Gorey Castle, Jersey, Channel Islands. The Party Club The Jersey Evening Post reported the facts of the trial without taking sides. The tabloids, with their CRIME PASSIONEL headlines and their imperative for a villain and a hero, crucified Steve and all but canonised Tony. Only Tony, Elaine and myself knew the truth and we each had our own reasons for saying nothing. I thought I could live with that. I was wrong. Of the Channel Islands, Jersey is the preferred Mecca for hedonists. The rich man's tax haven is Spain without food or language problems, but for the young male seasonal worker it’s everything they couldn't get at home. More than a dozen of us hung around together that first summer, dedicated to boozing, rock and roll and random sex - a lethal combination at a time when copulation was akin to Russian roulette. But the holiday island feel-good factor determined that hangovers were more fashionable than hang-ups. We were a random bunch of dropouts, with vague plans of making it to the continent. Tony from Southampton just needed to feel he was one of the boys. He introduced himself at a pub in St. Peters Valley, where the entertainment included the landlord and his feisty wife throwing things at each other. Tony had researched the nearby German Underground Hospital, a relic of the World War Two occupation. Fascinated with local history and military artefacts, he was arranging to buy an old Luger pistol from the elderly drunk Jerseyman sitting next to him. I could hear the man spouting about wartime collaboration involving the island’s landed gentry as I fed the jukebox. Tony bought the company a round of drinks then tagged along with us like some benevolent Jonah. Like the animals at Gerald Durrell’s Zoo, my bricklayer friend Steve was an endangered species on the island, whereas there was no call for whisky blenders like myself. I became a brickie's labourer. Tall and lean, with a ready smile, Steve had an easy confidence in female company but what I admired more than anything was his modesty and discretion. At the time I thought he was invincible, but with hindsight he was just being lucky. When the defence lawyer called him a deceitful man, lacking moral fibre, he obviously meant by society’s moral standards. Steve was guilty of philandering and there's nothing unique in a man being influenced by his groin rather than his grey matter. Being of an entirely different calibre, Tony tolerated rather than enjoyed our escapades. His perceived moral superiority became apparent when he made a citizen’s arrest on the beach at St. Brelade. The subject was a Londoner who was heavily in debt to the car exporting company Tony worked for in St. Helier. Although such detention was permissible under an obscure local law, he overlooked an obligation to pay for the debtor’s board and lodging while awaiting trial. Having gone our separate ways for the winter, most of us met up again in the spring when Tony surprised us all by introducing his lovely wife, Elaine. They had been childhood sweethearts, he told us, and had married in their hometown, over Christmas. They rented a cottage near Gorey Castle where they planned to settle down and raise a family. By the end of our second summer most of us had steady jobs and self-contained accommodation on the island. We even formed a club taking turns hosting parties at the weekends. Tony wanted no part of it but Elaine overruled him. As our close comradeship flourished and the group widened to include staff and aircrew from Jersey Airport, so wintering on the mainland became less compelling. While the busy island hibernates, a small subculture of foreigners continues to flourish within the community, happily co-existing with local people, though their paths seldom cross. Yet gathering moss - getting involved - was something only Tony ever contemplated. When Steve set up home with his pregnant girlfriend Yvonne, the trend was unmistakable. I assumed it was a gesture of defiance because of her Jersey-French parents' disapproval until he assured me he had fallen in love. As he was already paying child maintenance to a girl in Manchester, I respected his decision. A virtual epidemic of pregnancies swept through our naïve little band that year. Few of us survived as bachelors and plans to hitchhike around the world were postponed indefinitely. My own marriage, held in the shadow of the shotgun, was memorable only for the arrests that followed a riotous reception. Afterwards my wife's mother ran our affairs, including the birth of young Jason, on the telephone from Lancashire. Yet our party circuit prevailed, indeed flourished, into the third season, as we each pretended to cope with our involuntary grown-up status, without becoming boring. It became noticeable that the level of alcohol consumption increased particularly when Tony and Elaine were present. As visions blurred, so did the perception of who was with whom – and whether it mattered. Once, at my place, a tipsy Elaine was all over Steve like blossoms on a Battle of Flowers float, although he appeared not to respond. Tony feigned indifference, but drank more than was good for him. While his wife lapped up the sun and the nightlife, Tony became morose. All around him unplanned conceptions abounded, yet it was apparent that he and Elaine were unable to start a family. He joined a shooting club and used that as a reason for missing parties where Elaine would often arrive unescorted. At their place at Gorey, the largest of the venues, Elaine continued to host gatherings in spite of Tony’s lack of enthusiasm. On one such occasion partygoers were shocked when, out of the blue, Elaine announced that she was pregnant. Mumblings of congratulations were followed by a sober silence, broken eventually by a babble of speculative chattering that all but drowned out the music, while ashen-faced Tony walked blindly from the room. Steve and Yvonne’s hosted our next shindig at their small bungalow overlooking the bay at Petit Port. Theirs was the most remote and picturesque of the party locations, guests having to park on the road and walk up a steep, unlit path for a hundred yards or more. The doorbell was broken so friends walked on in, while strangers hammered on the heavy cast iron knocker. At least two people were later to testify that they heard knocking just before Steve disappeared from the party that night. Some of us stayed on till daybreak to help Yvonne search the surrounding terrain right down to the shore. They had no near neighbours and their car hadn’t been moved. The police were called. Some suggested our host had simply decided to make a dramatic exit and caught an early morning flight to London, but that wasn’t Steve’s style. Besides, he hadn’t been noticeably drunk. It was equally inconceivable that he would wander off alone from his own party. His body, badly marked and disfigured, was washed up near Corbierre Lighthouse a week later. Amid mounting speculation about the cause of death the police interviewed as many of the revellers as they could locate. Since he had been a strong swimmer, there was no explanation that made sense. Then Tony was arrested. When she had calmed down a little, Elaine told me how her husband had been moping around for more than a week after the incident, drinking heavily. One day in a fit of remorse he told her how he had killed Steve. She was unsure whether to feel anger or pity. By the time the police came to question him, he had been too distraught to offer an alibi. The media located the dead man’s former girlfriend in Manchester. For the tabloids she had suddenly become amazingly articulate, denouncing Steve as a worthless villain, in words she couldn’t have known the meaning of. At the trial Tony was described as a pillar of the community. An unblemished employment record, an interest in Jersey and its history and a devotion to his wife and home, all served to confirm this. His statement to the police, confessing to his involvement in the crime, was presented in a way that elicited pity. He had, he said, gone to Steve’s home that night to challenge him convinced he and Elaine were having an affair. They walked down to the small harbour where a fight took place, during which Steve stumbled, hit his head on the concrete and fell into the sea. The defence lawyer went on to paint a picture of an honourable man driven to the edge of insanity by his wife’s adultery with his close friend. A crime of passion. The prosecution was unable to challenge this account. With corroborative medical evidence, the jury found Tony guilty, but on the lesser count of manslaughter. ******** Elaine was broody. She wanted a baby - desperately. When Tony refused to go for tests, she saw Steve as the ideal person to father her child - a one-night stand with no strings. At our party she spent the whole evening trying to proposition him and drinking too much. She didn’t count on being turned down. There was an angry scene when they got home, during which Tony vowed never to be embarrassed like that again. It was quite soon afterwards that Elaine approached me, knowing full well that I couldn’t resist. Our affair probably started when we first met. It was the secret, knowing look, the casual touching of hands, nothing more. There was an understanding, a respect, a promise, an arm’s length intimacy. But I never seriously considered being unfaithful, not until she revealed her yearnings. I'm a weak man and I didn’t just fancy Elaine, I lusted after her. I worked out the excuses and discreetly booked the hotel room. I realised Tony wouldn’t thank me for the gesture, but in my muddled mind I was helping him to kick-start his family, a labour of love – a sort of friendly fire. ******** I can’t pretend to know what it was like for Tony. Since Elaine told me the pathetic details of his anguished confession I have tried to understand, but I can’t forgive. When Elaine announced she was pregnant, he recalled how she came on to Steve and raged at the cruel injustice that allowed immoral characters like him to score by accident, while he himself fired blanks. As he journeyed to Petit Port he doubted whether he could go through with it. Although Steve was physically stronger, the loaded Luger tipped the scales in Tony’s favour. He would humiliate him, make him apologise and beg for his life, then decide his fate. When the host answered his knock, Tony stuck the Luger in his ribs and forced him to walk ahead of him right down to the quay. The moon was nearly full. All the way down the path he subjected Steve to threats and verbal abuse, shouting down any attempt to reply. He forced his captive to kneel on the concrete pier, holding the pistol close to his head. Then he told him to plead for his life. But Steve denied that he had ever slept with Elaine and challenged him to pull the trigger if he didn’t believe him. Tony wavered, gradually losing the initiative and his nerve. In a last confused gesture, he pointed the gun towards the night sky and pulled the trigger. The pistol jammed. It was breaking point. In a flash, all the anger and self-pity of the recent past came flooding into his brain as he reflected upon the irony of his situation. The citizen’s arrest that cost him part of his salary for three months, the wife he brought over to impress, only to find he couldn’t sire her children, the humiliation of Elaine’s adultery, and now the gun that wouldn’t discharge its bullet. He turned the gun around, grabbing the barrel and bringing the butt down hard on Steve’s temple. As his much stronger opponent struggled to rise, he repeated the action again and again before slumping forward over the body of his former friend. Then he rolled the lifeless form off the wharf and into the sea. ******** Of course our coupling at the Cote du Nord was never ever going to be a one-off; both Elaine and I realised that. During and after the trial, we found it almost impossible to stay apart. My own loveless marriage ended in amicable divorce. Mary remarried and I keep in touch with her and see Jason when I can. Tony was released after serving three years. I told him about Elaine and that I intended to tell the truth about what happened at Petit Port, to clear Steve’s name. He didn’t seem to hear what I said. He had decided to leave Jersey, he said, go abroad, maybe tour the world. I wondered if he could see the irony in that. Our own girl, Stephanie, is a little angel. Elaine never stops feeling broody and maybe it's down to the trauma we've been through that another happy event hasn't happened yet. She suggested we should relax a bit, go to parties again, just like the good old days. ************************************************************ POTHOLES AND SPEED A drizzly dawn placed Tower Bridge in soft focus as Duncan turned sharp left off East Smithfield to cross the Thames. Epping Forest was peaceful and he never regretted moving there, but South London was where he had an identity, felt safe. Another left took him past Tooley Street Magistrates Court and he blinked to obliterate embarrassing memories from his youth as he travelled on to Jamaica Road. Just a mile from his daily destination, his rugged features adopted a thoughtful frown as he dawdled in the slow lane. Back at Harebell Close in leafy Loughton, in their new magnolia house, a monument to thwarted ambition, Stacey would be getting young Allan ready for school. Later the postman would deliver more final reminders and she would sip her Earl Grey and think of a way to persuade him that she should go back to work. ‘Our business is moving.’ The old slogan repeated over and over in Duncan's head as he dragged open the gates and drove his decrepit Ford Granada into the yard. ‘If only,’ he thought, as he walked to the van. It used to be lines from songs, sometimes even upbeat numbers, but lately his inner voice had adopted a mocking, negative, tone. He placed the key in the ignition of the near obsolete Bedford TK pantechnicon. ‘Click.’ With practised resignation he brought the car alongside and connected the jumper cables. “I know," he said to the vehicle whose bodywork and moving parts he had nursed lovingly for a year, "a new battery would make the difference - so would some paying customers." A distant clock spire chimed eight as he picked up the milk, undid the padlocks and entered the nearly empty railway arch lockup. In the office he hesitated by the flashing light on the Ansaphone, then continued towards the makeshift kitchen to fill the kettle. With the truck's engine ticking over sweetly in the courtyard and a warming coffee in the cup, Duncan's dour scowl melted a little. Gone too was the voice of doom in his brain reminding him about his unfulfilled ambitions in the furniture removal business. In its place was the chorus from Carousel and "You'll Never Walk Alone." "Yellow Pages," he murmured, eyeing the Ansaphone, "change my luck!" His one-truck business, MacKay Moves, finally had a listing in the classified directory. This would be the first day of customer response - if any - and he was nervous. Last throw of the dice. He rolled and lit a cigarette, fantasised about cash up front, all bills paid, a foreign holiday with Stacey and a new bike for Allan. He went tentatively towards the Ansaphone, pulled up a chair and pushed 'play'. "Do what?" asked the speaker. "No I don't want to leave an effing message. What's the matter with people these days? Well, it's your effing loss." There followed more bleeps, then a long agonising silence during which the second caller's brain could almost be heard fashioning a response. "Aw Gawd! Another one o’ them sodding machines is it? Thanks for nothing!" Click. Duncan switched off and his haunted look returned. Yes, he was still walking through a storm, no he couldn't hold his head up high and yes he was feeling afraid of the dark. Terry's arrival was untimely, especially for Terry. "Mornin’ Dunc. They've raised Tower Bridge again." He went straight to the coffeepot. "You wouldn't believe the traffic tail-back; right up the Old Kent Road." "You'll have to go," said Duncan, staring past his employee at the blank 'Work Pending' board. Terry stepped into his line of vision, sipping the scalding black beverage, his face a contorted blend of sleeplessness, hurt and dismay. "Sit down Terrence, old pal," said his boss kicking a chair towards him. The use of his full Christian name sounded ominous. "OK, so my time-keeping's a bit dodgy…" "I can't afford to pay you Terry, that's all. I’m skint! Broke! Potless! I can't even afford me. I have a truck that should be in a museum, a porter who sets his own flexi-hours, enough bills to rival the national debt and a long-suffering wife who's probably being comforted by our local supermarket manager as we speak." "Yeah but...the Yellow Pages?..." Duncan sighed as he rewound the tape, replaying the first two calls. He let it run on, bleeps and silences indicating callers' reluctance to leave messages. But fortune smiled and eventually no fewer than six messages were noted, each requesting quotes for full house removals at a later date. He let the tape run on. "Well? See – I told you." "Yeah, not bad, but that's in the future, Terry. We have to survive now." As Duncan went to reset the control a loud voice boomed from the machine causing him to fall back in his chair. "OK,listen up! Get this down and act on it. It's a big earner so get it right, understood? Cancel everything for Monday, right?" Spontaneous ironic smiles appeared on the faces of the listening duo. "There's a pony in cash up front and I'll double your normal price for the job plus a monkey for safe delivery, got it? Your place nine a.m. Monday. Be there! Name's Kane." Click. "Now do you believe in miracles Duncan? That's over six hundred sovs. What if I do this job with you for free, then you can decide my future - how's that?" "Terry, Father Christmas is a myth. He never really existed, so he's hardly going to show up in South London in early December. Can't you smell a stitch-up?" "OK so it could be iffy, but the man's talking cash in hand. Six hundred quid for God's sake Dunc. We could buy luxuries like diesel and do long distance jobs again…" "I'm blowing it out. We may be in trouble but we're still le-git." The big Mercedes drew up with a screech of tyres and parked across the entrance. A tall, bronzed, slightly overweight man in a Saville Row suit emerged and walked swiftly towards the lock-up. Duncan went into the yard and met him half way, squaring his broad shoulders and thrusting his face into the visitor's. "I should move that car away from there unless you want your Monday to start as badly as mine." "Do what?" asked the newcomer, his composure ruffled but only briefly. "Kane. I'm Mr. Kane. Don't you check your 'phone messages? You're working for me today." "No, I'm working for me today and I won't ask you again." Duncan turned casually towards his truck. Kane's right hand made a reflex move inside the lapel of his jacket, then checked. He swallowed hard. "OK, let's start again. I'm sorry if you misunderstood. My regular contractor let me down on Friday and this collection is top priority. It's only half a day's work top whack. It's pre-arranged and you'll be paid in readies. In fact I'll give you half the money now - how bad's that? Are you up for it?" The trucker turned round. An appreciative whistle came from Terry, now standing next to the visitor. "Come on Duncan, the van's ready to roll…" "I don't do bent gear and that Merc is about to become a mascot on my truck's bumper." The would-be client laughed unconvincingly. "Bent. You mean stolen? Good heavens no." He laughed again. "On the contrary. The payment only reflects the urgency of the situation. Customer pressure you understand, and my appreciation of your co-operation. All you have to do is collect an antique desk from East London Freight Terminal and deliver it to my home in Amersham. The papers are in order and I've taken the liberty of consigning it to you for expediency." At that moment an electronic jingle could be heard in the distance. "Excuse me - my 'phone." Terry was already sold. "You could treat the van to a new battery, pay off a few bills and still have enough to treat the missus to a night out." "I've a gut feeling about this one Terry, he's just too convincing. Besides there's something vaguely familiar about him." Like he could afford to be choosy? And what about Stacey and that smarmy supermarket manager who wanted her to work for him? Sure he trusted her, but she was too attractive and too naïve. Some ready cash to tide the business over for a few weeks was all he needed. The customer returned from his car looking even more flustered. "Look, I know I've been less than tactful and I apologise. You have a business to run, I realise that. But I'm asking you - begging you - to help me out here. Please! Half a day's work? What do you say?" Duncan crossed his sturdy arms and stroked his beard reflectively. "Freight terminal you say. I spent a whole day there once, collecting just two boxes." "I've 'phoned to sweeten them up. I'll pay waiting time if necessary." Terry was beside himself. "For God's sake Duncan, it's something to do if nothing else!" "OK, but it better be kosher." He offered his hand, limply. "Trust me, Mackay," said Mr. Kane, offering an equally insincere handshake and parting with the paperwork and money - which Duncan checked. The deal struck, the customer's attitude changed. "Right. Now be sure to keep your part of the bargain. And be warned - I don't tolerate cock-ups." He walked smartly to his car and sped off. oooooOOOooooo Driving along, with the unaccustomed elation of so much cash stashed in his denim jacket pocket, Duncan's smile returned, albeit reluctantly. The demons in his brain had whisked him to the Albert Hall for the last night of the proms. He was in the front row with the Hooray Henries, those pissed, poncey, over-privileged patriots, crucifying Blake's Jerusalem. "I will not cease from mental fight. Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand…." But the doubt was still there. At Whitechapel they had indulged the almost dry diesel tank. At the freight terminal the collection was unbelievably straightforward. Even the traffic on the North Circular and the M25 was so unusually sparse that by the time they left the motorway, Duncan was becoming paranoid. It was as if the whole operation had been carefully choreographed…by a ghost from the past... "Gotcha!" "What's up?" Terry had been dozing most of the way. "Mister smartass Kane. Oh yeah, I've got your number now." "You know the bloke?" "Firm I worked for a few years back, mostly tippers and skip lorries. Kane was the brains behind the business, although I only met him once. They had a junkyard near Watford and a contract to collect scrap metal from a high-class outfit in Harlow. But the waste we collected had precious metals hidden in it, and when the crunch came Kane's manager carried the can. He went down for a five stretch along with the other firm's security chief. Company went bust." "So now he's doing antiques?" "I doubt it somehow, he lacks the know-how. I saw his picture in the local press about a year ago. You'll like this one Terry. He's bought this house in Amersham but it's at the end of an unmade road. So he tells his neighbours he can lay a tarmac road for a reasonable price, and they all chip in some cash. Well, the new road crumbles with the first frost and the next rainfall washes it back to its original state. Caused a right hooha. They sued but he walked, on some technicality." "Never mind, we'll soon be rid. Next left I think." They had driven slowly down the narrow side road when the turning came suddenly into view. Duncan had to back up to take a wider sweep and saw that the surface was the worst he had ever encountered. He pulled in at the widest part of the lane and switched off. While they devoured the sandwiches and Coke from the filling station, he collected his thoughts. How could he sink this low? Was it really twelve months since he launched the business on the strength of verbal contracts from the big stores? How naïve was that? Six months of lucrative work, delivering furniture direct from the department stores to customers in the home counties. A mortgage on a house in the country. Playing happy families away from the dirt and fumes of the city, could that be wrong? Just the timing. He hadn't expected a recession so soon or the bigger companies to undercut his prices. And he had no rainy day fund. Stacey never complained but he knew she felt insecure. "Of course you know how to tackle roads like these don't you Duncan?" asked Terry, out of the blue. "What?" "Potholes," said Terry. "There's a way to beat them y'know?" "I know; fill them in with asphalt - a proper job I mean - not Kane's cowboy workmanship." He patted the truck's dashboard. "This will test your suspension old girl, but I’ll be easy on you." "Huh! You really don't know, do you mate? Speed Duncan! Hit them at speed! There was this driver I knew when I worked for Pickfords….." "Pickfords! Do me a favour. I'm still trying to correct the bad habits you brought with you from that company." "Straight up! I wouldn't tell you porkies. Think about it - when you go slow, the whole weight of the truck swings towards the hole, so it has to swing all the way out of it. That's how you can lose control of the steering. But, if you give it some wellie, one of the other wheels soon finds another cavity and that levels it out - know what I mean? Trust me, when you drive fast you set up a momentum that carries the van along on an even keel. Try it." "Crap!" The premonition of impending doom was back. "But what the hell! Might as well go out with a flourish." He started the engine and drove slowly on to the driveway. "Hold tight then!" Terry slipped a disc into the CD player and soon The Ride of the Valkyries resonated round the cab. Duncan accelerated and moved quickly through the gears to fifty miles an hour. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel, which was continually threatening to spin out of his grasp. Even at speed it seemed a long country mile. With the last house in sight and his arms numb with tension, he slowed to a halt. Everything that wasn't fastened down, and some things that were, now lay scattered on the floor. "Phew! Last time I try to argue with gravity Terry...Terry? Terry, are you all right?" He leaned across and pulled his dishevelled comrade off the floor. "Can't think what you could've done wrong," Terry muttered. They stayed motionless, collecting their thoughts. Then they faced each other, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "The bloody desk!" they shouted in unison. The straps and blankets had come adrift but the piece of furniture had shifted only a few yards down the van. It was still intact, barring a loose back panel which seemed superfluous since a more solid backing plank was built into the desk, six inches or so from the outer edge. Although all the drawers had fallen out they were mostly undamaged. Brown shoe polish, the removal man's stock in trade, restored near normal colour to the scratches and panel pins were found to secure the wayward backing piece. Within twenty minutes they had completed the delivery and collected the promised double fee with an extra twenty on top for "a nice drink". Still wary of Kane, Duncan declined the proffered malt whisky and soon they were rocking and rolling, very slowly this time, back down the driveway to the sedate strains of The Blue Danube. They ate a hearty meal at South Mimms Services, as Duncan double-checked their earnings for the morning's work, all the time shaking his head in disbelief. He handed a roll of twenties to his mate. "There you go Terry - you did talk me into it after all." "Look, I'm sorry Duncan. I mean about the potholes and speed thing - I really believed… I'm just glad the van didn't get damaged." "My own fault mate. I have suicidal tendencies sometimes. I just felt we were being manipulated and it made me angry. I like to be in control of my life." oooooOOOooooo They were back at the yard when they found the white tablets; as they were folding the blankets they'd used to protect the desk. It was something Duncan always insisted should be done at point of delivery, but he’d preferred to put space between Kane and himself first. The pills were in small polythene packets, scattered profusely around the floor. "What the hell are these?" asked Terry selecting one for closer inspection. "Hang about 'though, I know, I've seen them on Crimewatch UK." Duncan noted the “5” stamped on each tablet and the maker's initials. He held one to his mouth and licked it. "Yeah, probably Speed – Dexedrine," he said, absently placing them in his pocket. "How can you tell from the taste?" "I can't. I've been watching too many gangster movies. I knew someone once who used uppers." "But how..?" "That sodding desk! The false back must have been crammed full of them. I just knew that job would come back to haunt us. Pass me that sack, sharpish Tel." They filled the sack, stashed it under the folded blankets and secured the rear door of the van. The speeding car swung through the open gates, screaming to a halt dangerously close to them as they walked to the office. "I'll handle this Terry. Take the store keys. Phone the Bill and tell them to get here like yesterday." He folded his arms to stand his ground but mostly to disguise the fear inside him. "Mr. Kane! Something wrong?" The irate customer stopped a foot away from Duncan, his expression a mixture of distaste and disbelief. "Did somebody put you up to this MacKay, or was it just a sudden death wish?" "Do what?" Kane sighed. "The easy way is hand over the gear. The hard way is having your place torched just for starters. Are you beginning to understand me?" Crazily Duncan tried to recall whether fire insurance was one of the unpaid bills. "Gear? Oh, gotcha! You must mean the packets of pills we ditched back there. You're not saying you wanted to keep that stuff are you? Don't you know the harm out of date medication can do?" "You saying you dumped them? Where?" "Oh, about half a mile down the lane from your house." "Right, call your mate out, we're all going back there in your van - now!" "I'll go with you but you don't need Terry, and anyway he doesn't need to know. Let him stay." But Kane fetched Terry from the lock-up and escorted both of them to the truck. Duncan drove away slowly, regularly checking his rear view mirror for sight of a squad car, but none appeared. His passenger seemed to read his mind. "That would be really stupid, driver. Remember this, if the police get involved you're the one in trouble. The cargo was consigned to you, so you're in deeper than you think. You were selected from Yellow Pages and today is just the beginning of an on-going business relationship. You'd better believe that. You didn't really think I was Santa Claus did you?" They travelled in heavy traffic along the Embankment then up to White City where they picked up the A40. Glancing in the rear view mirror at the Hanger Lane underpass Duncan spotted a police car amongst the trailing traffic and decided to go for broke. He had been holding to the speed limit, but now he gradually accelerated to eighty miles an hour on a down slope. Aware of the increased momentum, Kane shouted to Duncan to slow down. Simultaneously glancing in the mirror, Duncan could see the expression of disbelief on the patrol car driver's face. As he activated the flashing blue light and siren, Duncan applied the brakes. Kane's reaction was swift. "Listen to me MacKay. I have a gun pressed against your mate's ribs here and I'll pull the trigger if you say anything out of turn. Think hard." As Duncan slowed to a halt he glanced at Terry who nodded confirmation, beads of sweat appearing on his brow. "O.K, O.K. For God's sake be careful with that thing." The police constable had donned his cap and walked over to the truck as Duncan wound down his side window. "I can't believe what you just did there driver; unless you wanted a speeding ticket for this old heap to impress a likely buyer. Anyway, climb down from the cab and bring your tacho disc." "Be cool or he's dead," whispered Kane, prodding Terry with the gun in emphasis. Duncan walked to the roadside and towards the police car. Keeping his back to the truck he handed over the tachograph read-out. "Don't look back at the cab," he said as they made eye contact, "this is a hostage situation. I was speeding so you'd pull me over. My passenger is a basket case and he's carrying a gun. He's into drugs and my mate's life is on the line if he even suspects I'm talking to you." The amazed officer instinctively looked past Duncan without raising his head. "That's original, I grant you. Let's see your licence, driver." Duncan produced the document from his wallet and handed it over. "What can I say to convince you?" "Can you come out here Frank?" the policeman shouted to his partner. "Bring the breathalyser will you? This one's suffering hallucinations." After Frank explained the procedure to Duncan his colleague outlined the driver's claims. "Oh God, you've got to help us - please!" Duncan took a deep breath and blew hard into the mouthpiece. "Now do you believe me?" he asked, handing it back, "maybe you could tail us up and….. " Frank took the initiative. "What d'you reckon Mike? The story's too damned daft to be a wind-up. The test's negative. Tacho and licence OK. We'd better run with it. If we don’t, and someone gets hurt……" Mike took over. "Yeah, OK we'll buy it driver, but just one hint that you're having a laugh and your feet won't touch. Where are you headed?" "He lives just outside Amersham. Look, I have to go or he'll suspect. For God's sake don't let us down." "We'll radio for back-up. Don't worry, it'll be a covert op. You OK?" "I'm shi…..just holding it together. Remember my mate's life is at stake." Duncan climbed back into the cab and Terry managed a feeble smile as they drove off. Kane was now agitated and sweating profusely. "Took your bloody time, didn't you? Thought for a minute you were arranging your mate's funeral. Check your mirrors - are they following?" "Yeah, they're still with us. Hang about. Phew! Yeah, it's all right, they threw a left at the last junction." But for the steady throb of the engine, the remainder of the trip passed in silence. Duncan stole an occasional glance at Terry and was surprised to note that he now seemed totally unconcerned. He was toying with a classical music CD and engrossed in its cover. The journey seemed endless. God, what a mess! Sold his scruples for a wad of readies, just to buy some time for an ailing one-horse empire. There was nothing between Stacey and that store manager, was there? She just wanted to help pay the bills. Sure he just happened to live next door but he did have a vacancy - didn't he? Eventually the entrance to the driveway appeared up ahead and he slowed to a crawl then swung wide to negotiate the sharp turning. In the rear view mirror he could see at least two police cars at a discreet distance. He gripped the steering wheel hard as it reacted to the first pothole. Then he looked across to check the status of the others in the cab. At that moment Terry leaned forward, placed the CD in the player and switched it on. At first The Ride of the Valkyries only evoked in Duncan painful memories of their earlier traumatic experience on that road. He glowered across at his sidekick who only smiled and nodded towards the road ahead. Only when Terry leaned back to grip the frame of the seat firmly did his mate's meaning become clear. By swinging the steering wheel wildly from side to side, Duncan effectively unsettled the other passenger. As he did so he accelerated sharply and applied jolting gear changes to add to the effect of the potholes. The truck was soon lurching dangerously along the track at speed, the heaving and swaying threatening to turn it on its side. Much later, he slowed considerably to check that his mate was still seated as they approached journey's end. Earlier he had been vaguely aware of a hapless Mr. Kane being thrown around the cab mercilessly by the momentum. Now he was slouched in the seat and lolling lifelessly. "Hold tight Terry," Duncan shouted, then braked hard causing the dishevelled gunman's head to impact with the dash. Terry removed his hands from the seat frame and rubbed them together to revive the circulation. Then he pressed the stop button on the CD player that had continued to play Wagner at peak volume. Duncan sighed, nursing the ligaments of his wrists, which seemed to be swelling up. He eyed the pathetic unconscious figure of the gunman. "Call that a road?" he said, smiling. Terry smiled across at his long-suffering friend. He shook his head slowly signifying despair. "You still haven't got the hang of it even yet, have you Dunc? That was too fast!" The first of the squad cars pulled up seconds later. An armed response unit took up positions behind the hedgerow. Terry picked up the handgun and passed it to Duncan who laid it gingerly on the floor by his feet. In he rear view mirror he caught sight of Frank and Mike organising a loud hailer. He pulled the Dexedrine packet from the top pocket of his jacket, studied it for and while then dropped it on the floor by the gun. "Don't know about you mate," he said, "but I could murder a double Scotch right now. Tell me Terry, on Crimewatch, what usually happenns next?" *********************************************************** DODGY NIGHT OUT In the halcyon days before accountants ruled the world, furniture removal workers had flexible earnings – basic, plus tips, plus fiddle. With high unemployment and rock bottom pay, fiddling, or petty swindling, became a survival skill honed to degree standard as moral values declined. Duncan hated Maxwell’s. As one of the biggest furniture removal companies in England, they’d undercut all his lucrative big store contracts, pushing his company, MacKay Moves, towards bankruptcy. Their offer of a driving job and a knockdown price for his van, triggered a weeklong binge, but when he sobered up he saw a positive side to the irony. The company needed his vehicle and his know-how; Duncan sought revenge and compensation. “If you can’t fight them…” Duncan watched bewilderment spread over his mate’s face as they sat at the traffic lights. He wondered whether he’d live to regret making Terry part of the deal. “It’s a saying, mate. You asked why I joined them; it’s because they owe me. The wages are crap, I know, but there’s more than one way to skin…to boost the wage packet.” “I’m not complaining, Dunc. It’s sad, that’s all. I mean these jobs were ours.” And doing the same work as employees did little to inspire job satisfaction. Each Monday, as before, they collected items of furniture from large department stores like Harrods, Selfridges and Liberty’s in the West End. But now they were taking the goods back to Maxwell’s depot instead of their own. There they would reload for delivery to private addresses in Wales and the South of England. Peter, the opinionated transport manager, was a gift from the Gods. He would spend half an hour with his wall map and route planner composing a delivery schedule, after which the driver would rearrange the sequence to his own satisfaction. “Hell, we’ll be lucky to get back late Saturday with this lot,” Terry grumbled later, as they wrapped the last item of furniture with blankets and secured it. “I always thought you were management material, Tel. That’s exactly what Peter said.” “Hang about Duncan, you can’t be planning a dodgy…” Duncan glanced at his partner and frowned. He preferred to keep Terry in the dark, but the moonlighting his girlfriend had arranged for the weekend had to be planned early. “Trust me, pal. It’s a two-day job and a damned good earner. Pick up Chelsea on Friday, deliver Knightsbridge Saturday morning. I know the wealthy don’t tip, but Kathryn’s built that into the price. We’ll have to jump about a bit to get back in time, but we need at least one dodgy night out.” The expression referred to drivers who managed to do a trip in three days, when their bosses paid night-out money for four. Although he’d managed to keep his licence clean, the trucker habitually broke speed limits, used shortcuts and generally cut corners. Every trip was a challenge and the reward was time - freedom to indulge in a short spell of self-employment at the company’s expense. In-cab telephones were still at the planning stage. The tachograph, that spy in the cab that records driving time, speed, absence from the vehicle, in fact everything but the driver’s bowel movements, was the subject of on-going negotiation between hauliers and the Transport & General Workers Union. Employers had to rely on driver’s daily log sheets as a record of working hours. Duncan had two sets – one for the wages office, and another for any Ministry of Transport Inspector who might be lurking in a lay-by. Not that he was ever taken by surprise, since on-coming truck drivers would flash their lights and gave the thumbs down sign at least five miles before the trap. ooooOOOOoooo On the M2 at eight o’clock next morning, heading for their first call at Canterbury, Duncan was thinking about Kathryn and wondering whether her Bonnie and Clyde fantasy was getting out of hand. They’d met on his second week at Maxwell’s, when she challenged the hours on his weekly time sheet. Less than a year since his wife Stacey had ditched him for the local supermarket manager, he still harboured some bitterness towards women. “Log sheets don’t lie,” he had lied. “If it says we stayed overnight in Cardiff on Friday, then…” “Then why were you and Terry seen drinking at The Cricketers, near where you live in Mitcham, that same evening?” “Now just hold on here, are you accusing me of…” She had smiled then and he noticed for the first time the large expressive eyes and how her soft blonde hair encircled her pretty face. The smooth skin owed nothing to makeup. And her frown was flirtatious rather than angry. “I’m curious, that’s all. You’re the only driver who doesn’t keep mouthing off about long hours and lousy wages. You interest me.” It was decidedly mutual. “Fancy a drink tonight? Where do you live?” “Near The Cricketers.” When he had taken her back to his ground floor flat that evening, it felt natural. They were at ease with each other, a feeling he hadn’t shared with Stacey all through their five years of marriage. Kathryn had admired the large flamenco-dancing doll that adorned the sideboard and the didgeridoo that leant against an elephant’s foot stuffed with bottles of exotic booze. The Stetson resting on highly polished cowboy boots complete with spurs fascinated Kathryn. “Heavens! You’ve been to America too. I wish I had mementoes from distant lands. All I have are Toby jugs from Hastings, Brighton and Southend. My mother’s wheelchair bound you see, suffers from travel sickness.” “Then I’m sorry to disappoint you. They’re souvenirs all right, but only from places like Swansea, Exeter, Portsmouth, Milton Keynes…” He smiled as Kathryn frowned. “They’re freebees. You know, gratuities, handouts – from punters who spent all their dough on the removal and couldn’t afford to tip the crew. For all I know they were memories they were glad to get rid of. I like to look at them and romanticise. Without prompting, she had gone on to tell him about her life. How her short-lived, loveless marriage had come to an abrupt end when her husband was killed in a motorway pile-up. Suspicion of faulty brakes and inadequate vehicle maintenance was discredited when Maxwell’s engaged a top defence lawyer to argue the company’s case. They offered her a permanent job in the office and a token out-of-court settlement. Guilty about being unable to grieve for her late husband, she had accepted the offer in order to move on. But she hadn’t moved on. Her job had given her an insight into the greed and corruption inherent in Maxwell’s top management and she realised too late that the meagre payoff was legalised bribery. She had flashed her dimpled smile as she scanned the rest of the flat. “It’s like the Antiques Roadshow.” “I bought most of it from an old lady when she moved from a mansion in the country to a one-bedroom flat in Pimlico. It was just after Stacey and I split. The old dear took a shine to Terry and gave him a brand new television set – she had four of them. She didn’t seem to realise it belonged to a rental company!” Duncan had gone on to explain his motivation and plans. “I soon realised Peter’s route planning was nowhere close to the real world. On our first trip I was able to save about two hundred miles on his estimate and get home a day early. From then on I used only filling stations I knew where I could use the company’s agency card to book fifty gallons of diesel and put only thirty in the tank. The attendants and I would split the difference, in cash.” “You’re a crook!” “I prefer entrepreneur. The company’s no worse off and nobody gets hurt.” “You reckon?” “Except the customers get prompt delivery and we have time on our hands, so we do local removals on our own account at cut-price rates.” The evening that started on a note of uncertainty, ended on a high and Kathryn’s enthusiasm about their relationship was breathtaking. It was as if Duncan had awakened a rebellious streak she didn’t know she had and couldn’t wait to push it to the limit. That night in bed, with the same passion, she tested Duncan’s fitness and his capacity for sleep deprivation. Sometime in the early hours she left him, deliciously exhausted. “You’ve given me a new life Duncan, and I’m devoting it to you,” he heard her whisper, just before the latch clicked. After that Kathryn had taken over the business side of his scams. In her position as removals co-ordinator for Maxwell’s, she was able to cream off the best weekend jobs for Duncan and Terry. With no overheads, their earnings rose to well beyond his most optimistic forecasts. He soon paid off outstanding debts and could look forward to re-establishing MacKay Moves. But in spite of his euphoria, the trucker was haunted by misgivings. “These up-market jobs, Kathryn,” he had said, “they’re nice little earners but they’re in Central London. We’re bound to be spotted by someone from the firm.” “Only if they shop in the West End. Besides, fiddling the filthy rich is more fun.” The appeal of her big seductive eyes was irresistible. “We’re O.K. big boy, trust me. I’ll handle whatever happens.” And he did trust her, instinctively. “Maybe we just need a holiday. I’ve never worked so hard in all my life...” “Or played so hard?” He did wonder, briefly, just how much the human body could take. ooooOOOOoooo Against the ‘silent check’ there was no safeguard: it was sneaky. Without having the civility to stop you, a government officer could sight your vehicle at any time of the day or night, and then trace the truck’s registered owner. They would follow up with a visit to the firm’s office a week later, checking the driver’s whereabouts at that time, according to his log sheets. On the night in question they’d been seen on the outskirts of London when the record showed them overnighting at Weymouth in Dorset. Kathryn told Duncan about it on Thursday when he phoned the office from home pretending he was still in Bristol. Peter grabbed the phone from his P.A. “My office, soon as you get back Saturday morning, MacKay. Where are you now?” Duncan swallowed hard, wondering how next day’s Chelsea/Kensington job could be salvaged. “We’ve got six drops to do here in Bristol tomorrow, then Bath, Swindon, Newbury, Basingstoke… We’re looking at getting back late Saturday night at the earliest.” He wondered how much swallowing Peter was doing. “You’re in serious trouble…” “I heard.” “Well?” “I think these people just pick a number out of a hat.” He crossed his fingers. “Anyway I can’t see you ‘till Monday…unless you want me to bring half the load back.” The pause was pregnant. “All right, Monday first thing. I’ll be checking the dates and times for all your deliveries for last week. You could be looking at criminal charges here.” The phone went dead. Duncan closed his eyes in thought, then explained the situation to Terry. “Bloody hell! Whadda you think’ll happen to us Dunc?” His partner’s panic reaction was always the worst part of even a minor crisis. So he milked it. “Instant dismissal for sure. Drawing wages when you’re working for yourself is theft. I could be lookin’ at a hefty fine and a lengthy ban for falsifying legal documents. And if Peter presses charges for GBH, I might get five in the Scrubbs.” “Eh? When did you thump the manager?” “Next Monday mornin’ probably – the self righteous git!” By the time Kathryn came round he’d managed to reassure his workmate, but as he saw him to the door, advising an early night, he realised that he hadn’t done such a good job convincing himself. He kissed Kathryn and they sat down together on the sofa. He just wanted to lay with her and make the world disappear. This had to be their biggest test yet and he studied her eyes for anger, despair, or both. “What can I say love - I’ve blown it.” Amazingly she smiled that same smile, the one that told him all was well with the world. “It’s only a setback lover. I’m working on it. I met Peter’s wife once at the staff dance; Vera and I are good friends.” His laugh was mirthless. “Kath, you don’t realise… No, I’m taking you home. Best you stay away until I discover what Maxwell’s have in store for me.” “What about the private job tomorrow?” “Might as well run with it. What is there to lose?” ooooOOOOoooo The pick-up address was a large second floor flat in a block bordering busy Kings Road. There was no lift and they were forced to double-park, so it was early evening when they loaded the last item and set off to park overnight at Duncan’s place. He turned the big van slowly into the throng of traffic and suicidal pedestrians. At Terry’s insistence, every Monday on their way to the West End, they drove the length of this trendy street, while he ogled the air-headed Sloan Rangers. He called them ‘toff’s totty,’ idle wives and daughters of the rich, fashion slaves who never seemed to tire of posing amongst the boutiques and coffee bars. The mini-skirted girl with long black hair and model dimensions was no exception. But swerving wide for the vehicle to clear the kerb, the driver’s attention was drawn to the way her pretty features were contorted in anger as she pulled on the sleeve of her escort who leaned stubbornly against the wall. When Duncan’s gaze travelled to the subject of her distress, he struggled to keep his grip on the steering wheel. Although Peter turned away almost immediately, Duncan felt the intensity of their eye contact before accelerating away. “Hey Duncan, I could’ve sworn I saw the manager back there!” Terry hesitated, deep in thought. “Naw, Peter couldn’t be married to a babe like that.” “Don’t even mention Peter. I’m paranoid already!” When he phoned Kathryn he failed to mention the incident. ooooOOOOoooo The Saturday morning traffic was building up as they approached Knightsbridge. They were already running an hour late. Duncan had slept fitfully although both he and Terry were tired from the previous day’s exertions; removals of this volume normally required a crew of four. His heart sank as he reversed into the cul-de-sac and his rear-view mirror revealed a car partially blocking the driveway to the mews cottage fifty yards away. After thirty minutes of fruitless enquiries, Duncan sought help from a traffic warden, only to be told that the vehicle was on private ground and therefore legally parked. Just then the owner appeared. “Sorry old chap, you can’t expect me to move my car for every large lorry that wants to get past.” He brought out a visiting card. “Here’s my number; I suggest you phone to arrange a convenient time.” “Two minutes?” Duncan pleaded. “That’s all. We won’t trouble you again until…” “My point exactly. You’ll be disturbing me again when you leave.” He turned away dismissively. “Ask your company to give me a ring – there’s a good chap.” The trucker’s solution to the problem was efficient, if energy sapping and time-consuming. They pushed the car on to the double yellow lines that ran the length of the cul-de-sac and then called the police who made arrangements to have it towed away. He was sound asleep on the sofa when Kathryn phoned him later that evening. “I’ve had better days,” he said in answer to her enquiry. “I know you said we shouldn’t meet until after… well, for a while… but I was hoping we could go out for a meal tomorrow night. I’m missing you.” Duncan’s resolve melted away. “Me too.” “Great. I know a nice quiet place – a bit pricey, but…” “We can afford it,” he said, looking at the bundles of twenty-pound notes he’d brought back. “Bet you didn’t get a tip?” “Said he was a racehorse owner; mentioned next year’s Derby and handed me a piece of paper with a name on it. Terry wasn’t impressed, so I gave him twenty quid on top of his share.” ooooOOOOoooo Kathryn had booked a table for seven o’clock on Sunday evening by which time Duncan was ravenous. The restaurant was off Battersea Bridge Road on the south bank of the Thames. Within walking distance of Chelsea, it was both discreet and chic, but like most secluded rendezvous in London, it was teeming with punters. With the certainty of disgrace and criminal charges hanging over him, the driver was looking across at his girl and wondering if this may be their last night together for some time. He studied the contours of her face, but could find no sadness there, no hint of anxiety. The big eyes were ever bright and alert, the sensuous mouth still eager to smile. The black low cut dress, daring by Kathryn’s standards, invited his gaze to drop from the dimpled chin to the cream-flesh fullness of her… He looked up in embarrassment. Her smile was teasing. How could she be so cool? He scanned the room. Like their own, most tables were for two and set in alcoves. The lighting was individual and subdued, so that the occupants appeared to be adrift on their own little island. The waiters were faceless white shirts, flitting about like fireflies amidst a velvet fog of smoky muted conversation. Halfway through the main course and their second bottle of Chianti, the nervousness remained. Their relationship was built on trust. Should he tell her that Peter had witnessed their final covert operation? He watched as two more customers entered and were shown to their seats directly opposite. As they sat down and their faces came into focus, Duncan nearly choked on his pasta. Kathryn refilled his wine glass. “Eat more slowly dear; I know you’re starving…” He looked again, this time at the girl. The same long black hair and pale complexion, the same look of reproach at Peter and the same animated mouth. You could always tell the married couples, he thought. “It’s all right Kathryn, I’ve just lost my appetite. Have you seen who just walked in?” She followed his line of vision. “Damn! They’re not due ‘till eight.” Her look was apologetic. “I might have some good news, but it’ll have to wait – excuse me.” She got up and walked purposefully towards the new arrivals, while her partner allowed himself to fall back into his chair, watching transfixed. As she approached their table, Duncan saw the look of disbelief on the manager’s face change to alarm. In seconds Peter was on his feet, ushering Kathryn towards the bar, where they engaged in serious conversation. Duncan asked a white shirt for a large whisky. Eventually, she returned. “Bingo,” she said with a smile. “Your boss has just had an attack of amnesia where you’re concerned.” “What’s happening here? I don’t need any favours - I can handle pillocks like Peter.” She sighed. “Sometimes bare-knuckle diplomacy doesn’t work, love. Besides, I wanted to help Vera.” Duncan glanced across the floor at the warring pair. “It’s Peter needs help from where I’m sitting.” “Serves him right! He has a trusting wife at home who’d do anything for him. I’ve known what he’s like since he made a pass at me just after my husband’s funeral.” She sighed again. “When I overheard him booking a table here, I guessed it wasn’t for a family outing.” “Blimey!” He placed his hand over hers. “Look, I’m sorry. But I’ve been thinking I’ve wiped the slate clean where Maxwell’s are concerned. Besides, I don’t know any more scams.” “Good. There’s enough in the kitty for a new van and a lockup.” They drank to it. “Stone the crows!” exclaimed Duncan, as he eyed the bill. “I’m not sure I brought enough dough. Do you think they’ll want a tip on top?” Kathryn scanned the check. “It’s not included.” “Wait up! He can have a share of my tip.” Duncan reached inside his tuxedo, removed the piece of paper and read it out. “Shergar? Whoever heard of that donkey?” He let it fall to the floor. “Just another example of the rich exploiting the poor.” *********************************************************** Copyright Eddie Bruce 2003. All rights reserved.