by V E Rooney
A few hours later and we reach Staffordshire. At this time of night, the motorway is virtually empty. Every few minutes a vehicle zooms into view and then hurtles past us. I begin tingling again. That momentary feeling of unease when you can’t quite put your finger on something? Yeah, that. Suddenly, it occurs to me that anyone watching will see us up this lorry’s arse to varying degrees, when we could easily pass it and speed away up the empty motorway. But there are no vehicles tailing us. There are long stretches of the motorway when it’s just us and the lorry and no one else in sight. I tell myself I’m being stupid and looking for trouble when none is there. It’s late and these long chaperone journeys can be a pain in the arse, especially when I’m stuck with Richie, the man who makes Bernard Manning look like a genteel and erudite paragon of good manners and intelligence. I’m being twitchy because of that, I tell myself.
We get onto the westbound M62 and we’re on track for Burtonwood Services as per usual. I tell myself that my unease has no rational foundation. My fear of complacency, of getting sloppy and lazy, has made me hyperalert and I’m too twitchy. I need to relax.
The lorry is in front of us by about 100ft as we traverse a long sloping curve of the M62. It’s as we round the curve to regain sight of the lorry when it happens.
I’m fixed on the rear view mirror when I see it.
On the left bank of the motorway above us, I see the car careering down a slip road. If we had been going any faster I wouldn’t have seen it, but I glimpse it just as it hurtles down the slip road at speed to join the motorway. It looked to be a maintenance slip road high on the embankment, not linked to any of the A or B roads connecting to the M62. Normally when you pass these maintenance slip roads, sometimes there are digger trucks or roadworks vehicles parked on the apex. And sometimes Police vehicles.
It looks to be a black or dark blue mid-range saloon car. It’s hard to tell because of it being nighttime, and I can’t make out the model. The car, once it joins the motorway, slips into the inside lane about 100ft behind us and hangs back. Straight away I think that something’s up, given how it had come down that slip road at speed and then slowed down behind us. At this point, I don’t say anything to Richie. He hasn’t spotted the car.
So for a couple of minutes, it’s just me and my paranoia. I wait to see if the car will speed up at some point or turn off on one of the exit roads. But it stays behind us. We would be at Burtonwood within five minutes. At some point soon, I’ll have to make a decision. And I’m dreading it.
I fucking pray for that car to disappear. I keep looking at it in the mirrors, willing the driver to fuck off, hoping that some bullshit telepathic power will kick in and convince the car driver to make a turn-off. But it keeps behind us.
Two minutes to Burtonwood. I slowly exhale, gather up my mental resolve and speak to Richie.
“See that car behind us?”
“What?” he says, suddenly sitting bolt upright as he scans the mirrors.
“It’s been behind us for the last few minutes. It came off one of those maintenance slip roads.”
“What the fuck…” Richie says, as he gradually eases off the accelerator. He eyeballs the car every few seconds in silence. The distance between us and the car remains constant. That car is slowing down as well. Fuck.
“Did you see that? Did you see that?” I say, my voice higher than normal. My nerves are crackling like electricity wires hit by lightning.
“Fucking chill out, will you?” Richie snaps. “It could just be one of the motorway repair cars or something like that.”
“Why is it hanging back behind us? It could’ve bombed past us by now if it was on the way to somewhere.”
“Shut up, will you? I bet you it goes past us once we get to Burtonwood.”
“And what if it doesn’t?” I ask tersely. Richie goes to say something but stops himself.
“Just fucking relax, girl. I don’t need you giving me the heebiejeebies, alright?” Richie says contemptuously. “You’re seeing things. No fucker’s following us, OK? It’s just been us and the lorry for fuck knows how many miles. Chill out.”
But I can’t. It’s my responsibility to send up the flag and call the whole thing off. I’m a couple of minutes away from dumping the shipment. A couple of minutes away from losing Sean his money. Our money. If I pull the plug on this deal, it’s on my head and my head alone. I’ll have to face Sean and the rest of the crew and tell them why I’ve binned the shipment and left them empty-handed.
Trying not to think of the punishment that could be meted out to me if I make the wrong call, I tell myself that if the car follows us into Burtonwood, then that’s it. I will call Sean and tell him to scrap the consignment. There’s no way I’m going to risk us being blown up, no matter how flimsy the evidence is. All I have to go on is a hunch. And that will have to do.
Coming up to the slip road into Burtonwood, the lorry indicates left. We hang back another 100 or so feet, and slow down so that it won’t be immediately obvious we’re following it. All the time, the car is behind us and gaining on us as we slow further. I can see two men in the front of the car. With less than 50ft between us and the car, and us about to indicate left onto the Burtonwood slip road, the car suddenly accelerates into the middle lane of the motorway and speeds off, just as we get onto the slip road. The two men in the car don’t even glance at us as they drive past. And then they’re gone.
Richie lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief before turning on me. “See, you daft bint? Fucking panicking over nothing. Told you. For fuck’s sake.”
The nervous bile that’s been churning in my stomach over the past few minutes begins to subside. I finger the pager in my jacket pocket, trying to reassure myself that I won’t need to use it now. I ignore Richie’s muttered cusses as he weaves through the service station area.
Fucking stupid cow.
Fucking birds, honest to God.
Fucking birds getting all hysterical. Fuck’s sake.
The lorry makes its way to the lorry parking area. We’ve got a clear view of it as we swerve into the car park of the service station. There are a few other lorries parked up nearby and just a smattering of cars in our bit. Just a few late-night travellers like ourselves.
We park up in an empty row, our rear backed up against a bank of trees. No other cars near to us, most of them are parked in front of the service station. We have a 180-degree view around us. I can’t see any Police vehicles and there’s nothing to indicate that anyone is following us. Looking up at the gantry which bridges the two separate service station areas across the motorway, there doesn’t appear to be any unusual activity. There are no murky figures mooching about in the dark. Nobody is paying us a blind bit of attention.
But I can’t shake the feeling that all is not as it appears. We’re about 100ft away from the lorry, almost facing it full on, so I can eyeball the driver. Even though it’s dark, the lights in the parking areas give me a good enough view of him but I get out my small pair of binoculars which I’ve procured for occasions such as these.
I crouch down in my seat and lift the binoculars to my eyes.
The driver is sitting in the lorry cab. Both his hands are on the steering wheel. He’s looking down. At what? His feet? Something on the floor? A prozzie he’s stashed in the footwell for on-the-move blow jobs? He doesn’t move.
I’m twitching. What the fuck, Ali? What the fuck is wrong with you?
He stays where he is. Still looking down, still not moving. And then, in a couple of absent-minded involuntary gestures, he makes me twitch even more.
Still looking down, he begins to drum his fingertips on the steering wheel for a few moments. He stops. He taps his fingertips on the steering wheel. Still looking down. He stops.
It’s what he does next. That’s the moment.
Still with his hands on the steering wheel, he slowly lifts his head up. He just looks straight ahead. He doesn’t look around, he doesn’t look at us. From my perspective, he’s looki
ng at some vague point in the distance. I study him like I’m studying some wild animal from afar. All of a sudden, I get the impression that it’s like he’s almost deliberately trying not to look at something.
Still looking ahead, he opens his mouth slightly. For a second, I think he’s going to yawn. But then he closes his mouth, leaving just a small gap between top lip and bottom lip. He’s exhaling. Very slowly. Then he repeats the gesture. After doing it the second time, he lets his head fall downwards again.
I quickly lower the binoculars.
“Something’s wrong.”
Richie loses it with me. He whips his head round to face me, spittle flying out of his mouth.
“Oh, do you know what? You’re doing my fucking head in, do you know that? What the fuck’s wrong with you, girl? PMT, is it? Fucking hell!”
“Richie, I swear down, right? Something’s wrong. I don’t know what it is, but something’s wrong.”
“Have you fucking heard yourself, you stupid cunt! There’s nothing here! Fucking shut up! I’m warning you, you cocky little bitch. You fucking blow this deal and you’re fucking dead! You know what? I hope it does go tits up so I can fucking string you up myself, you fucking little cunt!”
It’s OK, Richie. Really, it is. You just carry on with your barely-veiled hatred of me while I ponder whether to scrap this consignment based on nothing more than an uneasy feeling.
OK then, Ali. Let’s unwind this. Where does this uneasy feeling come from? In the absence of any verbal or evidential clues, what makes you think that all is not right? Has the lorry driver done anything untoward? Has he shown any indication that something’s up?
It’s what he’s not doing. That’s what it is. His journey may be over but he’s not behaving like a lorry driver who’s just finished a continuous five-hour journey. There is no stretching of the arms, there is no shifting about in his seat, no cricking of the neck. He’s still on the clock. He can’t relax. He’s sitting there in his cab and not moving. He’s waiting for something.
Interesting, Ali. But that’s pure speculation on your part, isn’t it? Maybe he’s not feeling well. Maybe he had a dodgy sandwich. Maybe he’s just tired and wants to chill out in his cab for a few minutes.
Oh, I don’t think it’s any of those. This driver is most definitely not chilling out right now. This fucker is nervous. If anything, he’s even twitchier than I am but he’s doing his best to hide it. I do that exhale slowly thing when I’m trying to calm myself down. He’s doing the same thing. So what is making him do that?
OK then, Ali? Why would your erstwhile, trustworthy driver, who has chaperoned your precious cargo on several previous occasions without any problems whatsoever, be nervous? What would cause your lorry driver to be nervous right now?
I can only think of two scenarios in this particular set of circumstances right now. And either one of them means that we are moments away from being fucked.
It may be the case that our consignment is about to be hijacked from right in front of us. It’s possible that a rival crew has gotten word about our shipment and is seconds away from taking it. Sure, it’s possible that Richie and I, and Gary and Baz who are in the other car in the opposite end of the car park, may be about to get shot and killed. But that’s not the important thing right now. Yes, that particular scenario works better for me because it means I’m not at fault for losing the shipment. As much as I would love that scenario to be the case, I don’t think it’s that.
You know what the more likely scenario is? The much more likely scenario? The one that frightens me even more?
We’ve been busted. That’s why the lorry was late to leave the docks. It is very possible that the busies have rumbled our shipment. It’s very possible that they collared the driver. Told him that they knew what was in the back of his lorry. Searched the lorry and found our cargo secreted within the official cargo. Told the driver that he’d been a very naughty boy but that in exchange for a lighter prison sentence, his cooperation was needed to track this particular delivery all the way home to its purchasers.
As much as I hate to admit it, the busies aren’t stupid. They’re not likely to escort this lorry themselves, even with unmarked cars. We would have spotted them. I would have spotted them. It’s more likely that they’ve got some tracking device in the lorry. It’s more likely that at certain points during the journey from Felixstowe to Burtonwood, several cars were positioned along the motorway, ready to keep tabs on us for a while before handing off to another car further along the motorway. That would explain the mysterious car coming off the maintenance slip road and doing its best to appear like it wasn’t up our arses. That would explain why the lorry driver is still sat there in his cab, trying not to appear like he’s fucking shitting himself right now.
We’ve been busted. And that means we’re being watched right now. I don’t know where the fuckers are, or who they are, but they’re watching us.
“I’m calling it off,” I say firmly without looking at Richie.
“What the fuck, Ali? What the fuck for?” Richie screams, his eyes blazing. The sound of his gravelly voice reverberates around the car, hurting my eardrums. It’s too late. I’ve made my decision. There’s no point getting into a shouting match with him. There’s no time to explain why we need to dump and run.
“I’m paging Sean to tell him,” I say as I open the car door and step out. Before I can get both feet on the ground, Richie snatches hold of my right arm in a vice-like grip.
“Don’t fucking do this, Ali. Don’t.”
“You get your fucking filthy hand off me before I break your fucking arm,” I say, twisting his arm off me and throwing it back at him. “Don’t you ever fucking touch me again.”
I close the door quickly, taking care not to slam it and attract any more attention. Richie can’t stop me. He stays in the driver’s seat, rubbing his hand down his face, punching the steering wheel and cursing me the whole time.
I walk briskly towards the entrance of the service station. I need to get to the payphones so I can message Sean. Can’t use the mobiles here, it’s too risky. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Gary and Baz in their car near the entrance. They’re both eyeballing me with what-the-fuck expressions on their faces. I can’t go over to them to tell them in person. Protocol dictates that I message Sean, who will then message the others to let them know the bad news. There can be no deviation from protocol. As I pass by the other cars near the entrance, I don’t look at them. Whoever is watching us will be watching me right now and I need to keep cool. Don’t give any sign of anxiety or confusion. You’re just going into the service station to use the toilets.
I keep my head down as I enter the reception of the service station, as much to avoid the glare of the bright fluorescent lights overhead as to get my mug out of the line of sight of the CCTV cameras. The payphones are lined up near the toilet area. My hands are already shaking, and my heart is doing a million beats per minute as I pick up the handset and dial the number of the pager messaging service. It occurs to me that these phone lines could’ve been tapped already but the protocol codewords we are using would give no indication as to what’s going down.
CURRY FOR TEA
That’s it. That’s the message that tells Sean that we need to dump the consignment. Right about now, he’ll be in his car at the Rocket pub at the end of the westbound M62 with the others, waiting to see his cargo being driven into the city. But there won’t be any cargo tonight and that’s down to me.
Once he gets the message, he’ll relay it to the others and then we will drive off in separate directions, weaving a few circuitous diversions to make sure we haven’t been followed ourselves. Once we arrive back in Liverpool, we will meet up with Sean for the debrief and so he can rip into us with his own special brand of terrifying fury.
Well, that’s what should happen, but the ringing of the mobile in my pocket tells me that Sean has broken his own strict protocol. I answer without hesitation.
�
��Are you sure?” His voice is low, steady and monotone with no indication of the magnitude of what he now has to contemplate.
“I’m sure.”
“Why’s that?”
I have to be careful what I say in case of unwanted listeners. “I just know.”
“I’m gonna ask you one more time. Are you absolutely sure about this?”
“I’m sure. 100%.”
There is a muffled fuck before he hangs up on me.
It’s done. I can only imagine the scenes of disbelief and outrage in his car right now. My hands still shaking, I place the handset back onto its cradle, lean with my back against the wall and take a couple of deep breaths to steady myself.
It’s as I’m heaving myself off the wall to stand upright when I see a tallish woman in black jeans and dark blue polyester mid-length jacket approaching the women’s toilets. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, with neatly trimmed light brown long hair in a ponytail. There’s nothing untoward about her. But she’s looking at me as she approaches and trying to do it in an inconspicuous way. She only gets a glimpse of me for a split second before I turn my hooded head away and pretend to fumble with the payphone.
As she passes me, she does eyes-front, like an Army private who’s just had a bollocking off her sergeant major. She pushes open the door to the women’s toilets. The loud squeak of the door rings in my ears as I walk rapidly to the exit. Was she clocking me? Is she part of whatever fucking surveillance team is crawling up our arses right now? Is she just another motorist? Am I going mental? Am I?
As I leave the service station, momentarily grateful for the cool night air, I see that Gary and Baz have already fucked off. Sean has passed on the message to dump and run. I find myself hoping that Richie has fucked off as well, but no such luck. He’s waiting for me. It’s killing him to do so, but he’s waiting for me. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as I walk the steps towards his motor. He doesn’t even blink. He would love to wring my neck right now, but that’s Sean’s prerogative and he knows it.