I went out and looked over the fence. There he was, sitting on his little bike, completely oblivious to the rest of the world, mindlessly revving it. I said, ‘Excuse me, mate. Is there any need to keep revving that bike?’ He didn’t say anything. He simply glanced up. Straightaway I could see the look of insolence on his face. So I said ‘Look, I’m an exengineer. Revving it like that will damage the cylinder and the piston.’ He still didn’t say anything, but his expression hardened into one of total contempt. I gave him one last chance. ‘Are you going to stop making that racket? You’re upsetting my daughter.’ Silence. Another screaming rev of the engine. ‘I’m asking you for the last time,’ I said. ‘Are you going to pack it in?’
He glanced up with disdain. ‘You can fuck off.’
By this time his missus had come out to see what all the commotion was about. A real mouthy one she was. She sneered at me and said, ‘You heard what my husband said. You can fuck off.’
That’s when I snapped. I raced down our drive and round towards their house. His missus was standing at the gate, an iron bar in her hand. She must have kept it just inside the house in case of emergencies. I thought, ‘I’d best not go near her. Scrapping with a woman won’t look too good.’ So I vaulted over the fence to go straight down the side of their house where her husband was and bypass her. I was still very much in control of my anger. I was still willing to talk to this guy. I walked quietly up to him. I had yet to utter a single swear word. But as he saw me coming, he leapt off the bike, and held it up by the handlebars as if it was a shield. I closed in on him, still willing to talk. He suddenly reared up the bike and tried to ram it into my groin. I jumped back to avoid the impact. I thought, ‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers. That’s it.’
Whack! I punched him straight into the side of his jaw. Not hard enough to really hurt him, just enough for him to get the message. Trouble is, he didn’t. He staggered backwards a couple of steps, then recoiled back towards me like a ship’s cannon. He grabbed a piece of trellis fence from the ground and tried to ram it into me. I seized hold of the thing and we started wrestling with it. He was quite handily built and his rage had made him even stronger. He was like a bear on steroids and he was pushing me backwards. This was awkward. His garden was a tip and I was in danger of tripping up over the discarded rubbish. I dug my feet in, summoned up all my strength and held him steady. ‘You can’t do this,’ I said. ‘You aren’t in the club.’
For a split second he looked puzzled. ‘What club, you wanker?’
I reached round the side of the trellis and measured my fist against his nose with a real piledriver of a punch. Smack!
‘Welcome to the Hellfire Club!’ I roared, as he collapsed backwards.
The red mist started to come down. I wanted to teach the scrote a lesson in neighbourly respect he’d never forget. I wanted to practice my tap dancing skills on his head. But then I suddenly had a flashback to Hong Kong. That’s what held me back. Oh, no, no, no. I can’t do that. I’ll be in deep trouble. That would be actual bodily harm.
I had to restrain myself. Reasonable force only. That’s when I knew I wasn’t suffering from PTSD. It would have been so easy for me to lose it and beat the man to a pulp. If I’d been suffering from PTSD that’s what would have happened. There’s no way I’d have had the self-control.
He was in a complete daze, the trellis fence still on top of him. He raised his head a fraction, trying to focus on me. He pointed a shaky finger at me and spat the words out, ‘You’ve had it now. You’ve had it now.’
‘Best get away from here,’ I thought. ‘I’ve proved my point.’ So I strode away. His wife took a step back and dropped the iron bar as if it was red-hot. Was she scared of me? Nah. I’d caught her eyes. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. There was no look of concern for her husband’s welfare, no look of fear that she was about to be assaulted by this next-door Neanderthal. Just lots and lots of pound signs. Oh, no! Here we go. The ‘C’ word. Compensation! Next thing I know, her mobile was out. She was phoning the police, getting the first shout in.
I went back to my house, made a brew, sat down and waited for the coppers to arrive. I looked at the clock and thought, ‘Let’s see how long they take to respond.’ It didn’t take them very long at all. I heard the screech of brakes – they’d obviously been watching too many cops and robbers programmes on TV. Next thing, I hear the bang-bang-bang on the door. These two coppers came in. ‘We’ve had a report you’ve attacked your next-door neighbour.’
I said, ‘I’m the victim here. Why don’t you go and arrest him? He attacked me. I used self-defence.’
The copper goes, ‘Your neighbour’s got blood all over his face. I don’t see any blood on your face, Mr Winner.’
A modern-day Sherlock Holmes, obviously. I said, ‘Have you not seen the mini-motorbike? He attacked me with that.’
‘We’ve got no evidence of that. We have a report from his wife that you attacked him. We’re going to have to charge you with common assault and take you down the station.’
I said, ‘Aren’t you going to arrest him too?’
‘We can’t. We’ve no evidence. They made the complaint. That’s the procedure. We have to arrest you. We won’t handcuff you if you come quietly.’
I was really hacked off. I was taken to the local nick and locked away in a cell like a common criminal, with only a hard wooden bench to sit on. They wouldn’t give me anything to eat, only a cup of tea. They charged me officially with common assault and I pleaded not guilty. In due course I was processed in the normal manner – mugshot, fingerprints, DNA sample for the database, and finally a statement with the duty solicitor. I didn’t get back till eleven at night.
Then the witness statements came through. I knew it! I absolutely knew it! At the top of the witness sheet there’s a space for ‘Occupation’. And what high-flying careers did these two fine, upstanding citizens pursue? What contribution were this well-adjusted couple making to the greater good of society? What noble, selfless task filled their days? Unemployed! Both of them. Now there’s a shock. I was up against the Charge of the Benefits Brigade.
This is how we get treated in Civvy Street. Our society turned on its head where the layabouts get the benefit of the doubt, the cushy treatment over veterans like me who’ve fought for Queen and country for years and put our lives on the line so many times. So much of a welcome home for the conquering heroes. So much for gratitude at having done my duty and kept the country safe. A topsy-turvy world. The coppers didn’t want to know my story. They just didn’t want to know. They took the line of least resistance. No thought put into it. No intelligence. The quicker they can tick the boxes and complete the paperwork the better.
It hurt to see the card the neighbours played, a really cynical one, a real blow below the belt. In their statement it wasn’t, ‘Mr Winner did this. Then Mr Winner did that.’ It was, ‘The ex-SAS man did this. The ex-SAS man did that.’ When did the world change exactly? Being in the SAS was no longer a matter of pride and honour. It now counted against you. It now meant you were an object of suspicion. The chances were you were some out-of-control, homicidal hatchet man. A wild man from the mountains.
The wheels of justice turned very slowly. I had over six months of anxiety and stress before my case came up. The big fear was that I would be found guilty. I was in serious danger of getting a criminal record for assault. Once I was on the CRB database, I’d lose my Security Industry Authority licence and that would be me well and truly stuffed for future work. No pressure, then.