Ozzie Rozzie #5

[CAUTION: THIS STORY CONTAINS POLITICAL CORRECTION]

This is a fiction series. It will make more sense if you read: Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four.

Thompson's MG was a bit of dog, a red dog, with not-so-hidden rust, which growled and occasionally bit its owner. He had bought it in an emotional moment after splitting up with his long-term girlfriend. He knew it was an early-mid-life choice, fuelled by fears of imminently waning powers, and dissatisfaction with almost everything in his life. Like him, it was developing bald spots. You had to be careful not to lean on the body in certain places or filler would detach from panel. Ms Butcher had once laughingly draped herself across the bonnet after Thompson had given her a lift home, allowing him a generous eyeful of her long, perfect thighs, and he'd had to go to the garage to get it open again. God how he'd walked the politically correct tightrope for that moment. "Prick-teasing bitch," he muttered, as he fingered the ignition key, and prayed for an easy start.

The engine fired and choked into neat, mechanical regularity. Thank God, thought Thompson. He was controlling his anxiety, but it was real. Her reversed the car towards the double gate, and as he did so heard "POP! POP!"

Sticking his head out of the window, "Bastard kids!" he cursed, seeing two milk cartons which had been placed beneath his bespoked wheels, now flattened, their remaining contents sprayed across the tarmac and he guessed, the back end of his car. He didn't notice the legend "THOMPSON EATS BUTCHER'S PUSSY" which had been neatly written above the front number plate in black marker.

The small red car nosed out of the green iron gates. The school was set halfway down a suburban road, houses opposite and either side, shops at either end of the street. Rosbotham, if it was to be believed, had kidnapped Eastwood, under his watch. The thought made him wince involuntarily. There were two routes they could have taken, the more likely being the one straight down the high street, he reasoned, and looking quickly left and right, he chose right.

The sun streamed down through pollarded trees either side of the road, lines of parked cars obscuring pedestrians. Thompson drove slowly, scanning ahead, trying not to let distracting thoughts stop him seeing the boys. Five minutes later, the MG arrived at Harold Road, which the school records declared was the Rosbotham home address. It was completely deserted.

Killing the motor, Thompson pulled up silently a good fifty yards from the place he calculated Rosbotham’s front door to be, and exited the car. He walked cautiously up to the front of the terrace, and peered into the lower windows, some of which were barred. No sign of anyone at all. It was a shared house: he observed bins and bells with A, B and C on them. He wasn't certain the address had a number - damn!

They must have come the long way after all, he realised. The other way was a loop around Old Factory Lane by the playing fields. He would definitely land Rosbotham and Eastwood now. Thompson brightened for the first time in thirty minutes. It was just a question of waiting for them, here on the bank, and reeling them in. He felt, and then checked, a surge of inner relief. A bird in the hand, he chided himself, a bird in the hand, old chap. A big feathery squawker in the grasping, sweaty old palm.

He walked back a little way along the street, took up a discreet position behind a post box and a lime tree, lit a cigarette, and began to wait.

[End Part Five]