Give The Devil His Due

by H G White

  The slightest move in any direction and I was in agony. My butt felt almost as if some deranged DIY’er had of late, been conducting a sandpaper test upon it. The appraisal demonstrated the results that all the different textured grades could achieve.

  Having started with extra-fine, giving me a slight itch, the imaginary DIY’er'd moved on to fine: a soreness, but bearable. The medium grade had left me with something to think about, while the coarse and extra-coarse part of the test had helped my ringpiece reach glowing-like-a-beacon status. I made a mental note: Must not sleep with curtains open, in case low-flying aircraft confuse arse with local airport runway and try to land in bedroom!

  I'd now reached the unhappy position that every time I went to the toilet there was blood on the bog roll. I'd have to pay a visit to the quack – and soon.

  Friday 9.05 a.m. South Wales

  After I’d applied some cream to help get me through the day, Neil and I made our way to Vaughan's house. For the first part of the journey the weather was atrocious. It felt more like an arctic deluge than the few wintry showers the weather forecaster on TV had predicted earlier that morning. A little after eleven, we arrived at Newton Manor. Neil knocked the door. He hadn't even finished knocking and Vaughan opened up, grinning.

  ‘Lovely to see you both. How are we doing for time?’

  ‘Well as long as we don’t sit down and have another cider session, we should be fine for a few minutes. I wouldn’t want to leave it any longer because the traffic will be building. I know Peach wants you to get away ASAP.’

  ‘Yes of course. Let me show you where everything is.’

  Vaughan led the way to the outbuildings. His step seemed to have quite a bit more spring in it. Even though he was still on crutches; he was much livelier than the previous two occasions I’d seen him. Perhaps it was the prospect of a sortie that was spurring him on.

  ‘Ghastly business that.’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘The break-in at young Philip’s.’

  ‘Yeah, I hope it won’t become a problem for us.’

  ‘My dear fellow, as long as everyone does their part, and keeps what they say and to whom they say it, at a bare minimum, I don’t believe it should become a problem. In the world of crime, the biggest criminal of all is the tongue! There are more people that have come to a sticky end from misuse of it than any other misdemeanour you care to name.’

  When I thought about this, I came to the conclusion he was probably right. Loose talk always dropped everyone in it.

  At the back of the house, selecting a rather robust key from the bunch he was holding, Vaughan opened up one of the outbuildings. Looking inside, it was immediately obvious to me that hardly any of this stuff would go in the car. The two heavy-duty trolleys on their own would take up a substantial part of the cubic footage available to us.

  ‘Vaughan, this isn’t going to work. I’d have to drop the seats down just for the trolleys alone, that’d mean you travelling to London strapped to the roof. Let's forget it. We’ll come back with the van for all that stuff.’

  ‘Well with regard to the dimensions of your cargo space, there you have me at a distinct disadvantage. So I will, as they say, have to take your word for it.’

  ‘Thanks Vaughan, you’re far too kind.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Now, there is just one more thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘This case here.’

  Using one of his crutches he very gently tapped a metal flightcase about the size of a large holdall.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Oh, just be very careful with it that’s all.’

  ‘Why? Is it full of delicate instruments?’

  ‘Oh no, it contains explosives.’

  ‘Eh, hang on a second. When you say explosives, what exactly do you mean Vaughan?’

  ‘Come now Will, do you mean to tell me you don’t know what explosives are?’

  ‘No Vaughan, I do know what explosives are. It’s just that seeing as I’m going to be driving this case about, it might help me to feel a tad safer if I knew that every time I have to brake suddenly, I’m not in danger of blowing my sorry arse into the upper stratosphere!’

  ‘There’s no need to be scared, my friend. The case is perfectly safe, just don’t open it.’

  ‘Why? Is it booby trapped or something?’

  ‘No, but I feel I am the one probably best-placed to handle the material inside correctly.’

  ‘Right, that case is bloody-well coming now then. It can travel with you and be put on Peachy’s boat. I’m not turning into rocket-man for anybody for whatever reason.’

  This was true. Becoming the initiator of my very own space program was not what I had in mind when I’d agreed to get involved in this scheme.

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘What do you need explosives for anyway Vaughan? I thought you were going to crack the safe back here after the operation is over.’

  ‘Who said I’m going to use them to crack the safe?’

  ‘What are you going to use them for then?’

  ‘Will, Will, Will …’

  ‘It’s all right Vaughan. I heard you on the first Will.’

  Vaughan was now shaking his head and tutting. ‘Sometimes things require a little … loosening …shall we say. It may be that I do not need to use them. But let’s assume the safe is anchored to the floor, a helping hand from my combustible little friends in the box may well be necessary if we are to persuade the safe to up-sticks and come with us.’

  On hearing this I was beginning to wish that I’d put in some of that middle-distance training that’d been mentioned during our last meeting with Vaughan.

  ‘Just out of curiosity. How big is the bang going to be?’

  ‘How long is a piece of string, old bean?’ Vaughan was smiling at me. He was making me nervous. I wondered what Peach would have to say when we turned up later that afternoon with Vaughan and his box of fireworks.

  ***

  The journey to London was a piece of cake. The conversation in the car was a bit bizarre in places. We learned that Vaughan was due to have the cast removed from his leg during the next couple of weeks. So aside from crewing the boat up to Staffordshire, he and Peach would have to locate a hospital somewhere en route, visit its A&E department and have the cast cut off. At least then he could hopefully lose the crutches.

  Motoring along and listening as Vaughan talked to Neil, I came to the conclusion that they had a sort of surrogate father-and-son relationship rather than that of two former cellmates. I think Neil's distant relationship with his own father had probably contributed to this.

  By the time an hour on the motorway had passed, my fears of obliteration had subsided and I warmed to Vaughan again. It wasn't hard to like him. He was an eccentric with a capital 'E'.

  We arrived at Little Venice. I unloaded the baggage, Neil and Vaughan said they’d stay with it while I parked the car. Once that was done, I could then give them a hand getting the stuff on board Peachy’s boat.

  In the time it took me to park and return to the spot I’d dropped them, they'd gone. I made my way over to the mooring to find they were already on board. I enjoyed a quick brew and exchanged a few words with the very forgiving Peach. By this time he had learned that he’d be travelling in a boat full of TNT. Unfortunately I'd missed the look on his face when Neil had broken the news to him.

  Neil and I clambered back to dry land and watched as the two of them set off on their voyage of discovery. Perhaps there would be a few hairy moments during their trip. With two very strong personalities on board, I was sure this was more than a slight possibility. All would be revealed in the fullness of time.

  As the boat chugged away before finally disappearing under a bridge, I looked on with envious eyes. I’d have loved to have been aboard. Pretty sure Neil was feeling something similar, I turned to him. ‘If this thing comes off Burnsie, one of those will be top of my shopping list.’

  ‘Yeah, good
call.’

  We made our way back to the car and half an hour later we were on the M4, heading towards Wales, and the weekend.

  Friday 4.30 p.m. London

  De Villiers-Moncourt (Chairman’s Office)

  Charles De Villiers took his time reading the papers before him. It had been almost a week since the two men had last met and he was more than surprised by the information Lazarus had come up with.

  De Villiers looked at Lazarus. ‘So what exactly is he after?’

  ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. As you can see it’s not by accident that he was trying to gain access to your files. He has, for want of a better description, compiled a comprehensive dossier on you.’

  De Villiers looked down at the print-out Lazarus had taken from the hacker’s notes. There, in black and white, was a substantial account of De Villiers’ life to date.

  ‘Is it blackmail, do you think?’

  Lazarus considered the question. ‘Perhaps, but my guess is that if he had something concrete on you’d have been approached by now. Although we shouldn’t discount that it could be he's just biding his time, waiting for the right moment.’

  De Villiers was no stranger to dishonest practices. Although the bulk of D-M’s money was made through legitimate business, over the years there had been difficult times, which in turn had led to some highly illegal deals. Several company acquisitions had taken place, the targets being firms that had ceased trading but still had healthy pension funds. With the help of Walters, these funds had been systematically raided by De Villiers, netting him millions.

  There were other transgressions: the acceptance of money from dubious sources and laundering it for the kind of people that weren’t all that ‘kind’, especially if they might be dragged into some serious fraud investigation due to Charles De Villiers’ negligence.

  The only way to keep tabs on so many complex transactions was to retain the information electronically and it was his Head of IT that had made it all possible.

  Charles De Villiers sat at his desk, thinking. Was Ian Walters’ earlier assessment of the situation correct? Had the details held on file remained secure? What if Walters was wrong and the hacker had already managed to glean the information via De Villiers’ computer?

  If De Villiers’ can was open, and any of the proverbial worms had managed to escape, then at the very least, it would mean court appearances. There would be far-reaching financial consequences and a lengthy prison sentence for certain, and possible violence towards him.

  De Villiers could see Lazarus had something on his mind. ‘Your thoughts Brian?’

  ‘For starters, whatever his motives, I don’t think this Simms is acting alone.’

  ‘Why?’ De Villiers asked.

  ‘He’s a man that doesn’t bother to delete the messages on his answering machine. I’ve made a copy of them. Have a listen for yourself.’

  De Villiers listened as Lazarus' mini-tape recorder replayed each message.

  ‘The guy works from home, but he’s in London almost every week meeting his associates. I've got a list of telephone numbers and names off his computer. It shouldn't be too much of a problem to obtain the corresponding addresses.’

  Towards the end of the meeting De Villiers needed no more convincing that Philip Andrew Simms and partners were a threat to everything he held dear. De Villiers looked at Lazarus, eyes narrowed. ‘What do you think our next move should be then?’

  ‘Well, what I propose is this ...’

  As Brian Lazarus walked out of De Villiers' office leaving the fifth floor, Pamela Stokes carried on shuffling the paperwork on her desk, trying her best to look busy. She hadn't managed to hear every word, because her boss hadn't accidentally left any intercom buttons keyed. Listening from the other side of a door was a crude form of eavesdropping, but sometimes necessary. Pamela smiled; she could see that there was definitely an opportunity presenting itself.

  Chapter 23

  Monday 10.45 a.m. South Wales

  Natalie Sherry was my doctor. Natalie Sherry was a straight-talking Australian. Natalie was also my friend – sometimes.

  I say sometimes, because even though we'd known each other for a few years and, whether or not I had an appointment, she would always see me. On occasions Natalie couldn’t half have a sadistic streak.

  Natalie and I shared some history. We’d had a bit of a drunken-debauched fling. She turned out to be more of a man than I ever will (not in the pre-operative transsexual sense, but more the big and strong sense). Throughout the event, she was debauched and I was drunk and incapable. The whole episode was a bit embarrassing, but there was no bad feeling because we’d stayed friends, and over the years our friendship had grown stronger.

  I never liked to bother my doctor unnecessarily, so I usually waited until I had a few things wrong with me and then paid her a visit. The last time I'd been to see her was about six months earlier. I'd been suffering from an in-growing toenail, headaches, which turned out to be a high blood pressure problem, and pain in the testicles.

  During the first part of the consultation, Natalie had dealt with the toenail and headaches. When it came to checking the nads that was a different matter altogether.

  I was instructed to lie on the examination room couch with my trousers and underpants round my ankles. Although my balls might not be all that big, I had been blessed with a very baggy scrotum. This gave Natalie the opportunity to examine them simultaneously, one in each hand. As I lay there, dreading the thought of Nat checking out my brace professionally, she washed her hands.

  ‘So what's the pain like then Will?’

  ‘Well it's sort of a throb.’

  ‘In both?’

  ‘More in the left, I think.’

  She was now towel-drying her hands.

  ‘Right then Sport, let’s have a look; see what we've got here.’

  She walked over towards me, smiling. She stood by the side of the couch and gently cupped my left bollock in her right hand and vice versa. That wasn't too bad; quite pleasant really, I suppose.

  ‘Tell me Will, does this hurt?’ She gave my balls a sudden squeeze. I had a sharp involuntary intake of breath.

  ‘Ooofff …’ I nodded my head.

  ‘What about this?’ She gave my left one a hard squeeze.

  I didn't know what to say. ‘Oh god,’ was just about all I could manage (and I wasn't even religious!).

  ‘Now the right.’

  I felt a similar discomfort. ‘Shit.’ This was hurting.

  ‘Now, both.’ This time she increased the pressure, and gave out a little grunt as she spoke.

  ‘Now, what about ... this?’

  As her last word was uttered, through my haze of pain it suddenly dawned on me that Natalie was speaking with her teeth clenched.

  ‘Another one for ... luck.’

  ‘Christ, Natalie! Stop it, I can't take any more.’

  She released her grip. Walking away from the couch, she slapped her hands together, in opposite directions several times … rather, I imagine, like the way a wronged wife does when she’s just had her revenge by cutting up all your best clothes. I suppose it was some subconscious attempt by Natalie at signifying a job well done.

  With the force she'd used, she might as well have been smacking my sprouts with a meat tenderiser. As I lay there aching, trying to regain my breath and consciousness, Natalie decided to give her diagnosis.

  ‘Will, there's very little wrong with your pain receptors!’

  ‘So what is wrong then?’

  ‘Nothing, as far as I can see.’

  I couldn't believe what I'd just been through, to be told that. ‘But they hurt.’

  ‘Try wearing loose underpants. That should cure it.’

  ‘I already wear loose underpants.’

  ‘Oh, well try wearing tighter ones then. It's probably because your balls are clacking together while you walk that's causing the problem. A pair of tight briefs will sort it, believe me.’

  Be
lieve her! She was making it up as she went along. Was this the way that health professionals now operated? I remembered leaving her surgery thinking never again. That was six months ago.

  It was now Monday and being the glutton for punishment that I've been for most of my adult life, I'd phoned Natalie the day before. I needed some roid relief and fast. I had asked her if she could just give me a prescription, but Natalie insisted an examination was necessary.

  ‘Will, as your GP, I wouldn't be doing my job properly if I didn't give you a thorough-going-over.’ This was what I was worried about.

  Sitting in the waiting room, contemplating my summons, I was once again filled with gruesome expectation. My piles were hurting but somehow the pain seemed almost an aside from what was about to happen to my fragile little body.

  The surgery had changed over the years. Gone were the days when, as one patient finished their consultation you would hear the doctor call out 'Next' from the other side of the examination room door. New-fangled wizardry had taken over. There was a PA system mounted into the waiting room ceiling. It allowed any of the doctors in the practice to order their individual patients to their respective rooms.

  At this particular moment in time though, it was being used for a much more sinister purpose: It was spewing out disgusting muzak, rather like someone exceedingly ill suffering from uncontrollable nausea.

  There was something odd about the muzak – all the tunes were played on pan flutes. As I listened to Acker Bilk's Strangers on the Shore being butchered by the evil pan flute king (for the second time), my audio living hell was, without warning, interrupted.

  I heard Natalie’s voice boom through the PA system: ‘Nobby Stiles to room four please, Nobby Stiles to room four.’

  The evil pan flute king, using his weapon of mass irritation against people far too sick to defend themselves, once more resumed his heinous crimes via the waiting room PA. Another interruption – it was Natalie’s voice again, only this time the tone was much more assertive. ‘NOBBY STILES TO ROOM FOUR PLEASE, NOBBY STILES TO ROOM FOUR.’