Accidental Don. Episode five...

The officers that attended the take-away really couldn't have cared less.

The owner, having suffered and unprovoked assault by “fucking druggy bastard vagrants”, had made an emergency call. They took down a description of the assailants and had a look at the bruises that were already beginning to colour the victim's upper arm. They listened to him complaining about how they weren't doing their jobs and remained both polite and professional throughout. They promised to be in touch with the victim as soon as they had any news, gave him a business card with the number for victim's support on it and assured him that they would do their utmost to find and prosecute the attackers.

They left the take-away with no intention of following anything up. It was dinnertime and the fat bastard with the bruises hadn't even offered them a bag of chips, so they went to the little cafe around the corner. The one that had been featured in the local newspaper. The one that, one day a week, closed it's doors to the general public and fed the homeless.

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They hadn't eaten at Nandos, they'd eaten at a fast food restaurant that, for one day a week, closed their doors to the general public and fed the homeless. That day wasn't today, though.

“They're good to us, to me, if you're going to spend I'd rather you spend it there.” Mick had explained.

Two of the other customers had complained about Owen's scruffy dinner date, loudly, to the proprietor. The proprietor had apologised, though it was obviously insincere, and the disgruntled diners who had never before set foot in this fine establishment vowed never to do so again and departed.

The proprietor waited for the automatic closer to finish gently hissing the door to within a couple of millimetres of being fully closed before slamming it home in the usual, window rattling fashion before he spoke.

“Fucking pricks.”

The regular customers who remained laughed, two even applauding. Owen smiled at Mick who squeezed himself into the little seat opposite, head bowed.

“We should have got a can of Lynx from the pound-shop, Mick.” Owen said.

“What? Do I smell?” Mick kept his head bowed and turned his eyes upwards toward Owen.

“No... well, yes, I suppose, I've not noticed it but, come on man, you're...”

“I'm what?”

“Well, you know, you're...”

“Ha, I'm just teasing,” Mick smiled, “I'm homeless. I last had a bath in the sink in the disabled bogs at the bus station three days ago ago, I fucking stink.”

Two all-day breakfasts with extra toast and mugs of steaming coffee were ordered, prepared and placed before the men. Owen had forgotten he'd already eaten and was still struggling with his meal long after Mick had finished mopping up egg and bean juices with his toast.

“You eating that?” Mick asked. Owen smiled and pushed the plate toward the tramp.

“Help yourself.”

Owen wanted to do more. He'd put shoes on the man's feet and had fed him, he felt like he now had an obligation to finish the job and fix all of this man's woes. He'd considered giving Mick space on his floor at home, but his common sense had screamed “fuck that” when the notion had surfaced.

“So where are you spending the night, Mick?” Owen asked as they stepped out onto the street. The little bell above the door pinged and tinkled as they passed beneath.

“Dunno, something will turn up.”

The description the two officers had been given by the fat man in the chippy wasn't particularly detailed, but it was enough.

Owen had a criminal record and some cannabis. Owen was told to “fuck off”. Owen fucked off.

Mick was known to them as well. Mick could be told to “fuck off”, but Mick had no where to fuck off to and so Mick was driven away, smiling as he looked forward to a night in a warm cell and a couple of hot meals.

Life was good.

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Owen couldn't risk losing his job, as he surely would should the excuse for not turning in for work tomorrow be that he'd been locked in a police cell overnight on assault and drugs charges. The police car passed him at the end of the street and Owen grinned back as the smiling and handcuffed Mick put two thumbs up through the window. He was getting a bed for the night.

No harm done, then.

Owen slipped his phone from his pocket and dialled a contact, the words “Joey Green, calling...” appearing on his screen.

“Hiya mate, yeah, can you do me a twenty?” Owen spoke into the phone, having to repeat himself as two fire engines thundered by with lights flashing and horns blaring.

The bag the officers had taken, “to destroy”, had hardly been touched. It was annoying, but Owen had money and weed was cheap.

Life was good.

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Mick had spent many a night in a cell, he was familiar with every police station in the city, and he'd asked where they were going when they'd turned left instead of right after they'd passed Owen.

“That nick's full.”

He'd seen the officer in the passenger seat turn off the radio and had heard two clicks as the officer's personal radios had likewise been switched off

He'd asked where they were going again as they'd pulled off the road and up to a little cottage. He'd received no answer the second time.

Handcuffed, he was dragged to the back of the property (a property both officers knew to be vacant and not overlooked) where the officers used first their Asps and later their boots to administer a methodical and thorough beating. Mick did his best to curl into a ball and absorb the blows until, mercifully, the world faded to black. The officers gave the unconscious tramp one more kick each and turned away, both exhausted from their toils.

The officers were familiar with this property. They'd been involved with the search after the disappearance of the nonce that had lived here. They'd used this overgrown and secluded garden for similar purpose before and they knew the little pane of glass in the back door hadn't been smashed when last they were here. The more senior of the two pushed open the now unlocked door and shone his torch into the gloom.

“Hello...” No answer.

The officers stepped into the cottage, four fresh feet falling upon the kitchen flags.

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He'd watched as the blow had landed, the devastating blow that had destroyed a pervert's skull in the derelict mill, as if viewing it on a screen. He'd been as surprised as anyone when he'd sprang into action in such a cool and calculating manner, like the valiant hero of a movie or a novel.

He'd remained in character once the violence was ended and he'd been given back control of his own actions. To betray the character now would be to undo all of the good work already done by whichever great, celestial author was penning these plot twists and adventures.

Donald had chosen the words he'd used, had chosen to coolly smoke a cigarette while he waited for the end of the chapter and he'd come up with the enigmatic question to ask whilst making his grand exit. Just a question he'd read of someone asking someone else, somewhere and sometime. Neither the question nor the answer had mattered, Donald just liked the sound of it. It was in character.

The character that had been in charge during the events in the abandoned mill had been very different to it's predecessor. That character had strode away from a fireball across the devastated landscape of a dystopian future having successfully defended himself against the thugs that would have taken his life and his possessions had he not despatched them.

Later, other characters had come to the fore, unleashing episodes of violence that paled in comparison next to those that Donald's imagination had perpetrated on those first two occasions. At times of indecision, the character decided. Not always the decision to fight, in fact more often the character concurred with Donald and chose, rather, to flee, these characters had always chosen the right course.

The righteous course.

The books in which Donald's sanity now resided always knew best.

In the cellar of a murdered rapist's quaint little cottage, as Donald took a tatty sports bag from the lowest of the filing cabinet drawers, two of the four feet from above began to descend the first set of cellar steps. Donald heard the rattle of the old latch and the creak of the hinge and he froze.

It was time to get into character.

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The officer that had remained downstairs to search the ground floor had finished shining his torch around and calling “Hello, police...” into the dust. He went to investigate the cellar and the magnificent train set he had just begun to remember seeing. He was nearing the bottom of the narrow staircase when he realised the light was on. He clicked off his torch and slid his Asp from it's holster, readying it for action and holding it over his right shoulder as he turned into the cellar.

Kids. It had to be. They'd broken in and smashed the place up. But...

...why only the cellar?

He approached the devastated model railway and spotted the square hole in the stone floor. He clicked his torch back on and went to investigate further. Crouching down by the side of the hole that held the ladder he shone the light into the darkness of the sub-cellar.

“Shit!” The officer exclaimed as he saw the face. He skidded backwards on the concrete before realising his mistake. He took another look.

It wasn't a face, just a mannequin. The mannequin didn't even have a face, just a smooth, beige, head shaped blankness. The officer laughed.

He clambered down the little ladder and into whatever this was. A collection room? A vault? He began to examine the cabinets. One of them was smashed. Whoever had broken in must have known about this place, thought the officer, and whatever used to be in that cabinet was most likely worth a pretty penny. Maybe there were other pretty pennies around?

The officer began to search the other cabinets, the bright beam of light from his torch illuminating badges and weapons, shrapnel, the smashed, fluorescent light fitting, the spooky mannequin with the bald, beige head, the filing cabinet, the second mannequin with the leather coat and the peaked cap and...

...that had a face.

The face wore a snarl.

“Surprise.” Hissed the mannequin as the officer felt the cold, steel tip of a bayonet prick the flesh beneath his chin.

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Coppers came in twos, this new character knew that.

He, Donald, likewise knew how to secure a gag on the terrified bully in a uniform now manacled by his own cuffs to the lowest rung of the ladder. Normally, he'd have tied it tighter. Not this time, though. This time it was slacker.

Donald, or whoever it was that Donald's fear had created, needed a plan. He was, quite literally, backed into a corner, not the ideal position from which to start an assault. Donald clicked shut the briefcase, he'd be able to get a few quid for the laptop it contained when he got to the next town. This being the north, a Cash Generator store stood on every precinct.

Donald glimpsed the too-heavy cash box, that hadn't rattled, sitting atop the metal cabinet. He squinted at it, intrigued.

The cash box was too large for the briefcase and too awkward to carry easily. Donald unzipped the tatty sports bag and placed both case and cash box within. He slung the bag over his shoulders and, with the bayonet clamped firmly between his teeth, he stepped over the manacled copper and climbed the ladder.

The officer was trying to work the gag out of his mouth with his tongue when he heard the pop of a light bulb being smashed and was plunged into total darkness.

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“Tony,” The officer that wasn't gagged called out as he entered the kitchen and found it empty, “Where are you, mate?”

He thought he heard a noise, a distant tinkle, and his head snapped around, his eyes coming to rest on the little larder.

The larder door was open, as was the door that lay beyond it.

“Tony?” He called down the stairs. There was a clanging sound from below, followed by a thud and few more clangs as the manacled officer attempted to alert his partner to his own situation. He clicked on his torch, readied his Asp and began to descend.

At last, officer Tony managed to manipulate the gag, a red armband featuring a swastika and secured in place by the leather belt from the shiny, leather greatcoat his assailant wore, from his mouth. He shook his head until his face was free and shouted as the beam from his colleagues torch flashed into view.

“He's got a knife” is what he intended to shout, but his mouth was dry and his voice crackled.

“What?” His colleague called back as he swept his light across the floor. A pile of rubble, a sack with a spade leant against it and...

...a hole.

He dashed over, shining his torch down onto his partner. His partner squinted into the light.

“He's got a knife” Tony repeated, this time less crackly. The officer with the torch furrowed his brow as he processed this new information, though his brow relaxed quickly as he slipped into unconsciousness following the clang of the spade striking his shaven head that echoed around the subterranean room. The spade had been swung by the sack it had been leant against, that sack being Donald, crouched and facing the corner with the huge, black coat pulled over his head.

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Mick tried to crawl into the kitchen, but he'd been unable to reach the door handle. He sat with his badly bruised back against the door as his sobs brought forth crippling agony from his broken ribs. Blood had already begun to clot and to crust his face. One eye bulged while the other had been squeezed shut by swelling above and below. His genitals had taken several hard blows, three fingers were broken as were his cheekbones. He was fucked.

Once, he'd had a family. A very long time ago he'd sat upon his father's knee and been told he was loved. He'd smiled for the photos at his passing out parade. People had told him how proud they were. He'd been given a gun, responsibility, a decent wage, travel, training, all manner of opportunity.

Usually, he wanted that life back. Now, as he suffered a suffering to which he could see no end, he just wanted this life over.

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Owen couldn't quite believe his eyes.

The flames were like something from a movie. The roof of both big, old sheds roared and crackled. The timber stored within provided fuel for the flames that would, eventually, destroy the timber yard and take with it the livelihoods of those, like Owen, who were gainfully employed there.

He'd walked around a corner whilst engaged in his phone call and had seen the smoke, thick and black and tinged with orange. He'd been almost certain it couldn't be the timber yard, but he wasn't one hundred percent sure. He'd jogged through row after row of terraced houses, zigzagging closer to the flames and the flashing blue lights, and as he'd got closer to his workplace the percentage had got higher until, finally, he'd turned a corner and become positive.

Everyone was safe and accounted for, although his boss, the man that had given him a job when few others would have, had been taken to hospital suffering an “unexplained cardiac event” that would need no explanation when it later killed him.

Suddenly, Owen wished he'd not been so generous recently.

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Tony's colleague was only vaguely aware of the situation, the world around him seemed to swim and the sounds seemed to echo from behind sponge. Tony was slightly better off, although that was subjective.

“Don't fret, lads,” Donald spoke in a reassuring (if slightly patronising) tone, “as soon as I get a few miles away I'll let your mates know where you are.” The handcuffs Donald was using to attach Tony's partner to the same rung as Tony made a clickety-clicking sound as he tightened them.

“You won't get away with this, you know.”

“Oh, excuse me, Officer Cliche. Aren't you getting “too old for this shit”?” Donald tossed both officer's handcuff keys into the cellar above, where they landed on the remnants of the marvellous model beside the police radios, Tazers and associated paraphernalia.

He crouched beside the officer and traced the tip of the bayonet down the bridge of his nose, marvelling as a bead of sweat followed it's path.

“Enjoy the little things,” he smiled at the bad cop, “it's very important.” Satisfied he'd sounded cool enough, the character relinquished control and let Donald take the reigns.

Donald slipped the bayonet into the deep, inside pocket of the long, leather greatcoat and slung the holdall over his shoulder before climbing the ladder one final time, the police issued torch clamped between his teeth to light his way. He'd taken one of the officer's mobile phones so he'd be able to alert the authorities to their predicament, once he'd made it to a train station. The other officers phone lay in several pieces on the floor in the corner of the little sub-cellar along with a couple of Asps and a stab proof vest.

Only twenty minutes or so and Donald would call 999 and report their location, they'd be fine. Donald drew a cup of water from the tap as he passed through the kitchen, ready to end this latest chapter with a little bit of distance. He opened the kitchen door and allowed Mick to tumble backwards onto the floor.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” It wasn't often Donald was caught unaware, but this turn of events had come straight out of left field.

Donald dropped to one knee and began inspecting the casualty. A brief examination brought the inevitable conclusion, the same conclusion that Mick himself had recently come to when he'd given up trying to reach the handle and had leant against the door through which he'd now tumbled.

Mick was fucked.

“Frank?” His voice trembled and crackled. Donald furrowed his brow.

“Yes.”

“S'me, Mick.” He coughed.

“Of course it is, I'd have recognised you anywhere. Listen, bit of a situation developing here, I need to go, can you walk?”

“Dunno.”

“Let's try, come on.” Donald hooked one of Mick's arms around his shoulder and heaved.

“Jesus, you weigh a lot for a homeless bloke.”

“I had a big breakfast,” Mick coughed and shrieked at the same time.

Donald manoeuvred the ex-soldier through the kitchen door and into the bright sunlight outside. The wounds on Mick's face were already turning purple and black.

“Bloody hell, Mick, what happened? You look like you got hit by a bus, mate.”

“A couple of coppers took offence at my living arrangements,” Mick wheezed.

“Oh really?” Donald pulled open the back door of the patrol car and slid Mick in. “Lie there a minute, I just need to go and check the door, then we'll get you sorted.”

Mick coughed again, a noise like a wounded mouse followed as he again winced with the pain. He didn't want to be “sorted”, he wanted to curl up and die but, he reasoned, the back seat of this police car was as good a place as any to do so.

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It was still broad daylight.

Currently, Owen wasn't a fan of daylight. He drew the curtains and dragged the tray from under the bed as the television began to warm up. He opened the small, clear bag and tipped its green and pungent contents into the little tobacco tin that lived on the tray beside his cigarette papers, lighter and herb grinder.

He sat on the floor, his back against the bed, and began the ritual of preparing for oblivion. He slipped three of the cigarette papers from within their cardboard sheath, cursing when the third revealed a little, yellow, “Only 5 left” marker. He shook his head and wondered, as he had so many times before, at the mentality of the person that decided to put that slip there and why he or she hadn't made it six or nine. Everyone knew you needed three at a time.

He gently assembled the three, short papers into one longer leaf, delicately moistening the gum with the tip of his tongue and smoothing his construction flat. He tore the short, extraneous flap from the lower edge and creased the paper twice, forming an open ended trough into which he sprinkled tobacco from one of his cigarettes.

The television finally finished going through whatever the hell the television spent so much time going through whenever it was switched on. The blonde lady from the local news program was delivering a bulletin. Owen looked up at the screen and the face of the woman that had, seemingly, always been a part of his life as she eloquently imparted the news. He reached over his shoulder and rummaged under the duvet on the unmade bed until he found the remote control, muting the television as footage of a smouldering timber yard filled the screen.

He put a powdery nugget of herb into the dirty grinder and ground away, staring blankly at the screen as he twiddled with the little, metal contraption. Once finished, he emptied the contents into one palm before sprinkling it onto the tobacco. He picked up the nearly-completed spliff and rolled it gently between his fingers, ran his tongue alone the length of the gum and completed the tube before rolling a small piece of cardboard into a filter and inserting it into the untwisted end.

He sighed, the spliff between his lips, and rolled the little roller on the top of the lighter to create a spark. Then again. And again, and once more before the spark ignited the gas.

He drew on the joint as the flame touched the tip. He felt the joint fight against the vacuum he created in his mouth until the twist of paper at the far end fully ignited, opening the tobacco and cannabis tube up and allowing the air to rush through. He filled his lungs and shivered, the thick, creamy smoke spluttering into the air as he coughed. He giggled.

Another long draw on the joint, this time without the shiver or the cough, and he felt himself sag, his shoulders drooping as the THC joined his blood and colonised his consciousness. He felt the doughy weight of his brow bear down on his sagging eyes and he smiled. Owen succumbed to the sweet placidity, closed his eyes and drifted away.

He'd seen the fire, knew he would now be unemployed and should be worried, but all he could do was remember the grinning face of his new friend Mick as he was driven away for a night on a skinny mattress and a microwaved curry. He smiled, remembering the boots he'd bought and the hunt for the man with one shoe. He scowled as his memory played the events concerning the take-away owner, choosing to fast forward through his own part and focus on the meals he'd bought for them both in the little cafe. His smile broadened.

Owen drew on the joint again and again, watching the orange glow brighten and the paper turn to ashes as the contents released their crackling potency upon him.

Life was good.

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The officers heard the distant sound of metal being dragged across stone as, two floors above, Donald pulled the cooker out from where it nestled between two granite effect worktops. The scraping was followed by the rattling of a cutlery drawer. The policemen ceased their frantic and futile attempts to free themselves and listened instead. The sound of metal striking metal echoed around the cellar, louder and louder as the blows became more vigorous then, clang.

In the kitchen, Donald stood up from where he'd been crouched and crossed the cold, stone floor. He used a little stool to stand on and placed his head into a cupboard. He checked the time on the policeman's phone he now held then turned the phone around and used the light cast by the screen to illuminate the little dial on the boiler. He clicked a few of the tiny, grey switches that ran around the dial like seeds on a dandelion into their respective “on” positions and then, as delicately as a man attempting to crack a combination safe, Donald twisted the dial anticlockwise. He did some mathematics in his head, counting the clicked switches and using his fingers and thumbs to double check.

Half an hour.

Donald pulled the curtains from the little, plastic track above the kitchen window. He dropped one of the faded window dressings into the sink and turned on the cold tap, soaking the fabric. He used the sopping curtain to plug up the hole in the back door that the smashed pane had left then returned to the sink and soaked the second.

Donald left the second curtain in the half filled sink and headed through the little larder. He almost danced down the little staircase into the cellar, his recently acquired torch lighting the way. Donald peered down into the hole where the officers squinted and sneered up at the blinding light.

“Hello again.”

The officers remained silent.

“Like that, is it?” Donald's smile looked genuine, though neither of the men below could see it.

“Anyhow, you remember that thing I said, about my calling for help? Of course you do. Thing is, my mate Mick, you've met Mick, haven't you?” Donald paused, giving chance for the answer he knew wouldn't come. The officers remained stony faced.

“No? Well, my mate Mick, he's in a bad way. So, long story short, I'm going to bury you alive and leave you to rot.”

Both officers alternated between screaming threats and begging for mercy as Donald dragged the remains of the train set across the floor and placed it over the entrance to the sub cellar. The threats and the begging continued, though now less clearly, as he whistled a merry tune and climbed the stairs. Pausing at the door, he pulled the cuff of his sleeve down and took a deep breath. He covered his mouth and nose with the cuff, twisted the handle and stepped into the larder, closing the door behind him and plucking the big, old coat from the hook on the door.

Holding his breath, Donald hopped up onto the stool to inspect the little dial and smiled, then wrapped the coat around his shoulders and grabbed the holdall and the curtain from the sink before slipping through the back door.

Donald continued to whistle his merry tune as he rolled the sopping curtain into a sausage shape and laid the wet material along the bottom of the door before returning to the police car.

“How are you bearing up, Mickey?” Donald opened the passenger door and dropped the holdall into the foot-well.

“Mick, it's Mick.” Mick coughed and whimpered. His teeth chattered and he shivered, the tremors coming in pulses.

Donald slipped the big, green coat from around his shoulders and leant into the back of the vehicle, between the seats.

“Here, I'm sorry it's not one of those tin-foil sheets the St. John's Ambulance lads carry, but it'll keep you warm.” Donald laid the coat over the old soldier.

“Where are we going?” Mick asked, but he didn't care. He closed his eyes and began to drift away.

“It's a surprise, Mickey.” 

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The darkness had arrived gently.

Owen put his head back and opened his mouth. Thick, white smoke crept from between his lips, rolling and curling in the air as it drifted gently towards the ceiling. He'd stocked up on cola, cigarette papers and Haribo at the little shop around the corner and had now no intention of leaving the safety of his lovely flat until all the bad things had gone away.

The newly unemployed Owen tapped ash from the tip of the joint into the cola can he held in his other hand. The fizzling remains of the can's sweet, caffeine filled contents crackled loudly in his ears, his hearing having been heightened to an almost super-human degree by the effects of the drugs he'd enjoyed as the sun had disappeared below the gasometer and twilight had fallen on the dirty, old town.

The blonde lady from the local news program was back. Owen's television had remained switched on, it's speakers muted, for hours, silently showing Owen images of antiques found in attics, houses most people could never afford in countries most people would rather live and a Catholic priest sleuthing his way around a village where, given the murder rate, none would rather live.

A local celebrity had died, pushing the story of the inferno that Owen was trying to forget down the rankings of newsworthiness.

Owen yawned as he dropped the last quarter inch of spliff into the cola can, the hiss as the sticky remnants of the soft drink extinguished it's glowing embers sounding, to his stoned ears, like the hiss of a vicious and hungry snake. He turned the television volume back up as the familiar lady finished reporting a piece of “breaking news”, a devastating explosion nearby. Emergency services had been stretched today, with fifty percent of the local fire service still damping down at the timber yard, but the explosion had occurred at a derelict property and no one had been hurt.

Owen thought about making himself something to eat. He further thought about how he would be paying the bills. Then, he remembered the time before life was good.

Owen picked up the tray.

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The little cottage had stood, in one form or another, for well over a century, but stood no longer. The chimney breast had managed to remain erect and now towered above the pile of scorched timber, stone and slate that had collapsed around it.

The bayonet fitting, smashed from the back of the ageing gas cooker with a meat tenderising mallet, had hissed noisily as it had pumped gas (from the very gasometer that had slowly stolen the sunlight that had shone on Owen's window) into the kitchen of the cottage. Thirty minutes of unregulated flow had ensured sufficient pressure that, when the little dial on the timer had clicked for a fourth time, the ignition of the pilot light had caused an explosion so devastating that much of the first floor now resided in the cellar.

The fire had been easily extinguished, though with the chimney pot teetering high above and the breast on which it sat threatening to join the roof below, no one would be allowed access until it had been made safe to do so. Two police officers were given the tedious task of securing the site for the night before a demolition team could move in.

Meanwhile, another two police officers suffocated, slowly and painfully, on the dust of a century, entombed beneath the devastation and wishing they'd been better people.

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A little bubble appeared in the top, right-hand corner of the gamer's screen.

Curious.

"STATIONMASTER is now online..." the bubble informed the gamer.

It was a blast from the past. Stationmaster had ceased to be an active participant in the game for longer than this particular gamer could remember. Tentatively, he opened up a dialogue box and sent a message.

"WB"

The laptop made a "swoosh" sound as the gamer clicked send. He waited for a reply, but none came so he right-clicked on the new participants name and selected "block" from the drop down menu that, paradoxically, sprang up. He then selected three of the remaining usernames in his friends-list and bulk messaged them all. He and Stationmaster were the only two online, so he'd have to wait for any replies.

None of the players had known whether Stationmaster and his sidekick had been arrested, killed or had succumbed to conscience and quit the game. The server was secure and it was highly doubtful anyone had managed to hack the dormant account. It was even less likely that anyone had stumbled, uninvited, into the game. Stationmaster had probably just taken a sabbatical, but care would need to be taken.

The gamer's laptop made a pinging sound as the little, green circle by Stationmaster's username turned red and as, two hundred miles north of the gamer's apartment, a long forgotten laptop's battery exhausted the last bit of charge it held and went to sleep...

...in a briefcase on the passenger seat of a stolen police car.

Episode six