Am I Being Followed?

by G. M. Hutchison

  Copyright © 2021 G. M. Hutchison

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

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  ISBN 978 1800466 203

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  contents

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  chapter twenty-six

  chapter twenty-seven

  chapter twenty-eight

  chapter twenty-nine

  chapter thirty

  chapter one

  I drew into a lay-by and reached for my flask. Since this was the last time I would be making a journey such as this I didn’t feel as nervous as I usually did.

  I had known from the start that it was wrong to do work of this kind but, so far, my conscience hadn’t bothered me very much. Instead, my main concern had been to make sure that I didn’t get caught, or something like that. Caught by whom I wasn’t sure but, whoever they were, I felt certain they posed a serious threat to my well-being. Not today, however. I could relax and listen to some music.

  I couldn’t decide which piece to play and before long I got bogged down thinking about what Pastor Mackenzie had said about the universe. It was the sun beginning to beat down on the car roof which had started me off on this, the fact that such a far-distant heavenly body could emit rays that were making me, here in this car, right now, feel uncomfortable. This undeniable fact certainly touched on some of the things he had said, in a very down-to-earth fashion. I didn’t want to lower the window, however, because of the noise from the passing traffic.

  With no fresh air to break my train of thought I continued mulling over some of the points the Pastor had made. The universe, according to him, with all its planets, stars and galaxies, declared forcefully to those who studied it with unblinkered eyes that God existed, was all powerful, and possessed an intelligence that bore a certain similarity to our own but was immeasurably superior to it. As did the oceans, too, with all the mysteries contained in their unfathomable depths, and not forgetting the dry land either, he would go on, with all its trees, shrubs, flowers and vegetation.

  It was when he added man to his list that I began to part company with him. I thought it strange that someone like him, in the business of loving his fellow men, should seem to have such a low opinion of them and always be describing their limitations.

  Man, with all the understanding he has gained from a study of nature, he would point out, is still in awe of the greater part of it and, with all his scientific prowess, can’t even create the simplest of life forms. Nor, in all this breathtaking spectacle, he would frequently add, had there ever appeared naturally so much as one plant or animal that was in every respect the same as any of the others.

  I wondered how he could have reached many of his pet conclusions without taking the opinions of the scientists fully into account. After all, Evolution was now confirmed in the text books. But this objection wouldn’t do, I soon found out. Science was demonstrable fact, he would declare, whereas Evolution, strictly speaking, was only a theory often and quite wrongly used to elevate conjecture over proof. And anyway, as he would even more often assert, “Evolution, in certain respects, was probably part of The Divine Plan, too.”

  I wondered what he would think of me if he knew what I was doing right now. It would be putting it mildly to say that he wouldn’t approve, although this wouldn’t give rise to any real problems, I felt, since this would be the last run. I would be law-abiding again after this.

  I glanced in the mirror and saw the driver of a car, which had drawn into the lay-by behind me, get out and walk round to the front of his vehicle. Emptying the contents of my flask into the cup, I tilted my head backward to ensure that the last dregs reached my mouth and, as I did so, someone tapped on the car window, a visitor whom I saw at once was the driver of the nearby car.

  He was a well-built man, not much older than myself, I could see. He was clean-shaven and wore a well-cut leather jerkin. I lowered the window.

  “Sorry to trouble you,” he said, smiling and leaning in towards me. “Do you happen to have a spanner or a pair of pliers I could borrow?”

  I laid the flask and the empty cup on the floor and, as I turned in my seat to get out of the car, the man stepped back and, to my horror, brought a small black handgun out of his trouser pocket.

  “Give me the package,” he ordered, pointing the weapon at me menacingly.

  Although his features still showed traces of the polite, enquiring look they had at first worn, his smile seemed forced now and his eyes stared threateningly.

  “The package,” he repeated, in a harsher tone.

  As I reached into the back of the car and brought the package over the seat onto my lap, he ordered me to get out of the car.

  “Leave the package on the seat and go down to the boot,” he snapped, motioning in that direction with his free hand.

  As I walked towards the rear of the vehicle I half-turned and, out of the corner of my eye, saw him lay the package on the ground, steadying it with his foot as he tore at the wrapping.

  “Get back in the car,” he then ordered, gruffly gesturing with the gun.

  As I sat down behind the steering wheel he stood outside, motionless, staring at me, one hand holding the torn package at his side, the other pointing the gun at me.

  During most of the time on these trips my nerves had been on edge. Spasms of apprehension, anxiety and fear had surged through me continually as I had imagined the various dangers I might be facing. Now that the worst had happened, all I could feel was that I had done something wrong. What would Andy have done in these circumstances? I asked myself, looking for an excuse. Surely anyone, even Andy himself, having a gun pointed at them from close up like this, would have handed the package over as I had just done?

  I watched the man g
o back to his car, throwing the package onto the passenger seat, before he settled behind the wheel and drove off.

  I painfully realised just what I had done wrong as I watched the vehicle disappear into the distance. I wouldn’t have lost the package so easily on the previous run, or on the very first one for that matter, I told myself. Keyed up and suspicious of every vehicle I encountered, I would have seen the arrival of another car in the lay-by as a threat. I would have driven off, therefore, as I am sure Andy would have done, too. Instead, I had sat dreamily in the car, drinking tea and thinking about the universe.

  I felt annoyed at first that Andy hadn’t warned me that something like this might happen. On the contrary, according to him, the deliveries were just an easy way of making money.

  As an excuse this wasn’t good enough, though, I soon realised. The very nature of the work had carried a risk without Andy having to describe it. The plain fact was, I had slipped up, to say the least. I hadn’t been smart enough. I shouldn’t have stopped in the lay-by, or I should have driven off when the other car appeared. My brief excursion into Andy’s world, I reflected dismally, had now proved as unsuccessful as most of my other ventures in life.

  From the car park the Old Toll Bar didn’t look very inviting. I felt the scene looked just about right on this occasion, aware of the contrast in being a bearer of bad news rather than a dispirited employee looking for succour in the warm and friendly atmosphere.

  Karen was sitting at the usual table.

  “I’ve been waiting for you”, she told me, an unexpected note of urgency in her voice. “Let’s go out to the car.”

  “Where’s Andy?” I asked her. “I was supposed to meet him here.”

  Something else had gone wrong, I could see. She couldn’t possibly know about what had happened to me and yet she looked every bit as keyed up as I was.

  “Andy’s hurt,” she told me as we reached the car. “He sent me to find you.”

  “Hurt in what way?”

  She turned to face me. She seemed to be annoyed at me, not just concerned about what had happened to Andy.

  “He’s been shot,” she told me bluntly.

  “Shot?” I gasped, not altogether surprised, in view of what had just happened to me.

  “I had a feeling that something like this was going to happen,” she muttered.

  “Karen. Something like what?”

  “You’d better ask Andy,” she snapped at me. “He’s at the caravan.”

  “Has he seen a doctor?”

  “Of course he’s seen a doctor,” she said irritably.

  I couldn’t be blamed for what had happened to Andy, and I hadn’t put a foot wrong in my relationship with her, either. Why was she annoyed at me?

  “I thought you said you were only a courier?” she said accusingly.

  “I am only a courier!” I protested.

  “Andy gets shot and the first person he sends for is you,” she said, staring at me angrily.

  “Not exactly, Karen. He sent you to get me before that, didn’t he?” I countered.

  “Don’t include me in the equation,” she stated coldly. “I only work at the Casino. I work for a salary, and Andy doesn’t write the cheque.”

  “I only do deliveries, Karen, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  As the caravan park at last came into view, bringing relief from the added tension her attitude had generated, she slowed the car to a crawl and turned again to face me.

  “Sorry, if I’m getting it wrong” she said quietly. “I jumped to the conclusion you’d been holding out on me and that you were part of the Operation.”

  “Definitely only as a courier,” I reaffirmed in a gentler tone.

  Andy was lying on the couch at the far end of the caravan. He sat up, wincing as he manoeuvred his heavily bandaged leg under the table.

  “Andy, I’ve lost the package,” I blurted out.

  He slumped back despairingly against the pillow he had been using to prop himself up, and closed his eyes.

  “Sorry, Andy. He had a gun,” I added feebly.

  “You’ve not been hurt, though?” he asked, coming to life and heaving himself back up into a sitting position.

  I felt Karen’s eyes on me as I gave Andy a description of what had happened to me and supposed this would bring about another change in her attitude, on this occasion probably because I hadn’t confided in her on the way here.

  “This is a right bloody mess,” Andy said slowly, as if thinking out loud. “John, I’m sorry I got you involved in this.”

  “What actually happened?” I asked him impatiently. “Who shot you, Andy?”

  “Steve.”

  “But I thought Steve was one of you,” Karen said to him in apparent disbelief, echoing my own thoughts on the matter.

  “Well he isn’t,” Andy replied stiffly. “Not that it matters now anyway”, he went on. “He’s got the package, which unfortunately means a lot more trouble all round, for all of us.”

  “Trouble of what kind, Andy?” I asked nervously.

  He bit down on his lip, shaking his head despairingly. This was the first time I had seen Andy like this. He wasn’t sure what to do.

  “You mean they’ll blame us?” Karen asked him, “regardless of what’s actually happened?”

  “It’s not just a question of blame, Karen. I’m supposed to stop this kind of thing happening, not to become a victim.”

  “I mean, what’s the bottom line, Andy?” I asked firmly. “And where does all this leave us?”

  “We’ve become targets, John” he answered coldly. “It’s not good. I don’t know how it will all pan out.”

  This was what I had always felt uneasy about. I was no longer merely on the fringe of some vague criminal organisation, able to feel that I wasn’t really a part of it. Whatever had gone seriously wrong for the Operation, had gone seriously wrong for me, too. What I had dreaded had materialised. I had been right to wonder what all this might lead to.

  “So where does Steve fit in?” I asked. “If he’s not part of the Operation, who exactly is he?”

  The question seemed to annoy him, or was he just annoyed at me?

  “I’m sorry about this Andy,” I told him.

  I thought again of the first run, when I had been suspicious of every car on the road. No-one could have crept up on me then.

  “It wasn’t really your fault, John. What else could you have done?”

  Andy’s words didn’t help. Whether or not it was my fault wasn’t the immediate issue anymore. I was now mixed up in something that was far too much for me. I wasn’t just dabbling in it. I was a part of it.

  “I had absolutely no idea that anyone was following me, Andy”, I pleaded.

  “I know you didn’t, John”, Andy said sympathetically. “Strictly speaking he didn’t need to follow you, anyway. Steve would have told him the route.”

  “The last time I saw Steve, the shoe was on the other foot. It was him who didn’t see me,” I pointlessly remarked, remembering how I had spotted him when I had been driving on the coast road with Linda.

  “What last time?”

  “On the Shore Road, a few days ago, He was in one of the vans.”

  He glanced at Karen, as if what I had just told him was significant.

  “Exactly where on the Shore Road?” he asked. “Bartons don’t do much business out there, do they. It’s too far out?”

  “Bellsmore, it’s called. I think he’d been in the caravan park.”

  “It’s not likely, Andy.” Karen cut in. “It’s just a coincidence.”

  “What is?” I asked irritably. I might not be at the top of the pecking order, but I was in this now as much as they were.

  “There’s a caravan there that we once used as a safe house, but that particular route was discontinued,” Andy ex
plained. “Steve would have known all about this.”

  “It’s too obvious,” Karen commented dryly.

  “Not in the short term it isn’t,” Andy reasoned. “They would have to meet up somewhere, wouldn’t they?”

  “I suppose so,” she nodded grimly. “What does it matter anyway?”

  “They could still be there, couldn’t they? They’ll think they’re in the clear,” Andy pointed out.

  I watched him swing his good leg down onto the floor again and attempt to stand up.

  “I’ve got to find out,” he said, as he slumped back down on the couch. “There’s too much at stake.”

  “Andy, you don’t know for sure that’s where they are,” Karen exclaimed.

  “They’re there,” he insisted. “I know it.”

  “Just because John saw Steve,” she said icily.

  “Exactly because John spotted him. We’d never have guessed otherwise, would we? I can see what’s happened,” he went on. “They knew the package was coming up but weren’t sure which of us would have it.”

  “And so?”

  “They’ve been using the caravan at Bellsmore as a base. I’m sure of it.”

  “I knew something like this was going to happen, with all these new ideas at the Casino,” Karen grumbled, as we watched Andy make a further attempt to get to his feet. Successful this time, he leaned over towards one of the wall units and swung the door open. Using it as a support, he hopped over and pulled a small box down off the shelf.

  “I’m sorry you two had to get involved in this mess,” he said to us, as he tugged at the lid. “It’s the first time anything like this has ever gone wrong. From the inside, I mean.”

  “This’ll only make matters worse, Andy,” Karen pleaded, as we watched him caress the handle of a small, snub-nosed revolver he had taken out of the box.

  What I was involved in now, made all my attempts to put things right in my life seem futile. These recent events – working at the Food Importers, the visits to my Great Aunt, selling fire extinguishers – seemed like mere fragments of a life that had now shattered into pieces. Even my relationship with Linda seemed to be ill-judged.