We were coming out for Night Shift and faced the long, tedious hours after the flash of excitement that may accompany the pubs turning out. The Late Shift passed us as they came in and we exchanged gossip for a few minutes.
"Where's Dick?" one of the guys asked.
"Off sick," came the reply. "He had some fish from Sly's down in the Square and it must have been off; 'cos the poor bugger's been filling his pants ever since. Never did like that bugger Sly, the Health Department should close him down."
A few more items of gossip flew around and then we were off on our separate ways to hustle drunks, take on the local hero with a few pints in him, shake hands with door handles, all the things that make up Night Shift on foot patrol in a small city centre.
Around one a.m., the four of us on the Centre Beats gathered at the intersection that neatly divided the city centre into four patrol zones. The Sergeant and the Inspector had 'visited' us on our beats and we exchanged a few minutes of desultory conversation to eat into the boredom of the night.
The subject of Dick and his illness came up and we all agreed that Sly's Fish Shop was not a healthy place. Still, the fish was cheap and that's what attracted Dick and more of us than cared to admit. Gradually a tone of outrage crept into the conversation and someone (might even have been me) suggested that we get even with the bugger.
It was well known that Sly kept the fanlight above the front door propped open at night, undoubtedly to clear the fetid air inside. The scheme that was hatched involved each of the four of us scouring our beats for cats, whipping them down to Sly's and popping them through the fanlight. Chuckling in evil delight we scooted off on our mission.
I was working hard for the next four hours or so, luring mean alley-cats out of the shadows and grabbing the scaly buggers in gloved hands and shoving them under the voluminous felt cape that we wore in those days. Back and forth to the shop I went, heaving the protesting bundles in through the opening above the door. I hunted more pussy that night than ever before - or since.
At no time did I bump into my compadres from the adjoining beats, so I was under the impression that they may have become involved in a good fight or something equally unimportant. That made me redouble my efforts and, just before dawn I completed my mission. There was not a stray cat anywhere on my patch! They were all ensconced in Sly's Fish Shop.
Trudging in to knock off duty, I gave my partners from the other beats the razzoo. "Call yourselves mates, I never once saw any of you sods lobbing a pussy in through Sly's door."
"Up you," came the answer from one, "I was lobbing the buggers in like basketballs all bloody night."
"Me too," was the chorus from the other two and it dawned on all of us that the shop must be a mass of heaving, spitting, shitting, pissing cats - great stuff. Chortling like a bunch of schoolkids we... paraded Off Duty and went eagerly to our beds.
That night we strolled out of the Station to meet the incoming shift.
"How's things?"
"Christ, there was blue soddin' murder this morning about seven o'clock when Sly opened up his shop. Somehow, we reckon he must have left a door open; there were dozens of cats in the place. They just about tore him to pieces, the guys from the Early Shift told us. There was cat's piss all over the place and the floor was covered in shit. The Health Department have closed him down for a week and laid a few fines on him for stuff that they found in addition. Serves the bastard right, shouldn't have sold Dick that... wait a minute, you buggers did it, didn't you?"
Having found that the best form of denial is just to walk away from the accusation, I and my three companions in crime strolled off to keep the city safe for another night.
