Four Short Tales

by Donald Phillips

  Bottle

  He stopped the car and studied the signpost. He had only been this way twice before, but on each occasion; some one else had been driving so he hadn’t paid much attention to the route. All he knew was that there was a maze of roads you could get lost in if you didn’t follow the signs carefully. He had noticed with signposts in Spain that the direction in which the arrows pointed were not always the direction in which the town they represented lay. In this case, the arrow was at an angle of forty-five degrees left of upright so he took the left fork and was rewarded some five minutes later by a view of the sea and the small town of La Rueda.

  He sat and looked down at it for a while, feeling the heat of the midday June sun and listening to the wheezing of the engine. The car was an old Seat Ibiza, white and anonymous among a million other identical clones. He had “borrowed” it this morning from a nearby Urbanización and he wanted to get it back before it was needed. Gathering himself and his thoughts together, he followed the directions that Julie had given him and drove gently into the town centre. There were four banks among the cafes gathered around the square, but none of them were the one he wanted so he found a quiet side street pointing out of the town and parked. He checked that he had everything he needed for what he was about to do and thought how he would rather be back on Tumbledown in the Falklands than in this sleepy Spanish town. He knew how to handle that sort of confrontation.

  At Tumbledown he had taken a bullet in the leg that had him in hospital for nearly a month, but that wasn’t what had put him out of the Army. No, that had been training jump one hundred and sixty three. Just a routine practice jump to keep him current as a Para, but he had landed on a stone and smashed the bones in his left foot. After two months, the Regimental Surgeon had told him it would never be good enough to risk on a parachute jump again and they had invalided him out. He was two years short of a full pension. He had never forgiven them for it because they had taken away half his life. It was only Julie that had given it back to him. Julie with wild red hair, those long slim legs and her love of luxury. Julie, who had shown him there were other and better ways to make a living than jumping out of aeroplanes, or walking for twenty miles with a fifty pound pack on your back. Julie, who had introduced him to a world he had never dreamed of and shown him how he could make enough money to afford it. Julie who had taken over from the Army in ordering the direction of his life, a direction that after twenty years in the following orders had become a necessity to him. Julie, who had a good ten years less on her clock than he did. He would do anything for that lady. He took a couple of deep breaths and pulling himself together gathered his courage for what lay ahead.

  He was a big man. Six feet tall, muscled like a boxer and looking several years younger than his age of fifty five because he kept himself in shape. Before leaving the car he took out of the ballistic nylon camera bag, he always carried along with floppy brimmed hat that he used it to cover his bright red crew cut hair. Then he took off the sleeveless vest he was wearing and pulled on a long sleeved cotton shirt that not only covered the tattoo on his right forearm, the regimental badge of the Para’s that he had done when he was eighteen and green as grass, but kept the fierce sun from his fair, freckled skin. Finally, he donned a pair of mirrored sunglasses that hid most of his face and disguised the unusual green eyes. Satisfied that he was unrecognisable he took a deep breath and left the car.

  He walked slowly through the square, as the banks there did not interest him, glancing at his watch to see the time. Almost ten minutes past one o’clock. It was a Monday and Julie had said that most of the local shops would be paying in their weekend takings in the morning so that it would be best to leave it until about one thirty to go in. He arrived at a street cafe he recognised where he turned left and there was the place he was looking for, the Banesto bank, the one that Julie had sussed out for him earlier in the week. He looked in through the double glass doors, but they were of smoked glass and combined with the dark glasses it was like trying to look through a glass of Guinness. He took the glasses off for a second in order to see more clearly, realising how furtive and suspicious his actions must seem. The Bank was crowded. To kill some time while it emptied a bit, he walked up and down outside it for a few minutes. Several people left and no more had gone in. His watch now said one fifteen and gathering his courage, he went inside.

  There were several customers still in the bank and he blessed the Spanish system of not forming a queue as it allowed him to take a seat to one side and wait. He watched the system from behind the mirrored lenses and saw that it was as Julie had said. The interior of the bank was open to public view and apart from the cashier in his armoured glass box; everyone else seemed to be sat at computer terminals. Any transactions that did not involve cash were carried out by a variety of staff that left their computers to do so, but all cash transactions only took place from the glass cash booth and it was cash he was interested in. They needed that if they were going to eat tonight. He saw that the door to the big vault at the back of the bank was wide open and thought how with one or two of the boys from three platoon they could have cleared the lot out in five minutes. He wished some of the lads were with him now for moral support if nothing else. He glanced up and saw the security camera looking down at him from a corner of the room. He watched it for a while and noticed that although it had a focus ring, it never moved. The usual red light was also not in evidence and he decided it was either a dummy or switched off.

  The last person had been served and he was halfway off his seat when another woman came in with a small child. He sank back into his seat again and waited. The child, a little girl of about six, seemed fascinated by his sun glasses and stood in front of him babbling away to him in Spanish and waving at her reflections. Her mother turned from the cash desk and came to collect her offspring, obviously apologising to him, but it could have been curses for all he understood. Finally she finished what seemed to be a long and drawn out transaction and gathering the child she gave him a smile and left. He got to his feet and approached the counter. Despite the air conditioning, the sweat was pouring from him and his heart rate had gone up considerably. Then the door opened and a group of businessmen came in talking loudly together followed by several tourists speaking in English. Panicking slightly he left the bank behind the woman.

  From across the street he watched from behind a rack outside the tobacconist filled with foreign newspapers on the pavement. After what seemed to be an age the group of businessmen came out, still talking loudly and went into the cafe across the road. Several other people left the bank, but several more also went in and he looked at his watch again in desperation. He couldn’t do it in front of all those people and the bank closed in twenty minutes. He wondered what he was doing here. They might be desperately short of ready cash, but he wasn’t ready for this sort of action. The young boy from the newsagents tapped him on the shoulder making him jump almost out of his skin and smilingly indicated the paper he was holding in his hand. He nodded and fumbling around the other equipment in the bag pulled out the last five Euro note they possessed and gave it to him. He didn’t realise that the paper he bought was in German as he had noticed from the corner of his eye another few people leave the bank. He made his decision. He would do it now.

  He stepped out to cross the road seeing nothing but the door of the bank and was sent nearly into orbit by the blare of the car horn right next to him. He staggered back to the kerb as his eyes focussed on the vehicle that had almost run him down. It was green and white and the men inside were in uniform. The Guardia Civil! He waited for one of them to get out and fine him for jay walking, sure that the two euros and change he had left would not be enough, but the driver just gave him a fierce look and waved an admonishing finger at him before putting the car into gear and driving on. He looked around him expecting to see a crowd of faces staring at him, but no one else seemed at all interested in what had happened. He realised the streets were becoming quiet and look
ed again at his watch. Nearly the lunch hour and only ten minutes left before the bank closed. By now he was literally soaked in sweat and only the thought of Julie’s scorn if he went back empty handed drove him on. Remember the Falklands he said to himself. Remember the endless miles of walking with a full pack knowing that at the end of it tired and exhausted there would be a battle. If you can do that, you can do anything. He crossed the road and once more entered the bank.

  There was one old man at the cash desk clutching his savings book and sharing a joke with the cashier. The rest of the staff seemed to be getting ready to wind it up for the day. He approached the cash booth, unzipping the bag as he went in order to be ready to act. The cashier looked up at him with a big smile on his face and spoke to him in Spanish that he did not understand. He put his hand into the bag, searching for the piece of paper that he had spent half an hour writing out with the help of the dictionary and a phrase book, the piece of paper that would tell the cashier to give him the money. It was missing. He opened the bag wider, desperately searching for the paper. With some relief, he found it and replacing the look of panic on his face with one of deadly seriousness, he held it out up to the glass. The cashier spoke to him. It was obviously a question. They stared at each other through the armoured glass for what seemed like minutes until his bottle went. He snatched his hand away and shoved the paper back into his bag, turning at the same time and practically running from the bank.

  Once outside he leaned against the wall and drew in great breaths of air to steady him. His heart was pounding like a man who had run a half marathon and his legs trembling. It took all of five minutes for the sweating to stop and for his pulse rate to return to normal. Then he walked back to the square and went to one of the other banks. They were all closed now so he used his Visa card to draw some money from the cash machine with its helpful instructions in half a dozen languages. He knew Julie would be furious with at the extra two and a half percent the transaction would cost them. He looked ruefully at the cheque still sitting in his bag, the one he had almost given the cashier in Banesto Bank, and he made himself a promise. Now they had bought a place here he would go to evening classes and learn the language. He couldn’t go through anything like this again.

  I hope you have enjoyed these four short stories. If you like the style of writing I have written three full-length novels very reasonably priced that you might also like to read. They are as follows

  Cocaine

  Britain is under siege and it is our kids under threat. At every school gate there is a Candy man, but he is not selling sweets. The Police and Customs, in the shape of Jack Ropell's anti-drug quad are fighting hard, but losing. Then comes the breakthrough when the cartel importing the drugs begins to have internal strife. Violence breaks out from Colombia via Spain and into Britain. Who will win?

  Vengeance

  John MacAllister is a Detective Inspector in Bristol. Although he knows that any further promotion is unlikely as he is thought to be a bit of a maverick he is happy in his job and prefers to be at the sharp end. Then a hit and run causes the death of his daughter. Everything changes and MacAllister finds there is a dark side to him that even he never knew about.

  The Opportunities of Youth

  This is a work in progress that was within days of being finished when this free book went to publication. If you are reading this after June 2012 then it is probably available. Unlike Cocaine and Vengeance, which are full bloodied thrillers of over 100,000 words, this book is written more in the style of the short stories above and reflects the authors six years working in the Youth Opportunities Scheme.

  If you like any authors books please go on line and give them a review. It will encourage them to make even greater efforts to produce stories you will enjoy reading.

  Don Phillips