The Comedown

by Martin Doohan

  2.3 The Plan

  Taff sat back in his chair smiling.

  ‘That, my friend is pretty much that.’

  Lassie had a question, ‘Why not just out them here? It’s a massive risk moving them abroad isn’t it?’

  ‘It is, but it’s all come a bit on top here, and someone in the Low Countries has offered to take them a job lot, if my associates can deliver. Even if we lose this one, we aren’t down. We’re still actually in mild profit. This will be a huge bonus all round.’

  ‘So,’ Tom said, ‘basic gist is this… you want me to smuggle 100k of forged UK bank notes into Holland, drop them off in a locker in Amsterdam, for which you will pay me… in fake fucking notes?’

  At this, Taff smiles. ‘Yes, that is it, you ungrateful cunt. It’s the best I can do.’

  ‘Getting paid in fake notes? I’ll have to gamble on getting them changed and everything. It could take me a week, maybe more to do it. I could end up with nothing!’

  ‘You could,’ Taff laughs and sips his drink. ‘But the beauty of it is that I could afford to pay you 3k in forged, rather than 500 in bona fide notes. You can have a look at the notes, they are pretty much spot on. So what do you think? Solve a problem or what you little monkey?’

  Tom looked across at Lassie, who was, sporting the biggest DRM he had ever seen him produce. There was no need for words at this point. This could potentially solve all his problems, put Lassie out of danger and even make a few quid! He returned the DRM and turned to Taff.

  ‘You could be on tonight’s boat, boyo,’ he said, sipping his Laphroaig. ‘And yes, before you ask, I’ll give you 500 quid expenses and I’ll even throw in a fare for your trusty sidekick!’

  Tom glanced at Lassie, ‘Fancy a trip to the orange country, my friend?’

  ‘Why the fuck not?’ came the brisk reply.

  By five o’clock all was pretty much done. The boat was booked and the boys were in a taxi home to pack a bag. While at Taff’s, Tom had written a note explaining that he was going to Holland to collect the money George wanted. They stopped at the Victoria to give the note to Big Eared John the barman to read out when they rang again at eleven o’clock the next day. A score had helped smooth over this favour. As they approached home, Lassie seemed more nervous than Tom.

  ‘We have to make sure they’re not around again, Tom.’

  ‘It’ll be alright, Lass, just relax. I can’t see anything dodgy… Things will work out and in reality, it’s my only option.’

  ‘I think you should ring the number you have in Liverpool and explain you’re not doing a runner, Tom.’

  ‘If I did that, we’d never make the boat. They’d hunt us… sorry, me, down and fucking shoot me! It has to be this way. Perhaps I’ll ring them when we’re in Holland, deal?’

  ‘OK, mate.’ This seemed to appease Lassie.

  Tom went into his room and put on some tunes and started to pack. It was clearly a Smiths day. Strangeways Here We Come side A. He hummed as he tried to digest the last three days. It was fucking mental. He had been well and truly stitched up by those Scouse fuckers and he still couldn’t work out where 6K had gone. Just a random number he assumed, to bleed him for. He placed some carefully folded tops into his bag. Everything had to look natural he had decided, no ‘special’ bag, or suitcase. It had to look as though they were on a regular beano to Holland. Just with 50k wrapped up in a towel in the bottom of the bag. It had to fucking work. End of. He locked his windows, turned off the heating and headed down stairs.

  ‘You ready Lass?’

  The kitchen door opened. ‘Ready ten minutes ago, knobhead. I’ve been stood here listening to you talking to yourself, you fruitloop!’

  The Taxi arrived and they threw their bags into the boot and made their way to Taff’s, ordering another cab to the port for nine that evening. Taff greeted them with cheese on toast. After consuming an impressive amount Taff pulled out the 50k and passed it to Tom.

  ‘Look after it, lad, and don’t get any funny ideas.’

  Tom did a DRM ‘Fuck me, Taff, as if I’ve got the inclination or the energy to do anything like that!’

  ‘Just saying, boyo.’

  Taff then gave Tom his 3k, which Tom inspected very closely before handing it to Lassie.

  ‘What do you think, Lass, doable?’

  It looks good to me, feels OK, even got a strange, if somewhat paraplegic watermark,’ Lassie said, holding a note up to the light in the kitchen.

  Neither knew anything about forged banknotes except that it was a huge gamble. But they did look OK.

  Tom carefully wrapped his big purple towel around the notes and put them back in his bag. It made the bag heavier but he didn’t think it looked odd. Lassie agreed, it was a goer and Taff concurred. Tom seemed happy, although the thought of kiting 3k of forged UK banknotes did give him a squirty ring. It was, as had been pointed out to him earlier, totally out of his control. The reality was, he thought, that Taff was doing him a huge favour. One he wouldn’t forget it either.

  They then sat down and listened to the plan for the drop off. There was to be no contact between the parties involved in Holland. In the car park just along from Amsterdam Central Station would be an old red Ford Capri. On the back left arch of the Capri would be a key for a locker inside the station. They would need to find the Capri, take the key, find the locker and place the bag with the cash in the locker and then return the key. Their time was then their own. There would be no further contact.

  There was a steely look in Taff’s eyes as he finished with, ‘If and when you make it back, pop round and say hi, but both of you must forget about the whole thing. I don’t want any discussion. OK?’

  Tom and Lassie both nodded in agreement.

  ‘Finally,’ Taff said, ‘you both understand that, if caught, you’re fucked. And, of course I know you wouldn’t, but if you did, my friends will know whose mouth opened and will also be able to make sure it’s filled with something I imagine you’d rather not have in your mouth when you touch down in the nick.’

  Nods all round and not a sight of a Roger Moore suggested to Taff that the boys fully understood the gravity of the situation.

  The taxi and Tom and Lassie made their way downstairs and got into the cab.

  ‘Parkeston Quay please, mate.’

  Sitting proudly in the middle of the dash was a lime green digital clock showing the time was 20:59.

  2.4 An Alarm Call

  George Meachen grinned as he got out of the Astra. He was hungry but getting this shitty situation sorted was more important. ‘Let’s eat. Then a few bars, see who knows what, back to Colchester for a decent kip and we’ll see what tomorrow holds, eh?’

  ‘Bars?’ Gary Sparks laughed. Bars? he thought… bars of draw maybe in this shithole. Fuck all else.

  Inside the restaurant two employees were watching the men’s approach. They nudged each and smiled. With one looking like Arthur Daly and the other like Terry McCann, it was, they laughed, ‘Minder’ for the nineties!

  George and Gary went into the Shanghai Chinese Restaurant fully prepared for a big feed, but stood aghast at what they saw in front of them.

  ‘What, in whoever is listening’s name, the fuck is this?’

  In front of them were two employees, one very fat, one very skinny. One had a bald head, one had very straight, slightly oily hair. One grinned like a maniac, one smiled with a deep sincerity. One wore Fred Perry, top button done up. One wore a shabby polo with a snooker cue embroidered on the left tit. One wore a trilby hat. The other wore nothing on his head. Both looked slightly drowsy, both grinned like they were stoned and both, to his total disbelief, were stone cold Englishmen. Fucking Harwich he thought, full of freaks and nutters!

  Gary Sparks recovered first, ‘Can we have a table for two please lads?’

  ‘Of course, chaps,’ the skinnier one of the two answered. ‘Follow me please…’

  Shortly, both men were sitting down with a beer in front of them. Gary had
quickly ordered the set menu for two, the most expensive one. George was out of sorts about the lack of pure ethnicity in the restaurant. ‘English lads, working for Chinks? It’s just plain wrong.’

  ‘Work’s work, boss,’ Gary replied, as began to say a private prayer for everyone in the restaurant.

  George began to get used to having English people serving him Chinese food when the food arrived and by the end of the meal had mellowed to the point of being able to order a chaser and offer a drink to each of the waiters.

  As always, there was an angle.

  ‘So boys,’ George asked, ‘do you know a lad called Tom Adams?’

  Both took their time, then, without looking at each other replied with a negative.

  George tired and full of food decided to cut to the chase. ‘Listen lads, my mate here is a nasty cunt. We’re interested in this Adams lad, and as you can tell, we’re not from these parts. So, if you want me to call off my shell-suited Staffordshire bull terrier I suggest you come across with some information. I ask because if the women at the Hilltop Bakery know him, I’m sure you two little cunts are bound to know him too.’

  The two waiters, visibly perplexed threw a wild glance and then both said at once, ‘Try the Victoria.’

  ‘And where the fuck is that?’ enquired George Meachen impatiently.

  The skinny one replied instantly, obviously trying to please, ‘Just down the road, opposite the taxi office.’

  ‘Thank you,’ George replied. ‘Can we have the bill please?’

  ‘No problem, Sir,’ the Skinny waiter replied, thinking fuck off, you great big fat cunt.

  The bill paid George called them to the door, ‘Just down here on the left then chaps?’ he asked, making it abundantly clear that if they fucked him about he would be back to push nails into their eyes.

  ‘Yup. Just down there, Sir, on the right.’

  Inside the Victoria there was the usual bunch of waifs and strays, the disenfranchised, the disaffected and the lost. Ex-forces and benefit cheats a plenty. They gambled, they cheated, they bought and sold, whored and stored at and in the Victoria. So, when two strangers entered their domain, questions were asked without a word being spoken.

  George broke the deadlock with the slightest of movements.

  Gary Sparks spoke first, ‘Two brandies please, no ice.’

  The cloth-eared barman dutifully obliged and shortly the drinks were on the bar. Transaction complete, the two men stood, sniffing brandy and slyly surveying the room.

  George beckoned Gary Sparks into the snug. ‘I’m a bit pissed Gary, I’m almost enjoying myself, but I can smell that little cunt in here. They know him. Let’s get it sorted and get the fuck back to the hotel, I need a shit.’

  Gary Sparks walked away with the green light. Following the signs for the gents, he entered the toilets. He headed for the stalls, sat down and took off both his socks and then put his trainers back on. He then carefully balled the socks into one, dropped them into the toilet, pushed them down with a naked hand and flushed the cistern until the toilet began to flood. With a few millimetres of water spread across the whole of the toilet floor he returned to the bar, where George joined him. With a flick of his head he called over the barman.

  ‘How can I help?’ He didn’t like the look of these two, but then that’s a pub.

  George Meachen replied. ‘We’re trying to locate a friend of ours.’

  The barman instantly felt uncomfortable and took a glass cloth and began cleaning wine glasses from the store above his head.

  ‘He’s a young lad called Tom Adams, tall lad, bit of a skinny bean pole. Do you know him by any chance?’

  ‘I don’t really know anyone by name. I’ve only just moved here myself, sorry.’

  He put the clean glass back on the shelf took another glass down and began to push the glass cloth into it.

  As an afterthought he added, ‘Do you have a picture of him?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ George Meachen replied. ‘Are you sure you don’t know him?’ George had a feeling that everybody knew everybody in this town. Even if they were sitting on different tables and didn’t like each other, everyone knew everyone else’s business.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know the name.’ The barman went back to cleaning his glasses.

  ‘OK,’ George said quietly.

  Gary Sparks had been busily picking apart a beermat while quietly listening to the proceedings. Big Ears seemed sincere but he was sure there was more. ‘By the way, fella, your WC’s blocked.’ Gary Sparks smiled, trying to look helpful and trustworthy.

  A call for drinks took the barman away from the uncomfortable conversation he was having, but he habitually left on a positive note, ‘OK, I’ll take a look shortly, thank you.’

  The two men stood against the bar, quietly sipping their brandy. George was convinced the barman knew more than he was letting on. He was tired though and they had to think about getting back to the hotel. The lad had nowhere to go really and despite anything he came up with, he would still have to take a hiding from Sparksy, but all in all he was happy to go back to Liverpool tomorrow evening. So long as these people knew not to take the piss he was happy.

  He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. George raised his glass and finished his brandy. He looked at Gary in his shell-suit and felt the urge to set light to it. He resisted though and put his glass down on the bar. ‘Well, time flies when you’re enjoying yourself.’

  At this point the barman wandered past them with mop and bucket on his way to the gents. Gary finished his drink too, nodded at George and followed the baggy eared barman. George couldn’t help but notice that Gary wasn’t wearing any socks.

  In the toilet the barman stood looking at the wet floor trying to work out where the excess water was coming from. Bemused he wandered into the cubicle and looked into the bowl. In the bottom of the pan he could see something that looked like a ball of wool, as he leant over to further inspect the foreign body in the WC he heard movement behind him and he turned around to find the quieter one of the two from the bar standing in the doorway of the cubicle.

  ‘Well, I think I’ve found the source of the leak, or rather flood,’ the barman said. He walked forward and motioned to get by saying, ‘Excuse me, please.’

  Gary Sparks stood firm and pushed the barman back into the toilet, the surprise of this assault led the barman to lose his balance and end up sitting on the toilet.

  ‘What, is going on?’ the barman said shakily. He looked towards Gary Sparks and became even more confused as the man in front of him grinned and pulled up his grey, shiny shell-suit trousers to reveal a pair of sockless ankles. The next thought that came into his mind was that he was in danger because this bloke was clearly mad. The thought after became a cry of anguished pain. He screamed as a thumb was pressed into his eye, the rest of the huge hand gloving the side of his head. In between his screams he managed to string together a sentence designed to help save his mangled eye. ‘What the fuck do you want for fucks sake, please leave me alone!’

  Gary Sparks stood over the crumpled mess of the barman on the toilet, his thumb at least 2cm into his eye socket. He wiped his forehead with the grey sleeve of his favourite shell-suit, lent over and whispered, ‘Tell me about that little fucker Adams, or I’ll take your fucking eye out you cloth-eared fucking throw-back.’

  Minutes later Gary walked back into the bar, strode up to George and spat out ‘Cheeky little fucker!’ passing George a crumpled note in the process.

  George took the note, steadied himself against the bar, and began to digest what the note said. George turned to the nearest person in the bar and asked about the ferries to Holland from Harwich. He could feel his blood starting to boil. The white heat, the need to smash everything in sight was in danger of overwhelming him. Gary Sparks saw this happening, considered the fact that there was no barman as he was still crying in the toilet and suggested to George that it was probably best if they leave. Unable to speak, George walked out
of the pub and stood in the warm late summer evening, there was a slight breeze. Gary got into the car and waited, knowing the right thing to do was to allow George time to calm down. He turned on the radio and began to nervously hum, the last thing they needed was George going nuclear. He also really didn’t fancy chasing this Adams no-mark about in Holland but he knew how George worked. The door opened and George got into the car. They sat in silence for a short while before George spoke. ‘I need to make a phone call, Gary.’

  Gary started the engine and moved away from the pub, he drove approximately 20 metres before stopping alongside an old red phone box. George stepped out and into the call box. Gary turned on the radio, ‘I Wanna Sex You Up’ oozed out of the radio, and he instantly turned it off. Sexing anything up wasn’t what he felt like at the moment. He watched as George Meachen finished his call and then stood still, in the phone box, with his eyes closed. He remained like that for thirty or so seconds before returning to the car.

  ‘We need to go to the port, Gary.’

  ‘No problems boss,’ Gary replied and drove back through the town following the signs for Harwich Parkeston Quay. They had seen the boats and freight routes as they entered the town earlier and soon they were in the car park looking across at the dockside where the huge ferry was tied up. Lorries, cars and motorbikes could be seen snaking their way over a colossal concrete ramp system they fed them into the hull of the ferry, Gary was impressed and stood watching the drama unfold like a child watching a big wheel at the funfair. George, meanwhile had drifted away and was deep in conversation with a member of staff in the car park kiosk. He returned to his mesmerised, shell-suited sidekick and placed his hand on his shoulder. He felt calmer and wondered if being by the sea helped his mood. It felt nice being able to look out to sea and see nothing, not even the horizon.

  Gary Sparks was surprised at George’s change in mood.

  ‘Well, Gary, we’ll have to call it a night. We couldn’t get on now anyway if we wanted too, boarding has finished and it leaves in thirty minutes.’