The sound of the garage door
rising had been the trigger. I had popped out from my conversation with Karen
for a slash. I heard it start to rise. I screamed at Karen and we dived into
the garage.
I see Charlie being hauled up the
driveway by George the maintenance man. A woman is standing in the middle of
the floor - staring at me. I put my head down to rush her. She jigs to one side
and grabs a wrench from the hanging tool rack next to the garage door button.
She throws it at me. The throw is low and it catches my shin bone. I scream. I
drop to the floor and clutch my leg. Karen sprints by. I hear her scream and
see my crow bar tumble to the ground. Karen falls to the ground. She is rubbing
her chest.
I try to stand up. The woman
hurls my nail gun at me. It glances off my shoulder and I’m down again. I hear
the electric motor of the garage go into reverse. I’m powerless to move for a
few seconds.
Karen is trying to get up but her
whimpers tell me she caught one good.
I flip onto my back and rub at my
leg. I can’t tell if the fucker is broken. Whatever, there will be a planet
sized bruise.
I let the pain fall away a
little. I try my weight on it. It holds and I limp to the garage door and hit
the switch. The door rises. I step out in time to see a van disappear. Seconds
later it is replaced by blue flashing lights.
I press the remote in my pocket.
The garage door closes just as the police car pulls up.
I try and look nonchalant as I
limp up to meet the police at the top of my driveway. I eye the road to the
right. The sight of two brake lights as the van takes a corner is my reward.
Then the lights are gone.
The two police get out. They
approach. We go into a routine. They tell me that they were called about a
break in. I play dumb. They ask what I am doing outside. I say getting some
air. They ask why some one would call them and report a break in. I tell them
that they are a funny bunch round here. They tell me the call came from a
mobile. I say nothing. They ask me for my details. I pull out my driver’s
license. One of the policemen checks me out on the radio.
It’s over.
The police get back in the car. I
watch them go, then turn to go back to the garage.
A man steps out from behind the
garage. I freeze.
‘The names Tom Ball but my mates
call me Bally. ‘the Voice’ sent me over to see if I could help.’
We have a stilted conversation.
So this is Dumb - or is it Dumber. He doesn’t seem the sharpest tack in the
box. He tells me what he has been up to. Half way through the garage door goes
up. Karen steps out rubbing her right tit.
We bring her up to speed. She
calls it for what it is - a busted flush. We either get the three in the van
and the documents or we are dead meat. She asks for ‘the Voice’s’ number again.
She dials it. Ten minutes later my phone rings. She takes it off me. The
conversation is not a short one.
When she hangs up she ushers us
into the house. She tells us both to sit down. I note that Bally is letching at
Karen. She doesn’t seem to notice. I feel a pang of jealousy.
Karen stands next to the fire.
Legs akimbo, hand on hips. She looks good that way.
She shorthands her conversation
with ‘the Voice’. It turns out that someone called the police to both Charlie
and Tina’s houses. The watchers had to scarper. She guesses it was George or
the girl that made the call. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out who
called the police to my house.
The stake outs will resume on
Charlie’s, George’s and the girl’s houses. Their instructions are simple.
Whatever it takes, grab all three and call for instructions.
It’s hard to convey thanks when
you reek of urine and can’t stop trembling but that was what I was trying to
do. The smell in the van was being worked on by two open windows but it wasn’t
enough. I tried apologising but after the fifth time Tina told me to shut up.
She had thinking to do.
I couldn’t see what thinking was
required. Let’s go to the authorities and get this over with. ‘Fess up to
everything take whatever was coming and get the damn thing over and done with.
Tina was on a different page and
when I told her what I wanted to do she killed it stone dead.
‘Do you think that telling the
police will stop them coming after you? Dream on!’
The relief at escaping from the
hell of the garage had given me a huge injection of optimism. Tina had just
poured a bucket of rotting fish guts on me. And of course she was right. Even
at best with Simon, Karen et al locked up we had no idea who else was out there
that could pay a visit to Tina, George and myself. For all I know there could
be a squad ready to head out at the drop of a hat.
The police weren’t a solution. We
had to find another way to tackle this and as we drove into the rising sun Tina
and George rolled out plan after plan and I sat in the back doing little but
adding to the stench.
It was clear that Tina was no
fool. She had reported robberies at all three of our houses to flush out the
watchers and called in the police just before my rescue in case it went south -
the girl wasn’t daft.
It was reasonable to assume that
the houses would be put back on watch so going home was not an option. I sat
back and ear wigged Tina. If she had been smart enough to get me out of the
garage and set up the phoney ‘burglary’ calls then she was plenty smart enough
to work out plan B.
Plan B turned out to be
interesting. George drove us to a spot out in the country and pulled into a
lay-by and Tina let rip.
First she said, let’s forget the
real meaning of the documents - whatever they mean they are wanted on a
desperate scale by Simon and Karen. Second, front up to Simon with a warning -
back off or we release the documents. I voiced that Leonard almost certainly
had tried the same trick. Tina said that this was a trade. Simon gets the
documents and we stay stum.
I’m less than convinced and on
the other side of the fence on this to Tina. Simon’s not exactly a man of his
word. Tina dismisses my worries. Look what we have on him. The documents,
Leonard’s death, my kidnapping.
I’m still on the unconvinced side
of the fence but at least I can see a gate.
Plus, she went on, as far as he
knows we have copies of the documents. How does he know we haven’t committed
all this to an envelope and packed it off to a lawyer? Plus what’s the downside
for Simon? If we hand back what he wants he walks away from a pile of shit and
life goes on - we’re hardly going to stitch him up if we value our lives.
The gate is open but I still need
to walk through.
Who is going to do the dirty
deed? Who does the ‘handing back’?
‘You,’ Tina says to me.
‘Me?’
‘You!’
One doth think that she jests.
Sod this for a game of soldiers.
Tina has taken point on all of this and I can’t think why she wouldn’t be best
placed to finish it.
The answer is a stone walled
cracker. It would seem that an able and fit Tina and George are best placed to
run to the police should Plan B implode. I on the other hand, as a crock, would
be far better doing the face to face. It would seem that being thrown off a
building, kidnapped, stabbed and generally abused makes you more dispensable in
life. I argue against this but short of drawing straws one of us needs to take
the brave pills.
I suggest that we could do the
deal by phone and drop the documents in some bin somewhere. Tina says I watch
too many episodes of Mission Impossible and the only way this works is if we do
it face to face. That and a little insurance she has figured out.
The gate is closing and I’m still
on the other side to Tina and George. I’m not keen on being the sacrificial
lamb.
George throws in his tuppence
worth. We find a neutral spot. George and Tina sit in the background and we do
the deal in the open. A public space where Simon isn’t going to go down the
nonsense route. Tina and George in plain view. Phone to ear. Anything amiss and
they hit 999 and the whole deal is off.
The gate opens a little again.
George has the perfect location.
George Square. You can’t get much more public. I point out that a trip to
hospital first might be a good idea given the severity of my injuries. I’m
voted down two to one. Tina has a friend who can fix me up. A hospital would
open the door to a lot of questions and this whole thing needs to be sorted
before it gets fatal for us.
The conversation goes on but none
of us are experts in this game and the best we can do is plan for what we think
might happen and leave the rest to fate.
The gate is still open but I’m
going to have to be carried through it screaming.
The blind man picks up the phone
and the conversation is far from satisfactory. A succession of calls later and
things were little better. Sometimes in life you can make things too
complicated. What seems simple gets messy and what gets messy has a habit of
staying messy. And this was messy.
He pours another two fingers of
Glayva and slumps in the chair. That one mistake. The one oversight. The set of
documents from Leonard to Charlie that threatens to derail his life. The
companies and people behind the figures on those documents are not to be messed
with - not under any circumstance. Had it been Simon’s tax details that were
kicking around then that would have been a piece of piss.
The documents were the bad end of
a bad stick and the blind man was no more immune to their release than Simon or
Karen. Now the maintenance man, his girlfriend and the accountant were back on
the run. The blind man swallowed a full finger of liquid and could not think of
one single reason why the three fugitives were not in the process of taking the
whole affair to the police.
He picks up the phone and makes a
call he never thought he would ever have to make. It lasts less than thirty
seconds and then he hangs up.
Life for ‘the Voice’ was about to
change for ever.
Simon wonders if this
is the beginning of the end
?
I took two phone calls inside ten
minutes. Both were unexpected. Both changed the world around me.
The first came from ‘the Voice’
with a request for a meet. An unheralded moment and not one that I was fully
prepared to deal with. However the request was more of a demand - in truth an
order. ‘the Voice’ was coming to my home. One hour and be ready. I told Karen
who seemed unflustered. But then again she had no relationship with the man. I
did.
The second phone call came in on
my home number. The sun was burning off the early morning mist and I took it
looking over the fields that extended out beyond my garden. Few people use my
home number. It is unlisted and a network of mobile and work numbers serve to
keep my friends and colleagues at bay. My home number is known to half a dozen
people. None of them would phone at this time in the morning. I listened to the
voice. I ask if the caller can call back in five minutes. I hang up and tell
Karen what had just been said. This time she is more than a little interested.
A trade? I had just been offered
a trade in George Square at midday - the documents for the trio’s safety.
Karen asks three pertinent
questions.
a) Why a public trade? Why not
drop the documents off?
b) What if it is set up? A trap.
Police, authorities - who knows.
Good questions
Her third question is equally as
tricky.
c) Why don’t we just cut and run?
I’m having trouble doing any
thinking. What with ‘the Voice’ on his way round - events are piling up like a
crash on the M8. I’m not in thinking straight mode.
I have no answer to the public
trade. I have a million answers to going on the run. For a start there is the
missing two million. I’m fucked if I have to exit cashless while Karen and
Robin head for the sun.
I need a drink but it must be a
pretty distant yardarm to justify booze at this time. Regardless I head for the
drinks cabinet. I pour myself a large slug of Isle of Jura. I ignore the look
on Karen’s face. I sit down and swallow the damn thing in two.
I put forward a proposal. We say
yes to the trade - whether we are going ahead with it or not. At least that way
we buy some time. If they are genuine about handing over the documents then the
documents stay off the streets for a little while longer.
I also suggest that we wait and
see what ‘the Voice’ has to say.
Karen agrees with my first point
and doesn’t give a shit about my last point.
My home phone rings again. I pick
it up and agree to the meet.
I need a shower and a shave. I
pour myself another glass of Isle of Jura and leave Karen and Bally to get
acquainted.
I drop my clothes in a pile on my
bed. I enter the en-suite and set the shower to stun. I try to scour the skin
from my body. Every few minutes I tear myself from the pain and ingest some
more of Scotland’s finest.
The whole thing makes me feel a
sod size better.
The door bell goes. I’m already
dry and in a fresh set of jeans topped of by my favourite Tommy Hillfiger polo
shirt. I head down the stairs bare foot. But not before I have aftershaved up
and decontaminated my armpits with half a can of Sure.