image          A DEAD END JOB


“Right you little monkey, come and sit here for a cuddle, I’ve got crisps, Twiglets and Chocolate Buttons.”

Ella’s face lit up as she bounced down on the sofa next to me. Clicking the video remote I started the film. Our favourite. Mary Poppins.

She crunched a Twiglet and pointed the remaining bit at me.  “Mum have you ever seen a dead person yet, you know a real dead humung beening?” 

I tried not to laugh.  “It’s human being Ella, erm no, not yet….but that’s such a strange thing to want to know sweetheart.”

She shrugged her shoulders as her hand disappeared into the Twiglet tube.  I just wondered if they had wings when you found them or do they come later?”

Jeez, questions on Theology, I could spell the word, not have an in depth discussion on it.

 “Err I’m not sure I get what you mean Ella.” 

“Oh nuffink, I just thought it would make it hard to get them out of the front door if they were dead AND had a big pair of wings. Can I have another Twiglet?”

…and with that the conversation on dead people was over.


“Neighbour from No. 32 is reporting he hasn’t seen the old lady next door for several days Mavis, voters show an Alice Creighton, 87 years.”  The ensuing silence from the other end of my police radio gave me time to think.

I groaned. Thanks Ella!

No sooner does she mention something, then it happens. I’d avoided the optional Post Mortem visit during my early probation as I didn’t quite fancy savouring my breakfast twice in one day. After all, I wasn’t going to be the one that had to bloody dissect them. I just needed to know how to deal with finding them.

Standing in front of the dull black door to No. 34, the abode of the unseen Mrs Creighton my heart sank. The backlog of newspapers and milk bottles could mean only one thing.

Grimacing, my stomach did a huge flip.  It’s more the anticipation of death that is so disturbing, so unless someone has ever taken the opportunity to actually keel over and expire in front of you, the chances of seeing a dead body are probably few and far between.

I lifted the letterbox and had a discreet sniff.  I baulked.  Yep, something smelt very dead inside the little terraced house.

“Here yer are love, it’s her spare key, use this.”

The kindly neighbour from 32 proffered the shiny bit of metal on a piece of string. I looked at it, looked at him and looked at the front door. It was at this exact moment I realised that I was the one wearing a uniform, and as such, I was probably expected to do something about the unseen Mrs Creighton.

Why on earth couldn’t I have worked at Sainsbury’s, they never have to find dead people do they?

I let that thought hover in the air before slipping the key into the lock, tentatively turning it and stepping through the door.  I glanced back to a sea of faces belonging to the concerned neighbours outside, watching in a medley of keen anticipation and sheer nosiness.

Just on the remote chance that there was anyone alive to hear it, although I did seriously doubt it judging by the stench, I loudly announced my arrival in a quivering voice.

Mrs Creighton, Mrs Creighton, it’s the Police Mrs Creighton…….”

No reply, nothing. Not even a whisper.

I carried on along the hallway, checking each room in turn with no sign of Mrs Creighton.  In the kitchen I found a pan of some foul smelling gunk on the old enamel gas stove. The furry growth on top had been fermenting for some considerable time.  I held my breath, this was going from bad to worse.  I tried again.

Mrs Creighton, don’t panic, it’s the Police, just need to know you’re okay”


With my heart thumping in anticipation, I began to climb the staircase. Picking my feet through the threadbare runner, I swept my fingers along the dark brown bannister.  I was utterly convinced I was going to find the elusive Mrs Creighton rather deceased somewhere upstairs.

Oh please God don’t let her be all horribly….. well, you know what I mean… just make her sort of fresh…ish…!

The first bedroom was empty apart from an old 1930’s wardrobe, several dead flies on the ledge of the cast-iron fireplace and a commode. Motes of dust whipped up, catching in the muted sunlight from the window. Coughing I closed the door. Creeping out onto the landing, I put my very sweaty hand on the door handle to the second bedroom, pausing long enough to control my breathing as my heart threatened to explode through my shirt.

I turned and pushed.

The door creaked open….

…… and there, lying in bed amongst her pink rayon sheets and green polyester quilt, mouth wide open and eyes hooded was Mrs Creighton.

Very grey, very still, very cold and very, very smelly….
……and in my expert opinion…. just a little bit dead!

I froze.

Oh shit, I’ve got a dead body, a real life dead body.

My first.

Panic ensued. 

Think Mavis, think.  What did they teach you at Bruche? 

For a split second I didn’t care what they had told me at Police Training college, it didn’t matter.  All I wanted to do was to get the hell out of there…….

…..and then I remembered.  It all came flooding back,  I knew exactly what I had to do.

My priority was to confirm that there was no output from Mrs Creighton, no breath, no pulse, nothing that could be resuscitated, no signs of life.

Way to go Mavis.

I held my breath and walked gingerly over to the bed, jumping as the floorboards creaked. Oh blimey, facial hair! Mrs Creighton has facial hair. I hesitated, wondering if she still had her false teeth in, which in turn reminded me of Marj at our first aid classes. A quick glance at the bedside cabinet confirmed that her teeth were accounted for, they were floating in a glass of disgusting yellowy green…err…. something.

Fantastic that was all I needed. I’d never get a good seal around her mouth for CPR if it was caving in through lack of teeth. The thought of shiny gums and spit made me feel sick.

Taking hold of her limp wrist, I bent over her to check for a pulse.  As I tentatively moved closer to her face, I paused waiting to see if any air was being expelled from her nose.  The hairs on her top lip remained static.  Oh dear, this seriously wasn’t looking good.

I moved in closer, my own breath barely perceptable.  At the exact moment my nose almost touched hers, her eyes shot wide open.  A low moan drifted from her mouth as she suddenly sat bolt upright in bed.   Every nerve in my body went into high alert as I stumbled backwards in fright, knocking into the mirrored wardrobe.  

Letting out an almighty screech akin to a banshee, she flailed her arms in the air.  “What the fuck are you doing in me bedroom……?”

I screamed.

Mrs Creighton screamed….

….and I legged it out of the bedroom in sheer terror, flying down the stairs, missing several steps as I went.

The neighbours, fearful of my findings and the wailing from inside the house, crossed themselves in godly reverence before disappearing back into their own houses as I fell over the door mat landing sprawled out on the pavement.

Standing alone outside, I gathered what was left of my dignity and quietly meditated my predicament before forcing myself to return inside the House of Horrors.

I made Mrs Creighton a cup of tea, washed her dishes and contacted a relative to advise them she had been suffering a rather awful bout of influenza, which had been aggravated by a Nightnurse induced coma.

Plumping the pillow behind her, I folded back the quilt and handed her a bowl of chicken soup the next door neighbour had brought round.   “Here you go, that’ll make you feel better Mrs Creighton.”

She grumbled, sniffed, tasted the soup and let the spoon rattle back into the bowl.   “D’ya know what would really make me feel better?”

I was mesmerised by the flake of chicken adhered to her top lip as her tongue snaked up trying to dislodge it.   “Anything, just say and I’ll see if I can sort it for you” I gently crooned.

She wiped away the chicken with the back of her hand, flicking it across the counterpane.  

“I’d feel a whole lot better if you’d just fuck right off……   and don’t let the door smack you on the arse on the way out…!”


Back at the nick I filled in my report on Mrs Creighton before going off duty, still stinging from her ingratitude and gobsmacked that an 87-year-old lady could actually know, let alone use, the F-word.

“There you go Mave…” Bob dunked his biscuit in the chipped mug, brought it up to his mouth with seconds to spare before it drooped, “…it’s the four S’s, you should’ve known that.”

I closed my notebook, What on earth  has sun, sea, sand and sex got to do with an ungrateful old biddy with Tourette’s?”

He grinned, cramming the rest of the biscuit into his mouth.

“Nope, it stands for not all Shitty Smells Sniffed are Stiffs….”


Extract from Handcuffs, Truncheon & A Primark Thong (c) 2016

Gina Kirkham





With the onset of winter I was extremely grateful for my little police car, Florence the Fiesta.  The steady 12 degrees that was pumped out by the fan heater warmed the cockles of my heart, well, not really but at least my nose stayed a more healthier shade of blue.

During late November family issues came to the fore as my elderly Aunt, Agatha Carter who was 89 years young became too frail  and cantankerous to be able to live on her own and subsequently we had no choice but to move her to sheltered accommodation.  .

Aunty Agatha had never married and had spent her entire life living with her sister Maude, who had also remained single.  They did everything together, Maude was the more lively of the two as Agatha had complained of seriously failing eyesight in their twilight years. Consequently this meant that Agatha sat there whilst Maude did all the running around.  I did seriously doubt the full extent of Agatha’s condition.  If you dropped a pound coin on her patterned 1930’s carpet, as you bent down to retrieve it, poor eyesight or not, she would drop to her knees and pounce on it, savagely scraping the skin from your fingers as she prised your hand away from it.

One day Maude, feeling a little jaded and unusually for her, took to her armchair in the back room.  Wiping her glistening brow with a screwed up paper tissue she beckoned her sister to her side.  

“Agatha, I do fear that I am somewhat incapacitated my dear, you’ll have to go into the village for bread and milk today.”  She pulled the throw around her and lay back in fevered rest.

Suitably miffed at having to do something after forty years of sloth,  Agatha put on her fur trimmed coat, chunnered a rather terse response and had reluctantly gone shopping.   Returning some time later she sat with Maude, cup of tea in hand whilst she regaled her with tales of village life and gossip.   It wasn’t until after the adverts in Coronation Street that Agatha realised that poor Maude still hadn’t drunk her afternoon tea or eaten her digestive biscuit and had not actually replied to any of her ramblings since her last appreciative nod of acknowledgement to her return some four hours previously.

It slowly dawned on Agatha that although Maude appeared to be slumped in repose in her favourite armchair, this state of tranquility had not been brought about by a simple afternoon snooze.

The fact of the matter was that Maude was rather deceased and probably had been for some considerable time.

Agatha was beside herself with the indignity that Maude could be so selfish as to die before drinking her tea after she had made such an effort to go out to fetch the milk…..

….and thus ended an 81 year relationship.

Now this was where we encountered a small snag.

Re-homing Agatha was most definitely not like re-homing a lovely fluffy, cuddly, cute kitten.   Agatha was neither cuddly, cute or indeed fluffy, but she did have claws.  The only ‘home’ that she would even remotely entertain or more to the point, that would entertain her, was one on my beat area.  It was a lovely place consisting of small one bedroom apartments which were all wired up with the best alarm and panic systems for the residents security and welfare and was warden assisted.  Much to her obvious chagrin, this was to be Agatha’s home for the foreseeable future.

Once settled in, I warned Pamela the Warden of her little idiosyncrasies and her occasional cantankerous outbursts.

“Mavis, please don’t worry…” Pam reassured me “…..my staff are extremely experienced, there is nothing we can’t handle.  We’re going to get along fine aren’t we Agatha?”  She gave Agatha a look of anticipated mutual understanding.

I looked at Agatha.

Agatha glared at me.

Taking out a delicate embroidered handkerchief from her tapestry handbag, she blew her nose, sniffed, and then much to my eternal embarrassment, she grimaced, lifted her left leg and deliberately forced out a rather loud fart as she shuffled out of the room muttering under her breath.

 “Handle THAT then..” she snorted whilst letting out another rasping bout of flatulence.

Pamela stifled a giggle.

“See what I mean Pamela? I absolutely despair of her!”  I shook my head as I watched her stomp like a petulant child along the corridor.

“She’s just a lonely old lady Mavis, there is nothing she can do that will shock me, I promise.”  Pamela leant forward, smiled reassuringly and patted my hand.


The weeks quickly passed, Christmas and New Year came and went without incident.  Work was busy, as it always was at that time of year. as some in our Society seem only capable of having a happy Christmas if they have had the turkey thrown at them, the odd roast parsnip shoved where the sun don’t shine, got so drunk they’ve ended up as an extra decoration on the village Christmas tree sporting chunks of vomit on their best bib and tucker or have spent the night in the cells.  

I paraded on for a night shift, glad to have said goodbye to the over indulgence and revelry, ready to welcome what the new year would bring.  I had been upgraded from my little Florence the Fiesta, which I had actually become quite fond of in a perverse sort of way, to my dream car……
…..a Vauxhall Cavalier.

No more shiatsu beads and shouting ‘nee-nah’ out of the window on the way to jobs.  My car now had two tone sirens and a seat without holes and escaped springs.

My joy knew no bounds.

Less than an hour in to my shift I was sent to a serious incident of a criminal damage where a deranged female was smashing up a local residential home, the same home that Agatha had for the last few months reluctantly resided.   

I held my breath as dread washed over me as I edged my way into the foyer.  

Thousands of pounds worth of damage had been caused to the alarm systems, wires ripped out, pictures and table lamps destroyed in the communal areas and the night staff were cowering in terror behind the reception desk. 

The cause of this wanton destruction?  One lunatic 89 year old woman who had become suitably pissed off with the staff for no known reason and who was now sitting serenely in the padded beige wing backed chair in her room.

Yep, you’ve guessed it – good old Aunty Agatha.  

My worst fears had been realised.

Agatha was moved to a residential care home shortly after this little night time soirée, but not before she had coughed up the money to pay for the damage rather than me having to face the embarrassment of arresting one of my own relatives.   

Sadly, less than two months later, Aunty Agatha decided that she had endured enough of this life and early one evening she shuffled off this mortal coil to join Aunty Maude, whilst half way through enjoying an ASDA Extra Cheesy pizza and a cup of Lady Grey Tea whilst listening to a recording of the Mike Sammes Singers.

Her funeral and subsequent cremation were quiet affairs, just as she had requested, but I personally felt that this was in some part due to her cantankerous  nature and the fact that she had outlived all of her friends anyway.

A week later I stood alone in the local cemetery as her sole mourner waiting for the arrival of the Vicar for her internment into the family plot.  Due to low resilience in strengths at work, I couldn’t get the day off, but the Sarge had given me an hour to show my respects and old Florence the Fiesta as transport.  Parking Florence out of view,  I quickly put my own jacket on to cover my uniform, hunkered down with my hands in my pockets and stood by the cemetery gates.

It was a particularly bleak, cold and windy day.  Eleven o’clock came and went with no sign of the Vicar, the Undertaker or Aunty Agatha.  As I stood shivering by the entrance watching the black clouds rolling across the sky, shadowing the vast Cemetery, I saw a vision in the distance.  Hurrying through the graves and tombstones, cassock billowing in the wind was the Vicar, closely followed by the Gravedigger with his spade and following them was the Undertaker carrying Auntie Agatha in a mighty fine oak casket.

The Vicar hastily brushed down his one strand of remaining hair, straightened his cassock, wiped the dewdrop from his nose and nodded a greeting. 

“My apologies dear, I’m unfortunately running a little late.”  He turned to mutter to the Undertaker that he had another funeral and expressed his desire to bury Agatha with speed.

At the beckoning of the Gravedigger we made our way to the CARTER family plot, where a small hole had already been excavated in anticipation of receiving the late Agatha Emily Carter.

Standing there, huddled together, the Vicar, the Undertaker, the Gravedigger and me, I watched as she was ceremoniously lowered into the ground whilst the Vicar offered words of blessing and offerance.  

“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister, here departed…….”

…..and it was at this point that I happened to glance at the large gravestone marking the spot.  In gothic letters, aged with moss and grime it announced:




1889 to 1946

As the seconds ticked by, with the Vicar still beseeching The Lord to take good care of Agatha Emily Carter,  I wrestled with the knowledge that some dreadful mistake had been made.  Tapping the Undertaker on the shoulder, I pointed out this little discrepancy, explaining to him in hushed tones that this most certainly was not the CARTER family plot.  

He in turn tapped the Gravedigger across the back of his head with his book of prayer, who in turn hastily took out a battered old plot map.  As the howling wind whipped the corners, he let out a groan of horror.  

“It’s bloody 19c – CARTER’s on ruddy 19c…….. we should be over there………..”   He waved his leather-bound book of prayer towards the other side of the Cemetery.  

The Vicar faltered long enough for this little gem of information to sink in, as the Undertaker and the Gravedigger frantically looked around the vast expanse of the Cemetary.  I looked down, windswept and cold, into the hole on plot 19b, horrified to see that it now contained the earthly remain of poor Agatha AND Ernest Worthington.  

Smiling to myself, I suddenly realised that as Aunty Agatha had been fervently chaste in life, this lapse in direction by the gravedigger had made  it the only time she had ever been laid by a man!

The Vicar, who had clearly embraced the view that the ‘show must go on’ was quickly stopped mid blessing whilst Aunty Agatha was retrieved from the hole.  Inclusive of soil, worms and a sod of grass, she was plonked in my arms leaving me to watch in utter disbelief as the Vicar raced across the cemetery, cassock billowing in the wind, closely followed by the Gravedigger with his trusty spade and the Undertaker with his Book of Prayer wedged under his left armpit.

Running after them I could feel poor Agatha’s remains shifting from side to side as I hurdled gravestones and dodged trees.  By the time I caught up with them a new hole had already been hastily dug on plot 19c. The casket was wrenched from my hands and once again Aunty Agatha was shoved into the ground With very little consideration.  The Vicar offered three lines of blessing, wiped his nose, shook my hand, turned on his heels and was last seen disappearing through the trees towards the main gate, cassock still blowing and strands of hair flailing, with the Undertaker in tow.

I was left with the Gravedigger and Aunty Agatha half buried in a small hole.  I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry as he furiously shovelled the soil in to backfill poor Agatha, just as it started to rain.

The Gravedigger replaced the square of grass, turned and with both feet jumped up and down on it with his muddy boots whilst shouting into the wind spraying spit all over my jacket.

“Eeeh there yer are love, that’ll do reet nicely, once settled yer’ll never know she’s even been ‘ere…….” 

Agatha Emily Carter.

Peacefully at rest with Maude…………

We think!


(c) 2016 Gina Kirkham

Handcuffs, Truncheon & A Primark Thong