There are an infinite number of possibilities, each combination of these plays out in its own distinct reality. Thus there is an infinite array of realities. A lonesome one of these is akin to what humans might call perfection, incompatibilities with same cast aside. In fact, the arena in which you dwell is quite distant from perfect existence. Distant is not even the proper term. There is no sense of scale upon which the imperfection, the frailty, of your reality can be measured. The brute fact of this yardstick's linguistic non-existence is a paradoxical function of itself: of human frailty manifest in language. Hopefully you realise your imperfect self reads this vaingloriousness and get my point.
Your veil of tears, although it makes God appear a gibbering idiot at times, is still somewhat closer to perfection than that we will consider - My own. This specific reality, where negligence is less negligible, evil a little more virile and injustice, well, arguably it's rampant: just ask Gavin Grey, he knows, and so do those acquainted with him. Friendship too is somewhat scarcer in our milieu.
Gavin Grey, a former policeman, had been exhausted by a bitter struggle. Not a conflict with a criminal: rather a battle with a common or garden housewife possessing a personality almost as belligerent as his own: one Mrs Stork. This long squabble over his police career proved to be a Waterloo watershed for both parties. For Grey this was a decisive event in a bitter and seemingly interminable conflict with himself, as personified by alcohol, greed, his legendary temper and, eventually, everyone else. In the latter stages of his self-destruct, he'd often be heard to say, 'I'm surrounded by idiots.' For Mrs Stork it was a nag too far, belligerence beyond its limit, though her cause was just.
Grey here again, a trollish man, now in his fifties, in his grim night, outside my house. His enormous hands strangle the steering wheel as he glares unblinkingly at my door. His bulging sinews and veins only hint at the extent to which his being is consumed by hatred and a sense of impotent rage. He's always been one of those people that gets angry because he's angry. He thus often enters into these sorts of states and becomes a transfixed spectator of his negative emotions.
Ever since enlistment he'd consistently bemoaned the policeman's lot. The breakdown that resulted from his eventual defeat and dismissal might have startled his associates but he branded them all, 'idiots, traitors', or both. He then retreated into a cocoon which he only left on nights like this.
He was so abundantly, irrationally, resentful because, in his own mind, it was a woman and her child who'd bought about his fall and, deprived of uniform and machismo, he now felt a mere flea speck in the eyes of the world. Robbed of his cloak of false respectability, he was no longer automatically entitled to the respect of the citizenry: his decadence was naked, there for all to see, especially he. That's why he's here now, revisiting the universally lonely siblings of this murky midnight, the numerous wasted nights that have gone before.
During the fifties his world became very small and he'd disappeared from view, though tales of his police exploits continued to circulate. By now, the mid-sixties, these legends have become increasingly vague and are more often passed over in conversation. He now enjoys a certain notoriety as landlord of The Jackal.
His nemesis, Mrs Stork, and her family, remained aware of the continuation of his existence though. He'd become a sort of petty and wretched fixture in their lives. This was no trivial matter for the Storks: attacked numerous times. The milk has had to be cancelled, Grey had a tendency to switch the delivery with his own soured neglected debris. His obsessive hostility almost always manifests itself in acts of this petty niggling nature. They've continued without abatement throughout the fifties and into the sixties.
The persistent wars, glued locks, and other acts of sabotage, eventually drove the humble, trembling, Mr. Stork to distraction. He abandoned his wife and the twins. This final straw was responsible for Mrs Stork's emotional collapse, her valium dependency, and the caving in of her family. The twins, Craig and Douglas, were like urchins as children, they ran wild in rags. They suddenly found themselves free of their mother's formerly domineering supervision and they weren't really equipped to cope. They spent their days plotting and lurking in bushes, furtively observing society from a malicious safe distance. Douglas was increasingly falling under Craig's impish influence.
For years prior to his disgrace, Grey had been kidding himself that his personage was invulnerable. He couldn't understand how a mere woman bought about his downfall. Perceived from outside, free of the prejudice spawned by emotional involvement, it's plain that Mrs Stork was a mere tool of his predetermined downfall. That's how Constable Proctor understood it. Grey though henceforth defined the housewife as his enemy incarnate. This was a characteristically grotesque act of self-deception.
Grey fabricated his house of straw and set it smoldering with his own huge clammy hands. He'd long been using his position of authority to milk every opportunity for personal gain. Trivially, this included accepting drinks, advantageous information and favours from sycophantic members of the public. Typically, he rationalised this with one of his much repeated mantras, 'There's no such thing as honesty, there's only degrees of dishonesty.' More seriously, he'd also haggled greedily over bribes with many criminals of all types. There were also persistent rumours of various sexual scandals but nothing concrete ever came of these.
Gavin had acquired a remote ramshackle farmhouse. This was surrounded by orchards and extensive verdant lands. He rapidly turned the farm into an oil-soaked and overgrown makeshift car lot come rally track. He mocked the stupidity of the cows he culled while drunk behind the wheel.
A Polish immigrant couple and their two children lived miserably in his barn. They were responsible for tending to the farm and cleaning up after him. He treated them like serfs, especially the woman, but was slowly teaching them English. Meanwhile his fame and fortune grew. He extorted monies and vehicles from breakers of laws real and imaginary. With manipulated milometers and 'only one previous lady owner,' he would sell these 'motors', at an immense mark-up, to the gullible and easily cowed.
Of course, there were complaints about his various endeavors and his colleagues became aware that something was past its display date in Denmark. Initially everyone looked the other way. The business of buying and selling cars was not illegal; the severity of his tirades against the 'creeping liberalism' and bureaucracy within the force earned him some sympathy with many of his peers. He was essentially perceived by many, with a quaint stupidity, as being the police's very own pub philosopher: of the old school. This misconception and the closing of the junior ranks were sufficient to shield him from the semi-regular accusations of heavy-handedness. He made sure he never hurt anyone too much less nasty than himself, at least not physically, or without plausible excuse.
Even at the height of his corruption Grey tried to cultivate a reputation as a no-nonsense cop. He presented events in such a way that it seemed as if he might be involved in two heroic battles. One with his detached superiors at the top, the other with the criminal underbelly. Drinking heavily, he consumed his own propaganda wholesale, like he did fine whisky. The terror in which he was held by the criminal fraternity was considered evidence backing his story. He rarely talks about his time in the force these days, but when he does he still offers up this version of events.
However, every coin has its flip side. There was bound to be a counter-movement. There were two main factions against him. There was traffic division, who resented that he, a beat officer, should meddle so heavily in their affairs. Then there were his distant superiors, not so much the sergeants, he seldom bothered the custody sergeants with troublesome paperwork. The superintendents though resented the slight of being called 'pen-pushers' in return for placating the angry public on his behalf.
Nothing really dramatic was ever said on their part, but it never needed to be. These characters had reached their respective ranks because, unlike Grey, they were not disposed to ranting and raving. They spoke their own, almost silent, language. This reached the ears of those who could decipher it, over snooker, bridge or golf. Their words never reached Grey's insensitive ears.
The devoutly sober and ambitious Proctor began taking an interest in Grey. 'Proctor, that obsessive tea drinker,' as Grey later called him, behind his back, while relatively calm, huddled with cronies in a pub. Depending on his mood, Proctor referred to Grey as, 'The Troll,' 'The Creature,' and, 'that loathsome man.'
The two met again recently, over a desk in the reception area of the police station. Proctor, dressed in his pressed inspector's uniform, his bald head gleaming like his buttons, contrasted so boldly with the morose, shabby looking Grey. Proctor only deigned to allude to him in the third person, 'Let's make an incident report for the creature.' Grey just stood there fuming but when Proctor turned around, for the pleasure of smiling sarcastically into his eyes once more, he found him gone. Grey vowed to make Proctor pay for that wound too, but he didn't return to report the death threat he'd recently received from Paul until Proctor had gone off duty.
Grey had been drinking his Polish assistant's distilled spirits the fateful day he kicked little Douglas and his bike into the river. Douglas' twin Craig, and not he, had been the one that had told Grey, 'Piss off ugly plod!' This fact later emerged, along with many others of dubious relevance, thanks to the belligerence of Mrs Stork.
Traffic were meticulously taking cars to pieces and reassembling them like jigsaws, trying to piece together just what bit had come from what jalopy and what exactly the circumstances were that had led to it appearing on another. Meanwhile, Proctor was everywhere in Grey's life unearthing rumour after rumour. To Grey, it seemed Proctor found 'whingers' everywhere and was busy stoking them up. Proctor, the handsome well-spoken constable, Proctor who had Mrs Stork, 'that crazy woman,' as Grey called her, under his influence and protection.
Grey didn't go easily, his bid to remain was as determined as it was futile. It was punctuated with outbursts, like the time he confronted Mr. Stork outside the house. 'You know what your crazy wife's up to with that snake, with that tea drinking snake Proctor?' He'd spat venomously at the terrified gibbering man, while the meek, hen-pecked, Mr. Stork held his weeping, frightened, children in his arms.
Craig never forgave his mother that affair, even though it never happened. This was the first really poisonous seed he planted in twin brother Douglas' mind.
Grey called in every favour owed and extorted countless others. Eventually though, Mrs Stork's determination and Proctor's manipulation triumphed. Grey was morally defeated. He was dismissed, in disgrace, a drunk.
He wasted away years with his Poles. Talking with Kozlowski over copious amounts of his spirits. He railed about his past and plotted his revenge. His assistant had now moved into the house with him, to protect Grey from the ghosts which haunted him, Grey needed the reassurance he received from his assistant, 'I see them too Gavin.' Obviously the assistant was now on first name terms with his master.
Neither of them did much but drink and stalk in the shadows. The woman attended to the pair of they, the farm and her young family. The assistant shared his wife with Grey. As Gavin had predicted he would, Proctor had abandoned the hated Storks once they had outlived their usefulness. So began the attacks of Grey and his assistant.
Distracted as he was with his obsession, Grey's funds dwindled and the better cars had all been sold. He and his Polish henchman were completely beyond the families' comprehension. The Pole's wife only remained strong for her son and daughter, somehow she found the strength.
'Fucking cow,' Grey vocalises his thoughts accidently, again. He hates doing this, he's doing it more often these days. He quizzes his needs and takes a slug from his bottle of spirits. Leaving destiny for another day, he starts his motor and draws slowly away from my dull street.
As for the uniquely perfect reality, all I can say is that I can't possibly imagine it, it's that far away from me. Besides, it's of absolutely no relevance to the gangland mutiny or the other events under scrutiny.
Chapter 2, Gavin & his assistant
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