They say the city hides a thousand stories. Well, I don't reckon whoever said that was talking about Dallywaddle. It's not even a city. More your urban sprawl that got tired of sprawling and just kind of slumped. Dallywaddle was urban slump. Slumped right in the middle of a very large of desert.

A thousand rats maybe. When it comes to vermin, this town is up there with the best, and not just the four-legged variety either. For a small town, we've gone and got more than our fair share of thieves, drunks, con-artists and druggies. Somewhere out there in this great southern land, a little town short on scum-of-the-Earth type is probably crying out for the likes of your average Dallywaddlean just for a bit of excitement. And I'd truss them up and ship them out there too if most of the buggers weren't in the employ of the biggest thief of all, his lordship the mayor, Barry.

I'm the law here, for what it's worth, Sergeant Biggs. But not by choice. I put in for a transfer 15 years ago, and every year since, but I just keep getting knocked back. It seems Barry isn't too keen on teaching a new bloke his version of the law.

I rocked on my heels at the door of the station and sighed as I looked down the street. "Ah well, I suppose a man could do a lot worse for himself."

Dallywaddle was looking particularly slumped, sitting there, wilting in the relentless heat, slumped and quiet. Quiet made me nervous. I stepped out of the station, into the hot sagging air and waved to Nudge. He's our local... whatchamacallit... our local 'old-guy-that-lives-on-a-piece-of-cardboard-under-a-tree-in-the-centre-of-town'. Every town has one. Here though, it's an honourable profession, not as honourable as being a 'thieving bastard' for Barry, but close.

He's called Nudge because he communicates by way of a series of nudges and winks. Most of them voluntary... I think. Although, with that dark bugger, it is hard to tell. Oh, I don't mean he's of the native persuasion or anything. I saw him after it rained here last, about two years ago. He was white as a nun's bum. Gave me a hellava a shock. I thought he was his own ghost for a moment. Nah, natives had more class than to come into a place like Dallywaddle. Smart fellas, them natives.

As I strolled down the main street, I realised I'd be hard-pressed to convince anyone Dallywaddle wasn't a one horse town. The one horse grazing under the watertower was the thing that gave it away.

Time for the law to spring into action before the nag wound up on the 'specials' board at the Guzzle and Flop. If there's one thing you can say about Dallywaddleans it's that they're opportunists. Nothing goes to waste.

At least the horse had a bit of respect for authority. It looked up as I approached and backed off nervously. I grabbed it by the halter and muttered, "long arm of the law, Mate." Once it realised it was only dealing with the law, it put up a real struggle, shaking its head and skittering sideways.

"Resisting arrest? Give up now and it'll go easier on you." Futile, I know. Even the dumb beasts here know the law is a joke.

Then the horse did an odd thing. It emitted this deafening roar from its nether regions and surged forwards. I hung on (duty-bound to really) thinking, 'Christ! What stupid mongrel has been feeding this thing rocket fuel'?

It wasn't till the incredible noise began circling the pair of us, in the form of a leather-clad biker astride a throbbing Harley Davidson, that I got the gist of what was going on.

The horse, already well up with the play, seized its moment to make a dash for it. 'Wise move,' I thought as it took off. That biker had a face that would make the proverbial donkey's buttocks look like a show-girl.

I waved to Nudge as I slid by, feet skiing in the dust, maintaining my duty-bound grip on the horse's halter. I know Nudge is blind, but manners is manners, fabric of society and stuff, even here in Dallywaddle.

The nag was beginning to tire by the time we reached the edge of town. At least, I think it was the edge of town. Damn thing was kicking up so much dust, we could have been anywhere. Suddenly, out of the dust loomed the shape of a Landrover and a much more formidable and solid shape of a large woman standing stoically beside it with hands on hips.

"Hold there, Man! What do you think you're doing?"

The horse slammed on its anchors and stared. I didn't blame it. There were thousands of years of ordering peasants about in some old country ingrained in that voice. And there must have been thousands of years of taking orders from stern round-vowelled voices ingrained in me because I found myself solidified in some ancient 'hold-there-man' pose, unable to move.

"Well? Answer me!"

I began to talk on command but I hadn't had the time to work up a sentence so what tumbled out was a pathetic, "I... I... I... Maam." Maam? I've never used that word in my life. It could've been some inherited trait, I suppose.

"What's your name, Man?" she bellowed with lungs that could fuel a blacksmith's fire.

"Sergeant Biggs... er... Maam." I've never been one to go against nature. In fact, I almost considered tugging my forelock but that could have been overdoing things a little.

"Sergeant Biggs, of the Dallywaddle Police?"

"That's right, Maam."

"Ah, how splendid." She stepped forward, grabbed my hand in a decidedly firm grip and shook it heartily. Not at all the usual response I got to such an announcement. "I'm Dumfries. Miss Dumfries." I genuinely believed, at this moment, that if she had a first name, no one would dare use it. "I was just coming to report a horse missing. But I see you've apprehended him already."

Apprehended? I couldn't remember the last time I got to apprehend anything. My chest swelled. "Yes, Maam. Suspect was apprehended but no charges are being laid at this time. Letting him off with a warning... Maam."

"Oh fabulous! I wonder, would you mind accompanying your charge back to the stables? He seems to like you." The animal did seem to be nuzzling into my back. Probably trying to hide from Miss Dumfries, poor thing.

"Certainly, Maam," I said hoping my chest, not used to inflation, wouldn't burst and wondering, if I have never used the word 'Maam' before, why had it rolled out half a dozen times in the space of two minutes. I suppose aristocracy can do that to a man. And the Dumfries were the closest thing Dallywaddle had to aristocracy.

As far as I could tell, there wasn't a lot to being 'aristocracy'. They had to judge the jams and beasts at the local show each year and, once that was over, they were free to drive around, perched in overly large, inefficient vehicles waving at those beneath them. Which is almost everyone when you consider the size of say, a Rangerover compared to a Mazda 323.

I walked the horse up the long driveway back to the stately Dumfries home while Miss Dumfries followed in her Landie to block off the exit.

Pulled right up to the wide front steps of the mansion, was the Harley, glinting in the sunlight. And one of the heavy ornamental doors to the mansion was ajar. Miss Dumfries stepped down from the Landrover.

"Oh dear! It seems I have a visitor," she said in the tone of someone who hasn't got any bickies. Not the tone of someone who may have a leather-clad thug marauding through her house, stealing anything he can lay his grubby mits on. "Take Percival Bloomington the Third to the stables around the back will you, my good man."

Her 'good man' had no more chance of resisting that order than any of the others, even though my initial concern was for Miss Dumfries' welfare. Unfortunately, the horse, possibly sensing his last chance to escape from a life of being called Percival Bloomington the Third, choose that moment to make a break for it and began to back down the driveway, dragging me with him.

I heard the crunch of sensible shoes on gravel and a voice honed by a thousand years of breeding cried, "I'll have none of that!" I saw poor old Percy's eyes roll back in his head and a no-nonsense hand come down sharply on his rump with a resounding slap. We both went a little weak at the knees and I was glad when Percy surged forwards and dragged me around the back of the house and straight into an empty stall.

"Wise choice," I muttered as I pulled the door to. I wondered if anyone would notice if I just sat here with Percy for a while. I no longer feared for Miss Dumfries' safety and the biker had brought it on himself.

But, I was duty-bound, on seeing something suspicious, to 'make enquiries' at least. They may not be my usual enquiries, which went along the lines of 'are you one of Barry's boys?' but nevertheless, they had to be made.

I approached the front door and heard Miss Dumfries' voice booming up the hall like a cannon. "Oh no you don't, you grubby little toe rag! Let that go! That has been in my family for five generations! I won't stand for it!"

I believed her. I hoped the poor biker had the sense to. I didn't want to have to break up a scuffle. It was one thing to face an ugly biker but something else entirely to face an angry Miss Dumfries!

Fortunately, the biker staggered out backwards, arms empty and held up in defense. He tripped and landed on his bum at my feet. I flipped him on his front, twisted his hand up his back and cuffed him. Who knew I still had that old academy training at my core? "Suspect apprehended, Maam," I reported, feeling my shirt buttons strain.

"Well done, Sergeant. You're a fine fellow. I'm so lucky you were close by." I couldn't deny it. Miss Dumfries sure made a man feel good. "I'm all afluster," Miss Dumfries admitted. And to her credit, her cheeks had worked up a hearty glow. "I think a cup of tea is in order. Won't you join me?"

There was a low growl at my feet.

"Just get me away from her." Poor sod, he wasn't to know what he was letting himself in for when he chose that house.

"Sorry, Maam. On duty and all that. Perhaps another time."

She smiled and shook my hand. Extra firmly now we were acquaintances. If we had been friends, I suspected she'd have crippled me with enthusiasm. Somehow though, it was a risk I would be almost willing to take.

"Righto. Thanks again, Sergeant Biggs. Goodbye."

The heavy door slammed and groaned on its hinges. Probably been slammed for a century or more by good solid stock like the Dumfries and had quite enough of it. But with that slam, I was dismissed from Miss Dumfries' world. A world where you were a 'good man' or you were not tolerated. To think, purity like that existed in Dallywaddle.

I chuckled as I shoved the biker down the driveway back towards town.

"Walking? We're walking?" he whined.

"You have the right to remain silent and I strongly suggest you exercise that right or I'll call for Miss Dumfries."

Copyright B. MacDibble 2001