By Jorge Gill

Copyright (C) 2016 Jorge Gill

This book is a work of fiction and except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

CHIS : DEFINITION

Covert Human Intelligence Source, “CHIS” is defined as a person who establishes or maintains a personal or other relationship with another person for the covert purpose of facilitating anything below;-

• Covertly uses such a relationship to obtain information or to provide access to any information to another person ; or

• Covertly discloses information obtained by the use of such a relationship or as a consequence of the existence of such a relationship.

    CHIS is the official terminology used for the word informant. Covert Human Intelligence Source. More commonly referred to as agents, if you work within the realms of Justice and Law. Historically, placed deep within the heart of organised criminal networks. Secretly talking to the authorities, telling them what they needed to know, without the consent of their day to day criminal associates.

    Today they are even more commonplace in everyday police work. Ever wonder how the Police caught you? You thought everything had been so watertight! Only the people you trusted knew! Well let me tell you something, your trust was abused. Chances are you trusted an informant. Someone who needed something, a leg up at court, money, their own charges dropped, or someone who just plain and simple didn't like you.

    Whatever you want to call them, one thing is for certain; they are and have been one of the most important sources of intelligence for the many law enforcement agencies that operate in our world. Some of the biggest results obtained by the authorities have, and could only have been achieved from the direct resourcing of such agents.

     Of course there is the other side of the coin as well. Set ups, provoked by revenge, jealousy, greed, desperation, or one or more of a number of other selfish motives. Conspiracies that have led to huge miscarriages of justice. The CIA have indeed been heavily criticised for their use of drug lords and murderers as paid informants. Not only paid, but also offered a leniency towards their own criminal activities. Consequences that give grounds for why agents or informants are not the more familiar names used for such people. In fact by large more derogatory names are used. Names such as, rats, snitches, snouts, stool pigeons, weasels, tell-tales, narks and grasses, but to name a few. Did you know that the origin of grass comes from the rhyming slang for grasshopper, meaning copper or shopper? There are a million names I guess, most not very nice.

    The world, however, no matter where you come from are full of informants. I know people who grass on cheating partners, dodgy neighbours, the rich guy, naughty kids, bad teachers, council workers, fellow employees; in fact the list is endless. People talk and give information for a motive. What's yours?

    So let's talk about me. I was actually born to have no chance in life, fighting for some prospect all too often. Perhaps I was some evil person in a previous life, here now to be punished and make amends.

    I inherited the position of third child to heroin addicted parents, brother to heroin addicts, brother to a prostitute and a pass-the-parcel for a number of other people from the same degenerate background. Not the ideal introduction to life. Of course this meant a childhood of chaos, uncertainty, mood swings, police raids, hospitals, social workers, mal-nutrition, neglect, learning to steal, learning to fight, learning to lie and least of all learning to survive.

    Growing up in a world that hated grasses. Untrustworthy rats, who had made our already difficult life, even worse. Ever present when my old man suffered the search warrants. Executed by officers who always seemed to know what he was holding and where it was. Information provided by grasses that no doubt, graced our company under pretence.

    Threats made by the Old Bill, to take us into the care of social services unless our parents made it easier for them. The Gavvers willing to overlook the lack of food, hygiene and clothing available for Wayne, Sarah and myself if they co-operated.

    My old man hated grasses, as did we all. Unfortunately they have always been, and will always be ever present in the world of drugs. Especially in the world of heroin. Give us some information or go to jail. It's a no brainer. No heroin addict wants to go to prison. He or she need their gear. My old man however, never grassed. Well that's what he told us. He hated grasses.

    As for me, I have never touched or taken heroin in my life, largely thanks to my brother Wayne. In fact I hate drugs, all drugs. Heroin nevertheless, is the daddy of them all, no question. It is a killer, responsible for murdering my family. It is also to blame for me never having that normal cosy, warm, protected childhood. The one that the majority of you took for granted. It is responsible for my untrusting nature, my lack of trust in others, my need to deal with my issues using my fists. To blame for me running away and joining the army and then for leaving the Army. In fact heroin is to blame for everything that has ever happened in my second-rate life.    

 One thing though. Call me a grass and I will kill you.

1900hrs 2nd March

Peter Snugs howled as the lit cigarette burned deep into his manhood. This form of torture requiring some seconds of contact. Contact between the item producing the dry heat, in this case the tip of the cigarette, and human skin, in this case Snugs penis. Enough seconds to leave round punched out lesions. 

    Snugs wriggled and writhed in contorted motion to escape the pain. The cord wrapped around his wrists, cut deeper into the skin and bone of his undernourished arms. The restrained limbs were held tightly behind the wooden chair that he was bound to. His naked body convulsed in somewhat impossible directions due to the affliction.

    The dehumanization of Snugs was not just necessary to them; it was also some sort of game. Snugs was an object of experimentation. An experiment and torture method that they had used before.

    Nobody heard the screams coming from the top floor of the notorious Wallace Square block of flats in Northfleet, an impoverish estate just on the outskirts of Gravesend. A small flat in the small town, north of its County of Kent. A perfect location for their needs. No neighbours, just boarded up flats. No prying eyes.

    Kent bragged the title Garden of England, which perhaps once upon a time it was. A title owing to the abundance of fruit growing and hop gardens in the region. The Borough of Gravesham, better known as Gravesend, has its own history. A town of about ninety nine square kilometres, with a population of about ninety nine thousand people. A town that houses the burial site of Pocahontas, who allegedly died of TB on a ship just off its river front. It brags of having one of the oldest standing market places in the Country.

    Wallace Square however could brag of nothing. The welfare and residents of this estate had increasingly been neglected by the local authorities. A high rising, grey concrete block of flats, decorated only by the graffiti signatures of its past and present tenants. Even ignored by the local constabulary. It was almost as if the population of Gravesend had jointly agreed that it did not exist.

    Snugs, with tears streaming down his face pleaded for the torture to stop. The three Jamaicans standing in the same room just grinned. Three self proclaimed Yardies. Today these people used the term Yardie to invoke fear. Yardies generally had no ties anywhere. The real ones were illegal immigrants. Very few actually know the origin of the name. A word that actually originates from a slang name given to the occupants of poverty stricken government yards built in West Kingston, Jamaica. Yards that were basically improvised shacks placed around a central courtyard with communal cooking areas. The yards just encouraged gang crime and violence and as such, Yardies were born.

    None of the Jamaican Yardies had identified themselves, but had just referred to themselves as letters from the alphabet. It was impossible for Snugs to remember who was which letter. All of them stood about six feet tall and had identical muscular athletic builds. Each one equally evil and ungodly.

    The one stood in front of Snugs with the lit cigarette, who had in fact introduced himself as B, showed off two gold front teeth while grinning. Savouring the tormented plea's coming from his captive. He said, “Yah need to be sure yah know who de boss man."

    “Please, You’re the boss, you’re the boss," whimpered Snugs, still crying, tears streaming down his bony face.

    One of them, D, stood over the filthy double bed, covered only by an unwashed duvet with no bed linen. It was coated in dark stains, dried blood, urination and an assortment of other aged marks resulting from an unhygienic lifestyle. D spoke in an unusual high pitched voice, which somehow did not suit his heavy build, “Nah Man. Yah got to KNOW."

    D grabbed the long, unwashed blonde hair of the female he had sat on the bed next to him. Vikki Snugs. (Snugs being an adopted surname as a result of her relationship with Peter Snugs.)

    She screamed, “Fuck off you mug," as he tossed her onto the floor, in front of her incapacitated lover of the last five years.

    “Please Vik, just do as they say,” pleaded the male Snugs, legs now crossed over, trying to compress the burns. She briefly glared at him before D spoke again.

    “Yah got to learn too bitch." He now grabbed the beautiful long hair of the thirteen year old girl who was also sitting on the verminous double bed, Rebecca ‘adopted name’ Snugs, daughter of Vikki ‘adopted name’ Snugs. Rebecca was now screaming on the floor next to her Mother. No one outside could hear them scream. The wailing and shrieking continued when both females, child and adult were stripped naked. The heart wrenching anguished cries for help strangely dulled when all three Snugs were ravaged and raped again and again and again. No one heard them scream.