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Page 14
THE JOURNAL OF ELLIOT CRIPPLESBY
Evidently in no hurry, the curly haired leader of the biker gang held my wallet in his left hand and then, one by one, began counting out my Scottish pound notes. Holding the bunch aloft in his raised right hand with each new addition, he received a chorus of cheers, whoops and cries of victory from his thugs around him. I remember one of these cries as being heavily laden with an American accent, as his blood curdling exclamation rang out above the rest: “You’re the Man!”
Suddenly, just as I thought my situation was hopeless, bursting from around the corner at the end of the street came my saviour, Mr Vermies! He was running at full pelt straight towards us carrying a large crusty loaf of bread under each arm. Quite how he found me I do not know and exactly how he effected my bizarre yet miraculous escape I am - and will forever more I suspect - remain completely clueless.
The drama unfolded thus: the leader of the bikers must have seen my startled look, as he turned his head to see what was happening behind him. Those of his gang who had their backs to the fast approaching Mr Vermies also followed suit. Yelling a cry of “Cripplesby, run!” Mr Vermies vaulted the circle of bikes, tearing the loaves into rough, large pieces as he did so and flung them up in the air, causing everybody - myself included - to raise their heads skywards.
It was only then that the sun was blotted out by hundreds and hundreds of pigeons which were descending rapidly from the sky! Still running at top speed, Mr Vermies grabbed my wallet from the open-mouthed brigand leader with one hand, my wrist with the other and then dragged me clear, just about, to avoid the screaming - well ‘cooing’ - mass of hungry birds that had descended upon the scene.
While we fled, I chanced a look over my shoulder and the last I saw of those modern day highwaymen was each and every man-jack of them leaping and running about in panic and confusion, their bikes forgotten in their frantic attempts to flee from the chaotic swarm of feathers, beaks and claws which had by now completely engulfed them.
Having bade a hasty retreat, shocked and somewhat shaken for my part, we took refuge in a cafe where, over a cup of tea and a sticky bun, he told me that the robbery in Eilean Ban and these bikers were undoubtedly linked, although he could not quite see how; not yet.
So as I sat wiping crumbs from around my mouth and slurping the dregs of my drink – don’t you just hate it when people leave that last mouthful? You go to pick up the cup and end up spreading half a gallon of cold tea or whatever all over your carpet - I was persuaded by Mr. Vermies to continue with the investigation. Disappearing below street level, we made our way onto the London Underground and headed towards the first of our connections that would take us to Heathrow and thence to Africa.
At one of these stops, above ground once again, we had about a quarter of an hour’s wait and while we were stood on the platform I took a little time to examine Mr Geeza Vermies the man. He had long, flowing hair, covered up at the moment by a conspicuous red woolly hat. He stood at around five feet ten inches tall, but it was difficult to judge his build accurately as he was wearing fairly loose fitting black jeans and an Arran sweater which hid his precise contours well. He also wore a comfortable looking pair of well worn brogues and sported a set of small, round, sixties style sunglasses.
A camera hung around his neck and from time to time he placed a set of smart binoculars to his eyes, watching for the train I assumed. Having finished his observations, he would thrust the field glasses back into one of the voluminous, bulging pockets of his blue windcheater. In this guise - for he had differed in appearance on each of the few instances I had met him so far - he seemed completely and utterly forgettable: an anonymous face in the crowd.
When I asked again how he had found me and what exactly had he done with the pigeons, he simply shook his head and told me that I didn’t really want - or need - to know. A real enigma for sure. Perhaps the ‘Dark Continent’ will bring a little more of the man out. We shall see.
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