The Night They Took Big Tommy Down

An old friend asked me if I’d write something personal, something from my past as she thought it would equal anything I write as fiction. I’ve always held back from that, for all manner of reasons, and when I wrote this piece I realised the difference between writing fact and fiction: Writing a true story is much harder than writing fiction. I can remember the events and the gist of the dialogue, if not all of the actual words, but memories are tricky customers and prompt a fresh surge of recollection, many of which I’ve tried hard to banish from conscious thought. Autobiographical writing should be easy, but trust me, it isn’t. Not in my case.

Prison cells are not designed for comfort, but I’ve been in worse hotel rooms. My job occasionally involved spending a while as a guest of Her Majesty. It didn’t happen often and wasn’t unduly arduous. I had a big advantage over most of my fellow inmates: I knew my stay would be short-lived while they had no such assurance.

This piece is a shortened version of a night I still remember very well. I’d been on this particular assignment, on and off, for several months and this would be the night when all I’d worked towards came to fruition. Names have been changed, but everything else is exactly as it happened, subject to the vagaries of memory loss and the mists of time.

I was never a police officer, but came into contact with many of them over twenty years. They’re a race apart; loyal to fellow coppers and have to take shit from the scum of society without giving it back. I’ve got a lot of time for most of them. As with any job, there are a few I’d never want to meet again. Certainly not on a dark night. There isn’t an agenda here. I’m very pro law and order. It’s a personal account of a single night. That’s all. If my Godson reads this one: hope you like it, mate. Just one of the many tales I never told you.

 

He didn’t look like a policeman, which meant he was probably very good at his job. I’d met a great many police officers and there’s something about the way they stand, the way they look you in the eye, that tells you what they do for a living. The one who’d just punched me in the stomach was a scruffy looking bastard, but he was in good company on this windswept stretch of pavement. It was three in the morning and nobody was looking their best. Behind me I could hear the dogs snuffling excitedly and the tramp of heavy feet on the stairs as the dozen or so troops involved in the raid began to exit the house in dribs and drabs. They’d had their taste of battle a while ago while restraining Delbert, The Big Man’s enforcer, and persuading a shaven-headed man with muscles bursting out of his clothing to go quietly had resulted in a trip to A and E for three of their number. Delbert never did anything quietly and it had taken six officers to get him as far as the van.

Big Tommy had been first out, manacled to the two biggest coppers I’d seen in many a year and whisked off to the local nick. He’d looked unsure of himself, for the first time since I’d known him. The Big Man ran the drugs scene in this city and he was the reason we were out here in the freezing cold. I was the face the Drug Squad officers didn’t recognise, hadn’t expected, and by now I was a loose end they didn’t know what to do with.

‘Name? Address?’

I said nothing and stared vacantly at the flashing lights across the road.

‘Fuck me. Where do you live? Here, or some other place? Jesus!’

I gave him the blank stare which had been my only contribution up until now.

Another man; better dressed but unmistakably a copper wandered across. ‘Anything?’

‘Nah. Spaced out by the look of him. Reckon he’ll need a past-life regression session to remember where he lives or who the fuck he is.’

‘Give him a slap to jog his memory.’

‘Done that already. Nothing.’

The other man looked into my eyes and shrugged. ‘Get a uniform to take him. Stick him in a box for the night and see what he comes up with in the morning. With any luck the other shift will take him on. Too fucking cold to hang about here all night.’

‘Right, Skip.’

The senior man, a DS apparently, took hold of my shoulders and stared at me. I looked at his shoes and said nothing.

‘Okay, sunshine, have it your way. You’re in deep shit here and don’t give us any wrong place wrong time crap. You’re keeping bad company here.’ He gestured towards the house behind us where every room blazed with light. ‘Big Tommy’s going down and all you fucking girls are going down with him. Talk or don’t talk; makes no fucking difference to me. I find anything on you; gun, knife, powder, even a fucking packet of Aspirin, you’re off to the big house, right? Wise up and cut yourself a deal while I can still be arsed to listen.’

I said nothing and he slapped my face hard, his ring cutting into my cheek and drawing blood. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Now see what you did.’

If he’d hoped to get me to incriminate myself, here in the street, he was wasting his time and we both knew it. Even back at the station, it wouldn’t be any different. He’d got a fair few years in the job behind him and would know the score. I’d done my share of interviews, albeit not within the walls of a cop shop with an uniformed officer standing sentry duty by the door. The hard-case with tattoos on his neck and an attitude would shop his own mother if the right buttons were pressed while the middle class kid who looked like a choirboy could still give you the thousand yard stare and tell you to go fuck yourself. You just never know. There’d be time enough to find out tomorrow and the DS knew it.

He turned to a uniform loitering a few steps away. ‘Get rid of this for me. Keep him away from the others. No talking. No food, no fucking cups of cocoa and no phone calls, right? A solicitor turns up for this one and we’ve never seen him. Got it?’

The PC nodded. The strong silent type, he took hold of my left hand and clicked on one link of the cuffs he took from his belt. The old style metal ones, not the fancy plastic ones. He ratcheted it up tight, cutting off the circulation, but I’d been cuffed before and had expected it. They all did it.

As I was led away, another uniform came running from the house and my minder stopped to listen.

‘The DI says get inside, Skip. A shed load of crack, all bagged up and ready to go, the safes full of cash and there’s enough guns in there to invade Iraq.’ The two plainclothes detectives exchanged hand slaps and big smiles. The Sergeant walked back to where I was standing, still tethered to my minder.

‘Hear that, did you? I own your fucking bosses’ arse now. He’s as good as down the road and you’re going with him. Better find your tongue soon, eh?’

He turned to the uniform. ‘Make sure he’s banged up nice and tight for the night. On his own. Looks like I’ll be here all night now. Oh, if he ever decides to say anything, ask him what the fuck he’s on. Wouldn’t mind some of that myself.’

He turned away, laughing, and the cop led me to the car. He unlocked the link from his own wrist, clicked it to the steel bar inside the rear door of the car and bundled me inside, remembering to bang my head on the roof as he did so. They always try to do that and I had my own reasons for not making any effort to avoid it.

‘Oh, sorry, was that your head?’ he said and his oppo in the driver’s seat laughed like a drain. The old jokes are always the best.

At the nick, all was pandemonium. Big Tommy was banged up in an Interview Room somewhere along the corridor and the place was manic. I stood at the back, still cuffed, while the fat Desk Jockey tried to make sense of what some stoned stick insect was saying.

‘Keep this shit up and you’re gonna be sorry,’ the Sergeant told her and the woman told him to piss off; her peevish, pinched mouth like that of an intractable child in an adult’s body.

‘Okay, we do it your way. Hey!’ The Sergeant called over one of the uniforms behind him. ‘Get this,’ he gestured to the woman, still standing there, picking her nose, ‘out of my sight. Either she wants to make a complaint or she wants to waste my fuckin’ time. Find out which it is and don’t bring her anywhere near me until you both understand what she’s going on about.’ The woman was led away, docile as a tranquilized stork; her bony legs encased in crushed velvet.

‘Next,’ called the Sergeant and I was dragged forward.

‘The thick twat, keeping all that gear in the house,’ one of the uniforms said to my minder as I was being booked in.

‘Not so thick,’ I thought. ‘Unlucky maybe.’ The house was like a nunnery every other night but this, and it had been my idea to arrange the meet with the man from over the water for tonight. Tommy hadn’t liked the idea, but greed had won him over in the end. Tommy would never know the Irishman wouldn’t be coming to do the deal as the Irishman had never actually existed. The idea had been to have the gear under the same roof as the Big man when the Squad kicked down the front door and had worked like a charm.

‘Who’s this?’ asked the Desk Sergeant.

‘Dunno yet, Sarge. He ‘aint saying anything. Skip said to put him on his own for the night.’

‘Yeah. He’s already rung me. Mustn’t have had much faith in you, Dan. They know all Tommy’s lads that were in the house and lifted all of ‘em. This one’s a fucking mystery by all accounts. Could be a new player or some lowlife from out-of-town.

What do reckon? Suicide watch?’

‘Nah. Fuck him. Be one less.’

The Sergeant laughed. ‘You’re right there. Okay, Dan, off you go. I’ve got him.’

The Station was buzzing, but was still a shit hole. Not much sign of any touchy-feely Community Policing in here. Hard-eyed officers, wired with excitement at a big bust going down on their shift inside a building built to withstand a siege with the entrance serving as the only way in and only way out, wired glass on the windows and harsh flickering fluorescent tubes overhead.  Grim as it was the place was wall to wall Happy Hour tonight.

As he pushed me into the holding cell the officer kicked the back of my legs and sent me sprawling. ‘Not a fucking peep out of you or you’ll get a kicking, right?’ I said nothing and he banged the door and turned the key outside.

I sat on the concrete bench, carrying my shoes with the laces removed. They’d taken my photograph and my fingerprints, but that wouldn’t tell them anything. I could be out of here inside two minutes and with a single phone call, but it didn’t work like that.

Months from now, I’d be back in a room like this talking to a camera and giving the evidence that would help send Big Tommy down for the rest of his life, or most of it. Tonight, it was safer to stay put and say nothing. The cops who’d arrested me had no idea who I was and I wanted it to stay that way. Anyone in that house tonight who wasn’t standing alongside Tommy when we appeared in court for remand would be a marked man.

I had a scratch on my cheek and a swelling on my forehead that would still be there in the morning, but a little more collateral damage would come in handy. Fortunately, a few cuts and bruises are easy enough to find in a police station.

Judges’ Rules, the Police and Criminal Evidence Act – PACE – and all the rigmarole of audio and video recordings of interviews with a solicitor present at all times if requested; none of that means a damn outside the confines of an Interview Room.

Police stations are dangerous places: all those flights of steps and hard surfaces allied to the natural clumsiness of suspects – no wonder accidents happen so often. Policing an inner city beat is a tough job and officers on the front line risk life and limb on a daily basis to maintain order and stave off anarchy. No wonder a few recalcitrant or truculent suspects take an occasional tumble. The cops were already wound up. A big bust gets the adrenalin going and a stray word out of turn would guarantee me a slap or two and give a little more credibility to my appearance when I stood alongside Big Tommy and the rest of my former friends in front of the Magistrates in the morning. Easy.

I’d be saying nothing for as long as was necessary. By now my Control would know I’d been lifted and arrangements would be under way to get me out, in time.

Meanwhile, I’d try to get a couple of hours sleep and get used to being back in a cell. Nobody here knew who I was or anything about me. I was happy to keep it like that for now. I lay down and stared at the light in the ceiling for a while then closed my eyes. Big Tommy would have his legal team in by now, but they’d have read the charge sheet and wouldn’t be giving him very much in the way of reassurance. I knew I’d stand a better chance of sleep tonight than the Big Man would.

 

The Man With No Name.

A year ago, I started a new book project about a professional hit-man. I’ve met a couple of men who’ve killed to order. They weren’t high calibre assassins by any means and as proof of this are now serving life sentences, but they had a rare quality: the willingness to murder a fellow human being without a qualm. The men I came across in my former work environment were willing to kill or maim for sums that I thought trifling, but they were at the very bottom of the assassin’s career structure. At the peak are men of a very different quality. The man with no name is just such a man.

As this is very much a work in progress I’ve made no attempt to conform to established conventions. ‘They’ tell me I should write short, snappy prose interspersed by dialogue and at all costs avoid lengthy passages of description or explication. Well, tough.  There are great chunks of prose here, particularly at the beginning. I may tidy this up, make changes, at some future date. I may not. I break all the rules – ‘they’ say that too.

As that noted sage Popeye said, ‘I yam what I yam.’

 

Killing remains the greatest taboo. Even when sanctified in warfare it doesn’t come easily to many. Killing at close quarters is even harder. Most people can’t do it. Under extreme conditions, killing when a life is threatened, even then the aftermath brings sleepless nights and recriminations. The man with no name was one of the rare ones. He would kill without a moment’s thought and instantly the act was consigned to history, never to be thought of again.

A professional killer takes no pleasure from the act of killing. It is necessary and then he moves on. Such men are highly prized in certain quarters. Today he was due to meet a man who he’d never met to discuss a job. The contact had been made in the approved fashion, through a series of cut-outs. This pleased him and demonstrated the man requiring his services was a man worthy of attention.

It was always a bonus to work for intelligent clients. They were far less likely to cheat the hired help. The difference between a common thug and an intelligent man was the intelligent man would know that cheating a person such as himself was tantamount to a death sentence.

He could be ready to leave at a moment’s notice and had already checked out of the hotel. He didn’t own much and even among the few items he possessed there were none that he couldn’t walk away from without a moment’s regret.

He had money, rather a lot of money, but was not even remotely concerned with wealth. He had enough for his needs. He lived well, ate well and dressed well, sparing no expense, but he could manage perfectly without any of the trappings of wealth. It was important to him that he owned nothing that he would miss if it were no longer available.

The same maxim also extended to personal relationships. He had no family, no friends, and no lovers. He had never allowed another person into his life. Other people were a tie and an attachment and he had no need of either. Everything in his life was disposable, to be used and discarded when necessary.

The tools of his trade were numerous, but he preferred to buy his weapons for a specific job and then dispose of them. A .22 calibre Colt Woodsman has been derided by some as a ladies’ gun with no stopping power, but in his opinion it was the perfect weapon. Easy to carry, and conceal where necessary it had never let him down. He routinely specified a matching silencer and always self-loaded his ammunition. The gun lacked stopping power, that was true, but in his hands this was a virtue. He wasn’t looking to knock down a charging buffalo after all. When he touched the barrel to a human head and pressed the trigger it was game over.

More powerful handguns were all the rage in Hollywood films, but in the real world gunshot victims had been known to survive even a head shot from a magnum cartridge. A bullet could pass straight through a skull and leave the victim alive. Not in good shape, but alive. With the Colt that option wouldn’t be possible. When the bullet left the barrel it passed through the skull, but lacked the power to blow out an exit hole. With a surgeon’s skill, he’d calculated the exact charge needed for his ammunition. The bullet may not have had the power to break out of the skull again, but it rattled around inside, turning everything it touched into mush. Job done. Nobody could take a direct head shot from a .22 and live to tell the tale.

He was very good at his job. In fact, he was a lot better than that; he was the best. Being the best took dedication and the elimination of distractions and unnecessary attachments. He’d been known by many names and yet his real name was unknown, he appeared in no police files or databases and left no paper trail.

His head ached, but that was nothing new. The bullet inside his head wasn’t even a whole bullet. Just a stray piece of the metal casing; sharp enough and travelling fast enough to penetrate the skull but not significant enough to kill him. He could remember the impact of the bullet against the wall right next to his head, but had no memory of what happened next.

‘You were lucky,’ they’d told him at the hospital. ‘An inch to the left…’ He got the picture. He was the original innocent bystander. Unarmed and apparently minding his own business when some unknown madman fired shots at him and disappeared. The perpetrator had to be mad for what else could explain the man discovered lying in the road with blood seeping from his temple? A random act or a drive-by shooting; it didn’t really matter as the man who fired the gun was never found.

More accurately, the man who’d fired the gun was never found by the police. There’d be an open file somewhere, but they may as well close it as they’d never find him now. His intended victim had advantages the police didn’t have: he knew the man’s identity and he knew where to find him. The attempt on his life had been at the behest of a former client and both the intended killer and the man who’d given the order had begged for death when he found them. The man with no name rubbed his temple, willing the pain away. Surgery hadn’t been an option. The metal fragment was in an awkward place, apparently. Left alone, it would probably stay put forever. Of course, there was always the chance it would move and if this happened the consequences would be serious. That would never be a problem. In his line of work, mortality was always only a heartbeat away; one more risk factor was neither here nor there.

The wine was served with a side order of indifference. The waitress was bored and didn’t mind showing it. He ignored her and left a tip, neither large nor small.

Outside, the town was dying and not even bothering to fight back. Empty shops littered the area and the few passers-by wore shabby clothes and an air of defeat. The decline of a town is usually a gradual, creeping metamorphosis, but here its inevitability must have been evident from the start. Not even worth opening a file or conducting a post-mortem. Self-inflicted death with the inhabitants as willing accomplices would be the coroner’s verdict.

Belonging, or looking like you belong, will get you into most places. A confident walk, head held high and a ‘don’t bother me, I’m busy’ attitude works nine times out of ten. In dangerous streets like these there was no other way. He walked the walk and looked the part. Predators look for the weak, the inadequate and the vulnerable. The lead bull, awash with testosterone and spoiling for a fight, is rarely picked on. He projected an image of danger, an ability to do serious damage to anyone rash enough to challenge him and was left alone. He walked swiftly, in plain sight of the unseen eyes that watched his progress.

Empty bottles, plastic bags, broken syringes and discarded needles littered the ground on what had once been a playground for children. The swings and climbing frames were still here, rusted and unused, but there’d been no laughter and joy around here for quite a while. Serious editorials ranting about drug usage and teenage pregnancy were stock in trade for the local newspapers, but there were no reporters down here. Nobody came near this estate who didn’t have good reasons for being here and that included the police.

He had that essential stillness: a basic requirement for a successful predator. The ability to switch off, enter a state of virtual hibernation where blood flow lessens, muscles ease and the body shuts down physically. In this state his mental powers were heightened, not diminished, every sense on full alert.

He’d learnt to watch a subject without ever appearing to do so. Some humans have a well-developed sense of impending danger. Something deep inside the lizard brain buried deep inside Homo sapiens reacts to a threat and is attuned to its recognition. He knew this because he was just such a man. Men like him know when they’re being watched, can sense the eyes of others upon them and he took no chances. The subject was always within sight, but kept on the very edge of his peripheral vision. When he was satisfied the other man was alone, he walked across the wasteland and stood in front of the man who’d been sent to meet him. A slender man in his thirties, he looked competent but nervous.

‘You don’t know me,’ the slim man said.

The man with no name looked at the man who’d spoken and nodded. ‘Let’s keep it that way.’

‘I have a job for you.’

He waited. Why else would the other man be here?

‘The person I represent wants this man to disappear. He can’t be found. Ever.’ The slim man passed over a buff envelope and waited while the hitman studied its contents. A colour photograph and a single sheet of paper. He slipped the photograph into his jacket pocket and read the words before taking out a cigarette lighter and burning the paper until it dropped to the floor, completely consumed by fire.

‘Not a problem, but it will be difficult.’

‘My principal knows this and is prepared to offer…’

The man with no name took hold of the other man’s arm and his words died away.

‘Get him for me, now.’

The slim man blustered for a moment and then took out a cell phone and handed it over.

‘Speed dial. Just press five.’

The man with no name pressed the button and held the phone to his ear.

‘Your man is here with me now. I agree to the target.’ He named a price and waited for a moment. ‘I’ll want it in advance, the whole amount. Any more requirements?’

He listened to the reply and then spoke for a further minute; reciting account details from memory and ended the call immediately. He removed the SIM card, snapped it in two and dropped it down a drain before handing the phone back to its owner.

‘Who else knows about this?’

The slim man shook his head. ‘Nobody. Well just the man you just spoke to and me. You as well now. Nobody else.’

‘Good. The fewer the better. Why didn’t he come himself?’

The slim man shrugged. ‘He has me for that.’

‘You do his dirty work?’

A shrug. ‘I suppose so. I’m supposed to ask you when it will be done.’

‘You’ve asked.’

‘He’ll want an answer.’

‘When I’m ready and not before. I’ve agreed the job and when the money is in the account I’ll start to plan it.’

‘My boss was insistent I tell you there should be nothing that can be traced back to him. No loose ends.’

The man with no name nodded. He reached out as if to shake the hand of the other man and then seized the proffered hand and pulled him close. Face to face he watched the fear in the other man’s eyes for a moment and then slid the blade between the ribs, grunting as the point snagged briefly on bone.

He looked down at the body and nodded. ‘Your boss was right. It’s always better this way. No loose ends.’

 

 

Beauty and the Beast. Days Filled with Sunshine and a Tale of Violent Death.

 

We’re staying with old friends and evenings are spent in reminiscence, fuelled by wine and vast quantities of food. The van sits neglected and ignored all day and most of the evening, awaiting the moment when we return to sleep within its metal walls.

‘I should write something for my blog,’ I announced. My friends looked at each other in the manner that only a gay couple with twenty years together behind them can manage and bust into laughter.

‘What?’

‘Oh, we talked last night about you being a writer and decided we’d each have a go at persuading you what to write next.’

‘Oh, right. Go on then.’

Of course their preferences were diametrically opposed. ‘Write about being here. A day communing with nature, if you like, with lashings of lovely descriptions’ was Gary’s request while Richard had something very different in mind.

“Something to make me shake in my boots. Violent, bloody escapism. You know all about that life. Write about it.’

Hmm!

Okay, this one’s for both of you. A day of observing nature in the raw and a ‘quickie’ on violent men and their thoughts and deeds.

 

Here’s the ‘nice’ part to begin with.

 

Down on the coast, far below, moonlight cast iridescent pools of shadow, softening the harsh outline of the towering apartment blocks. Incoming waves would be dancing and prancing like circus ponies strutting their stuff in the Big Top, tipped with white foam and pounding endlessly at the welcoming shore. Plumes of spray would rise from each assault as successive rows of waves rushed headlong towards the golden sand like packs of wild dogs attacking a defenceless flock of sheep, but of this I saw nothing. Up here in the mountains it’s still the nineteenth century and a more innocent and enticing land.

A faint glimmer of light entered the world with all the stealth of a trespasser as the first hint of dawn touched the distant hills. My viewpoint was the terrace of an old finca; hunkered down against a backdrop of encircling mountains, and blending almost imperceptibly into its surroundings like a shy maiden at her first formal dance.

Sunlight cleaved its erratic way through the early morning cloud cover, the distant hills a shimmering dusky pink while the vast expanse of sky turned vivid blue. Any faint traces of dew lingering on the sparse scrub nestling beneath soft rounded boulders would soon be gone as the freshness of the preceding night was rapidly overwhelmed by the impending day.

Two hours later, below the terrace, pale oleander and deep red hibiscus mingled with bougainvillea of every conceivable hue and a basking lizard lay motionless on the warming stone, Heat haze danced and shimmered on distant hills and beyond the serried ranks of prickly pear patches of dried leaves rustled like the parchment of  ancient deeds in a lawyer’s office.

On the terrace, stealthy invasion by vine and creeper over a prolonged period has softened sharp edges. Inter-twined strands of vine clamber over rustic poles and old battered beams to provide precious shade allowing dappled sunlight to filter its undulating shafts of light on to the rough tiles of the terrace.

A pair of soaring buzzards, supported by outstretched wings, swoop and glide in the clear air, their button eyes alert for the slightest movement on the ground beneath. One drops vertically, to earth, its cruel hooked beak and talons ending the life of some unfortunate creature, then soaring upwards with its prey and re-joining its mate, swirling wings taut, as they ride the thermal hot up-drafts from the hot earth below.

In the heat of summer every day is the same. By mid-day the heat would bleach the scene to a white glare, painful to the eye, and the valley would bake under a remorseless sun, but in early February the sunshine is pleasant but not excessive.

As I lay down my tools at the end of a long day, the encircling hills turn to gold as the sun dipped lower in the sky until each successive peak is tipped with vivid pink, the lower slopes marked by ever-deepening shades of indigo. Flocks of birds plunge and soar in a final riot of activity before settling down to roost, the last vestiges of discernible colour slipping away, marking the final passage of yet another perfect day.

Finally, the sun dips below the distant mountains leaving a trail of pale rows of lavender and pink in its wake. A soft bruising as glorious in its own quiet way as any of its vibrant flame-red companions.

As I watch crepuscular light visibly fading to blackness over the far reaches of the mountains, the last vestiges of daylight vanish  and within moments, the terrace is enveloped in absolute darkness, the faint breeze carrying with it the subtle scent of exotic herbs.

 

Now for something completely different. I’ve named the main character Richard in honour of the bloodthirsty wretch who requested yet another visitation to my dark side.

 

Richard was a man unlike other men. A quality of stillness allied to inscrutable features gave nothing away. His face and his posture revealed no hint of the reality behind the mask. It would be impossible to imagine this man giving up; throwing in the towel. He’d accept setbacks but not defeat. His eyes were constantly on the move. Speculating. Evaluating. Gathering data on which to base a course of action.

Such men are vastly more dangerous than any posturing gangster. Whatever the situation, he’d face it head on. No hint of this dangerous nature was visible to the uninitiated. He radiated calm and anyone looking for a perceived threat would glance swiftly at him and look elsewhere. That was his ace in the hole.

The men blocking his exit from the building were ready for trouble. Behind him the man he’d been sent to kill had taken his last breath. Job done, he’d been about to leave when he’d heard the clatter of heavy boots on concrete.

Always look for an edge was a mantra that had served Richard well when the odds were stacked against him. Three men who should have protected their employer from a nocturnal visitor with murderous intent. He disregarded the two men in the doorway. A broken nose and scar tissue over the eyebrows. They were big men and undoubtedly won most of their battles, but damaged faces confirmed their inability to avoid collateral damage along the way. He concentrated on the third man, almost concealed by his larger brethren. A face without blemish. Bad news. He’d be the one who’d learnt how to start and finish a fight quickly with minimal risk to himself. Richard took such men seriously as he was just such a man himself.

These three men were a problem, but not sufficiently daunting to make him consider other options. The best way out of here was the way he’d entered and that meant going through the doorway in front of him. It was time to even up the odds.

Richard raised his hands, showing he was unarmed, and walked slowly towards the men in the doorway. He radiated calmness from every pore and sensed the moment the two leading men relaxed their aggressive stance. Closing the distance between them in two swift strides, he seized both men by the collars of their open-neck shirts and dragged them off the low step on which they stood. As the men fought to regain their balance, Richard tightened his grip and swung the two men violently inwards, bringing their heads together with a sickening crash. Both men dropped to the stone floor and Richard kicked each man full in the face with his leather-shod brogues. It was the work of an instant, but he darted to one side a fraction of a second before the blade wielded by the third man made contact.

Richard had deliberately come unarmed to the job. If he’d been discovered on the way in he could possibly have bluffed his way out again. Discovery of a weapon would make the option impossible. He’d killed his target with his bare hands, at the request of the man who’d ordered the job.

The man with the knife grinned wolfishly as he circled the destroyer of his colleagues. They’d be no use to anyone for a while, but he didn’t even glance at their motionless bodies. He had the knife and all the advantages.

A fight where one man has a weapon but his opponent has none usually ends swiftly. The man facing Richard was of no more than medium height, but was far more dangerous than the much larger men already dispatched. The knife had a wickedly curved blade and was at least eight inches long. A dangerous weapon, but any weapon is only as good as the man using it and it was this aspect of the threat that gave Richard most concern. The grinning man held his weapon with an ease that spoke of familiarity and a fair degree of expertise.

There are ways to win a fight with a man wielding a knife, but Richard knew none of them excluded the possibility of getting cut. The best he could hope for was to be cut in an area that allowed him to continue fighting rather than the fight ending with the first strike. He was comfortable with the idea of being cut and was familiar enough with the sight of blood. Especially when the blood would mostly be his own.

Richard circled, watching his opponent’s eyes and ignoring the flashing blade. Both men waiting for an opening. Richard wore only a shirt and jeans; the heavy shoes his only usable weapon. It wasn’t enough. Eventually, the man with the knife would either back him into a corner or reinforcements would arrive. He had to end this now.

Richard took half a stride closer, momentarily disconcerting the grinning man, and threw his upper body forwards, forearm protecting his face and accepted the inevitable consequence of a deep cut to his outstretched arm. The blade was razor-sharp and he barely felt the pain, but the blood spurted freely and brought the desired reaction from his opponent. That tiny flinch away from the gushing blood was all Richard needed and before the man with the knife could draw back his hand from that first slash, Richard was inside his guard, chest to chest. He butted the other man in the face, but it was no more than a glancing blow and Richard bellowed in pain as the knife buried itself into his shoulder.

The other man struggled to withdraw the blade, but it was firmly gripped by the solid bunch of muscle mass and Richard had a hand against the man’s throat in an instant. He half turned and felt the blade come free and drop to the stone floor behind him. No time for niceties now and Richard kept a firm grip on the man’s throat with his right hand and wrenched his head to one side with the other. In the silence of the darkening room the sound of a breaking neck was unmistakable.

Richard lowered the body to the floor and gathered up the bloodstained knife. The other two men lay motionless and it was the work of a moment to cut their throats. Ripping the shirtsleeve off the body of the nearest man, he bound the savage cut on his forearm. The pain from his shoulder was intense, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He slipped the knife into his belt. No point in trying to bluff his way out of here now. Not when the blood was still dripping freely from his arm and shoulder. The knife would give him the edge he always sought.

He stopped for a moment in the doorway and looked at the carnage behind him. An easy job, he’d been told. Maybe he’d have a word with the man who’d ordered the hit and point out that even the easy jobs can hit a snag. Maybe not. A job was a job and once accepted it was down to him to deal with any problems. He turned his back and walked out. Neither rushing nor dawdling. A man heading home after a successful day at work like so many others. Nothing remarkable about him. An ordinary man. Apart from the blood of course.

Back to the Grindstone and a Man Tied to a Radiator.

Back into Spain with hard labour as a reward. I’d promised to help out a friend a while ago and having ‘free time’ now the Sahara Desert leg of this trip has been postponed, it’s time for a bit of graft.

Thirteen foot drop on the right hand side. Gulp! Possibly the most stylishly dressed brickie in Spain. Possibly not. NB Not really a brickie. More of a bodger.

Any builder worth his salt would scoff at my (lack of) ability, but my friends want a ‘rustic’ extension and ‘rustic’ is my speciality. The weather’s good, the views are spectacular and the company couldn’t be better. These are old friends and we have a fair history behind us. I asked his permission to write about this particular piece of history. In my old job I occasionally met new people under difficult circumstances and when I first saw Gary he was tied to a radiator and, literally, pissing himself. His ‘crime’ was to be the owner of a house that was coveted by a man whose idea of making a fair offer was to beat up and intimidate the owner. Property developers have an unfair reputation in many ways, but Steven Potter – not his real name – used methods that were decidedly unpleasant.

I had a different name at that time. I’ve had a fair number of names and can’t actually remember the particular one I was using. My job was to become the best mate and confidant of Steven Potter in order to probe for the weaknesses that would lead to his arrest. I wasn’t a policeman, but was subcontracted out by my own agency from my ‘day job’ on occasions when a plausible ‘inside man’ stood a better chance of getting a result.

I’d been accompanying Potter for a week or so and had seen nothing more than an unpleasant man enforcing harsh rules on his unfortunate tenants. He’d told me about a run-down house in an area that was on the rise. No sitting tenants to be terrorised into leaving, but an owner who had no intention of selling. Gary was an antique dealer at that time and the house was where he’d spent the first eighteen years of his life. He’d inherited it a year ago and had big plans for a sympathetic renovation. Potter wanted a quick refurb to divide it into half a dozen flats. In an ideal world, the owner’s refusal to sell should have settled the matter. We turned up just in time for the next step in the negotiation. A shirtless man tied to a (cold) radiator in the next room was a pointer to the negotiating process taking an unusual turn.

Potter’s company had offered a price – about half the true value – and indicated it was a final offer. I’d not seen this side of him until now and was torn between doing my job and concern for the victim. In the main, I turned my back on unpleasantness when I encountered it on a job. Those involved were criminals or rival drug dealers and my adopted persona would be expected to view it with dispassion.

This was different. The man tied to the radiator was a civilian. Not even remotely connected to criminality. A victim.

Potter gave his orders and left. He never went into the room where the owner was tied up. One of the reasons for his success was the inability of a victim to involve Potter in the crime. Hence the decision to use an inside man. I told him I’d hang around for a while; make sure his wishes were carried out. Keen. That went down well.

The two men who’d been given the job of persuaded the householder to sell were strangers. I’d not seen either of them before and would surely have remembered them. A skinny man with greasy black hair tied in a ponytail had the restless eyes and bad skin of a drug user. His companion was a fat man wearing a shirt favoured by darts players. I assumed he was the one in charge as he’d made it very plain my presence wasn’t welcome.

‘Keep out of the way,’ he said, pushing his lardy face right in front of me. ‘We don’t need any help.’

At such close quarters his rotting teeth and breath that could strip paint forced me backwards.

‘What you been eating, fat boy? Dog shit?’ I looked for a reaction to see whether he was anything more than a fat bully.

He gave an outraged bark of disbelief and another blast of halitosis arrived in its wake. I took a step forward and spoke directly to his angry face. ‘I thought breath like yours would be covered under that International Convention outlawing the use of poison gas.’

He took a swing at me and I blocked his fist with my forearm.

‘Tommy!’ The thin addict spoke for the first time and I belatedly realised he was the brains of the partnership. Perhaps just as well.

‘Finish this first.’

The fat man stared at me, but did as he was told.

‘What’s the problem?’ I asked, ignoring the posturing of the fat man.

‘No problem at all. You heard the offer. Up to him now.’

‘What’s he got to say?’

‘Not said a word, yet. Needs a bit more persuasion.’

I looked at the man tied to the radiator. He didn’t look like a fighter but had a stubborn expression on his face and his lips were clamped tighter than a camel’s sphincter in a sandstorm.

‘He’s been here all night, thinking it over,’ the thin man informed me. His approach was calm and considered, but I’d seen the glance he’d exchanged with his malodorous colleague and suspected I’d be back on the agenda when the main business was over.

Next to the radiator, just out of reach of the recalcitrant householder, were a set of knives and a hammer. Good thinking and I raised my impression of those charged with obtaining a sale agreement accordingly. When it comes to persuasion by violent means, anticipation of future pain is part of the process. Actual pain is relatively fleeting, but prolonging the expectation of pain overnight was the act of men who’d done this before and knew its effectiveness.

I squatted next to the captive and gave him a slow wink. He was clever enough to keep the relief from his face, but the tension slipped from his shoulders. I saw the glimpse of a chance to get him out of here without bloodshed.

‘I’ll talk to Steven,’ I said, rising to my feet and deliberately using the familiarity rather than the ‘Mister Potter’ with which they’d be accustomed. They didn’t like it, but I’d arrived as part of Potter’s inner cabal and they weren’t going to argue. I walked into the next room with my ‘phone and had an imaginary conversation, raising my voice on occasions.

‘He wants him moved from here,’ I said on my return.

‘Fuck that.’

I offered my phone to both men. ‘Tell him yourself,’ I said. ‘He’s on speed dial. Just press 2.’

Neither man took up my offer. Just as well.

‘I’ll take him. You two can fuck off. Put the knives back where you found them on your way out.’

They didn’t like it, but they were just hired muscle and not skilled in reasoned debate. I gave it two minutes after the front door slammed and then cut the captive free.

‘I need you away from here, fast.’

‘No problem,’ he said, speaking for the first time.

The job was compromised, but there would be other ways to deal with the likes of Steven Potter. A private security firm took over responsibility for looking after the place and the owner told me he’d decided over the course of that night chained to a radiator to sell up, for a fair price, and move away. My temporary employers weren’t too pleased with my dereliction of duty, but that wasn’t a great concern.

‘Steven Potter’ remains a thorn in the side of many people, but no longer resorts to intimidation, being a pillar of the community these days, hence the assumed name. Many efforts were made to expose him and if I’d stayed on the job any evidence I managed to gain may well have been the catalyst to bringing him down. That was pointed out to me, more than once. You win some, you lose some.

The man tied to that radiator is our host for the next week or so. Gary still ‘does a bit’ in the antique trade and has a great eye for a bargain. His finca is a delightful home with stunning lake and mountain views close to the perched castle of Guadalest. I’m singing for my supper by building a kitchen extension, but I’m definitely getting the best of the bargain. My wife adores Gary and his equally fascinating partner, Richard and their hospitality is legendary. Gary and I walked down to the lake shore yesterday and we talked for only the second time of the day we met.

Part of the castle at Guadalest. Stunning views and clean, fresh air.

Misguided Genius photographer intended this ‘artistic’ shot to show the finca across the lake. Seemed a good idea at the time. 

‘Write about it, but don’t make me sound heroic,’ he said. ‘I was terrified.’

Gary was dealing with a world far beyond his experience, threatened with torture by sadistic thugs, yet he stared back at the man trying to take his house away without a shred of fear. He’s one of the most courageous men I’ve ever met.

Antiques dealers are a strange lot. I used to be one. I treasure memories of those days. Flamboyant, outgoing or secretive, they come in all types, shapes and sizes. A dealer from the West Midlands changed his name by deep poll to Robin Bastard and had the new name emblazoned on his van after hearing the description applied to himself so often. Now, that’s class!

Gary and Richard have an enviable client list and a fund of stories concerning the foibles of the great and the good which will fill our evenings with scandalised laughter. From such unlikely beginnings are firm friendships made.

No Pressure.

I’ve had an idea in my head for a while now about a new novel. Even though there are other part-books gathering virtual dust on the computer, always room for one more, eh? I’ve already posted some snippets on this blog and these are a few more random scribbles. I met a major publisher for lunch in London recently. He liked my writing and he liked my track record of selling books in large numbers even more. ‘You break all the rules, you know?’ he said. ‘Yet it works.’ I liked the sound of that.

This new project breaks a few more of those mythical ‘rules.’ As yet, all the characters are unpleasant people. Apparently, it’s essential to have at least one character with whom the reader can identify. A good guy. That’s the rule. Not in this book. Not yet, anyway. Maybe there’s a character still to appear. Maybe one of the unpleasant ones will turn out to be a good guy in the end. I think that’s unlikely, but, hey, it’s early days. 40,000 words, much less than halfway through the journey.

Here’s what came into my head the other day while watching Moroccan men chase goats around a field. No connection.

As ever, what appears in the blog is a rough first draft. Unedited, unrefined, nothing added or taken away. The final edit may be very different or it may even be removed entirely. Given my customary lack of organisation, I’ve no idea where this one is going yet.

About time I posted some fiction as the blog was in danger of becoming a travelogue interspersed with suggestions of me being a sensitive person. This should add balance.

 

 

‘I don’t know you, do I?’ The man asking the question wasn’t making a polite enquiry. He wasn’t a man noted for politeness. Francis Dodd was just starting a fifteen year sentence and his presence in this small windowless room had not been voluntary. I’d asked to see him and my request had been granted. When there’s money involved, most things are possible. Francis had done time before, but a fifteen year minimum term is enough to unsettle anyone. Francis being the man he was, time off for good behaviour was never going to be an option.

‘No, you don’t. You used to know about me, but we never met. That was a while ago and there’ve been a few changes since then.’

‘So, I don’t know you. Thought not. You might as well fuck off then.’

I smiled. ‘I asked to see you. I’ll leave when I’ve got what I came for. Your job is to sit there and mind your fucking manners.’

The length of chain attached to a metal ring bolted to the floor twanged as Dodd lurched forward, but held. The chain looked as if it had been designed to restrain a charging bull elephant and I sat impassively as the man on the other side of the table made repeated attempts to get to me.

‘I’ll fucking do you,’ he snarled.

‘I don’t think so, Frankie. You’re the one chained up like a scrap-yard dog, not me.’

‘I have friends, In here and outside. You’re fucking dead.’

I shrugged like I heard that every day and it didn’t bother me. Once that had been the case. Talk was cheap. Back then a thug like Francis Dodd would beg to be noticed by what I represented. I’d been the Big Man then and would be again. One of the things I lacked was money. I had some, but not enough. Francis Dodd had led the team that had taken a bonded warehouse. Part of the haul was a large sum of money in used banknotes. The papers claimed ten million, but I reckoned the true amount would be half that. Papers always make the most of a story. The money was still out there and offers of a reduced sentence in return for its location had been rejected.

‘Yeah, yeah, if you say so. I’ve heard all the stories about you. Kicked a few heads in your time, but still ended up in here, eh Frankie’

He sucked his top lip and narrowed his eyes. ‘Nobody calls me that.’

‘That was then, Frankie. New rules. My rules now.’

I reached down to the canvas bag I’d brought with me and withdrew the tyre iron I’d taken from the boot of my car. I should have been checked over on entry, but the man in charge had been paid to look the other way. Very well paid and no need to involve the Governor. A matter between the two of us. How he looked after his men was down to him.

‘How about me giving you a few taps with this, Frankie,’ I asked, passing the iron bar from hand to hand. ‘I don’t see you being able to stop me, do you? Them out there,’ I inclined my head towards the closed door which led to the corridor. ‘They’re not going to say anything.’

He looked back at me, impassively. He’d been threatened before.

‘The thing is, Frankie, I was never here. No record in the day-book of a visit. You getting knocked about might have to go down as a mystery. Someone turned you down in the showers, perhaps?’

He stirred then, the chains that held him captive rattling out a protest.

‘No cameras, no witnesses and no record of a visitor. The screws will see nothing, hear nothing. They’ll be out there, playing cards. Each one an alibi for the others.’

Frankie leaned forward as far as the chain allowed and swung a massive left hand. My arm was a blur and the tyre iron produced a satisfying crunch as it made contact with his clenched fist. I heard the knuckles snap and he drew back his fist as if it were red hot. The hand was already swelling and the pain must have been intense, but he didn’t even glance at it. Frankie Dodd: hard man.

‘Looks nasty,’ I said. ‘Trapped it in a door, did you? Best get that seen to.’ He stared me out, blanking the pain.

I dropped the tyre iron back in the bag. It would take more than broken bones to get the answer I wanted.

‘I want the money, Frankie.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘The filth didn’t find it, did they? Not any of it. Maybe I should go round and have a word with Diane. Take my little friend with me.’ I nodded towards the bag on the floor.

For the first time I got a reaction. ‘You stay away from her. The silly bitch knows nothing.’

I already knew that. Frankie had been married to Diane for twenty odd years, but like most career criminals, work and home were kept in separate compartments. Diane wouldn’t have a clue where the money was hidden. She’d know where to look for the emergency fund, put aside for a rainy day, but a few grand put away in case the old man got banged up wasn’t worth the effort.

I thought back to what I knew of Frankie and his ilk. That precious reputation as a hard man would be his weak point.

‘Be interesting if word got out about you being a grass, Frankie,’ I said, thoughtfully. He snorted; shaking his head in disbelief.

‘No,’ I added, ‘maybe you’re right. The great Frankie Dodd, a grass. Take some believing. Maybe something else.’

Frankie stared at me. The hate radiating from him was almost tangible.

‘How about Frankie Dodd the convicted nonce?’

He laughed but I saw the flicker of fear in his eyes.

‘Fuck off,’ he blustered. ‘Who’d believe that?’

‘Plenty of people. Remember Angela?’

He screwed up his face in thought, his confusion spreading.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten Angela. Worked in your club. Blonde, good tits, a good earner.’

‘What about her?’

‘You were giving her one, right? You a happily married man as well, messing with girls young enough to be your daughter.’

Frankie laughed. ‘Is that it? Diane knows about the girls in the club. Has done for years. She’ll tell you to fuck off if you go to her with that. Angela was well up for it. Like they all are.’

‘She’s fifteen, Frankie.’

Frankie said nothing, but he wasn’t laughing any more.

‘Yeah, fifteen. I should know. She’s my niece. I asked her to get a job in your club, knowing a dirty sod like you wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her.’

He looked at me blankly, saying nothing.

‘What no bluffing it out; saying she looked eighteen at least. I grant you she doesn’t look fifteen, but that’s what the charge sheet will say. Under age girl, you’ll be on the sex offenders register and stuck in with the rest of the paedos and nonces. Not such a big man then.’

I sat still for a moment or two, watching him.

‘Thinking you could ride that one out, are you? Just bad luck? More to come, Frankie. Angela’s got a younger sister. She’s twelve. Wait till word of that hits the streets. Frankie Dodd, shagging young kids.’

‘I never fucking…’

‘Doesn’t matter. What counts is what Angela and her sister will say. Trust me, Frankie, my nieces know what’s good for them. They’ll say whatever I tell them to.’

He sagged back in his chair. ‘You bastard,’ he said.

‘Shut it, nonce. My rules now, right? You sit there and listen.’ I reached down into the bag again and pulled out a buff envelope. ‘Take a look,’ I said.

Frankie picked up the envelope with his undamaged hand and spilled the contents across the table. The photographs were never going to win any awards, but they were clear enough. Two naked girls, showing off, one much younger than the other and three more photographs of young boys, also naked.

‘My nieces,’ I said. ‘Plus a couple of boys to show your versatility. Looks familiar, Frankie? So it should. Taken in your office. The man who took the photos for me tried to keep copies for himself. He’s not around any more.’

I let my words soak in, but Frankie wasn’t listening. He flicked through the pictures, open-mouthed in shock. I took them from him, using the cuff of my shirt and replaced them in the envelope.

‘The police will find these on top of your wardrobe, if it comes to that. I’ll make sure they’re found. Your prints all over them. Did I mention my niece has an unusual hobby? You always wearing a condom; was that part of the deal with Diane? You see, the thing is, Angela collects condoms. The contents can be very useful.’

Frankie bellowed with sudden rage and swung wildly at my face with both fists. I kept well clear, but as his rage subsided reached forward and plucked a handful of hair from the crown of his head.

I slipped them into a clear plastic bag I took from my pocket and smiled at him.

‘DNA, Frankie. Jurors just can’t get enough of it. One person’s word against another is all very well, but throw DNA into the mix and it’s a whole new ball game. You’d go down, Frankie, and go down hard. Frankie Dodd the blagger is one thing; Frankie Dodd the nonce who fucks young kids and keep photos of them in his house, that’s very different.’

I let him rage and thrash around for a while. He wasn’t going anywhere.

‘The money, Frankie. You can keep enough for a start when you get out. Fifteen years, wasn’t it? I’ll not take it all. Just enough to get by. Shall we say three?’

‘Three fucking million? You’re joking.’

‘I never joke. Just not the humorous type. Two ways we can do this. My three million and the other way. Angela and her sister make tearful statements and I put the word out about what a dirty little toe-rag Frankie Dodd turned out to be. A few more years tagged onto your sentence may be neither here nor there, but you won’t be the big man in here any more. Not with you in the segregation block along with the other kiddie fiddlers. Then there’s Diane. What’s she gonna make of this? How old is your daughter now? Twelve, isn’t she? What would she be thinking about her old man?’

‘You bastard.’

‘Yeah, it’s been said before. Your choice, Frankie. Get me the money and I swear I’ll only take three mill. Can’t say fairer than that. Tell that useless twat you call a lawyer I’ll contact him for the details. Your choice, Frankie.’

I stood, picked up my bag and walked to the door. I banged on it and heard the sound of heavy boots in the corridor.

‘You’ve got two days before my nieces get chatty. Get it sorted, Frankie. Two days. No pressure.’

 

 

The Black Mist.

A couple of months back I wrote a guest blog for a friend of mine. Viv is a talented writer and a sensitive person with a great depth of understanding about the stresses and strains of life. I wrote about depression and the subject has come back into my life recently. I’ve included a short section from my earlier post in here as it said exactly what I wanted to say at this time.

 

I used to have a very stressful job. A very specific job for which very few are suited and even fewer stay the course. It involved undercover work, befriending criminals and drug dealers to gain access to gang bosses and major importers. Myself and my colleagues worked in different areas to avoid become known and I met my fellow workers perhaps only once a year. There were eight of us at the ‘sharp end’ and about fifty behind the scenes. Of the eight who did the job at the same time as myself, over a period of twenty years, only three are still alive. Including me, well, obviously!

The constant danger, the retribution meted out if the carefully planned cover failed, the difficulty of adapting to life after the job ended all contributed to this high level of attrition.

I wrote in my own blog recently about meeting a former colleague in Stoke Mandeville Hospital, the spinal injuries unit. He’d been beaten so severely he’d been presumed dead and thrown from a speeding car by his assailants. Despite being paralyzed from the neck down his positive attitude was massively uplifting.

‘I’d kill myself, if I could’, he said to me, but then laughed out loud. ‘Nah, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t stand the idea of my wife finding me and thinking, you selfish bastard, what’d you do that for?’

Selfish. The word he chose resonates with me even now. My friend died, in his sleep, three years after I last saw him. His wife gave me his watch, ‘to remember him by.’ I can’t imagine ever forgetting the bravest man I ever met.

Last year I went to a funeral. Not a former work colleague, but one of the toughest men I ever met. Joe was the very personification of the Alpha Male. I played in the same rugby team for many years and never saw him take a backward step. Even when he was carrying an injury the desire to play was still there and I kept on picking him; knowing his spirit and desire to win were irreplaceable. Joe was a man of immense drive and determination who was successful at everything he attempted. Last October, he killed himself.

I stayed behind, after the funeral and talked to his wife; reaching out and trying to find words suitable for occasions like this.

There aren’t any.

‘He’d been so good,’ she said, ‘then the black mist came down again.’

The black mist. Depression. We don’t understand it; can’t rationalise it, yet it can disrupt a person’s life to such an extent they can’t bear it any more.

Two of my former work colleagues took their own lives. Apparently, without anyone close to them having the faintest idea of how bad the situation had become. I knew them both and was shocked to the core when I heard the news. Yes, the job played a part. I’m sure of it. Twenty years on, some memories will never leave me. I’ve recently started to write, in very general terms, about my work experience. It’s hard. The recollections are buried deep. That’s my safety valve. I’m a positive person. I don’t ‘do’ depression, as such, but I understand it. As for suicide; I can’t imagine the level of despair that brings about this decision.

Is it ‘selfish’ as my friend in Stoke Mandeville said? In a way, yes. Of course it is. The people left behind. Those closest to you who love you and care for you. Their despair, that feeling they could have done more, prevented this. I know that feeling that as I’ve felt like that on three separate occasions. The problem is: the decision to end one’s life is made under conditions where all rational thought has fled. The ‘black mist’ is control.

I’ll never forget my friend’s cheeriness as I fed him a meal. His nature wouldn’t permit regrets or sorrow at his condition. He shamed me. I’ve never felt so inadequate as I did that afternoon. He was bearing up under conditions that would surely have battered me. We laughed, a lot. He told me everything I needed to know before I took his place within the group of men who’d almost killed him. He also told me about a prominent and flamboyant disk jockey who worked part-time at the hospital and also died recently. My friend said, ‘never met such an arse-hole in my life.’ Ah well, there you go. Jim didn’t fix it for everyone!

I’ve been on the road for a while and the ‘plan’ as far as it existed was to travel through the Sahara desert ‘because it’s there’ as people who climb high mountains say. Circumstances have conspired against us this trip and the Saharan adventure may have to wait for another time. I stood on the empty beach at Tarifa, looking across the narrow strip of water that separates Europe and Africa and pined for deserts and mountains.

A week ago, I received an email from a friend I’d planned to visit on the next leg of the journey. I worked with him for ten years and for much of this time he was my only link to normality. When I worked undercover it occasionally became necessary to disappear; become another person. Usually, this other person was not exactly a pillar of the community but a ‘type’ chosen in order to gain the confidence of the undesirable people we were trying to build a case against. Tony – not his real name – was my control; the one person I reported back to. Not my boss – the idea would amuse both of us equally – as I was very much out there on my own, making my own decisions, but he was always there for me if I needed him. He never worked at the ‘sharp end’ as he used to call it, but he did his job with immense dedication and never let me down.

Tony had heard about our changed plans and sent me a cheery email, full of platitudes about catching up next time and the like. I told my wife it didn’t sound right and the next day I had another email from Tony’s wife. She told me he’d be furious if he knew she’d been in touch, but wanted me to know about Tony’s ‘problem.’ The black dog again.

We talked about it, but it was an easy decision to make. There were good reasons for staying in Spain, in regular contact with the UK, but this took priority now. We told our ailing relatives to cope without us for a week and hopped onto the next ferry to Morocco.

When Tony retired, four years ago now, he’d bought a little place in Normandy and tried to lose himself in house renovations. A good plan. I’d done much the same thing myself. He and his wife visited us in Southern Spain a couple of years ago and afterwards drove across Morocco after hearing us raving about the place for a whole week. They loved it, as I knew they would. They spoke French, could stand the summer heat and the next step was obvious: selling up again and buying a house in Morocco.

A brave step, but if anyone could make a go of it, it was Tony. As I thought. Physically, he remained as strong as an ox and his resilience had sustained me and all the others for whom Tony had been ‘Mister Dependable.’ Eventually though, he reached the stage where ‘keeping busy’ wasn’t enough to keep the demons at bay. I’ve seen my job break people and Tony couldn’t adjust to the change in pace. You spend your working life in the knowledge that one tiny mistake can lead to the death of others and it’s almost impossible to put that behind you and live an ‘ordinary’ life. I know all about this. I’ve had periods where I felt powerless. Moody. Unable to shake self-induced pressures. I’ve dealt with them. Faced them down and moved on, but I’m very well aware it’s not just a case of ‘pulling yourself together.’ The mind is fragile and easily disturbed.

Tony’s demons are back and we’ve spent the past five days in their company. Superficially, he’s the same. Cheerful, amusing and great company, but when the conversation flagged I saw the furrows that were never there before. He drinks more than he used to do and has periods of brooding silence.

After three days of pretence, it all came flooding out. Too many memories, too many concerns about the safety of others. I’d seen at first hand how much he’d worried over me when I was ‘behind the lines’ as he always called it. That depth of concern made him the perfect contact, but took its toll. We sat up late one night, just the two of us, listening to the myriad sounds of a Moroccan night. The village Tony lives in isn’t on any map and I still have no idea why he chose to live here. They’re a clever, garrulous couple, yet chose to hide themselves away in the middle of nowhere. Don’t misunderstand me: the house is delightful and the neighbours are friendly, but this had every sign of being a place of escape.

Tony confirmed it that night. “We wanted somewhere where nobody knew us. Try for a fresh start. Put the memories behind us.’ He said us, but the demons were in his head, not his wife’s. He knows that too.

We talked all night. About the old days. About mutual friends. About sad events as well as good times. It all came out. By dawn, we were both tired and emotional, but I felt we’d accomplished something. Certainly, I knew him better. Previously, I’d only imagined we knew each other well. He told me of his sleep problems, the dark thoughts that recur without warning, the mood swings and many other classic symptoms of depression. ‘I know what it is,’ he said, and I’ll deal with it. I’m not going down the chemical route. This is my problem and I’ll beat it.’

We talked about the future. The trip through the desert that’s been in my head for a while. The prospect of Tony moving house. Perhaps a house in Fez or Marrakech. A renovation project to occupy both mind and body. I volunteered to help with the renovations. He’s ‘thinking it over.’

Tony’s wife spoke to us when we left. ‘You’ll never know how much you being here meant to him,’ she said. ‘He’s more positive than at any time since he left that bloody job. Told me we’re going with you when you come back again to do that Sahara trip.’

‘That’s good,’ I said.

‘Better than you know. He told me we were going. Not asked me what I thought about the idea. He bloody well told me. First time he’s done that in five years.’ She hugged us both, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I’ve waited so long to see that spark come back.’

A spark. Sparks can become so much more. I hope so. Depression is a bastard. It can take control of the strongest will and the effects on those closest to the person concerned are equally devastating. I can’t say for sure Tony will get through this. He’s a proud man and won’t seek outside help. I can relate to that. I may not agree with it, but I understand it. He needs to work it out for himself and I’ll respect that desire.

We’re still planning to do the Sahara trip. I’ve put Tony in charge of planning. He’s better at it than I am. I hope he’ll be with us when the time comes. I think he will. He’s a fighter. If anyone can beat this thing, he can. We’ll just have to wait now. That’s not easy.

 

 

 

Into Africa.

The last blog post for a while and it’s a travel report. I’m conscious of my lamentably ignored new writing; the three and a half ‘novels-in-waiting’ gathering virtual dust on my computer. I’ve been busy lately so not much time for writing. I’m sure others imagine we’re on one long holiday, but we don’t see it like this. We’re soaking up atmosphere, exploring new places, meeting strangers and absorbing different cultures. It’s a full time job!

Finally, into Morocco. Not the three months or so we’d hoped for, but a swift flit across the water to see old friends. The health concerns back in England have subsided a little, but we’re not intending to be ‘off the grid’ for long. Missing out the High Atlas and the Sahara is a blow, but we’re staying cheerful and saying ‘another time’ as often as possible. Next time we’re here we’ll be officially full-time travelers, which is exciting. We’ll have a different van – not necessarily better as our little van has been brilliant – but one better suited to being on the road all the time.

The next van will be our only home and will need careful planning.

Omnia mea mecum porto – All that is mine I carry with me. Not an easy task. A logistical nightmare for some, but eagerly anticipated by myself. I thrive on challenges, even if it’s only the spectacular failures that are remembered.

We took a late decision to travel from Algeciras, rather than swooping across from Tarifa to Tangiers on the catamaran. No particular reason; just a whim. We’ve travelled both routes before and there’s much to recommend either.

Sailing from Algerciras means we land in Ceuta, a Spanish enclave, one of two tiny pieces of Spain on Mainland Morocco.

A rough crossing on a day far better suited to surfing than sailing, but we’ve had worse, and then arrival in what has to be the most disorganised place on Earth.

Ceuta, like many border towns, is chaotic. Inside a corridor with wire sides and roof, like a sheep pen for humans, are the foot passengers. One line arriving, one departing. Those arriving have massive burdens. I saw a man staggering along with a fridge freezer on his back. Those who travel abroad bring back anything they can carry on the return journey. Old bikes, car tyres, bundles of clothes, mattresses; anything portable will have a value ‘back home.’ The cars on the quay where we boarded were stacked with bags and an even larger pile of belongings was strapped to the roof. Recycling, in its purest form. What the West throw away, the Moroccans cherish. They are a supremely resourceful people. There is no litter in Morocco as virtually nothing is ever thrown away, just passed further down the line for others to find useful.

A hundred yards away are the taxis. Hundreds of them. There are two types. The Grand Taxi is invariably a Mercedes saloon; old, battered and with a few hundred thousand miles left behind. They travel long distances and it’s customary to wait until they are full before departing. This may involve at least half a dozen passengers clambering aboard, but it’s also possible for a European couple to travel on their own by paying the driver for his missing ‘others.’ All Europeans are fabulously wealthy. Just ask any local.

The other option, for local journeys, are the Petit Taxis. Each area has a different colour, but apart from this they have little in common, apart from being twenty years old and look as if they’ve come from the nearest scrap yard. Peugeot 205, Fiat Uno and many more. All small. All elderly and all missing wing mirrors.

I’ve driven through the centre of Marrakech, several times. Imagine London, Paris and Rome, at rush hour, then add into the mix drivers who have no conception of road manners, etiquette or even road sense. With me so far? Now imagine every single driver wearing blinkers so they look neither right nor left, gesticulate wildly from an open window with one hand and keep the other hard down on the car horn. Somehow, it works. Minor collisions happen all the time, but are ignored. Every car may have started life with wing mirrors, but their life expectancy would be five minutes, at best.

We didn’t require a taxi as we had our own van. To get to the exit gates a mere hundred yards away we still had to satisfy the demands of the immigration ‘system.’

There are small booths, each with a hundred or so people milling around, where we have to show passports, driving licence and vehicle documents.

‘This time, I’m doing it myself,’ I decided. My wife sat in the car, all doors locked, while I attempted to join the queue at the nearest booth. Queuing is a very European idea and is widely ignored over here.

A very tall man in snowy white robes approached me. ‘I am Mohammed,’ he said. I’ve been here before, met many of these ‘guides’ and they’re always called Mohammed.

‘Give me your papers,’ he demanded. I looked again at the mob of people in front of me and handed them over. Mohammed handed my precious documents to another robed man who promptly ran off clutching them and disappeared. I walked back to my van to wait.

My wife’s smirk was unbearable. ‘Back already?’

‘Mohammed,’ I said.

‘Ah.’

The first time we experienced this, it prompted major alarms. Handing passports, some money, driving licence and all the car’s documents to a complete stranger is a major concern. We had no reason to worry then and it was the same today. The second man, probably named Mohammed, tapped on the window five minutes later. They are highly skilled at ‘pushing in’ and somehow make their way to the desk in a matter of seconds. We had our exit documents, travel ‘visa’ and all made easy through a few euros paid to Mohammed and his extended family of Mohammeds.

We changed some euros into dirhams; having the same thought as last time and the time before: each and every banknote looks as if it’s been repeatedly run over by a fleet of buses and then we were away from the port and about to, finally, enter Morocco itself.

‘I always forget how beautiful it is here,’ I said. The fields are green, the sky is blue and the air is clear. Ten miles away from the coast and we’re in another world. I’m driving down a modern dual carriageway – not all the roads are of this standard – but there are as many men on donkeys or bicycles as there are cars. There will be police or military checkpoints further down the road; in this country, the police and the army are both numerous and officious. In the main, they’ll wave us through. We’re obviously tourists and tourists get a free pass, most of the time.

We’ve found our place to spend the night and it’s both cheap and well-organized. The ‘Guardian’ has a uniform, of sorts, and is very efficient. He parks his square of cardboard in front of our van and settles down for the night. I don’t smoke, but I always carry cigarettes in the van for these occasions. A couple of cigarettes and a few coins assures our safety. We walk to the nearby town for a meal and to search for Internet access. The Internet café is very smart inside. There’s a small kitchen where my wife orders fresh orange. The young boy in charge loads a Heath Robinson contraption with a dozen oranges and bright, tangy juice comes out the other end. There’s enough for four tall glasses and it costs the equivalent of twenty pence.

We wait for the man who’s in charge of the computers to finish his prayers and he comes rushing over at last, hand outstretched.

‘English,’ he says. A statement, not a question.

We nod and say ‘Liverpool.’

‘Ah, Liverpool. Football. Beatles.’

We nod again. Always the same reaction to my home town. Somehow, I manage from saying ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ We’re used to it by now.

Most Moroccans speak what I’d call ‘not very good French’ or, less commonly, ‘even worse Spanish.’ This suits me very well as I am fluent both in ‘‘not very good French’ and ‘even worse Spanish.’

This connection’s good enough to post my blog and check for emails. We’re bound for the middle of nowhere and can’t expect as good a connection again for some time. That’s okay. I’ll scribble some thoughts along the way. May even write some more of my sadly neglected novels. We’ll see how it goes. Already, we’re reminded how much we love this country. Away from the cities and the coast, the people are delightful, the countryside is lovely and the weather makes a mockery of reports reaching us of the icy blast of winter afflicting the UK.

Best day of the whole trip and only our first day in Morocco. Lots more to come.

 

Breaking and Entering or Breaking of Wind. Which is Worse?

‘Hospes nullus tam in amici hospitium diverti potest, Quin ubi triduum continuum fuerit jam odiosus siet’ has been my view of visitors for many a long year.

What?

Oh, sorry, one forgets we’re not all Latin scholars here. (Yes, of course I looked up ‘the Latin bit.’)

Anyway, here’s the best translation I can offer: ‘No one can be so welcome a guest that he will not become an annoyance when he has stayed three continuous days in a friend’s house.’

There’s an Indian proverb that’s even more restrictive: ‘The first day a guest, the second day a guest, the third day a calamity.’ Hmm, I can see the thinking behind that one as well.

Very good friends, I can stretch hospitality to a week, but after that…

I was thinking about ‘hospitality’ the other day. Life on the road is far removed from conventional living. People tend to be friendlier. Possibly because we’re all just passing through. Travellers help each other out. In many different ways. One of the many reasons we like travelling is the number of friends we make. Not friends for life, obviously, but people whose company adds to an occasion. Conviviality is an ideal condition.

It was cold the other night. Not ‘UK in February’ cold, but decidedly nippy. No central heating in our little van so it was back to ‘snuggling’ as a defence against frostbite. My all-time favourite form of heating.

Two youngsters in a tent, just up the road. Sheltered by a sand dune they may have been, but only the third tent we’ve seen since Christmas. One of those lightweight jobs you see at festivals. Okay, they’re kids; they’re tough, but even so. We shared a meal with them last night. Jean-Pierre is twenty and wants to be a chef when he’s got the surfing bug out of his system. Good luck with that, mate, I thought. I never did. He’s from Biarritz, great place for surfing, and has been across to Morocco already and is now out on the water every day here in Tarifa. As for being a chef: well, I can vouch for his chopping skills – never seen anyone chop a tomato into fifty slices in two seconds before!

Marie is a delicately framed nineteen-year-old waif. Far beyond pretty, and I notice these things! She’s a surfer too, but without her boyfriend’s fanaticism. We talked about them in the night. It was pure ‘snuggle territory’ inside our van so what would it be like under cover of what amounted to not much more than a big umbrella?

Sunshine at dawn warmed everyone up and we were relieved to see our neighbours were still stirring. ‘I’ll make porridge,’ my wife said. ‘Invite them over.’ My wife is kind to everybody. I’m more judgemental, to say the least, but with a surfer and a pretty girl involved I was straight off across the sand.

They turned up five minutes later, one bedraggled, one looking as fragrant as a vision – you’ll know by now which was which.

We scoffed obscene amounts of porridge, drank a gallon of coffee and chatted like old friends. They speak some English, we speak some French so it was one of those conversations I’ve had many times on this trip. The ones where we start of in one language, end up in another or denigrate into that bizarre hybrid where I’ll ask a question in French and the reply comes back in English. Happens all the time!

We were going into town – the usual quest for Internet access – but decided to walk along the beach as the sunshine was so pleasant. ‘Keep an eye on the van for us?’ we asked and they nodded agreement. Porridge on a chilly morning secures massive amounts of goodwill.

Three hours later, we were back and from a hundred yards away I could see our van door was open and the tent was missing.

‘Shit!’

I’m not the runner I used to be – crap knees – but broke a personal best getting to the van. Had it been ransacked? Had the bastards taken all our money, found where I’d hidden the passports? As I lurched to the door and flung it wide open, I was met by the sight of Marie chopping bread in the ‘kitchen.’.

‘I was just making you some lunch,’ she said, brightly. ‘Jean-Pierre has gone to try to buy a new tent as I told him that one is no good. Pouf!’ She did that Gallic shrug thing and added a beaming smile to welcome my wife’s arrival.’

‘Bread?’ I said. Sometimes, I annoy myself at the way trivia comes to the fore. Quite often, actually.

‘Oh, J-P went into town for bread, salad and cheese. You like?’

‘Yes,’ my wife replied. ‘We like very much. Thank you.’

We met behind the van for a debriefing. ‘I locked the van,’ I insisted.

‘Hmm!’

‘I always lock the van.’ Honestly, I’m obsessed with security. Van locking is my speciality.

‘Doesn’t look like it, does it?’

I was about to accuse Marie of being an accomplished burglar when she popped her head around the van and said Jean-Pierre’s car was on the way back. I looked at that face; the very picture of innocence, and concluded I must indeed have walked away without locking the van.

‘I had a lot on my mind,’ I offered in justification and received one of those looks to which I’ve become accustomed over the years.

The new tent was a sturdy beast and we all scrambled around, erecting it in less than ten minutes. A label on the bag in which it came assured the purchaser it was capable of erection (ooh, matron!) in three minutes by one person.

Yeah, right!

Jean-Pierre offered to loan me his board, but not his wetsuit. In fairness, I’m a tad larger, he’s more of a Tom Cruise while I’m er, not Tom Cruise. The sea was raging in, huge waves pounding the shore. It was also bitterly cold. ‘Thank you, but not today,’ I said. He shrugged and went off to surf. After all this time, I’m now officially nesh! Never thought the day would come I’d not take up an offer to go surfing as the water was too cold. Then, there’s forgetting to lock the van. Is this the slippery slope towards my dotage?

A couple of days ago, we met a very different friend. He was big, shaggy-haired and his tongue lolled out of his mouth when he walked. Yes, of course, he was a dog. Do you think we associate with weirdos? He galloped up one morning, tail wagging furiously and forced us to notice him by charging into my legs and almost knocking me over. No collar, yet obviously well cared for and friendly, he hung around all day. As it grew dark and even spotted with rain, he was still there. He’d adopted us.

‘We can’t leave him out there.’ One of us said. ‘It’s raining.’

I looked out. It was indeed spotting with rain, but hardly a downpour. Common sense said the dog had a perfectly good home somewhere he could go to, he’d be missed, our van was only just big enough for us. All valid points. So, obviously, we let him in, found him a blanket to sleep on and decided we’d find his owners in the morning.

Sleep didn’t come easy that night. Not that our new friend howled, fidgeted, or scratched at the door to go out. He slept like a baby on his blanket and never moved. He also farted.

Huge, rasping farts, loud enough to wake anyone from a coma. I could cope with the noise. The accompanying smell made me glad I hadn’t fitted one of those gas alarms that sensible campers have. The siren would have been going all night long.

The sheer unfairness of that first dig in the ribs. ‘Jake!’

‘It wasn’t me.’

‘You always say… Oh!’ Another eruption assailed our ears, very shortly followed by our noses.

We looked at each other in the darkness and laughed like drains at each offering from our blissfully unaware companion. The humour vanished after an hour or so, but we made it to dawn, somehow. The owner of ‘Jaime’ was heard calling out plaintively in the sand dunes. ‘Jaime’ pricked up his ears and when I opened the van door, bolted without a backward glance. Ungrateful sod.

‘I’ll leave the door open, shall I?’

‘Definitely. For about a week.’

Two very different friendships. A young couple who I was prepared to hunt down and kill after imagining our kindness returned by breaking and entering and a dog who’d abused our offer of shelter by farting all night long. Both friendships will linger long in our memory.

The Scariest Person I Ever Met

‘Don’t sit with your back to the fire. You’ll melt the marrow in your spine and then where shall we be?’

My maternal Grandmother was the wisest woman in Liverpool. She told me so. Many times. Only 4’9” but never lost an argument, even when everyone, including herself knew she was wrong. That advice on avoiding spinal meltdown has stuck with me since the age of two and was just one of the building blocks that defined my early life.

We lived in a terraced house on Scotland Road. Scottie Road was the epicentre of Liverpool in those days. Officially declared a ‘slum’ the houses were demolished when I was very young and replaced by a dual carriageway; most of the residents shipped out to Huyton. I moved elsewhere, but my Grandma had to be virtually carried, kicking and screaming, by the Council workmen to her new Council house in Huyton Quarry.

We went back to Liverpool every holiday: my mum, me and my sister. My dad stayed at work, shovelling coke into a blast furnace. He told me, years later, he was never happier than when he was at work and avoiding his mother-in-law was a massive bonus.

I loved the new house. Me and my sister shared a bedroom big enough for two beds for a start. In the kitchen was a huge range with a fire that burned all day, every day, winter and summer. My job – one of many – was to chop sticks in the Anderson shelter outside, crumple paper and lay the fire ready for lighting by my Grandma when she got up at six o’clock. ‘Never slept a wink in the war with all them bombs raining down on me,’ she said in justification for being up and about in the dark. There weren’t enough chairs in the kitchen for visitors so me and my sister, a year younger, sat on the rug in front of the fire and were largely ignored.

I once enraged my Grandma so much – talking during The Archers – she took me next door to ‘Dermot’ for a ‘good hiding’ as her arthritis was playing up.

Dermot, Liverpool Irish like most from Scottie Road, duly obliged, although I suspect his heart wasn’t really in it.

It was a house ruled by one tiny woman, after the fashion of the Indian sub-continent. One set of rules and one set only. My sister was terrified of her. I taught my sister to read in front of that kitchen range, the teachers at her school having given up on her and usually tried to deflect the frequent admonitions onto myself. I was a boy, after all.

My Grandma frequently baffled me with her sayings and yet I still apply some of them to myself.

‘Don’t pull your face like that. If a draught comes under the door your face’ll set.’ Gulp! Draughts were an obsession and woe betide anyone suggesting a little fresh air would be beneficial on a hot day.

‘Do you think I’m Lady Docker? There’ll be no fizzy pop in this house. Twists your blood. You’ll drink water. Lions drink water.’ (I remember pointing out that lions had very little choice and was hit over the head for insolence.)

‘Put a cap on, you’ll catch your death.’ Oh, so very many things would cause a person to catch their death.

‘Those that ask for summat don’t get; them as don’t ask don’t want.’ A no-win system, indeed.

‘Don’t play with that Timmy Salt. His mother died of TB.’ Timmy Salt was the best footballer in the street and my best friend. Of course, I still played with him. His mother had been dead for at least three years and I remembered standing outside with a shovel in my hand watching the mourners set off for church. The shovel was for any ‘droppings’ from the horse that pulled the milkman’s cart, ‘for the garden.’

‘Wanting summat never did anyone any good. If the good Lord wanted you to have that (insert random object of desire here) you’d have it already.’

I was eight when the old lady died. I’d never known my Grandad who’d been ‘mustard gassed and never got over it’ and died many years previously. Just before she died, she told me she’d put some money aside for me, but not for my sister, in her will. ‘Don’t expect either of you will ever amount to anything, but you’re a cheeky bugger and afraid of nowt so you might just stand a chance. Maybe, one day, you’ll live over yonder with them as has it easy.’ She waved an airy arm towards the back door.

Later, I was outside, chopping sticks, and saw Dermot (I never knew his other name) in his back yard. ‘Dermot,’ I called out, ‘where’s yonder?’

‘Eh?’

‘Where’s over yonder?’

‘Oh, yonder’s over there,’ Dermot said, pointing to the exact opposite direction my Grandma had indicated. My opinion of Dermot went downhill at that point. The poor man knew nothing.

In the will, I was left £20. A huge sum. As promised, my sister got nothing! My mum put £10 each in the Post Office accounts we both had. I sulked for days; shallow and selfish little toe-rag that I was, and at times, still remain!

 

 

You’re a Shit Writer, not Your a Shit Writer. Critics, Bless Them.

Earlier today, I was part of a Twitter conversation about bad reviews. Goes with the territory, for writers. Criticism has two faces: there’s the constructive, reasoned aspect and the other, far more common, version where the comments stray into personal abuse territory. Obviously, I’ve had my share of both and the more books you sell, the more criticism they attract. I’d tell myself it’s envy, jealousy, the outpourings of bile from failed writers, but the truth is, I don’t care. I make a feature of spectacularly adverse comments. They amuse me. Writing isn’t me. What I write in a novel isn’t me. Why should it bother me?

I had a stalker for a while. An American gentleman who wrote to me daily, berating me for just about everything. Not my greatest fan, but I looked forward to his emails with eager anticipation. After I pointed out ‘your a shit writer’ would be better if written as  ‘you’re a shit writer’ he sulked for a week and our relationship was never the same again. He’s gone away now. Probably switched his attention to someone more gracious.

Recently, I’ve gained another frequent correspondent. She’s read all my books, for which I’m grateful, but disliked them all. Odd, I thought. Why buy all four books if you disliked the first so much? Ah, there’s a plan in place. She wants to tell me where I’m going wrong. Tell me how I could improve. Become a better writer. I asked her if she’d written any books herself and she said ‘not yet, but I’ve attended many creative writing workshops and, of course, read widely on the subject of how to write a successful book.’

Now, I could have pointed out I’d sold 75,000 books last year, but I didn’t. I asked her for guidance. Cruel? No, not really. She’s eager to point out my many mistakes and I’m always happy to be entertained.

Thrillers? My novels are far too graphic. Too much detail. Too many deaths. Okay, my first two books were all about a serial killer; ergo the odd dead body here and there, but I metaphorically nodded and asked for more. My third book, Heat, was better than the others. (Actually, it’s nothing of the sort. I wrote it in next to no time; seeking to find an alternative audience for my two preceding ‘graphic’ books, and my low opinion of it has been reflected in the sales figures.) One caveat for this faintest of faint praise came in the damning indictment, ‘You’re not an amusing person so why attempt humour in your work? The section outside a Spanish café is a case in point. Absolutely dire and probably the worst passage you’ve ever written.’

Wow! That’s me told. Here’s a shortened version of ‘the worst passage I’ve ever written. My last feeble attempt at writing anything with a light touch. I’m not cut out to try to be funny and that’s that. Call me mister sensible from now on. Expect no frivolous remarks on Twitter or FaceBook. I’m not cut out for it. Critics can’t be wrong. Not those who’ve been to Creative Writing Workshops. I saw Alexei Sayle live onstage once and remember one line he said. ‘Anyone who goes to a workshop and isn’t an Engineer is a twat.’ Fair comment?

Here’s the worst passage ever written in the history of the world. Even though I’m far from pleased with the book myself, that sounds a little harsh. Donna is nineteen and on holiday in Spain with her elderly Grandmother, Peg. That’s all you need to know.

 

 

 

Peg went into the bar to order drinks – no amount of reminding would persuade her to wait for the waiter to come and take her order – while Donna studied the menu. Peg returned with a middle-aged woman in tow. ‘Here, Donna, budge up, we’ve got company. This is Beryl Somebody or other from Newcastle. Beryl, this young lady is my grand-daughter, Donna.’

‘Hello, Donna, I’ve heard a lot about you,’ Beryl said, sitting herself down next to Donna, a tea-cup balanced precariously in one hand.

‘That waiter’s got enough to do without fetching and carrying for us,’ Peg announced and sailed off again to the bar to fetch the drinks.

‘I’m Beryl Archer, been here five years, but hubby passed away last year so Spain’s not what it was for me,’ Peg’s new friend said, touching Donna’s arm as she spoke. ‘I’ve got a gentleman friend, but we don’t share the same bed, or anything else, so you can keep those assumptions to yourself, thank you very much.’

‘Oh dear,’ Donna said, not certain what else to say, or indeed why she was bothering to talk to this woman at all. They sat in silence for a minute or two, until Donna felt she really should say something as Beryl gave every impression of being in a catatonic trance.

‘You don’t sound like a Geordie.’ Pathetic, but it was all she could think of.  No one would ever mistake her for Oscar Wilde.

Beryl looked bewildered. ‘Why should I?’

Now it was Donna’s turn to look baffled. ‘Sorry, I thought Peg said you were from Newcastle.’

‘So I am. Lived there all my life, up until we came out here.’

‘Oh,’ Donna tried desperately to think where she’d gone wrong. Middlesbrough was Tees-side, Sunderland was Wear-side, but surely everyone from Newcastle was a Geordie?

‘Oh, I know what’s happened,’ Beryl shrieked with a terrifying cackle. ‘You mean the other Newcastle, don’t you? On Tyne? I’m under Lyme myself.’

‘Ah. Newcastle-under-Lyme. That’s in Stoke isn’t it?’

Donna might as well have accused her of being a child molester. ‘Certainly not. Stoke is on Trent, you see. We’re under Lyme. Quite different. Stoke-on-Trent is three miles away at least.’

‘Oh, I see.’

Peg arrived and rescued the situation by providing a welcome distraction. Then she made everything ten times worse.

‘I met Beryl at the funeral, Donna. She’s from Newcastle, but not the one where they talk funny and call each other pet all the time; the one that’s in Stoke-on-Trent.’

Beryl was muttering to herself, fiddling with a tea-bag and preparing to dunk it into hot water as Peg leant over and whispered in a voice that would put a town crier to shame. ‘Nice enough woman, but a bit dim, if you know what I mean.’

The people at the table next to their own turned as one to see who was being described so graphically, but Beryl carried on with her tea-bag dunking as if nothing had occurred, so maybe Peg’s diagnosis was correct.

‘Lot of people mix them up.’ Beryl was at it again.

‘Mix what up?’ Peg demanded.

‘Newcastle and Newcastle. Oh, now you’ve got me at it as well. They even sound alike, don’t they?’

Peg looked at Donna and she looked back at Peg, but neither spoke.

‘Nothing to do with Stoke-on-Trent, though, oh dear me no. We’re Tory, well most of the time anyway. Liberal at worst, but that lot in Stoke, They’re all Labour. Not New Labour either, if you know what I mean? The whippet and cloth cap brigade, you know?’

Donna couldn’t meet Peg’s gaze. ‘Do you live in the village?’ She asked, thinking to change the subject.

‘No. Certainly not. Why should I?’

‘Oh. No reason. In the countryside then?’

‘I’m Campo. Out of town. Can’t be doing with all that sitting around in caffs all day. Not when there’s work to be done.’

Donna looked around at the café outside which they were seated. ‘Do you work then? That must be interesting, what with being in a foreign country and all.’ Donna was really floundering and getting more and more annoyed with Peg who’d dumped this woman on her, then declined to even speak to her.

‘Ah, well you see, dear, I’m not foreign, am I? I live here, you see. All these Brits who come over here; they’re the foreigners. Quite different.’

‘Oh, I see. What exactly do you do?’

‘I suppose one could say I was a combination of many things, but part teacher, part writer sums me up, I suppose.’

‘Oh. Must be very lonely, I’ve always thought, writing I mean.’

‘Lonely? Whatever gave you that idea?’

Bloody hell, this is awful.  ‘Oh, I don’t know really.’

‘Well, if you don’t know something, why blurt it out? Eh?’

‘I’ve just remembered a quotation about writing. Something I learnt at school.  By Nietzsche, I think. He’s a…’

‘I know who Nietzsche was. Get on with it.’

‘He said something like – writing is the only socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.’ Donna sat back feeling faintly pleased with herself.

‘What’s the point of saying that? Oh, I’m sure your quotation is accurate, dear. Quite a change to meet a child these days who’s learnt anything at school, and more to the point remembered any of it. I just don’t see the point of making such a remark in the first place or why anyone should have taken the trouble to remember it for posterity.’

Peg stirred at last. ‘Beryl does horoscopes, Donna. Sends them all over the world she does, don’t you, Beryl?’ All of this was said in the sort of tone normally used by remedial teachers and the staff of pre-school nurseries.

‘I wouldn’t say all over the world,’ Beryl said, bowing her head modestly, ‘but America, Australia, New Zealand to name but a few. Heggh, heggh, heggh.’ She cackled wildly, causing a fresh outbreak of staring from the people seated at the next table. This sudden un-disclosed merriment manifested itself as part hyena impression, part choking fit with a generous dash of epileptic seizure.

‘Far enough for me. What do you say, Donna?’ Peg turned her most penetrating gaze upon her and Donna twigged at last. Beryl was one of the weirdoes that Peg always seemed to attract and use for her own enjoyment.

‘Sounds fascinating,’ Donna said, donning an expression she hoped was conveying rapt attention.

‘You don’t know the half of it, my girl. Of course, it’s all to do with sex. Heggh, heggh.’ The neighbouring table pricked up their collective ears and edged closer. ‘Wanting more of it mostly. The things they tell me, I could write a book. I have a website where they can come and tell me what they want to know. Oh, a website is…. Oh, silly me, of course all you young ones know all there is to know about the web, don’t you?’

Wisely, Donna said nothing, hoping Beryl wasn’t about to give her a quick test and reveal just how computer-illiterate she really was.

‘Tell Donna what sort of things they ask you about, Beryl.’ Peg had taken both eyes off Simon for a moment, a mischievous smile playing at her lips.

‘Oh, I don’t know as I should, confidentiality you know. But, if I don’t give out any names, where’s the harm? Can anyone tell me that?’

Nobody could, apparently. Certainly not Donna. She slumped down in her chair, wishing the people at the next table would stop shifting closer by the second.

‘Now then, Donna. A bit of background for you. People who write to my web site ask me for advice. With me so far? Good. I work out their forecast – in the forecasting business we never say horoscope – from their date and time of birth and write back with as much advice as I feel capable of giving. Part teacher, part writer, as I told you before. That’s always assuming you were paying attention.’

‘Oh yes, I am. I mean I was.’

‘Right then. I’ve recently had an enquiry from a client in Dudley. Awfully nice woman, although of course we’ve never actually met. I’ll call her Sybil, although her real name is Angela. Oh dear, now see what you’ve done? You’ve gone and muddled me up. Forget what I just said, will you? Not all of it, just the bit where you tricked me into giving out a client’s real name.’

‘I don’t know anybody from Dudley,’ Donna assured her.

‘Don’t you dear? What a shame. Well, never mind, as I was saying, Angela wrote to me with….’

‘Sybil,’ Donna interrupted.

‘Her name’s Angela. I don’t know anyone named Sybil. Mrs Fawlty excepted. Heggh, heggh, heggh.’

‘No, I meant, you called her Sybil, so as not to call her by her real name.’

Beryl looked at Donna as if she were mad. ‘Why should I want to call a woman with the perfectly good name of Angela by another name altogether?’

Donna shrugged.

‘Angela,’ Beryl paused as if defying Donna to interrupt. ‘Angela has a problem with her husband. She’s convinced herself that he wants to have sex with all her friends, but not with her.’

‘That could be a problem,’ Donna conceded. Peg was still watching Simon across the square, but Donna could tell she was listening.

‘Yes. Quite a big problem actually.’

‘Is he actually chatting her friends up or is it just in her own mind?’

‘I don’t know the woman, Donna. I gathered that he’d not actually said anything as yet, but she thought it was only a matter of time before he approached one or other of them as he was always telling her how attractive one or other of her friends were and trying to make her pay more attention to her own appearance. I ask you, the effrontery of the male of the species never ceases to amaze me. I advised her to forestall his interest in her friends by saying something or other about him that would put them off him if he tried it on. You know what men are. Anyway, my suggestion was that she told them her husband had such a large penis that sexual relations were an absolute nightmare. Good idea, what do you think?’

‘Oh.’

‘Not a good idea at all. Rebound. Very bad idea as it turned out as all her friends then became very interested in him. God knows why. The poor woman is distraught as he’s run off with the next-door neighbour. Of course, I told her she was well rid of him, but she’s so distraught she even went so far as to blame me for her predicament. I had to tell her the truth. She’d never be able to have a successful relationship, not with the conjunction of Uranus at the time of her birth.’

‘Oh!’

‘Yes. As it turned out, after she’d written, I found I’d made a tiny mistake in her forecast and that the prospects were actually quite rosy, but after reading her last e-mail, I just couldn’t bring myself to contact her again. What do you think of that?’

‘Interesting. Very interesting.’

‘Yes, isn’t it? Oh look, there’s Ernie over there. Yoo-hoo, Ernie, over here.’

Ernie turned out to be in his sixties, skeletally thin in a white dress shirt with two buttons missing, long khaki shorts, black socks pulled up to mid-calf and desert boots. A suggestion of a moustache adorned his upper lip below which dangled  a thin roll-up cigarette.

‘Wotcha, Beryl. Three lovely ladies all sat together. What a treat for an old dog. Heee, heee, heee.’ Donna sat a little further back in her chair as yet another bizarre laugh burst from Ernie’s lips. More like the whinny of a horse than a laugh. Donna reflected on the prospect of Ernie and Beryl laughing in tandem and immediately resolved to try not to say anything even remotely amusing while in their company.

Ernie sat down, between Peg and Donna, blowing smoke from both nostrils and beaming at each of them in turn.

‘Don’t get settled in,’ Beryl snapped. ‘We can’t hang around all day. Did you get the supplies?’

Ernie rummaged in a plastic bag and waved a pack of herbal tea triumphantly in the air. ‘Got them, my little turtle dove. All in here. Tea bags, milk, sugar, box of fifty condoms.’ He winked at Donna and she smiled back.

‘Don’t be so stupid. Move yourself, man.’

‘What say we call at Oscars on the way back? He’ll have the bottle out by now if I know old Oscar.’

‘I’m sure he will, but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay well clear of him. The man drinks like a fish.’

‘’Course he does. He’s trying to forget.’

‘Forget what?’

Ernie could barely contain his merriment. ‘He doesn’t know. He’s forgotten. Heee, heee, heee.’ He nudged Donna in the ribs. ‘The old ones are the best, aren’t they, gorgeous? And I don’t mean the jokes, know what I mean?’

‘Ernie!’ Beryl snapped.

There was a long awkward silence, broken by a nervous whinny of a laugh from Ernie who looked immediately contrite. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Thinking of something else.’

They sat in silence. Donna soaked up the sun and wished she was far away from here.

‘Afternoon, Toby,’ Ernie called out. ‘Afternoon, Marian. Out for a stroll are you?’ The couple to whom he’d spoken were dressed in identical matching shell-suits; those shiny nylon creations of the type last seen in the 1970s. They were both fat, making their choice of clothing even more unsuitable, every seam stretched to breaking point. If it’s true that dog owners come to resemble their pets, this pair must have a bulldog waiting at home, thought Donna. They were startlingly alike, with hanging jowls and misery etched into their features, although Toby had marginally the better moustache.

‘Afternoon, Ernie. Beryl.’ It was the woman who answered in a high-pitched squeak of a voice. ‘Just been to see if there’s anything in the box.’

‘Was there?’ Beryl asked, softening her voice as if the question were especially delicate. They both shook their heads mournfully. ‘No,’ they  replied in unison. Donna was fascinated to hear that Toby spoke in an identical squeak to his companion.

‘They’re waiting for news from their son,’ Beryl confided, as if the couple were not there. ‘He went off back-packing a while back and they’ve not heard from him.’

‘Oh,’ Donna said. ‘That must be a worry. How long has he been gone?’

Toby and Marian looked at each other as if deciding which of them should reply, then spoke together. ‘Three years.’

‘Oh!’

‘We had a letter from somewhere, ages ago it was. He said he’d met someone we wouldn’t approve of and wouldn’t be coming back home for a while, if at all.’

‘Phucket,’ Toby announced. Given his pronunciation, it was a while before anyone realised he was referring to a Southeast Asian resort.

‘That was it. I had to look it up in our AA World Atlas. Awfully long way off.’ Marian’s voice seemed to come from far away, almost as if she were in another room. Her eyes glazed over, acting as if all the troubles of the world were on her shoulders. Her husband sighed, a deep resonant sigh, then took his wife by the arm. ‘Come along, old girl. Time we were off to Bedfordshire. Up the wooden hills, eh?’

Donna glanced at the church clock. It showed a quarter to five. As if reading her unspoken thoughts, Marian exclaimed, ‘Don’t pay him any attention. He’s got this theory about living like wild animals, you know, going to bed at dusk and rising at dawn. Absolutely crackers, if you ask me, but what can I do? It’s easier to go along with his mad ideas than try and put up with him banging away every morning before any civilised person is awake.’

Ernie lifted his head from an intense scrutiny of Donna’s breasts. ‘Banging away, eh?  You old dog.’

Marian’s glare rivalled that of Beryl. ‘Banging away in the kitchen, as I’m sure you knew very well,’ she growled.

‘It’s the nights I can’t stand,’ Toby said, defensively. ‘Not just the darkness, but feeling cut off from the real world. Nothing to see, nothing to do until morning comes. Not that things get much better in daylight.’ He sighed again, even more heavily.

‘Just look at this place,’ Marian whined. ‘When we came here fifteen years ago it was charming. Now just look at the state of it.’ Donna looked around the square. A group of old men sat in comfortable silence under the shade of a large tree outside the church. Two women walked by, each with a fat baby on their hip and a faint breeze ruffled the parasols over the tables outside the bar. As a pastoral summer scene it took some beating.

‘Ruined,’ Toby agreed. ‘Totally ruined. Just like everything else. And as for this weather, they say global warming, but it’s all the promiscuity around here I blame.’

Donna looked at Peg, but she seemed as confused as herself.

‘Same with everything. This wretched euro putting up prices right left and centre. It’s a disgrace, but will anyone do anything, oh dear no. All too busy feathering their own nests and fornicating.’

‘Still,’ Ernie said brightly. ‘Look on the bright side I always say.’ Toby looked at him askance while Marian had an expression on her face suggesting a bad smell in the immediate vicinity.

‘Easy for you to say, isn’t it? You don’t know the half of it. Spending all your time drinking over-priced drinks in gin palaces. Come on Marian, we’ll lose the light soon and then where shall we be?’ They slipped quietly away, two shell-suited fat people living in a world they plainly did not understand.

Peg waited until they were a good five yards away before bellowing, ‘Right pair of miserable buggers, them pair, aren’t they?’

Ernie nodded. ‘We call them Doom and Gloom. Heee, heee, heee.’ This time the sheer volume of his farmyard whinny of a laugh produced a resounding crash from the direction of the kitchen area.

‘Ernie,’ cautioned Beryl. ‘Shouldn’t speak ill of friends. They’ve had a lot of trouble, poor souls. Ever since their Gordon left.’

‘Their precious Gordon. Queer as a nine bob note, he was, a right little turd- burglar,’ Ernie confided, glancing around as if a posse of Gay Pride vigilante were about to descend on him, at any moment. ‘Talk about Gay Gordon. No wonder he didn’t want to come back home to that pair of miseries. Suppose he met some Nancy Boy out in the South Seas or wherever he fixed up. They’ve no idea, of course. Kept on expecting him to bring some girl back, but it were never going to happen. They should be glad in a way. Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.’

‘They do, don’t they?’ Peg mused, nudging Donna. ‘Mind you, they say a lot of things. Never take much notice myself. What’s the point? Plough your own furrow and bugger the rest of ‘em. Best road, I reckon.’

Beryl turned to Donna and whispered, ‘Is she all right, your Gran? Too much sun, is it? Only, with her going on about ploughing and that; might be signs of you know what?’

Donna smiled. ‘Peg’s as sharp as they come. Don’t worry on her account.’

‘Oh, that’s all right then. Just being a little imaginative, that’s not a bad thing at her age, is it?’

Peg shuffled her chair. ‘I’m still here, you know, not a doddery old fool just yet a while.’

‘Oh, yes. Sorry, dear. I was thinking without speaking. No, the other way round, speaking without thinking.’

Ernie brayed with laughter and a group of teenage girls sitting on the steps of the bank eying up the motorbike lads burst into fits of giggles. ‘Don’t know about anything else, but there’s no getting away from it. That lass looks like she’d keep a feller warm at night and no mistake.’

They all turned to watch the buxom waitress bend over to collect a menu off the cobbled floor.

Beryl snorted. ‘Silly old goat. What woman in her right mind would be seen with you?’ She stopped as she realised she was the very woman of which she spoke and Ernie brayed again provoking hysterical giggles from the teenagers, clenching Donna’s thigh in his excitement.

‘We’d best be off,’ Donna announced, standing up so suddenly that Ernie almost lost the top denture he was sucking on. Peg climbed to her feet and they gabbled a farewell.

‘What’s up with you?’ Peg asked, almost running to keep up.

‘Oh, nothing. Just remembered I had something better to do than stay there and be groped by old men.’

Peg cackled. ‘Tried it on, did he? Dirty old devil.’ If Donna didn’t know better, she’d have sworn there was a wistful tone to Peg’s remarks. She hurriedly put aside any thoughts of Peg being seduced by Ernie.

‘What were you thinking of with asking that awful woman to join us?’

Peg sniggered. ‘Beryl? Met her at the bar and after I’d heard her going on I thought you wouldn’t want to miss it. That old bugger she knocks about with had a laugh like a traction engine as well. Wouldn’t like to sit behind them when Ken Dodd’s on at the Empire. He never took his eyes off your chest, dirty old sod.’

‘I know,’ Donna said with a grin. ‘That’s because I’m a sex goddess.’

‘Yeah. Me too.’

They shared a girlish giggle and walked back to the car, arm in arm.