walking home this way or that way. The victims are the ones who suffer from tradition and track record – not the fucking Force.

But I already think I might have made a mistake tonight leaving home, leaving home and coming here.

It is not my problem. Not mine. Not this problem and it never will be. It is his problem. His murder, his dirty fucking rape and it always will be – but I am here and he is not.

It is gone midnight and I cannot keep calm. I've drunk too bloody much again and I've already got a thumping fucking headache. I've drunk too much and that's why I'm here. The air is too hot and the warehouse too quiet and I miss my man, I miss my mum and I wish I wasn't me, Sarah Jessica Howard. I get out my gun. I place my finger on the trigger and my senses come alive.

'Hello who's there?' I shout. The space is large and I can't hide. The men I seek are thugs, thugs and rapists, thugs and rapists and murderers.

'It's Detective Sergeant Howard,' I tell them.

'What the hell do you want, Detective? It's past midnight. Fuck off now or you will be next'

'I know,' I tell him. 'But we have our traditions, we have our track record and we have our problems. So I'm here.'

'Are you drunk, Detective? What the fuck's wrong with you?'

There is no one in the station when I get down there. No one there but we have a problem. I will fix it. Where the fuck is Johnson, Detective bloody Inspector Johnson. It's his problem, his track record. But my tradition. I must see it through. The team has gone. I sit down and drain the last dregs from a cold pot of tea and wonder what to do.

So here I am, half a bottle of fiery liquid later. Here I am in this deserted warehouse place.

'Come on out,' I tell them, 'and let's have a chat.'

But the men stay where they are hidden away, watching me.

'I'll tell you this story, shall I Detective?'

I stay silent, silent and watching.

'Once there was this friend of mine. All this friend kept on doing was worrying about his problems, his track record and worrying about putting them right. In fact he wondered so much about putting them right that his problems just kept getting worse and worse.'

'I'm no friend of yours' I tell him; as I tighten my trigger finger, tighten it for him.

Across the dusty floor and over the debris. Over the debris and around another corner, across another dusty floor. In this deserted warehouse place I am taking my life in my hands, taking my life in my hands and playing with my soul.

'You're not listening Detective. I am six people, I am six people and six murderers, six people and six rapists, six people who, if you come another step, Detective, will use you to add to the problems of The Force. Go home Detective, go home and pour yourself another comforting drink.'

'I fucking well am home you bastards, home and itching to fix the problem for myself whether there's one of you, six of you or sixteen of you.'

'Is that what you think Detective?' I hear him shout. 'Really, you think that you will get us, get us and arrest us, arrest us and see us brought to justice?'

'Yes,' my fear makes me prattle. 'Yes,' I feel myself nod.

'What about Bill Johnson?' he asks. 'Where's Bill Johnson?'

'Bill's gone home,' I smile, 'I'm here to fix the problem. Not Bill, he's gone home.'

Problems. Tradition. Track record. I want applause, applause and recognition.

On this deserted warehouse place floor, under this deserted warehouse place roof, in this deserted warehouse place building, this is when I see it, see it clearly in his eyes, in his eyes and all their eyes – eyes that come from shadows.

This is when the penny finally drop, drop, drops. I am here, here and alone, here and alone and about to become a problem.

'You should have gone home Detective, home and stayed away.'

It was a familiar voice, different to before, familiar and different but full of fear, hate and loathing.

'Bill Johnson,' I sound surprised but I shouldn't have been.

Another voice, a voice also full of fear and hate but a voice with not quite so much loathing.

'Welcome, to this deserted warehouse place Sarah, Sarah Jessica Howard, Detective Sergeant Sarah Jessica Howard,' the voice says. 'It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm ... well ... I suppose I'm your problem, me and my gang, me and my gang and Bill Johnson, we are your problem.'

But I don't acknowledge him, them. I simply raise my arm, raise my arm and steady my wrist, steady my wrist and aim at the shadow between the eyes of my problem. I move a few steps forward, a few steps nearer and then stop. Stop to stare into the darkness now populated by shadows, shadows and fear – cold, sweat-trickling fear.

My problem knows who I am, knows who I am and is already playing out the scene, the scene where my golden hair falls loose, falls loose and my gun bounces away, away on the dirty floor of this deserted warehouse place. My mind plays out the same scene and I am not sure how to stop it.

'Sarah, you shouldn't have come, you shouldn't have come but then you should have gone. Gone when you had the chance, the chance to go. But now it's too late, too late and ...'

'Shut up Bill,' my finger tightened, squeezed a few more seconds away from the life expectancy of my problem.

The eyes of Bill Johnson look straight past your steadied arm, straight past and straight through. He strains in the dark but looks straight through you. You know The Problem is undressing you, undressing you in the shadows, seeing your naked body writhing, writhing, writhing, but Bill Johnson looks straight through you and into the space beyond. He knows of course of the gun in your hand, the gun in your hand and the prayer on your lips, he knows of the gun in your hand and the prayer on your lips.

That he will win and you will lose. He will win and you will lose –

My mind is full of doubt, full of panic. Panic and doubt.

'You're bloody stupid,' says Bill Johnson, Detective Inspector Bill Johnson. 'You could have had promotion. Promotion but you're too stupid.'

But it's not fucking promotion I am thinking of right now. Right now it's fucking doubt, doubt and fucking panic, doubt and panic and fucking fear.

'Couldn't have a nicer problem to sort out,' says The Problem. 'Nice and tasty, tasty and nice.'

I know now that he has moved in his mind. The Problem has moved in his mind, beyond, beyond, beyond – beyond my long golden hair falling loose and my naked body writhing, writhing, writhing and into a place where my mind can't yet go.

Bill is still staring. Staring through me, through me and behind me. I can't look back have to look forward. Forward at The Problem, forward at Bill, forward at the emerging shadows. One shadow, two shadows, three shadows – my eyes dart around and The Problem laughs – four shadows, five shadows ......

I am a Detective, a bloody good Detective. A Detective who cares about tradition, track record and fixing problems, a Detective who knows that The Problem said six and you can only count five shadows. Does he mean five and Bill, or six and Bill? Is Bill number six?

Now my mind is numb, numb and confused, confused and scared. Can I see all the shadows or is there one more? In a second, a chaotic second of catastrophic confusion I swing round, swing round and see number six bearing down on me. I fire but my aim is gone. My aim is gone and I am gone. Gone, gone, gone,

My hair, my golden hair, my long golden hair is falling loose and my gun is bouncing away on the dirty, dusty floor of this deserted warehouse place and my mind is already playing out the scene with my naked body writhing, writhing, writhing. But still, even though I am lost, lost and gone, still my thoughts, fuzzy and frenzied, cannot go beyond my naked body writhing.

I am a good, bloody Detective, a good, bloody twenty six year old Detective, a female Detective who cares about tradition and track record – and promotion, ambition and fixing problems. But this time, this last time, this final time The Problem would be fixing you.

I shout, 'Why Bill?'

But then I am lost, lost and gone, gone, gone. My body is not yet naked or writhing. Not yet naked but I feel my coat removed, my coat removed and my shirt ripped open, my shirt ripped open and my legs spread, my legs spread and my jeans pulled down, pulled down and off.

I am not yet writhing, not yet naked but I know that The Problem is looking at the flimsy covering of material. The material covering my crotch, my crotch that will soon be lost. The material is gripped. Gripped and pulled, gripped and pulled and torn away.

I scream – scream, scream, scream. But no one hears, no one hears in this deserted warehouse place.

My shirt is ripped, ripped and torn, ripped and pulled away. Now I am naked, naked and gone, naked and lost, naked and spread.

Then I am writhing, writhing, writhing and The Problem is fucking, fucking, fucking and Bill is laughing, laughing, laughing.

The Problem is fucking - he's a fucking problem.

The Problem fucks, The Problem fucks and the shadows fuck, the shadows fuck and even Bill fucks and I am writhing, writhing, writhing, naked, naked, naked and gone, gone, gone.

I am fucked.

Your mind goes beyond naked, beyond writhing, beyond naked and writhing and sees you fucked, fucked, fucked. Sees you spread on the dirty, dusty floor of this deserted warehouse place. Sees you spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered......

They turn you over. No, no, no, no, no, no, no...

Turn you over into the dirt, into the dust, into the shadows of this deserted warehouse place. Your mouth kisses the floor, the cold, dusty floor and you cry out. Cry out for everyone to hear, yet no-one hears.

You feel the fingers, the probing, searching digits and then you are spread again only differently this time. And your mind sees you differently spread.

Different spread, different place, new place, new to you, never before, new to you – new to The Problem, new to the shadows and new to Bill. Yet, turned over, turned over and face down, you are once more spread on the dirty, dusty floor of this deserted warehouse place. Again your mind sees you spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered...... only differently this time.

You cry, you cry and scream, you cry and scream and beg. But still you are spread and entered.

I am left alone. Face down, face down and left alone. I am still breathing – that is something. I have been spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered, spread and entered...... many times, many times face up and then face down. Face down and then face up - spread and entered. Deep and full.

I am full, full of them. I am covered, covered with them. My mind now seeks the place where I am naked, naked and writhing, - writhing, writhing, writhing. That place would be a good place compared to where my mind is now.

I am not left alone for long. Ardour restored, restored and erect, I am not left alone for long.

My hair, my golden hair, my long, golden hair is loose, loose and dirty from the dust on the floor of this deserted warehouse place. My dirty hair is gripped and I am pulled to my knees. Pulled to my knees. I am covered with them and full of them. I drip, drip, drip ....

Pulled to my knees with my head forced back. My mouth is open, open and waiting, open and ready – not willing but ready. My last place. This is not new but I am not willing. Not willing but open. Open and then full. I am gagged, gagged and full. My throat is full, my mouth is full and my lips are stretched. I am open but not willing. Then my face is touching a groin, touching a groin which makes me realise that before I was not full. Filled but not full. Gagged but not full. Now I am full. Full of solid, full of liquid – full, full, full.

A thrust. A spurt. A splutter. I am covered with them. I am full of them.

Brief relief.

Then again you are opened and filled, opened and filled, opened and filled, opened and filled, opened and filled, opened and filled. Opened and filled by The Problem, opened and filled by the shadows, opened and filled by Bill. Bill has his fill, takes his fill and you are filled with Bill.

You are full of them, covered with them. They are your pain and your refreshment.

My refreshment and my pain.

My mind now seeks the place where I am naked, naked and writhing, - writhing, writhing, writhing. That place would be a good place compared to where my mind is now.

Then they are gone. Gone from me, but still here. Here and gloating, gloating and pleased, pleased that they have had me, filled me, spread me, entered me.

I am exhausted. Am I dead? Dead would be blessed relief from where my mind is now. I know they enjoyed me, enjoyed me and had me.

I am fucked. I have been fucked. Fucked by The Problem, fucked by the shadows, fucked by Bill.

'She's your problem now Bill,' laughs my problem, The Problem. 'Your problem to sort out, sort out for good.'

I sense Bill approach, approach and look down, look down on my exposed body. His own naked flesh replaced inside his trousers, replaced but growing again.

'Ok,' says Bill, 'Ok, you go, I'll finish her.'

The Problem takes his shadows and they go. Go, happy that they have had me and filled me, filled me and covered me. They go. I hear them go.

It's just Bill and me now. Me and Bill. The two of us in this deserted warehouse place.

'One more time maybe Detective Sergeant, Detective Sergeant Howard, Sarah Jessica Howard. One more time for me to enjoy.'

I am weak, weak and exhausted, exhausted and fucked. Fucked but I find some strength and I say ....

'Do what you like Johnson. I know you have to kill me. I'm dead already.'

It's the early hours of a cold January day, a cloudy day, a dry day. But a cold day. It's your first day, first day on the Force. You know nothing of the reality of tradition, the reality of track record or the reality of any problems. It's your first day and you can't wait to see what lies ahead ......

Now it's come to this, this end, this way on this floor of this deserted warehouse place.

I miss my man, I miss my mum and I wish I wasn't me, Sarah Jessica Howard.

I know that I must be hurting outside as well as in. I have been spread and entered, opened and filled many times. But I am numb, numb to the cold against my naked body and numb to Detective Inspector Bill Johnson.

'Fuck you once more Howard. Take that body, your lovely bloody body and fill you again.'

I have a bloody body. A body of blood.

I couldn't look at him, I turn away.

'What do you see Howard?'

I look away but say, 'I don't know what I see Johnson.'

'Well I know what you see,' he says, 'You see me, Bill Johnson, ready to finish you off. You see pleasure yet you feel pain, pain and regret, regret that you won't see another day. How does that make you feel Howard?'

My eyes flicker, and a tear spills out, spills out and rolls down my cheek. I am crying. Crying for my man, crying for my mum and crying for me, Sarah Jessica Howard.

My mind still seeks the place where I am naked, naked and writhing, - writhing, writhing, writhing. That place would be a good place compared to where my mind is now. Now on the dusty floor of this dirty warehouse place.

I see Bill Johnson smiling down, smiling and laughing, laughing and reaching for his groin.

'Please Bill,' I whisper, 'please just kill me. Kill me and let me go.'

Again I look up. Again I see Detective Inspector Bill Johnson. Again I whisper.

'Please.'

Bill is ready to fuck me again. Ready to fuck, fucked and ready. Ready to die. I'm ready to die.

'Okay Howard,' Bill replaces his flesh, 'Let's just get it over with. You are a stupid girl, stupid and brave, brave and ready to die.'

I feel his hand at my throat and his gun at my head, at my head and between my eyes. I cry for the day I won't see, I cry for the child I won't bear and I cry because I am me.

I feel the press of the steel and utter a prayer from my lips.

'Quickly Johnson, do it' I say, 'do it and be quick. You've killed me already so just let me die.'

I feel his hand tighten at my throat and I sense his finger tighten on the trigger. Tighten on the trigger and squeeze.

Your mind is numb. You ought to feel something – pieces of your life perhaps or images of loved ones already passed; you ought to feel something but your mind is numb.

'Goodbye Howard.' The sound explodes, the gun explodes, my mind explodes.

I am still numb. Now I can sense my past, now I can sense images of loved ones already passed. Is this what dead feels like? I can still cry – cry, cry, cry. I cry for my man, I cry for my mum I cry because I am me.

Then the sounds become clear, clear and real, real and nearby.

'Howard, Sergeant Howard, you okay?'

I feel light, light of body, light of head. No longer held by the throat. No longer open and spread.

I open my eyes and blink. This deserted warehouse place is now full, full of light, light and people, people I know, my people, my team they are here and Bill Johnson is not. Bill Johnson is dead; Detective Inspector Bill Johnson lies shot, shot between the eyes.

I shiver into the blanket, the blanket now around my shoulders and I cry. I miss my man, I miss my mum but I am glad to be me. Glad to be alive, and glad to be me.

In this deserted warehouse place I am taking my life in my hands, taking my life in my hands and playing with my soul.

In this deserted warehouse place. I Sarah Jessica Howard am still alive. I have won.

I have won and he has lost.

THE END