To and Fro

By the time Jimmy the jam found the house it was getting dark. Lights were flickering on up and down the street and as he‘d hoped his patience was rewarded; the house remained in darkness. He did a further quick recce; there were no cars in the driveway and the curtains were half drawn and still. To be sure, he threw gravel at the upper windows; the last thing he wanted was to disturb some snoozing night-shift worker.  He waited; no lights came on, the curtains remained still, no twitching.

The door was open; unlocked - eureka! It was practically an invitation. Old George had been right; there were rich pickings in an area like this; though not quite posh, it had pretensions of wealth. Thank god for the careless middle-classes.

With barely a backward glance, Jimmy pushed the door open and entered. Once inside he stood stock still while his senses adjusted. His ears and eyes strained: he was tuning in on background noises; the muffled sounds of street traffic, a car door, and somewhere kids shouting . . . but nothing from the house itself. So far so good.

Gradually he discerned objects in the dim interior. It was like dozens of other hallways he’d seen: a wooden coat stand lurched in the corner, with a well-worn jacket dangling from a hanger. The jacket caught his attention; it looked oddly familiar. He must have seen a similar jacket before . . . but he couldn’t think where. There were some shoes and boots on a rack, and besides that, a little wooden table with a lamp on it – and also what looked like a large leather wallet; with notes sticking out of it!

Jimmy reacted like Pavlov’s dogs; stimulus, response. With no conscious awareness of movement or thought, Jimmy had the wallet in his hands. He was probably salivating too as he saw a wad of notes. He started to count the money but his concentration was disturbed by a dull repetitious sound somewhere in the background . . . an alarm! . . . Somewhere . . . in the house! 

Jimmy kept cool; alarms were par for the course, as old George used to say. Stay calm and make your exit. Don’t panic! It could be hours before anyone responded to the alarm – or it could be minutes!

Jimmy turned on his heels, clutching the leather wallet. It was then that he noticed the button switch on the table. Who has a switch on a table? The wallet must have been resting on it! It must have pressed the switch down until Jimmy picked it up – releasing the switch!

Now Jimmy panicked. This was not par for the course. This was bad, very bad, thought Jimmy as he rushed to the door and grabbed the metal handle.

A massive electric jolt surged through Jimmy. He convulsed, unable to release his hand and then he passed out.  

When Jimmy came back to consciousness he lay perfectly still, eyes closed, and listened. The silence was unnerving. The sounds of the street were gone. Was the room sound proof? Maybe he’d lost his hearing? No, there was something . . . very faint, a sighing sound?

“It’s no use Jimmy, I know you are awake…” The voice was oddly familiar.

“Don’t you remember me?” Jimmy opened his eyes.

“You!” recognition chilled his rapidly beating heart. “But you are dead!”

“Yes, you would like to think that wouldn’t you?” said the tall man looking down at Jimmy. “It would suit your purposes.”

Slowly Jimmy got up. He felt alright, considering that he had been electrocuted. The hand that he had touched the handle with, felt a little numb, but all in all he was OK.

“Bernie Sloane,” said Jimmy looking at the man. “Archie and I buried you down by the Carne River. You had taken a bullet in the head!”

Sloane smoothed his long, greasy hair back from his forehead and Jimmy could see the scar as clear as day.

“Still inside my head,” he grunted. “If the bastard had aimed an inch lower I would still be lying by the river!”

“But how did you get out of the ground?” Jimmy grunted.

Sloane held his hands up displaying broken and missing fingernails. “Had to dig myself fricking out, didn’t I?”

Jimmy collapsed in an armchair and covered his eyes with his hands. “What do you want with me? Is this you come for your revenge? Archie is across in Canada now and unless you have infinite time to track him, you will have to just make do with me.”

“No,” said Sloane, sitting down opposite Jimmy. “I want you to help me with two things and then if you agree, I’ll get out of your hair forever.”

Jimmy looked about the room, his gaze falling on the handle of the door that had been electrified. “Couldn’t you have just picked up the phone instead of getting my attention by electrifying me?”

Sloane laughed evilly. “Old George told me that you had your eye on these properties and I realised that if I set up this trap, it would eventually guarantee me your undivided attention.”

“Old George told you? The old bastard! Was he pissed??” asked Jimmy.

“No,” Sloane hissed. “I just broke a couple of his fingers and he sang like a bird. I’ve been following your progress for a long time Jimmy, you and Archie’s.”

“But, as I said, Archie’s out of your reach now Bernie, he’s in Canada,” wailed Jimmy.

“Well actually, he is below Pier 10 in Southampton harbour. A couple of breeze blocks tied round his neck will keep him there until the crabs have had their fill of him.” Sloane said quietly, almost reverently.

Bernie brought two cups of steaming coffee through to the table between his and Jimmy’s chair. “Here mate, get your lips round this. It’ll make you feel much better.”

Jimmy the jam gazed dismally into the cloudy contents of his cup. “I should have recognised your old jacket hanging in the hall. Shouldn’t I have? This is your house then?”

“Yep,” said Bernie. “I rented it furnished when I knew that you were to be in the neighbourhood. The electrical traps were all my work though. Impressed you, did they?”

“Electrifying!” growled Jimmy sarcastically. “OK, what is it you want from me?”

Sloane rose and went through to the kitchen again. When he returned he was carrying a large map. He moved the now empty coffee cups and spread it out on the table. It was a blueprint of a factory looking place. There was writing at the bottom, but Jimmy could see that it was foreign.

“First of all, I want to know which of you buggers decided to shoot me and cheat me out of the haul from the National bank raid?” said Sloane menacingly.

“It was Archie, I swear Bernie,” pleaded Jimmy. “He reckoned you would take the biggest cut yourself!”

“And you went along with him, didn’t you?” Sloane spat.

“I was scared of Archie. He said that if I ratted to you he would kill us both!”

“You bloody wimp! I should kill you myself!”

“Aw Bernie, I can be useful to you. I promise,” Jimmy pleaded.

Sloane gave a big yawn and stretched himself.

“That brings us conveniently to my second request. Will you join me in a once only, last ever job that will leave us both richer than kings? I am asking politely,” growled Sloane. “But, you will help me or else you can join Archie counting fish!”

As the evening wore on Jimmy knew that whatever Sloane proposed he would have to go along with. If it was true that he had killed Archie, then he would lose no sleep doing the same to him. The plan would seem to hinge on the factory looking place laid out on the blueprint spread on the table.

“Right here is where the piece of machinery sits,” Sloane said pointing down at a rectangular unit on the plan. “On the top is the thing we have to get. It should be like taking candy from a baby. The only problem may be with any of the scientist’s that may still be there, but I can sort them out.”

Jimmy looked at Sloane and recognised the look in his eyes.

“You’re not going to kill anyone are you? I ain’t murdering people Bernie. I’ll steal for you but that’s where it ends!”

“Listen, you snivelling piece of shit,” said Sloane menacingly. “You owe me, you and Archie and as Archie ain’t here anymore, you can honour his ‘debt’”

The night for the job was decided as being the following Friday. Most of the personnel would have gone home for the weekend and apart from the security and maybe an odd ‘egghead’, the place would be empty. Sloane told Jimmy that he would pick him up in his car at about 10pm and they would take a couple hours to observe the place before making their entry.

Friday night was wet and as Jimmy waited below a lamppost the wind plucked at his coat. He shivered and drew on his cigarette, stamping his feet to heat them he moved about the lit area like a caged animal. Where was Sloane? He asked himself. Maybe he had been picked up by the police and was at that moment languishing in a cell. But Jimmy’s hopes were confounded when a beat up Ford came up the road and stopped right by him.

“Fricking get in you stupid bampot!” hissed Sloane as Jimmy climbed into the smoky, sweaty smelling interior. “Could you not have stood in the shadows?”

“Oh, and a good evening to you too,” said Jimmy sarcastically.

The rain intensified as they drove through the dark streets. No one seemed to be about and Jimmy wished that he was in his nice warm bed.

“Here it is,” hissed Sloane, looking up at a large sign that was partially lit. “Now keep your eyes peeled for the security bods. We have to work out their timing for their checks.”

Jimmy didn’t say anything. He was gazing at the sign and reading what was written on it.

               STARLEY ATOMIC RESEARCH ESTABLISHMENT

                          HOME OF BRITAIN’S CYCLOTRON

                         No admittance to unauthorised personnel.

“Sloane,” wailed Jimmy. “What’s a cyclotron? Why is it in an atomic research place?”

“Listen, and listen well. Some weeks ago I was approached by some foreign nationals.

They offered me a lot of money to obtain something for them and that is what we are going to do.” Sloane said, smacking Jimmy on the side of the head.

“But what do they want this something for? Were they terrorists? Is that what you’re not telling me?” Jimmy squeaked.

“I don’t give a flying frick what you believe or don’t believe. This job is getting done tonight or else you won’t see tomorrow’s sunrise!” Sloane rasped. Then he leant over, opened the passenger’s door and shoved Jimmy out into the driving wind and rain. “Now go and observe, Jimmy, the night is passing quick!”

As the nearby church clock rang for midnight, Sloane and Jimmy were crouched down by the barbed wire fence. Using a bolt cutter Bernie cut through the wire and sliding through the gap, both men slunk across towards a large building that sat at the back of the complex.

“Are you sure about the security?” hissed Sloane to Jimmy.

“Yes Bernie, they aint due for another hour.” Jimmy groaned miserably, the rain dripping down his neck.

The bolt cutters came in handy for the door into the building which had been firmly locked. A large padlocked chain hung down from the hasp, but Bernie’s cutter soon removed it. Next he pulled out a lock picking set and after a frustrating wait the door finally opened and admitted the thieves.

“Wow,” said |Jimmy shining his torch up at the massive metal tube that filled the interior of the building. “What is it supposed to do?”

Sloane put a hand over Jimmy’s mouth and hissed. “Shut up! Do you want to get us caught?”

Following Sloane’s directions Jimmy climbed up on a large rectangular box that sat on the tube. Everything was gigantic. Jimmy felt like he was in the land of the giants.

“Over there, you will find a lid,” whispered Sloane. “Just open it up and take out what’s inside.”

Lifting the lid Jimmy’s torch beam lit up a sign which was stuck to the top. It read:

WARNING: RADIOACTIVE ISOTOPE. HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE.

“Here Bernie, this ‘ere thing is dangerous. I aint risking my life for this!” Jimmy began to climb back down.

The gun appeared in Sloane’s hand from nowhere. It sported an ugly silencer on the barrel.

“OK Jimmy boy, now get back up there and hand it down to me. This gun’s silent so no one is liable to hear me kill you!”

Jimmy climbed back up and moved towards the housing for the atomic particle.

“OK Sloane, but I deserve an explanation. What’s it to be used for this ‘ere isotope thing? What research are they doing anyway?”

“You deserve nothing Jimmy,” hissed Sloane. “But I will tell you that these scientists have been monkeying around with things that could wipe us all out. Trying to create something that happened at the beginning of time or something. Creation, Big Bang or some such nonsense. Just a waste of people’s money, that’s what I think!”

Slowly Jimmy slipped the radioactive element out from its setting and lifted it slowly.

“But what’s your foreign nationals wanting with this?” 

“Oh, probably going to make a bomb or something,” said Sloane carelessly.

“A bomb?” screamed Jimmy getting to his feet. “A bomb to kill people?”

Two things happened simultaneously, precipitating a third thing that was truly momentous.

Jimmy slipped; releasing the isotope which fell back into its housing, but in the opposite configuration to which it had been situated. Jimmy’s fall temporarily ended by him landing on the lid of the atomic housing shutting it with a bang that resounded around the Cyclotron area. Jimmy slid off the metal tube and landed in a heap on the floor.

For several seconds Sloane looked about him as fans began to start up and electrical lights illuminated. The massive metal tube began to vibrate and screech. It was a banshee like cry and intimated power with a capital P. Jimmy lifted his blood covered head and stretching his hand out appealed to Sloane to help him. Sloane just gazed about him. His mouth hung open and he drooled like a baby.

With an almighty whoosh, the particles raced off down the tube, released from their slumber, in the wrong direction, by Jimmy’s unfortunate accident. Round and round they sped their speed ever approaching the speed of light and then when optimum velocity had been reached, they smashed into each other, splintering and releasing colossal waves of energy.

Five billion Earth years later when every planet, star, planetoid, comet, asteroid, etc in the Universe had been gathered together in a large pulsating ball of matter, the chemical components began to interact and over time heat was generated. The pressure inside the ball became oppressive and finally with a massive explosion all the material was thrown out to become the expanding Universe again. Unfortunately for everyone concerned, everything that had happened, happened again as it would happen over and over again for all time. This was the way of the Universe. Expansion, contraction and repetition.

The Earth cooled, Ages passed, Mammal development took place, the dinosaurs died off, the Phoenicians set sail, the Vikings discovered America, the Romans invaded Britain, the Roman Empire collapsed, the Battle of Hastings, the First World War, the Second World War, the destruction of America’s Twin Towers, Jimmy found the house, got electrocuted, met Sloane, the two of them broke into the Atomic Research Establishment, Jimmy dropped the radioactive isotope and off went the sequence again. Total collapse, internal expansion, explosion outwards. The Universe reformed. An infinite reoccurring loop,

until………………..

Somewhere in the gigantic order (or disorder) of things a kernel of order existed and this cosmic pantomime had to be brought to a halt. It was beginning to resemble, after several aeons, the actions of a yoyo.

Young Billy decided to pinch his Dad’s car to go and meet his pals at the pub. It was a wet, windy night and well, he would pass his driving test next week when he sat it. He knew he was an excellent driver, the instructor, Mr Findlayson, had told him so, several times.

As Billy drove through the dark streets he gazed at all the parked cars. As soon as he got his licence he would buy one of these, something fast and sleek. Something to pick up the ladies in.

The car came out of a side street, travelling far to fast and inexperienced Billy did not brake fast enough to avoid ploughing into the side of it. Billy’s father’s car was a powerful BMW and it smashed into the other car like a hot knife through butter.

The collision stopped the ‘beamer’ in its tracks but the other car tumbled down the street bursting in flame and exploding before coming to rest against an old brick wall. The scene became almost surrealistic with the bright flames, the two men screaming as they died inside the car and shrieking wind which fanned the flames.

As Jimmy the jam and Bernie Sloane died, the artificial oscillating of the universe ceased for a longer period and order was, temporarily, restored.

                                     

                                  

                To and Fro

   Dedicated to the progenitor, Dr Strange.

If anyone wants to continue with this pleas do so...

 

Untitled

 

By the time Jimmy the jam found the house it was getting dark. Lights were flickering on up and down the street and as he‘d hoped his patience was rewarded; the house remained in darkness. He did a further quick recky; there were no cars in the driveway and the curtains were half drawn and still. To be sure, he threw gravel at the upper windows; the last thing he wanted was to disturb some snoozing night-shift worker.  He waited; no lights came on, the curtains remained still, no twitching.

The door was open; unlocked - eureka! It was practically an invitation. Old George had been right; there were rich pickings in an area like this; though not quite posh, it had pretentions of wealth. Thank god for the careless middle-classes.

With barely a backward glance, Jimmy pushed the door open and entered. Once inside he stood stock still while his senses adjusted. His ears and eyes strained: he was tuning in on background noises; the muffled sounds of street traffic, a car door, and somewhere kids shouting . . . but nothing from the house itself. So far so good.

Gradually he discerned objects in the dim interior. It was like dozens of other hallways he’d seen: a wooden coat stand lurched in the corner, with a well-worn jacket dangling from a hanger. The jacket caught his attention; it looked oddly familiar. He must have seen a similar jacket before . . . but he couldn’t think where. There were some shoes and boots on a rack, and besides that, a little wooden table with a lamp on it – and also what looked like a large leather wallet; with notes sticking out of it!

Jimmy reacted like Pavlov’s dogs; stimulus, response. With no conscious awareness of movement or thought, Jimmy had the wallet in his hands. He was probably salivating too as he saw a wad of notes. He started to count the money but his concentration was disturbed by a dull repetitious sound somewhere in the background . . . an alarm! . . . Somewhere . . . in the house!  

Jimmy kept cool; alarms were par for the course, as old George used to say. Stay calm and make your exit. Don’t panic! It could be hours before anyone responded to the alarm – or it could be minutes!

Jimmy turned on his heels, clutching the leather wallet. It was then that he noticed the button switch on the table. Who has a switch on a table? The wallet must have been resting on it! It must have pressed the switch down until Jimmy picked it up – releasing the switch!

Now Jimmy panicked. This was not par for the course. This was bad, very bad, thought Jimmy as he rushed to the door and grabbed the metal handle.

A massive electric jolt surged through Jimmy. He convulsed, unable to release his hand and then he passed out.   

When Jimmy came back to consciousness he lay perfectly still, eyes closed, and listened. The silence was unnerving. The sounds of the street were gone. Was the room sound proof? Maybe he’d lost his hearing? No, there was something . . . very faint, a sighing sound?

“It’s no use Jimmy, I know you are awake…” The voice was oddly familiar.

“Don’t you remember me?” Jimmy opened his eyes.

“You!” recognition chilled his rapidly beating heart.

Black Ops

The intense heat. The surrounding sounds of the jungle. Bird calls, insect chittering and the dripping of the vegetation. This was hell and Jake was being punished.

His patrol had picked this route as they knew the Vietcong used it .His squad had to stop and kill them.

No warning, just a sharp burst of crossfire and the enemy would be dead. Another small victory in the general disaster that was this endless war.

“Ahead, Jake!” Hank shouted. “The place, where we can catch them unawares is just ahead……..” He didn’t finish for the wave of bullets cut him down and he vanished below the murky water, turning the water, blood red as he sank.

Charlie came out of the surrounding foliage like charging bulls, guns blazing. All around him Jake could see his colleagues being cut down like wheat. Blood flew freely in the humid air and the indigenous sounds were drowned out by the screaming of dying men.

A Vietcong soldier rose out of the water in front of Jake. He just seemed to grow and grow until he towered over American soldier. All Jake could see was the black hole of the enemy’s rifle pointing right at him. This was death! He was going to die! It was the end!

Suddenly, a hand grabbed Jake and began shaking him. The jungle vanished, the Vietcong disappeared and all Jake could see was the ceiling and walls of a room.

“Wake up! Wake up you crazy bastard! You’re dreaming. That’s all!” someone shouted and he was given another hard shake.

Jake found himself lying on the floor with four men looking down at him.

“I told you we shouldn’t use him. The reason he was kicked out of the Army was because he had P.T.S.D! This mission depends on everyone having a clear head and this s.o.b. is damaged goods!” a large man with curly black hair said, turning from the group.

“Listen here, MacFarlane!” said another man. He was shorter but stockier built. “Jake Harman is the best shot among us. You all know that!”

Jake got up off the floor and dusted himself down. He was dressed in camouflage kit and was wearing black hi top boots. Pushing aside his comrades, he pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. As he drew the smoke deep into his lungs he contemplated the other men in the room.

Joss MacFarlane was a giant with a broad chest and burgeoning muscles. He had commanded the 54^th Clash Squad out in ‘Nam and was the leader of this impromptu gathering.

Next to him, stood Ferrie Spicer. A sergeant from the Clash, he was the ‘scrounger’ of the group. Nothing was too hard for Ferrie to obtain, whether by foul means or fair.

The weaponry for this mission had been ‘scrounged’ by Ferrie from his sources.

“Well I still don’t like it!” roared a black man who too was standing by the door to the room. Asha Beillie had been a tracker with the squad. It was said that he could smell Charlie and had warned of approaching V.C. long before their presence had betrayed them.

The final member of the group was Zak Granger. Zak was a wizard with explosives. Often during the Vietnam War he had set charges to totally destroy enemy camps leaving food and fuel reserves untouched. It was said that he carried odd bits of plastic explosive in his pockets.

Jake was no slouch himself. A black belt karate expert, he had fought the Vietcong single handed at times and won. He had been a ferocious warrior and had given the enemy no quarter, earning himself numerous medals and awards. That had been until he had led a raid into the Xenong-Chi peninsula. Then it had all gone wrong.

The enemy had been waiting for the American soldiers and had slaughtered everyone except Jake. A passing bullet had scraped across his scalp and knocked him unconscious. Falling into some thick vegetation he had avoided being killed or captured by Charlie.

Jake had come to later, but the sight of all his dead comrades had just pushed him over the edge. He was sent back to the States and discharged from the Service. It was considered an honourable discharge by everyone else but Jake, who thought of himself as a failure and had become something of a recluse. His sleep was haunted by scenes from that final mission and until he had sought medical help, he had often woken up screaming. Now he was on medication and his nights were far more peaceful - when he remembered to take his pills.

Six months ago the phone had rung and upon answering it Jake found himself speaking to his old commander of the Clash Squad, Joss MacFarlane.

“How’s it going old friend? I’m glad to hear you are still in the land of the living.”

“Joss, what…? I didn’t think you would want to have anything to do with me after Xenong…! Jake spluttered.

“What’s passed is passed,” growled Joss. We, I mean the squad are getting together for a ‘piss-up’ tonight. We wondered if you could make it.”

“Of course I can make it. Where are you meeting?”

Joss had given Jake directions to a bar down on the waterfront. Jake recognised the name and knew of its insalubrious reputation, but it would be perfect for the gathering of the motley crew.

Jake looked about the smoke filled bar, his eyes searching for anyone he recognised.

“Are you going to stand around like a nancy boy all night?” a voice roared from across the room.

Jake walked over to a table which sat clear of the others. Round the table sat all his old colleagues.

 Ferrie Spicer had been the one that had shouted and he continued his diatribe.

“Well guess who it isn’t? How’s it hanging Harman?”

“Fine, Spicer,” grunted Jake, taking in the rest of those there. “How is it with you guys?”

After sitting down, one drink followed the next and soon Jake’s senses were mellowing and he felt a twinge of the old camaraderie that had existed before …Xenong. They were all talking freely and although snippets of previous campaigns came up, none of the men touched on Jake’s nemesis.

The bar cleared early due to the weather. A storm was forecast for later that night and its forebears were beginning to make themselves known. Rain began to appear on the windows of the bar and whenever the outside door was opened the moan of the rising wind could be heard.

When the last person had left, Joss turned to Jake and point blank asked,

“Are you fit for a sortie? Cause if you aren’t then we all better start making tracks  to get home and beat this ‘big blow’.

Jake’s ears pricked up. “What type of sortie?”

“The one that make you some real money, Harman,” hissed Zak Granger. “If you’re in?”

Asha Beille spread a large map onto the table. “If you’re not in, I will have to kill you!” Asha said giving Jake a large broken toothed smile.

Jake looked down at the map expecting to see rivers, mountain contours and towns, but what he was looking at was a street map of downtown Manhattan!

“What’s this?” he said, with a start. “This is New York!”

Over the next hour Joss explained what it was all about.

He had received a phone call from a foreign embassy sited in a very expensive area of the city. Upon arriving, Joss had been searched thoroughly and then led to a small room deep in the bowels of the building. There he had been presented with a very lucrative assignment, which, should he make known to anyone else apart from a team he should organise, he would be killed.

“We have to take down a senior diplomat from Zaravia,” Joss said. “He’s been making it difficult for the embassy’s homeland, applying trade sanctions and advocating cutting aid to the country. They know that his replacement will remove all the problems after we complete the mission.”

Jake sat back in his chair. Any inebriation slipping away as the cold reality bit home.

“How are you planning on carrying this out?”

Asha pointed to various areas on the street map. “Granger will set explosives here and here to cause a diversion. I will lob a few smoke bombs and increase the hysteria. Zak and Joss will be down on the street to take out anyone who gets in the way…”

“And my role?” he asked already knowing the answer.

“You, my old buddy,” said Joss, putting his arm round Jake’s shoulders and indicated a spot on the map. “Will be sited on top of this building and will take the bastard out!”

The rest of the discussion was surreal for Jake. The senior diplomat was to be attending a premier opening of ‘Swan Lake’ at the Metropole Theatre in lower Manhattan. Weaponry had been supplied and Zak had already sited the explosive diversions.

“All it requires is a twitch of my finger on the remote,” Zak said showing the group a small black plastic control box.

“The pay off is substantial,” said Joss. “And has already been paid into an offshore bank account.”

The men agreed that they would meet at Joss MacFarlane’s house on the next night and fine tune any problems that they could foresee. They would all sleep there and travel together to be in position for the following evening.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


"That's as far as it went this time. Job failed to execute, no death, murdering or carnage this time Doc" sweated Jake.

Tick tock, tick tock.....the clock ticked and tocked as Jake lay on Doctor Stones couch. He found himself here again, trying to explain away another violent episode in his nightly routine.

"Ok Jake, this one is much the same, another similar story, another similar flashback" heaved the Docs voice. "Reaching deeper, it's throwing up all the same signs....extreme fear, horror, helplessness......"

"Session over for now my friend. Keep on the medication, keep level headed and remember the control techniques we've practised. Next session, Tuesday, same time."

Jake got himself together and left. The Docs door slamming behind him as if......he wasn't really welcome, just another buck to be made for the Doc.

Back on the streets Jake was a nobody. A nothing, a non-entity, a jobless ex- war hero. Without a future, getting by,.........barely existing.......

............... He was a somebody once, controlling life and death. Trusted by important people, able to get the job done....no matter what.....

 He had a flat and a girlfriend now and that was it. He didn't have the need for anything else but his sanity,......he wanted back his sanity!!

He stopped at the liquor store on the way for some medication, he was heading home. A lousy girl in a lousy apartment, in a lousy city, in his lousy world. But it was his world and he was content to a point.......

........He threw the door open, rested what was left of the Scotch and undid his belt buckle....."Cmon baby, daddies home.........." as he took her and threw her onto their love chariot.....

"Daddies hungry for something"......she breathed.

Stripped and sweaty, he pounded her, owning her, being in control, they only way he knew and wanted.....and she did too.

Being an ex- callgirl, she ached to being used and abused.

After heavily seeding, spending all he had, he grabbed her hair and playfully kissed her. As lousy as she was, he loved her, they were good for each other and she kept him together.

Together, worn out, they slept till morning......

It was a new day and no dreams last night, it was good, all good....so far. He was heading out, downtown, he had a few errands to run.  Trying to live a life of normality didn't come easy but it did come sometimes, even briefly.

On arriving home a few hours later, he came up the stairs to find cops at his door. Scarlett stood explaining he wasn't home. They went inside.

What had happened?, what had he done?, nothing, his life was scraping the barrel but he was clean, crime free.

The cops sat down, "whats this all about?" he pleaded.

They threw him an envelope, "Know anything about this?"

It contained a Zippo lighter, with the words engraved:-

                                                          We the unwilling,
                                                      Led by the unqualified,
                                                      To kill the unfortunate,
                                                       Die for the ungrateful.

"Doctor Stone is dead"

"Shot with an M14,......you know the rifle they used in Nam"............


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jake stared at Zippo lighter, then at the cops. This wasn’t good cop bad cop; they were both glaring at him – both bad cops.

Jake just stared. It made no sense; he couldn’t get his head round it. He knew that he had to come up with something –and fast! An alibi would be a start…but this was insane, the story made no sense!

Maybe that was it – he had lost the plot completely! Was he having one of his episodes? But no, it couldn’t be that; Doc had said he was getting better. . .

Doc! Poor Doc! He didn’t deserve – who would do such a thing? Me, me! (?). Apparently it was me . . . but –

‘Doc was alive when I left him!’

The cops exchanged a glance.

‘Was he?’ The senior cop spoke. ‘What time was that?’

Jake couldn’t remember, exactly . . . sometime after his afternoon session, whenever that was – it could be checked. The cops asked for details. They wanted an account of his movements for the last twenty four hours. And they wanted to know about his cloths: what had he been wearing, had he changed clothes?

And off course they continued to ask about the Zippo lighter and the M14 rifle. The lighter certainly looked like his old Zippo, but he hadn’t seen it in months. He‘d lost it and replaced it with one of those horrible disposable lighters. He missed his Zippo.

As for the M14 rifle, he hadn’t seen one or used one in years . . . not since . . . Nam.

The cops listened but they were not buying it. And their demeanour changed once they got him to the station. If Jake had thought the cops were hard on him before, it was nothing compared to the treatment he received now. It was a real grilling. There was no restraint; despite Jake’s protests of innocence they were convinced of his guilt, and they pressed for a full confession.

Not only were they convinced of Jake’s guilt, they were also convinced that Jake was, as they saw it, a nut job! The psychologist tended to agree, though he moderated his opinion with more professional terms. He talked of schizophrenic psychosis and delusions. The cops stuck with ‘nut job’. Jake’s protests that he had been set up only confirmed their opinion.

Jake’s lawyer was his last hope, but even he seemed less than convinced; he’d heard the protest ‘I’ve been set up!’ too often by clients who invariably turned out to be guilty as hell.

The first thing the lawyer said was ‘ok, Jake we need to get your story straight’. It wasn’t a good start and it got worse. Apparently the prosecution had a cast iron case. Forensic evidence nailed Jake to the murder scene and they had expert testimony concerning Jake’s mental state. It was all damning.

Jake’s lawyer was trying to convince him to plead guilty. They had gone a few rounds into the argument, with Jake remaining obstinately unpersuaded, when they were interrupted by the guard. He announced that Jake had a visitor; it was his old combat pal Ferrie Spicer!

‘Hi Jake, I’ll bet you weren’t expecting me!’ Spicer smiled his crooked smile.

‘Spicer! Can’t say I was, - it’s brilliant to see you’

‘I have information for you’ Spicer looked thoughtful.

‘I know who is behind this sorry mess . . . you’ve been setup, but it’s going to be hard to prove –’

 ...........................................................................................................................................................

Ten minutes after Spicer had left his cell Jake’s whole demeanour changed.  Whatever Spicer had said affected Jake, turning someone on the edge into a fully fledged cuckoo.

Night shift at the police station consisted of one custody officer with oversight over half a dozen cells. Soon the night guard was irked by the sounds coming from Jake’s cell, singing words to the tune of a vaguely familiar military march:

‘Oh the monkey wrapped it’s tail around the flagpole, round the flagpole, round the flagpole!’

From the other cells came a chorus of voices, exasperated at this impromptu and mediocre concert. ‘Shut the Hell up!’

But the singing became louder and louder, after a few choice remarks about Democrats and 'commies'

‘Oh the monkey wrapped it’s tail around the flagpole, round the flagpole, round the flagpole!’

Then came Jake talking to himself in a loud voice:

‘Were you there on the grassy knoll?........the CIA had that one…. commies………….worse than that day at Xenong,...... commies………woo hoo here he comes…the monkey…wrapped in the flag.......the star spangled banner….come back Joss all is forgiven……CIA plant…cover-up.........commies’

Finally the custody officer could take no more, he banged the door of the cell with his truncheon

‘Shut up in there!’

His intervention only succeeded in starting Jake’s singing again, this time song about a monkey at the white house going to see the president.

The officer opened the hatch to insist Jake shut up.  Instead he found the barrel of a handgun pointing straight at him.

Jake said coolly and icily ‘Now fatso….open up this door……or your brains will see the light of day’.  The officer’s hands were shaking as he opened the cell door, Jake struck him on the head with the barrel of the gun, then dragged his unconscious bulk into the cell.

Jake told his unconscious police officer victim 'you have the right to remain silent!' 

Then he looked down at the officer and laughed saying 'squeal like a pig, boy!' as he began to strip the cop's clothes off. 

A few moments later Jake emerged from the police station, dressed as a police officer.  The clothes hung on him though, the officer had been a real porker. But he had fallen for the old replica gun trick, a toy gun Spicer had smuggled in. 

One thing was not a trick however, Jake had completely flipped.  He laughed and chuckled to himself saying ‘I always wanted to be a cop! I think I'll go on a Commie hunt!' 

He got into a police car and began to cruise the streets of the town. Jake tried out the siren for a bit.  He really liked it.  He saw a couple of people talking on a street corner and tried to run them down.  He laughed as he saw them in his rear view mirror, scampering away like little terrified lemmings.  He shouted 'run commie maggots' out the window at them.  

Hearing a call on the police radio, advising of an escape from the police station Jake answered it saying:

'This is Car 27.  That criminal dog puke will not escape'.  

The police dispatcher replied 'What's your call sign car 27?'

'Commie-maggot hunter' Jake replied.   Then he tore the radio from the dashboard and hurled it out the car window.  

Eventually Jake pulled up outside a small hick tavern, ‘Gerry’s Bar’ it was called.

A row of old barflies propping up the bar on their barstools turned to look as Jake strode in, looking quite dishevelled now in his badly fitting uniform. He introduced himself as Rambo and smiled.  John J Rambo to be precise.  Then suddenly his whole demeanour changed: 

‘ALRIGHT THIS IS A POLICE CRACKDOWN’ Jake bellowed ‘ALL YOU GUYS WHO VOTE DEMOCRAT ARE HEREBY UNDER ARREST’

The old barflies sat open mouthed as they watched Jake stride over to the bar, grab a bottle and throw it at the tall glass mirror above the till.  The barkeeper ducked below the counter to avoid the shards of glass and broken bottles falling everywhere.  The old barflies scattered, running for the hills!

The barkeep shouted ‘Someone call the cops, this guy’s crazy!’

Jakes voice barked out in a mocking reply ‘You moron, I am the cops! It’s you commie voting Democrats that are the crazy ones!’

He then stuck a little cocktail umbrella in his hair and began to sing 'Oh the moon shines tonight I'm pretty redwinged!' , laughing and dancing about like a mad man. 

Hearing movement from below the counter Jake chucked another bottle and managed to bring down the stuffed Moose's Head on the wall.  It landed with a crash on the floor.  

'I hear a little commie rat scurrying about!......come out commie rat.....Jake has a nice piece of cheese for you!'  

Jake leapt behind the bar and picked the poor barkeeper up by the scruff of the neck,  sitting the quivering wreck on the bar facing him.  

Then Jake began his rant 'The Alamo, those were REAL men.  Thanks to them we speak English today and have FREEDOM!  But little commie rats like you would give it all away.  You commie!  You filthy commie! Where were you when I was in 'Nam?  You little runt maggot puke! You lousy little worm!' 

The quivering barkeeper managed to splutter out a few words: 'You're insane...........insane!'

Jake replied 'I'm an American and you're an algae sucking commie toad!' 

..............

When the real cops arrived there was no sign of Jake. 

The barkeeper was tied to one of the barstools with the Moose antlers strapped to his head. When the cops removed the soggy beer mat that Jake had gagged him with  he ranted incoherently about a rogue cop, police brutality and suing the police force. 

Some say Jake lived for a couple of years in an old log cabin in the woods, emerging periodically to indulge in a bar fight.   A tourist claimed to have seen him in a strip bar in Thailand. 

Another year a guy in an Obama mask caused a security alert at the Democrat's Convention in Atlanta, ranting about commies and conspiracies.  Some say it was Jake. 

But of the man himself there was no sign. 

Wherever Jake was, he had made the FBI’s most wanted list! 

                                                                                                                   

A Policeman's Tale

Robert Graves, Police Constable from Framlington Constabulary raised his head gingerly. He felt as if a ton of bricks had been dropped on it. And why were his hands tied behind his back, he thought tugging at the rope ties angrily. He was sitting, almost lying, in a dark room that seemed to move with a continuous rocking movement, reminiscent of being on a----train!
Then Robert remembered how and why he was there!

He had been down at the local railway station to collect his daughter. Lynne, a sixteen year old schoolgirl from Framlington High School, had been spending the evening with some of her friends from school who lived at the neighbouring town of Flaxton. Lynne had promised to get the last train into Framlington, but as Robert had suspected would happen – she missed it! Oh, the wailing and explanations that Robert had got through his cell phone from Lynne as he stood watching the passengers alighting from the last train that night.
“But, you promised me, Lynne! What’s your mum going to say?” Robert had shouted down the phone.
“I know Dad, but Laura has this great game on her Xbox and the time just slipped away!” Lynne replied tearfully.
Knowing this was a ‘no win’ situation; Robert asked to speak to Laura and after confirming what Lynne had said was true, asked if Laura could put Lynne up for the night. Laura confirmed that her parents would manage something and as the following day was Saturday, Lynne could catch the morning train.

After saying goodbye to his daughter, Robert rang his wife Sylvia, just to put her in the picture. He confirmed that he was on his way home and would see her in half an hour. As Robert made his way passed the train still standing at the platform, heading for the exit, he pictured in his mind the fish and chip supper he would get on the way home. Lots of salt and vinegar, that would just hit the mark!

The dark figure emerging from the ticket hall almost bumped into Robert as he made his way hurriedly to the waiting train. An odour wafted towards Robert from the small poorly dressed man. He smelt of cigarette smoke, onions and sweat.
An unhappy combination that tended to tell an observer’s senses that this was a person, as they would say in the old days, of ‘ill repute’.
The man turned and gave a sly look backwards and as the light from the ticket hall doorway played on his features, Robert knew who he was! It was Blackie Burnett,
Robert had seen his picture in the ‘rogue’s gallery’ down the police station. He was a ‘person of interest’ in numerous unsolved crimes that had occurred on or round about Framlington and Robert knew that he would have to arrest Burnett and bring him in.

“Hey, you!” shouted Robert, moving forward to apprehend the suspect. “I want a word with you!”
With another look back, this one with a mixture of shock and terror, Blackie opened a carriage door and after stumbling onboard the train, slammed it shut behind him.
Robert arrived at the closed door just as the guard’s whistle sounded and the mighty diesel train began to stretch its metal muscles prior to leaving the station.
Robert looked about, but apart from him the station was deserted. The guard had climbed aboard and the train began to pull out of the station.
With a quick mental weighing up of the consequences, P.C. Robert Graves yanked the door open and jumped aboard the train in pursuit of his quarry.

Robert tried to ring his sergeant at the police station to alert him as to the nature of his pursuit and to arrange for back up to take Blackie into custody when he had arrested him, but was unable to get a signal, possibly due to the  nature of the terrain  surrounding the station. Robert began to walk down through the compartments to find out where Blackie had scuttled off to.
Each compartment Robert looked into displayed no one resembling the dishevelled little man. Some of the compartments were empty as this was the last train of the evening and some just had a solitary traveller in them, often looking as if they were asleep. He could see no trace of his suspect.

Just as he reached the last compartment, Robert saw a familiar figure pull open the inter-connecting door and slip through into the nether regions of the train. Of course, thought Robert, there is a baggage area and that is where he is trying to hide.
Carefully pulling the door partially open, Robert peeked through the gap. All he could see was the darkness but then heard whispering.
“What do you mean, you brought a rozzer onto the train?” growled a voice.
“I don’t know whether he recognised me!” wailed a plaintive little voice, which had to be that of Blackie.
“That don’t matter,” whispered another voice, one with a little polish to it. “If he comes along we’ll handle him!”
“But, Gerald, he’ll ruin our plans!” said someone who sounded scared. “The train is due into Chesley in two hours and we have to be ready….!”
“Shut up!” hissed the posh voice. “It’s all set; no one can stop it now!”

Suddenly the door that Robert was listening at was flung open by someone from behind him and the policeman was thrown forwards into the dark. He landed heavily and after his eyes adjusted to the low light, saw that he lay as he had surmised, in the baggage compartment and in front of a group of mismatched individuals.

“I told you he recognised me!” Blackie said pointing at Robert.
“Be quiet Burnett, or I’ll throw you off the train,” the man in the three piece suit said with a polished accent. “Ned, tie him up!”
Ned grabbed Robert and wrestled him to his feet.
“Turn round!” he growled as he swung the policeman into the wall of the compartment. “Any funny business and I’ll smack you one!”
“Don’t hurt him!” pleaded a terrified looking man. “We can’t kill anyone!”
“Shut your mouth Wormesly!” hissed the man who had pushed Robert into the baggage car. “If we didn’t need a safe breaker, you wouldn’t be here!”

Robert found himself tied up and lying on the floor of the carriage. The five men, a real motley crew, looked down at him with distaste.
“Allow me to introduce ourselves, officer,” said the city gent with a smile. “I am Gerald Pettigrew, ex banker. My colleagues are Blackie Burnett, who I think you know. John Carman, a highly successful criminal, but prone to acts of cruelty and
Mr James Pelham, who masterminded this whole operation.”
“And what about me? Don’t I merit an introduction?” wailed the man called Wormesly.
“Oh yes,” the ex banker said, his voice full of mock regret. “Sorry, I forgot about you. Allow me to introduce Mr Percy Wormesly, an expert with safes.”
“You realise that we will have to get rid of you now!” snarled John Carmen. “Still that will be a real bonus, topping a rozzer!”
“No violence or you can count me out!” Wormesly said with real vehemence.
“OK,” Pelham agreed in a weary voice. “John, will you just stop him shouting out and warning everybody.”
Without breaking sweat John Carmen whipped a blackjack out of his pocket and hit Robert over the head, knocking him unconscious.
“Actually I meant you to gag him,” laughed Pelham. “But that will do just as nicely.”

.................................................................................................

 At this point in his memory flash back Robert was brought up short with a shocking thought: he should have been dead! They had meant to kill him! Not only could he identify the gang but he also knew their names thanks to that strange introduction from the one he took to be the leader. What was his name? Gerald, yes that was it, Gerald something…Gerald - Pettigrew! But wait there was the other one; he seemed to be the brains of the outfit: he could see the smug face - James Pelham? That was it. Robert had always been good with names and faces; that was how he had spotted Blackie Burnett in the first place. He brought the other members of the gang to mind - a motley crew! He wouldn’t forget them in a hurry - that was the problem; they couldn’t let him live…

Why had they just left him? They meant to kill him. That hadn’t been an idle threat -why was he still alive? Maybe, the thought was disturbing, maybe they were coming back!  Robert had lost track of time but judging by the failing light it must be early evening now. He must have been ‘out’ for longer than he had thought – maybe an hour …maybe more…

Robert had been straining at the cord tying his wrists. But it was useless; the cord just cut deeper into his flesh. He could feel the slipperiness of blood. He stopped his futile straining and strained with his ears instead. What was that? Was someone coming? There were so many sounds on the train: clanking and banging and rattling. It was hard to make out. There was something…he strained to hear; a background sound; faint but repetitive. His blood turned cold – ticking, ticking! Something was ticking. How long had he been hearing it? How long did he have?

Wait there was something else…the creak of a – door, and a distant voice, calling. He couldn’t make it out. Robert froze, straining to hear…

Was that them? Were they back?

The voice again, clearer, closer: ‘Frank…’ there was a pause, then footsteps.
‘Frank…you in here? Frank the games over!’

The games over? It wasn’t them, not the gang - it was a kid! Robert thrashed around to draw attention, growling in his throat.

More footsteps, much closer; from were he lay Robert could see an immaculate pair of white trainers.

‘Mister…you okay?’

Robert strained to look up, his eyes rolling. ‘Of course I’m not okay!’ he thought but he could only moan against his gag.

The kid stared back at him gormlessly but as the penny dropped his eyes popped in alarm. He reached into his pocket and produced an expensive looking pen knife. He flicked open a bright blade. For a moment Robert thought of the gang again but relaxed as the kid cut through the cord and freed his hands. He grabbed at the gag which was tied behind his head. The movement sent excruciating pain through his hands.
‘Thanks!’ he gasped. The kid watched him with big scared eyes.

‘It’s okay; I’m PC Graves…Police Constable Graves. You’ve done well son - you came in the nick of time’

The kid seemed to relax. ‘A Policeman’ he said. He still looked a bit shaken.

‘What’s your name?’ Robert asked.

‘Tommy’

‘Okay Tommy here is what we need to do…’ Robert started to search for the source of the ticking as he gave instructions to Tommy. He was relieved when Tommy left the baggage compartment to fetch the guard.

Eventually he discovered the elusive source of the ticking: a sturdy suit case which had been buried under several other cases. The case was very securely locked with two little combination padlocks.

Robert could barely hear the ticking now; it was almost drowned out by the pounding pulse in his ears. His hands were shaking. Sweat was stinging his eyes.

‘Screw this!’ he thought but he knew he couldn’t walk away from it. He remembered that moment when he had jumped on the train in pursuit of Blackie Burnett; there had been a split second there when he’d made a quick mental weighing of the consequences…he could have walked away from it then – but it was too late now.

The guard ran into the compartment. ‘Is that it?’ He shouted, pointing at the case. Robert nodded emphatically.

‘Yeah!’

‘We only have a couple of minutes! Quick- help me get this window open!’

Robert asked no questions. He hoped the guard knew what he was doing. The guard handed him a hammer.

‘This is the only way!’ he said. Robert didn’t hesitate. Two blows were enough to shatter the glass into a million pieces.

The guard grabbed the case. ‘Go easy with that!’ shouted Robert, as he gripped the other end. They got the case to the window. Robert could see the viaduct; it was approaching fast.

‘Ready…one, two, three, Now!’ the case flew out of the window and seem to hang in the air for a moment. Then it plummeted… It exploded mid-air just before it struck the river; the sound was deafening. There was a huge plume of water but no damage. The only casualties were a few fish.

Robert and the Guard exchange a look of relief and triumph. ‘Well done, well do!’ said Robert as they shook hands. ‘You’re a hero!’ The Guard grinned.

Robert tried his mobile phone gain. Surely he would get through to the station now. He had to warn his colleagues of the robbery to take place.
“Hello, this is Framlington Police Station. This is the duty sergeant. How can I help you?” a voice answered.
Quickly Robert explained what had been happening and what he needed.
‘Sarg! Yes, it’s okay this end.’ Robert turned from the Guard as he listened intently. ‘Definitely a bank job …yes, I think the bomb might have been a diversion at the local station…yes that will be the bank alright…Blackie and the boys are in for a surprise when they see me! Okay Sarg I’ll look out for the squad car with PC Kelly at the station…we’re just coming in now…. You and back up keep a low profile outside the bank, till I give you the shout!”

............................................................................................

We'd arrived, slowing, jolting and pulling into the station. I couldn't alight quick enough, with the platform still moving as my 8 hole Doc Martins pounded the concrete.

With all the confusion, excitement and adrenalin, my mind had dismissed PC Kelly as my eyes searched for the welcoming colours of a police car. For me, it was a sign of safety, a haven, home ... for I'd always been on the right side of the law but had I been a cop that long to have these feelings?

Just like old times, there she was, waiting for me, for us again.....tsk..tsk.....mind back on the job, it was a lifetime ago!

We were lovers then, just rookies, it was the olden days and before my life had meaning. But passion it did have, passion I'd been longing for, it seemed an age away.

"High street, Chesley, Angie" I almost ordered as I swiftly slid in and snapped my seatbelt home. "Hi Rob, how have you been?" she mellowed back. Her voice, the pitch, the tone, sensual and sexy as it had always been. Slipping into first gear, Angie hit the revs............

We'd met at rookie camp, graduated and been assigned to the same station in the early days. We were young and a pc's life wasn't so tight assed then. We'd become lovers within months and used every opportunity to explore each other intensely off and on the job.

The roads were quiet tonight, it was evening and people were at home doing their own thing, which left ghost highways for us to gobble up the tarmac.

"I've been good Angie, how’s the world been treating you?" "I'm good too" she quipped, "gave up on men for now, career driven I guess, it's never let me down" as she thumped into 5th gear. Boy, she could drive, always able to bring out the best in the standard squad car. She was as assertive a driver as she was as a lover. Always able to pump out the best of me ... Jesus, it'd been a while!!

Then....my phone went.....text message from the wife.....shit, I'd forgotten to check in. "All fine, I'm caught up with a job, Lynne having sleepover at Laura house tonight, home tomorrow on early train, don't worry, be home soon." my fingers frigged,....... as they had so many times as a rookie.

"Ok, take care, see you soon x" she replied........ I switched off.

As we rallied through the countryside, I stole a glimpse of Angie, the beauty was still there, raw sexual beauty. I was crossing the line, thinking the unthinkable, it was wrong......wasn't it??

Who would know? Would she respond? Is this territory I dare to tread??

"We've to maintain radio silence, in case of scanners" Angie said softly. "Yeah, I thought so", I breathed.

So here we were.....very much alone, our whereabouts unknown, our arrival at the bank unknown, phone killed, radio down, we had time, a place and I had a reason.....need, desperate need!

The squad car would be fine, passenger seat back, as we'd did it before, uniform stripped off, just enough to unleash our bodies.......to free us, so we could move, explore, like we used to, any way would do, her below, on top, all fours, for me to facially, digitally, or full penetration........

Then............as we cleared the trees, a lit horizon was before us, on the edge of Chesley. Was it too late? Had I blown my chance? Waited too long?....................Or had a close shave.....a real close shave but only in my mind?

We raced towards the crime, our chariot pounded the tarmac, just as I'd pounded Angie before, time after time, gripping her hair, harnessing her, controlling her, easing her legs, forcing inside, caressing her honey-pot, to the hilt, then air, hilt then air, over and over, like a flesh piston stretching her engine, eager to please, eager for an eruption, a mutual explosion on a sensual scale, with gripping and pulsing, sweating and moaning.........................

Then........................Relief....Huge Relief................as Angie eased off the gas, the built up town was upon us.

We had arrived..................

..............................................................................................

It was early morning and the streets of Chesley were deserted as we pulled up in a street down from the bank. On the way into the town we had been passed by fire engines, with their sirens blaring, heading for the station, pretending, for the sake of keeping the bank robbers in the dark, to be going to tackle the fire started by the exploding train carriage.
Robert quietly exited the car and looked round the corner at the bank on the opposite side of the street. It was surrounded by scaffolding as some external restoration was being carried out. Everything looked quiet. Quickly Robert returned to the police car where Angie quizzed him on what he had seen.
“Yes,” he answered. “Everything looks ok. The workmen have scaffolding up on the building, so we maybe able to gain access using it. Let’s go and find out.”
Stealthily they crept over the street. As they crouched by the building Robert felt Angie’s warm body touching his back. He mentally berated himself. He was on police business. He had to think of his companion and his own safety in case the whole robbery turned pear shaped.
As they carefully climbed up the scaffolding, Angie pointed up near the top of the building.
“It looks as if that window is partially open. Some incompetent has ignored our security guidelines regarding banks undergoing renovations. Scaffolding is useful to the villains.”
“It’s certainly helping us,” panted Robert as he pulled himself up another rung. “We are certainly going surprise the robbers. I wonder why I can’t see our back-up. I would have thought they would be here by now.”
“They’ll be here, never fear Robert and we’ll be able to provide them with intel from inside if and when  we get through that window.” Angie assured him.
The window was open and both police officers slipped through it after opening it fully. They stepped into a dusty attic space and moved across to the door.
“Let’s hope it’s not locked,” whispered Angie.
The door was unlocked and Robert carefully opened it, waiting for creaks that might alert the robbery taking place below, but the door swung open noiselessly. Robert and Angie crept out onto a landing and began descending a wooden staircase that led to the lower floors. As they moved slowly down, fearful of making a noise, Robert wondered what awaited them below.
In the main vault James Pelham was lording it over his colleagues.
“Right come on, pull out the gold bullion and lay it over there!” he hissed at Gerald Pettigrew, who was sweating profusely.
“I am not used to manual work,” grunted the ex banker. “I have a bad back.”
“An equal share for an equal amount of labour,” John Carman growled nastily. “It’s time you worked off all that fat round your middle, Gerald!”
Blackie Burnett and Percy Wormesly carried more and more gold ingots out of the open safe that had been opened by the safe breaker. They laid them on pallets that were lying on the floor.
“I think it is time that we were making ourselves scarce,” said Pelham. “Push the button to call the lift Wormesly.”
Percy pushed a red button on the wall next to two large metal doors and a motor could be heard starting up. Within seconds the large doors parted and exposed a fork lift within the lift. This was a specially designed lift for handling heavy weights. It would be able to transport the fork lift plus one pallet of gold from the vault to the ground floor of the bank. John Carman climbed into the fork lift cab.
Carman looked as his watch. “How many more ingots are in there, Blackie?” he asked.
“That’s the last of them. We’d better get this bullion hauled away before someone gets suspicious.” Blackie grunted, as he swung the large safe door shut with a clang.
Up on the ground floor the pallets of gold were piling up as the fork lift driven by Carman brought up loads from the vault by the lift. As the last one emerged from the lift the criminals began opening the back doors of the bank. This was where two lorries sat awaiting loading with the gold.

From their vantage point Robert and Angie could see the whole operation. They were behind a door that opened on to the ground floor of the bank.
“Our back up must be here by now!” hissed Robert. “Why haven’t they broken in and arrested these villains?”
“Maybe they are outside and waiting to pounce,” said Angie. “It’ll be a fair cop when they grab them with the loot.”
For the next half an hour Carman drove pallet after pallet out to the lorries. As the last one was hoisted up, Robert pushed the door open and entered the ground floor.
“Something has gone wrong. The back up teams should have been here arresting them, I will have to alert them to the robbery and he reached for his whistle.
It was at that point Angie lashed out with her hand and knocked the whistle from Robert’s hand.
“You won’t do anything!” she snarled as she pushed Robert so hard he stumbled and almost fell. “Carman! Take this plonker out to Pelham!” Angie walked past Robert as John Carman stepped out of the fork lift cab and grabbed him. Robert swung his fist at the crook’s head and began to punch him in the stomach, but it was like hitting a sandbag, the man was heavily built. Carman just swung his own fist and hit Robert on the jaw knocking him out.
When Robert came to he was in the cab of one of the lorries carrying the gold. He was trussed up like a turkey but he could see that they were on the motorway. Blackie Burnett was at the wheel.
“Oh you’re awake?” asked Angie, sarcastically. She was sitting to his left and was drinking out of a can of Coke. “A bit of a surprise for you eh? No backup turning up and arresting anyone.”
“Angie,” said Robert. “We used to be close, how can you do this to me, of all people?”
“Actually Robert, it made it easier when me and the boys intercepted your call. One of the guys, Pettigrew I think, pretended to be your sergeant. The line was so bad you would have believed anything he said. You always were a bit of a prat, I just needed you for the humpy bumpy and like most males you were OK with that; but did I feel anything deeper for you?” She stopped and theatrically pretended to be thinking, then with a look of scorn on her face said, “Nah!”
As the miles rolled by Robert realised from spotting the overhead signs that they were heading for the coast. The robbery would have been discovered by now and all airports and major ports would have been warned to be on the lookout. So, he surmised it would have to be a little known place that had a small pier. This would allow them to offload the gold and escape to sea.
“Watch your speed!” Angie growled suddenly. “There’s the Old Bill.”
At the mention of his colleagues so close, Robert thought quickly and making a sudden decision raised his bound legs and kicked out at Blackie. The force of his attack centred on the driver’s face and temporarily stunned him. He swung the wheel of the lorry, it went up on its two outer wheels and the weight of the gold took over and spun the lorry over on its side. It squealed along the road as terrified drivers tried to get out of its path. Sadly Angie had failed to put her seat belt on and was flung through the windscreen. Thanks to being trussed up Robert was kept fairly rigid as the vehicle went into its death throes. All at once everything went silent round the stricken lorry. Robert thought that he had gone deaf, when all at once the air was full of police siren’s and shouting. Someone wrenched the lorry cab’s door open and peered inside.
“Are you ok mate,” asked a man wearing a cloth cap. “I’ll get some help for you.”
By the time that Robert had been freed, the westbound motorway had been closed and the police were in control. A blanket covered body lay on the road marking the final resting place of Angie. Robert felt a sadness for her as he had known her so well, or thought he had. Blackie was getting his wounds seen to by a paramedic.
The gold was still miraculously in the back of the lorry, all piled up covering the body of Mr. Gerald Pettigrew, who had been travelling in the back eager to be close to his nest egg. Unfortunately being totally squashed by his money was not in his plans.

As soon as Robert had been allowed to use the police radio, an all points bulletin went out and the second  lorry was spotted entering the little seaside village of Walminton. The coastguard arrived in time to detain a large motor fishing vessel whose destination had been somewhere in the Frisian Islands, off the North West of the Netherlands, where no doubt they would have vanished.
Soon all members of the gang had been apprehended or were accounted for. Several months later, John Carman , Percy Wormesly and James Pelham were all found guilty at the High Court and sentenced to ten years apiece. Angie Kelly and Gerald Pettigrew were laid to rest in separate cemeteries by their relations and loved ones who were shocked to learn of their criminal dealings.


Robert Graves, Police Constable, was promoted to that of Sergeant and he and his wife and daughter were guests of her Majesty, the Queen, at Buckingham Palace, to receive an award for bravery and heroism. A fitting end for a chance meeting on a railway platform.