To Hell in a Handcart

by Richard Littlejohn

  With any luck they would think he had perished along with his childhood friend, Gica Dinantu, and one million dollars’ worth of Daimler-Benz automobiles.

  But that wasn’t all that went up in flames.

  So did Ilie Popescu’s chance of recovering the $500,000 he owed the Russians.

  Marin Popescu had listened in silence as Ilie related his predicament. He could not believe his son’s foolishness.

  After abandoning and torching the M320 on the outskirts of Hamburg, Ilie had found his way back to the Tigani via the extensive network Marin used to infiltrate his gangs of professional beggars throughout Western Europe. The German police would eventually piece together what had happened and the men from Moscow wouldn’t be far behind.

  Marin knew they would come. There would be retribution. And first he had to break the news of the death of their only son, Gica, to his old friends, the Dinantus. They would blame Ilie, two years Gica’s senior.

  Marin was furious but he had to protect his son. Fortunately for Ilie, Marin didn’t only smuggle cars, he smuggled people.

  Ilie joined a party of Roma bound for England. Marin gave him $5,000 and told him to lose himself as soon as he got to London. He was not under any circumstances to contact his elder brother, Boban, who ran the London end of the car theft racket. They would be watching Boban, Marin warned. Nor must he attempt to phone home. Ilie would have to vanish until Marin could square things with the Russians. Marin would get word to his son when it was time.

  Ilie and the other Roma, men, women, children and babes in arms, who had paid $3,000 each for their passage to England, left Romania at the town of Timisoara, on the Hungarian border. They were hidden in false ceilings in lorries and driven across Europe to Calais. Once there they were transferred to fresh vehicles and loaded on cross-Channel ferries, unhindered by the French authorities.

  Ilie and the others had their instructions. Once at sea, they were to destroy all the passports and documents, anything which might identify them. Britain had a reputation throughout Eastern Europe as a soft touch, for interpreting the 1951 Human Rights Convention on Refugees more liberally than any other country. Asylum-seekers from Kosovo, Albania, Bosnia and Romania poured daily across the Channel.

  Ilie and his party had been abandoned at a motorway service area near Ashford in Kent. The women had immediately started begging outside a fast-food outlet. The men banged on car windows at petrol pumps, demanding money. The children descended on the convenience store and stole everything they could carry.

  When the outnumbered private security staff called the police, a single squad car arrived. The officers handed out leaflets in thirty-two different languages, many of them scribble, instructing the new arrivals to make their way to the immigration service reception centre at Croydon, in Surrey. Transport would be provided.

  Ilie’s instinct was to slip away. But where to? He couldn’t get in touch with Boban. He needed a new identity. He boarded the luxury coach laid on by the local authority and travelled with the rest of the party to Croydon.

  If he bucked the system, he reckoned, he might still be arrested and deported.

  At Croydon, as a further precaution, he told the inquiring immigration officer through a resident translator that he was sixteen. His father had told him they could not deport him if he was a minor. Ilie could just about pass for sixteen from a distance. The immigration officer looked at him and shrugged. He was past caring. He was on a promise and just wanted to get home for the night.

  Under ‘age’, he wrote ‘sixteen’.

  Under ‘name’, he wrote down the first name that had come into Ilie’s head. The name of the man Ilie left dead by the roadside in Hamburg.

  ‘Gica Dinantu.’

  Nine

  ‘And in a late-breaking story, before the Deputy Prime Minister flew off to Acapulco he decreed that as part of the government’s integrated transport policy the whole of central London, Birmingham and Manchester were to be pedestrianized. He also confirmed that proposals to put humps and other traffic-calming measures on motorways were being studied at the highest level in line with global warming and road safety targets. That’s all for this bulletin. Next news in an hour. You’re listening to Rocktalk 99FM, your first choice for classic rock and conversation. Here’s Jimi Hendrix with some of that old “Crosstown Traffic”.’

  Mickey hit the OFF button. He’d had enough cross-town traffic for one day. Enough cross-country traffic, too. Enough motorway traffic. Enough traffic to last him the rest of his life. Full stop. But they’d made it. Four and a half hours after leaving Andi’s mum’s house in Palmers Green, and several light years after leaving home, the French family finally arrived at Goblin’s.

  As they drew up to the entrance, Mickey couldn’t help noticing that the ‘l’ and ‘s’ were missing. The gap-toothed neon sign above the door consequently read ‘GOB IN’. It made it sound like a punk rock revival.

  The car eased to a halt. Mickey put on the handbrake. No one else stirred. Terry had eventually come down to earth on the south side of the Dartford River Crossing and had collapsed into a deep sleep.

  Sheer exhaustion had caught up with Andi and Katie, too. They had both slept most of the way and Mickey had to content himself with Rocktalk 99FM for company.

  He only really listened to the station because Ricky Sharpe worked for it. He thought the other DJs were brainless chimps, who belonged on children’s television. He liked the music, though, so he stuck with it.

  ‘Andi, wake up love,’ he said, gently shaking his wife’s right shoulder. ‘We’re here.’

  The kids were unconscious. ‘Come on kids. Terry, son. Kate, love. Wake up, bambinos. The eagle has landed.’

  Mickey eased himself out of the car with a modicum of difficulty and lit a Marlboro. He could feel his back. Although the doctors at Stoke Mandeville had made a fine job of rebuilding his shattered discs, his back was prone to seize up on long journeys. He had experimented with one of those seat covers made out of wooden balls, which some cabbies and bus drivers swear by. But he’d thrown it away. It had been like sitting on marbles and played havoc with his Chalfonts.

  ‘Your back OK, Mickey?’ Andi asked, with a trace of anxiety. She still feared it might snap without notice.

  ‘A bit stiff. I need to straighten up.’ Mickey stretched, rocked on the balls of his feet, supported his weight on the driver’s door and attempted a couple of squat thrusts, which brought on a violent bout of coughing.

  ‘I think you’re supposed to take the cigarette out of your mouth first,’ Andi joked.

  Mickey smiled back. ‘A Radox bath should do the trick.’

  ‘I’ll give you a nice massage, if you play your cards right.’ She blew him a kiss.

  ‘Carry on like that and it won’t only be my back that’s stiff.’

  ‘Dad! Mu-um!’ said Katie. ‘Don’t be so-oo gross.’

  Mickey and Andi reddened. They’d thought the kids were still asleep.

  ‘Only joking,’ Mickey said. ‘You know we’re far too old for that sort of thing.’

  ‘Old enough to know better, too,’ Katie played along. Secretly she was thrilled that her mum and dad still fancied each other. It’s just that she didn’t want them flirting in front of her. And they didn’t usually. Although they had always been open with the kids, privacy was important, too.

  Whenever they went away, even though it hoisted the bill, they always got the kids separate rooms of their own, ever since Katie had reached the self-conscious stage. They’d booked three rooms adjoining at Goblin’s.

  Mickey walked round to the back of the car and opened the rear tailgate. Cousin Roy had done a good job.

  As he reached inside to begin unloading their luggage, Mickey heard a shout.

  ‘Oi, you.’

  Mickey looked up and saw a belligerent elf, about 5ft 11ins, in a Lincoln-green jerkin, green tights, curly boots and red felt hat, marching towards him, gesticulating like a deranged tic-tac man. He wore a g
reen and white badge the size of a side plate, bearing the words: ‘Goblin’s Greeter. Here To Help You Have Fun.’

  ‘Oi, you. Yes, you. I’m talking to you. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ the elf barked.

  ‘Excuse me. And who are you, exactly?’ Mickey replied.

  ‘Security.’

  ‘You’re kidding me. You don’t look like security. You look like something that just fell off a toadstool.’

  ‘Company policy. All employees dress like elves. Disney’s got Mickey Mouse and Goofy. Goblin’s has got elves.’

  Whatever the outfit was supposed to achieve, the effect was spoiled by the clumsy tattoos on his forearms.

  Mickey couldn’t resist a loud guffaw. He thought about chinning him but decided against it. He was too tired for a start. Anyway, think of the court case. GBH on an elf. He’d never live it down. Easier to take the piss.

  Mickey engaged the elf in eye contact, then slowly surveyed him, up and down, from the bell on his hat to the curly points of his pixie boots.

  ‘And how many O-levels do you need for your job?’ Mickey asked.

  ‘I’ll have you know I used to work in a bank. But they’ve shut down all the branches round here and replaced us with hole-in-the-wall machines. You take what you can get. It was either this or Burger King. Anyway, stop changing the subject. You can’t park here. Can’t you read?’ The elf pointed to a sign indicating parking for the exclusive use of staff.

  ‘Just give us a minute, boss. I’m unloading my car. I’ve just arrived. I’m checking in,’ said Mickey, the joke wearing thin.

  ‘Well you can unload somewhere else,’ the elf said.

  ‘I’m supposed to be the guest here,’ Mickey protested.

  ‘Not my problem. Now move it, or I’ll have it clamped. There’s a £120 recovery fee.’

  ‘I don’t fucking believe this.’ A quarter of a century in the police force and here I am being ordered around by a fucking pixie, Mickey thought. ‘This is unreal.’

  ‘Only doing my job, mate,’ said the elf.

  ‘That’s what the Wehrmacht claimed.’

  ‘Eh?’ said the elf.

  ‘Ve vere only obeying orders, mein Führer.’ Mickey snapped his heels and thrust his right arm forwards and upwards in a Nazi salute.

  The elf took two paces back.

  ‘Look, mate,’ Mickey said, wearily. ‘I know you’ve got a job to do. But, as I said, we’re the guests here, right? We’ve had a long day, we’re dog-tired. We just want to get checked in, go to our rooms and sleep. So this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to unload the car, put the bags down here, and then, and only then, will I move the car. Is that all right by you?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Elves have feelings, too,’ said the elf.

  ‘Sure,’ said Mickey. ‘Tell you what, do us a favour. While I’m moving the car, why don’t you frolic indoors and get a porter to help us with our bags.’

  ‘The porter doesn’t work nights. Check-in time is 6 pm. You’re late.’

  ‘I know we’re fucking late. You don’t have to tell me we’re late. I don’t suppose you’d consider giving us a hand with the luggage?’

  ‘Love to, mate, but I’m not insured, see. And I’ve got a dodgy back.’

  ‘Tell me about it, mate.’ Mickey shook his head.

  Mickey dumped the bags on the kerb and Terry began to manhandle them up the steps to reception.

  ‘That’s all right, son. I’ll do it when I’ve parked the car.’

  ‘I can manage, Dad.’

  ‘OK. But leave that big one. I’ll fetch it indoors.’ Mickey shut the tailgate and walked round to the driver’s side door.

  ‘Satisfied?’ he asked the elf.

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘NOW what?’

  ‘This is a no-smoking facility. You’ll have to put that out. We don’t allow tobacco anywhere on the site.’

  Mickey took a last puff, threw the stub on the floor and crushed it underfoot.

  ‘And if there’s anything else I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask,’ said the elf.

  Fuck off and die, Mickey thought to himself. That would be a great help.

  Mickey parked the car, walked back the hundred yards to reception, took the bags inside and registered.

  The girl behind the counter was dressed in the same elfin uniform as the security guard.

  ‘Check-in is 6 pm,’ she said robotically, in the kind of voice employed by women in call centres.

  ‘So we’ve been told.’

  Mickey asked if there was any chance of getting something to eat.

  ‘Sorree,’ said the girl. ‘Goblin’s Grille closes at 9.30 pm, Monday to Saturday and 8 pm on Sunday.’

  Room service?

  ‘Sorree.’

  Mickey asked if there was an all-night take-away nearby, where he might pick up some food.

  ‘Sorree, guests are not allowed to consume food bought off the premises in their rooms. Policy. You’ll find a full list of rules in the welcome pack in your room.’

  Mickey would have to wait until breakfast, 7.30 am to 9.30 am, Monday to Saturday, 8.30 am to 10 am, Sundays.

  The receptionist handed Mickey their room keys. ‘Second floor. You’ll have to use the stairs. The lift is out of order. Sorree.’

  ‘Great,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Glad to be of assistance, Mr French. Welcome to Goblin’s. Have a nice day.’

  They lugged the cases up the stairs and, as Mickey settled the kids into their rooms, Andi ran him a hot bath.

  ‘At least the water works.’

  ‘Come on, it’s not that bad.’

  ‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean it like that. It will be great, just great.’

  ‘We’ll unpack in the morning.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Mickey towelled himself dry and collapsed on the bed while Andi pottered in the en-suite bathroom.

  He started to drift off, the horrors of the day subsiding.

  He was on the brink of deep sleep when he felt a gentle tingle in his groin. He opened one eye and looked down as Andi ran her tongue between his balls and up the shaft of his cock.

  ‘I’m sorry, love, I haven’t got much energy,’ he apologized, though he felt himself responding.

  She looked up at him, doe-eyed, squeezed hard and lightly kissed the tip of his now engorged dick. ‘You just lie there. This one’s on me,’ she said as she took him in her mouth, her eyes still locked onto his, which by now were both wide open.

  ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he asked, desperately trying to delay the inevitable.

  ‘Everything, lover. You’ve heard the expression: when in Rome?’

  ‘Uh, uuugh,’ Mickey grunted in acknowledgement.

  ‘Well, as the lady said,’ Andi smiled as Mickey’s scrotum tightened, ‘welcome to Goblin’s.’

  Ten

  Tyburn Juvenile Panel

  Wayne Sutton dug deep into his left nostril with the long nail on the index finger of his right hand, which had HAT tattooed, or rather Biro-ed, on the knuckles in erratic, pre-school letters. Wayne thought it spelled HATE. Spelling had never been his strong point, which, since he had rarely attended school, was no great surprise. He was once moved on for begging outside Tyburn tube station with a cardboard sign reading HUNGREY AND HOMLES.

  Wayne dislodged a large, crusty bogey. He rolled it between his right thumb and forefinger, examined it, popped it in his mouth, toyed with it with his tongue, threw back his head and propelled it into the air.

  ‘Wayne. Please pay attention,’ said the plump, middle-aged lady sitting opposite him.

  Wayne shrugged and tugged his right earring. He had the body of a man and the mind of a moron. He wore his lack of education on the sleeve of his designer shell-suit, which he had stolen at knifepoint from another kid on the Parkgate Estate. Taxing, he called it.

  Ever since he was ten, he had terrorized the estate and
its environs, leading a semi-feral existence. He was no stranger to the courts, but since the law granted him anonymity he was known to readers of the Tyburn Times only as Monkey Boy, owing to his ability to scale drainpipes and gain entry to premises through upper-storey windows.

  Wayne never knew his father, who could have been any one, or all, of a gang of bikers his mother had obliged in a caravanette in Clacton. Or a travelling salesman she had screwed on the end of Clacton pier in return for the price of a bottle of sherry.

  Wayne’s mum was a slag. There was no other word for it. She had stumbled through a succession of drunken, violent relationships, existing on benefits and a few extra quid selling her favours to old men in the derelict bowls club, which had been closed since Wayne’s first, bungled, arson attempt.

  She would meet her punters in the pub opposite the Post Office and, after a couple of milk stouts, would relieve them of their sexual tensions and a substantial part of their pension money. She even charged one old geezer an extra 50p for tossing himself off without permission while he was waiting in line.

  It had been obvious to all that Wayne was being neglected and was in desperate need of a stable home environment. But social services, in their wisdom, rejected fostering on the grounds that it was best to keep the family together.

  Family. That was a laugh. The only family Wayne had ever known apart from his mother was whichever feckless thug was currently punching his mum’s lights out in between bouts of heavy drinking, drug taking and thieving.

  ‘Mr Pearson, please continue,’ said the middle-aged magistrate.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Mr Pearson cleared his throat.

  ‘January 16. Abusive behaviour to staff and customers at Patel’s Minimart and Video Library.

  ‘January 22. Breaking a 14-year-old boy’s arm at Tyburn fairground.

  ‘January 23. Smashing a plate-glass window at Corkeez wine bar.

  ‘January 28. Throwing stones from the bridge above the underpass in Nelson Mandela Boulevard onto passing vehicles.