Business is picking up in Merthyr - another isolation buster

BUSINESS IS PICKING UP IN MERTHYR

Wayne Womble stepped out from his shelter, under a tree by Merthyr Tydfil Law Courts.

He stared across at the War Memorial with its red poppies and was disgusted.

Not just because the poppies reminded him of the effect of the Heroin trade had had on the little Valley Town, but there was something even more revolting than usual.

His day job was picking up litter, so he was used to seeing garbage on the streets of Merthyr, both human and of the waste paper variety, blowing across the devastated Town Centre.

The Town had received the ‘benefit’ of a ‘one way’ traffic system that was to revolutionise the small Valley Town.

Ironically, with the closure of all the shops and retail outlets- there was only ‘one way’ left for the Town to go and that was to close completely.

Nothing can stand in the way of change , so the Authority did just that.

You can take the trash out of Merthyr but the people are still left behind.

Wayne had noticed that the ‘scum ratio’ in the Town had increased over the years.

Most people assumed that it was because of mass migration from Eastern Europe.

But in reality, it was because of the number of third generation families that had never worked- as there were no longer any steelworks or mines to employ them- no factories left to use them to manufacture goods – which were now imported on the cheap from the Far East.

Which in turn fuelled the multitude of Pound shops, being undercut by 99p shops who in turn were being undercut by 98p shops – illustrating capitalism at its worst.

Wayne Womble was one of the few exceptions in Merthyr.

He WANTED to work….he couldn’t sit at home all day on his DFS sofa, filling his arteries and veins with congealed fat, sugar and salt.

He needed something to keep his brain and body active…not sit and vegetate on social media or watching day time television.

The only job available was for 20p more a week, picking up litter as part of the Town’s ‘Brush Strokes’ cleaning Agency.

He didn’t care that he was out walking the streets in all of Merthyr’s weathers- come rain , snow or more rain.

But today, even he was sick to his stomach at the sight.

Some dirty bastard had shat on the top step of the cenotaph.

A Cenotaph that was a war memorial to past generations of servicemen and women who had given their lives in defence of their Country- to allow these people to have the freedoms and liberties they now enjoyed.

This person had really taken the word ‘Liberty’ too far.

Wayne Womble got closer and inspected the ‘log’ with his giant litter-tweezers.

Definitely human he said to himself.

Since the introduction of the Dog Warden by the local Council, the number of stray unaccompanied dogs had been reduced in Merthyr dramatically- but this did not take into account those stray dogs that came home from the ‘Kirkhouse ‘ Nightclub on a Friday Night and Wayne’s experience led him to suspect that they were the likely culprits.

Wayne was even able to tell that it was a ‘woman’ that ‘laid it’.

He thought to himself about the Manic Street Preachers song….’if you tolerate this your children will be next’ and suddenly noticed that there were smaller ‘turds’ on the subsequent steps down.

Was there a family of pigs out last night?

He knew he had been given a shit job but this really was a SHIT JOB.

Don’t these people have standards?

Don’t these people have morals?

Don’t these people use paper?

All these questions were on his lips, as he rolled the logs like a ‘faecal lumberjack’ into a position that he could lift them up to with his giant yellow plastic tipped chopsticks.

He thought he had seen everything on the ‘mean streets’ of Merthyr- used condoms oozing with ‘baby batter’, human phlegm, used syringes, fast food boxes and full baby nappies.

He wondered what sort of upbringing these ‘animals’ had had.

Yes- he could excuse poverty- but how much does a bar of soap costs?.

Good manners even less.

He shuddered, as he pick up the final turd which had pinned a pink lottery ticket to the grey stone step.

He noticed it was for last Friday Nights Euro Millions.

Yet another involuntary tax on the numerically challenged.

Little lotteries were springing up everywhere- Euro-Millions, National Lottery, Health Lottery, MacMillan Nurses Lottery …the Postcode Lottery….with those least able to afford it cutting down on their alcohol and fag budgets to chase the ‘American dream’ of the ‘get rich without working’.

This gambling sickness that has spread to our Society had produced another much sadder lottery.

Whether or not a poor child would eat that week.

Food Banks were set up by good intentioned people and this was the only way some Valley’s children would be able to eat again- providing their latchkey parents didn’t sell the food for smack first.

Wayne realised that not everyone in Merthyr was hungry- as he was holding the evidence with his tongs.

Wayne had picked up many a dud betting slip and many a discarded lotto ticket before, but there was a special look about this one.

It wasn’t just a ‘golden ticket’ because of the colour added by its ‘marker’.

There was a special something, he couldn’t quite put his finger on and not just because of the

toxicaria worms that lived in the stool.

Wayne knew this was a ‘free-shot’ to lift himself out of the gutter that he prowled daily.

Wiping the ticket with a discarded ‘Greggs’ wrapper, he placed the ticket in his luminous yellow all weather Council-issue jacket to check later and got on with his job.

He was one of the few Council workers that could pass unseen, without being spat on in the street.

As long as he wore his high luminosity, high visibility jacket, he was as invisible as a highway engineer repairing a Trunk Road on a Bank Holiday behind miles of orange traffic cones.

Most people registered he was around but didn’t pay a second glance.

Even the people who were too lazy to work, looked down on him , as he passed with his green refuse bag as his shield and outside tweezers as his sword.

He had something more important than them.

His pride and self-respect.

Something that someone who defecates on a War Memorial lost long ago.



As Wayne relaxed at home, in his one bedroom rented studio-flat, he put the kettle on and opened his laptop.

Something was nagging away at him to check the ticket.

The odds on him winning were equivalent to the odds of him drowning in his own bathwater, but he had heard it several times that bird-shit was supposed to be lucky.

He logged onto the Lotto results check with his ‘logged’ entry and stared at the numbers.

One bloody number….ironically the ‘number two’ only.

He was just about to crumple it up, when he realised there was also a ‘Millionaire’s raffle’ printed on there.

You had to check both the colour and the series of numbers and letters.

He scanned down through the list and was shocked to see it matched exactly one of a row.

He checked it again in disbelief.

And again to be sure.

Suddenly it dawned on him that it was a winning ticket.

What did he do?

He knew it wasn’t his.

He knew it belonged to some unknown person and his chief suspect was a ‘lady’ that was always in the French Baguette shop that had a known IBS problem.

She was known locally as ‘Crepe Suzette’ due to her incontinence problem.

He was in a quandary.

Did he take the ticket to a local Lottery outlet and pass it off as his own?

Or did he take it to the Local Gendarmerie and explain the position and see if the grateful owner offered him a reward?

But the reward would be puny compared to the £1Million prize and not life changing at all.

He would still be picking up shit daily without any gratitude from the general public.

One of the deadly sins- greed/avarice- spoke to him for the first time ever.

Wayne Womble had little or no ambition when it came to money and had heard of many stories of modern day Howard Hughes-like characters building vast fortunes only to see 40% given to the Inland Revenue in ‘Death Duties/Inheritance Tax’ or worse still people not enjoying the benefits money can bring.

It was another form of sickness.

People taking pleasure from numbers on paper in Banks that only guaranteed £85K if the bank collapsed overnight.

The same people who would walk one end of the Town to another to save a penny on a packet of crisps.

This was a chance for Wayne Womble to get ahead in the Rat Race, instead of chasing rodents away from his bins near Abermorlais Terrace.

His family had hailed from London originally but came down to South Wales to get away from the poisonous smog that had choked the ‘Smoke’ in the 1940’s and of course the ‘Blitz’ in which Wayne’s Great Grandfather had died in defence of King & Country.

They were tired of sleeping in subway stations and wanted to come somewhere that was less likely to be bombed.

There was little benefit in Hitler’s Luftwafe bombing Merthyr’s slums- as it would only improve the place.

The Wombles from Wimbledon were a common family, no airs or graces and Merthyr was well suited for their purposes.

This ‘golden ticket’ offered Wayne a leg up the ladder even if it was at expense of another.

What had ‘Crepe Suzette’ offered to Society?

Was this his Great Grandfather’s gift from beyond the grave as repayment for a life cut short?

Wayne wanted an excuse for what he knew was morally wrong.

He decided he would claim the ticket.

He dressed up in his best Sunday outfit and walked the short distance to the ‘Kwikee- Mart’ around the corner.

He didn’t want to tempt fate and enter the actual shop that had sold the winning ticket in case they suspected anything.

The Asian shop-keeper was delighted for him, as he hugged him and danced up and down in joy for the lucky winner.

Inside , a small part of Wayne felt guilty and his stomach rumbled like he himself had IBS.

Now he could own RBS.

The shopkeeper told him, he would have to contact Camelot directly to claim the prize and that there was a verification procedure under way.

Little did he know it yet, but Wayne Womble had put ‘in motion’ a chain of events that would indeed be life-changing.





Wayne Womble glanced nervously at the clock.

He had only checked it a minute ago.

2.00pm they had said they would be here.

Eventually, a knock came at the front door of his humble flat.

It was 1.45pm.

He opened the door.

He expected it to be like an advert for the ‘People’s Postcode Lottery’ with a former Welsh Rugby star or GMTV presenter beaming back at him.

It was a miserable looking man in a grey overcoat.

“ Mr Womble….Mr WAYNE WOMBLE?....”asked the Man.

“ Can I come in ?” asked the stranger.

“ Are you from Camelot?” asked Wayne a little disappointedly .

“ Where is my champagne and flowers?” he continued.

“ South Wales Police doesn’t routinely give chocolates or other gifts in fraud cases Mr Womble!” replied the Detective.

“ What do you mean….fraud?” asked Wayne standing his ground.

“ Do you want to discuss this matter on your doorstep for your neighbours to hear or can I come in and talk to you privately?” said the Policeman.

Faced with a comment like that, Wayne let the Officer into his home without a warrant- a first for a Merthyr man.

“ So you are making a claim for £1Million from the National Lottery organisers Camelot…is that right!” asked the Detective Constable Pigg.

“ Yes!” replied Womble.

“ So where did you buy this winning ticket?” asked Pigg.

“ I didn’t say I BOUGHT it!” countered Womble.

“ Okay….so if you didn’t BUY it….how can the ticket be YOURS?” asked PIgg .

“ Finder’s Keepers!” replied Womble.

“ Sorry…what did you say?” queried Pigg.

“ I found the ticket….it’s mine!” said Womble innocently.

“ Are you familiar with the Fraud Act 2005 and obtaining a pecuniary advantage by deception?” asked Pigg.

“ Like MP’s expenses you mean?” replied Womble not so innocently.

“ Have YOU heard of Parliamentary Privilege?”

“ Yes…of course !” said Pigge.

“ Well I want some of it !” said Womble picking up a HP Brown sauce bottle and squirting it on his bacon sandwiches.

“ I would offer you some…but I wouldn’t want to be arrested for inciting cannibalism!” said Womble pushing his luck.

“ So we’ve established that you didn’t BUY the ticket!” said Pigge ignoring the slight.

“ I never said I did!” replied Womble.

“ The ticket is in my possession and possession is nine tenths of the law!” said Womble getting all street.

“ Do you watch many US cop shows Mr Womble?” asked Pigge.

“ No…why do you ask is that illegal too?” replied Womble.

“ No….but by trying to claim someone else’s million pounds is a fraudulent deception!” said Pigge.

“ It is my ticket…..the person who purchased it should have taken better care of it….what’s the difference between a KFC wrapper discarded as litter and this ticket?” asked Womble.

Pigge knew he had a point.

His Probationary Constable Training, all those years ago, was pre-Beatles and the 1967 Theft Act.

“ So you will not concede that this ticket is not yours?” asked the Copper trying a different tack.

“ It’s MINE!” Womble reasserted.

“ The ticket was found on the War Memorial in Castle Street near the Law Courts….you are aware that 60,000.00 different people in Merthyr have claimed it is their ticket along with the Merthyr Council, British Legion and Miss Suzette Jones!” said Pigge.

“ Why Merthyr Council and British Legion?” asked Womble.

“ Merthyr Council are the Freeholders of the land and the British Legion paid for the steps and Celtic Cross to be erected!” said Pigge.

“ Suzette John…you said?” asked Womble deliberately trying to muddy the water.

“ Suzette Jones- she is the woman that purchased the ticket from the retail outlet on Twynyrodyn Road!” said Pigge.

“ Is this the same Suzette Jones known locally as ‘Crepe’ Suzette that flouts the bye-laws , criminal laws and shits in more places than a tramp sitting on a colander ?” said Womble.

“ Never seen that one before….very colourful image!” said Pigge.

“ I have- remember I have been a Merthyr Street cleaner for three years- ….so why aren’t you out arresting her instead of here hassling me?” replied Womble.

“ She is a ‘woman of little substance’ – you on the other hand are a soft target and about to come into money!” said Pigge.

“ One question Officer….how do you definitively know that Suzette bought the ticket ” countered Womble.

“ I seized the tape from the close circuit television camera in the store!” said the Officer playing his ‘trump’ card.

“ And has the owner of the store seen it?” asked Womble.

“ No….at the moment…I am the only person who has!” said Pigge grunting excitedly, knowing he had the upper hand.

“ Can I see it?” asked Womble.

“ No- suffice to say I know who bought the winning ticket!” replied Pigge.

“ So we have got ourselves a little situation here!” said the Officer.

“ Well what do you suggest ?...unless of course you came here to arrest me…but then again…surely you would have come with a partner then?” said Womble catching on.

“ Mr Womble….please don’t touch that mobile phone….I wouldn’t want any of this recorded as evidence!” said Pigge.

“ So what do you really want?” asked Womble.

“ Let me say that sometimes in my job , evidence goes missing, tapes without labels get put in huge factory size warehouses- tapes by their very nature get accidentally taped over-somebody in the Crown Prosecution Service gets blamed and the matter thrown out of court- no harm done to anyone that matters in our Society shall we say?” explained Pigge.

“ So should these series of ‘unfortunate events occur ‘ and I assume you in turn are not wearing a wire- I would hate to be the first person in Merthyr to be convicted by ‘encrapment’ – what sort of contribution would you expect towards the ‘Secret Policeman’s Ball’?” asked Womble.



“ Well us Pigge’s have never been regarded as being greedy…I think half of the prize is fair …don’t you?” said the Bent porker salivating at the prospect of half a millionaire quid.

“ Well what exactly have you done to deserve that?” asked Womble not prepared to let half his lottery fortune disappear in an ‘instant’.

“ Well not a lot but then again neither have you!” retorted the gruntling.

“ It’s my ticket…in my possession…!” said Womble.

“ But look at the risk for me…I could lose my Police pension…my reputation….my livelihood!” said Pigge.

“ Well Officer Dribble….what if I don’t play ball?” asked Womble.

“ Do you really want to play the REAL National Lottery by going through both the CRIMINAL AND CIVIL COURTS….over who owns the ticket?....I think One Million Pounds will just about cover the Court costs….after all these barristers have been known to take the Pistorius….do you really want to take that chance?” said Pigge.

“ How do I know that the video cassette in your left jacket pocket is the only copy in existence?” asked Womble.

“ You have my word….I just left the Twyn stores…what chance would I have to copy it?” said Pigge.

“ Who knows you were coming here today?” enquired Womble .

“ No-one…I couldn’t exact log this blackmail call now could I?” asked Pigge.

“ Did you come in Car 54?” asked Womble.

“ No… I walked….look… it should be you answering my police enquiries…. not the other way around….after all I have your best interests at heart…!” said Pigge.

No sooner than he had uttered the word heart than Womble reached down under the table.

His hand returned with a sharp metal pole similar to a ski-stick, used for picking up leaves, which he rammed with all his ‘force’ into the chest of the Policeman.

Pigge could believe it.

He felt like a stuck pig on a barbeque with six inches of sharp metal in his black heart.

“ What HAVE you done…you’ve murdered me…!” said Pigge in shock.

“ Where will my dispose of my body?” asked Pigge as Womble withdrew his impromptu blade from the chest cavity of the Oinker with a sickening slurping sound.

“ I’m a street cleaner Pigge…I know where to place rubbish like you where NO-ONE will EVER find it!” said Womble angrily.

It was amazing what greed does to some people.

Pigge collapsed on the floor- blood pouring out of his chest onto the crème carpet.

Womble just realised it was 1.55pm and Camelot were due to come to present him his cheque.

Pigge was a dead weight as he shoved him off the chair and rolled the still warm Policeman into the corner of the room and rearranged the furniture to hide the body behind his pull out sofa bed.

He threw the multi-coloured square patterned woollen blanket over the top of the body.

Right on cue, at exactly 2.00pm there was an enthusiastic knock at the door.

The sweat was all over Wayne’s brow- the realisation that he had killed a man was sinking in.

Sweeping the streets of the shit-covered Valleys Town had desensitised him to his own humankind.

He knew he would have to open the door and let them in quickly to stop the Merthyr flies getting in.

From experience Wayne was aware that they settled on shit or dead bodies before either had gone cold.

He opened the door and was dazzled by the fake veneer white teeth of the Lottery Representative.

He was holding a massive cardboard cheque for £1,000.00 and the best part is he had ticked the ‘no publicity’ box on the claim form.

If you had said yes….what more would you have… fanfares and trumpets and a Town Cryer?

“ Hi are you Mr Wayne Womble….the lucky winner of our Millionaires raffle?” asked the National Lottery representative.

“ Can I see some ID?” asked Wayne.

“ Isn’t this cheque good enough for you?” asked promotions man ‘Slim’ Chance of the National Lottery.

“ Come in then….it’s just that every person in my life that has knocked my door has asked for money and not given it!” said Womble.

“ I think your cameraman will have to stay out on the landing….my tiny flat isn’t big enough for more than two people at a time!” said Wayne trying to make sure there was as little evidence of the crime as possible available on tape- he had watched too many repeat episodes of Columbo to be caught out that way.

He shut the door on the cameraman and ushered Slim in before he had a chance to object.

“ Please sit there….I’m afraid that there isn’t much room in here !” said Wayne making him sit on the sofa.

“ Good job I am ‘Slim’ then !” said Chance in an Eric Idle of Monty Python-fame- style voice.

Womble smiled politely knowing now that it WAS possible to squeeze three bodies in the room at one time.

“Nice settee…!” said Slim bouncing up and down a bit.

“ It’s mine… in another 36 easy payments at an APR of 35%...!” said Wayne proudly.

“ I don’t think you need to worry about that money again…after this BIG cheque clears ….no need to put your hand down the back of the settee for some coppers?” said Slim.

“ What do you mean?” asked Womble on heightened state of alert.

Womble’s paranoia meant he thought he had been rumbled.

Slim looked at the man opposite him.

He looked crazy.

Why the Hell did he volunteer to come to this place called Merthyr Tydfil- the murder capital of Wales.

He had been frightened after hearing that Alfred Hitchcock had made a documentary called

‘Dial M for Merthyr’ on the place.

“ Everything alright Mr Womble….you look a little pale?” asked Slim.

“ I know I would go mad if I had to live , sleep and eat in one room like this…I would want to murder someone!” said Slim.

It was the last thing that the presenter said as a metal leaf spike was thrust hard and fast into his chest straight through his heart.

Slim couldn’t even get utter a sound.

He sat in his seated position with blood pumping out all over the carpet.

As soon as he was certain his victim was dead Womble, dragged the body behind the settee and piled him on top of the bent copper.

He opened the door to let the cameraman in.

“ Is it just the two of you?” asked Wayne as he opened the door to allow the man and his apparatus in.

“ Where’s Slim?” asked the cameraman Len Scappe.

“ He just left by the backdoor ….he said he was checking on the parking meter …he only paid for 20 minutes….he said!” bluffed Womble.

Len was suspicious….this was a first floor flat with no fire escape or back door come to think of it….and of course he had driven and parked the car himself.

As he sat on the sofa, a trickle of red blood oozed out from below and formed a small pool around his Doctor Martin’s boots.

“ Celebrating…spilled a bit of claret in the process!” said Womble trying to distract his victim by way of reassurance before piercing his heart with the leaf spike.

A little further to the right…Wayne thought.

As he thrust out with his weapon at that exact moment Len chose to look down and the spike lodged on the flat part of his frontal lobe of the brain.

“ Can you taste vanilla ice-cream?” he said not realising what had happened.

It was only when he lifted his head and the spike scrape on the artex ceiling and fall off did he really understand what had happened.

By this time Womble had launched himself at the poor cameraman and had his hands around his throat trying to choke him with a green refuse bag.

Len fought for his life but the combined effects of the brain injury, the green bag starving him of oxygen and the strong grip of a younger man who folded cardboard for a living , took they toll.

He slipped mercifully into unconsciousness before Womble sparked up the Cyfarthfa Park chainsaw.

There was blood everywhere, as Womble hacked his way through limbs and torsos like a man possessed.

He knew he had crossed the line and there was no going back.

He visualised the three bodies as his sworn enemy- ‘Litter Louts’ who had committed sacrilege by defiling the streets of Merthyr with discarded chewing-gum, empty beer bottles and chip wrappers.

The once mild-mannered Womble had indeed gone ‘Batt’y.

He opened the door- face still covered in blood and dragged inside the flat his big black wheelie-bin.

He proceeded to fill it up with body parts in bags tying a knot in the top to keep the cadavers inside.

Today was collection day too.

He tried to force the lid down as he was worried he would be fined by the Local Council.

He hated this form of ‘Sulo- wrestling’

A severed hand dropped on the floor as he did so.

Unannounced, Roy Bishe, a ‘refuse receptacle operative’ came around the corner and to Wayne’s horror pick up the severed hand and looked directly at Wayne and shook his head.

Wayne was rooted to the spot in terror that he would go on trial for three murders.

He would plead temporary insanity by proving he had voted UKIP at the last election and tell the jury has was related to Lord Lucan.

The bin-man spoke.

“ I don’t believe it ….you of all people …Wayne….don’t you know …body parts go in the blue ‘food’ bin!!!!” chastised Roy slinging the hand into the plastic bucket.