‘Nah’ chuckles vomit-bib, ‘unless you fancy eating the runners from the two-fifteen at Kempton Park, last Boxing Day. Ain’t that right, Gnasher?’, addressing another of the group, who, demolishing the remains of what might once have been a bacon-quadruple-cheese-burger, with extra fries and a tub of coleslaw, mouth crammed to the brim, is only able to nod, enthusiastically. His mates however start whinnying convincingly, and the whole bunch burst out laughing.
‘Eat the horse, the rider and his bloody saddle, our Gnasher, wouldn’t you, mate?’ cries a multi-pierced specimen, with more metal attached to various parts of his head than you’d find in a Russian scrap-yard.
Boggle-eyed, old Gnash swallows painfully. ‘If you ain’t careful, Nobber, I’ll eat your bloody saddle. Then you’d look great, wouldn’t you, riding along with your battery up yer arse!’
‘Give him extra sparks, to his plugs, though, wouldn’t it!’ chuckles Twiggy. Make him go a bit, you know, faster?’
With no visible markings of any description, and only a single day’s growth on my chin, I am beginning to feel somewhat out of place among this lot, like a vicar in a lap-dancing club. ‘Reckon I’ll give it a miss, then’ I grin, warily eyeing Gnasher’s road-accident on a plate. ‘Not that hungry, any more, actually! Think I’ll just head inside the terminal, point Percy, wash this French dust out of my eyes.’
‘He’s enough to put a condemned man off his last meal, is Gnasher!’ shouts scrap-yard, as I shuffle painfully across the car park. ‘Don’t be too long, though, they’ll have us boarding, in about ten minutes.’
Chrissie and I have a system in place regarding communications, when I am on these bike trips. Basically, she doesn’t bother, on the grounds that I would be unable to hear the phone ringing, or a message arriving, over the noise of the engine. So at the end of the day, or when I have arrived, I will give her a call. Inside the terminal, I check my phone, and see she has sent me a message. ‘Give me a ring, as soon as you get this.’ Oh blimey. Sounds serious, whatever it is that has happened.
Quick as a flash I dial her number, and she answers almost immediately, in a small, frightened voice, almost as if she has been crying. ‘It’s our Spanish bank account’ she sniffs. ‘They have frozen it, completely.’
This sounds ridiculous. ‘What? Why in the hell would they do that? Are you sure?’
‘If you would let me finish’ she shouts, clearly in some distress, ‘I went down there today, tried to pay in a hundred euros, to cover any water or electric bills while we are away, and they wouldn’t let me. No paying in, no withdrawals. Account suspended. I had to go to see the manager, it was so embarrassing, frogmarched almost, I was so scared, he was babbling away but I was so flustered I couldn’t take anything in.’
‘Did you manage to catch anything else he said?’ I enquire, somewhat aggrieved to hear about this officious jobsworth banker, when I am over a thousand miles away, with a ferry to catch.
‘Oh, I don’t know’ she wails, ‘limpiar dinero, cleaning money, was what he said, God knows what that is supposed to mean, but that is it. We have been sussed, they have caught up with us. Rumbled. Without a bank account, we are finished, here.’
Suddenly I am gripped by panic, sick to the very depths of my stomach. Somehow, however, I manage to retain a sense of normality, in my voice. ‘Oh, don’t worry. You know what the Spanish are like. It will be something and nothing, just some ridiculous bureaucracy, a few forms to fill in. Forget it, and when we get back from the UK we will nip down there and get it all sorted. How much was in the account, anyway?’
She brightens, considerably. ‘Well, there was about a hundred in there, but there might have been an electricity bill come out recently, I was going to get the passbook written up, but of course he wouldn’t do that, either. But eighty euros, definitely.’
‘So there you are then’ I reply, reassuringly, ‘that is plenty to cover any bills while we are away. We can go down there next month, and tell him to stuff his useless bank where the sun don’t shine! Forget all about it. So, are you all ready for the bus ride to the airport tomorrow? Got your boarding pass all sorted out? Have you given Lydia the key, so she can pop in and water your plants? Looking forward to that lumpy old spare bed in your mother’s?’
She laughs, and we discuss the various details of our journeys, and when we will finally meet up, but I cannot help wondering; was I wrong to have lied to her?
Stomach clenched with an icy grip of fear, I stumble, unseeingly, around the terminal, my mind a jumble of thoughts, all of them negative. Why did this have to happen now, when everything was going so well? The result of the biopsy on the polyps came through just a few days ago, the burden of the past month suddenly lifted from our shoulders, such overwhelming relief. Suddenly, I become aware of a voice, calling out, and I turn to see the girl behind the ticket desk, gesturing frantically in the direction of the ferry. Time to board, presumably. I wave vaguely, forcing a smile, but really all I want to do is head straight back to Santa Marta, and get this hideous mess sorted. How can I possibly enjoy a holiday, with the sword of Damocles hanging over us? I stumble outside, and see that the car park is in darkness. The bikers have departed, the chip van shuttered, and the guy on the customs post is waving irritably for me to get a move on. Instant decision time. Chrissie will not be there, by the time I get back, if I go back, and I have no idea where the bank book, or account details, are kept anyway. I have no choice but to continue with this pretence, this ridiculous charade of normality, for the next three weeks in the UK. Slinging my leg over the saddle, I straighten the bike, haul up the bungee to retract the stand, fire up the engine, and after a cursory glance at my passport, I am allowed to board.
Following the directions of the yellow-jacketed stewards, I park the bike in the depths of the ferry, stuff the key in my pocket then head straight out onto the deck, where I slump against the railing, staring blindly at the murky water of the harbour. Cleaning money? Money Laundering, of course. A serious criminal offence. Taking the proceeds of crime, and by a series of financial transactions, eventually obtaining ‘clean’ money. In my former life, in the accountants office, we were required, by law, to nominate a Money Laundering Reporting Officer, in our case the senior partner of the firm, to whom even the slightest suspicions, however trivial, had to be notified. It was then the duty of the MLRO to investigate, and if justified, report the findings to the Serious Organised Crime Agency I think it was, if memory serves.
So how in the name of all things holy have we been accused, or suspected, of this grave matter? On an account containing less than a hundred quid? In Spain, of all places, where a healthy disregard for the law seems like an everyday pastime? The rules are Europe-wide of course, although my memory is hazy, having promptly forgotten most of what I had learned, over the course of my career, the day I retired, but wasn’t the cash limit fifteen thousand? Euros or sterling, I cannot remember, but clearly we have nothing to worry about. A storm in a teacup, and for the first time in what seems ages, I start to breathe easier. All of a sudden I am starving hungry. Time to investigate what they have to eat, on this boat. Not gristly ram, with rice and gravy, hopefully.
Hang on a minute. The icy grip returns, with a vengeance. We transferred twenty-five thousand sterling, via a currency exchange, into this Spanish account, to buy the house, less than two years ago, and that must be what this is all about. A bank audit presumably picked it up. The funds came from my pension pot, my tax-free lump sum, and I imagine I could provide a paper-trail, to prove it. In English, of course, so would they understand it? And as residents of Spain, are pension lump-sums actually tax-free over here? Should I have declared it? My stomach is in knots.
Then again, couldn’t we just walk away from the account? Less than a hundred? Go against the grain, of course, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world, to write that amount off. We only use the account for the electric and water bills, and we could easily pay these in the respective offices. Just forget all
about the stupid bank. Or could we? This limpiar dinero business was obviously flagged-up on their system, and they know where we live, of course. If we don’t get it sorted, might they pass it on to a higher authority? And they had our passports. Took copies, when we opened the account. Oh dear God in Heaven.
Wracked with dread, I glance mournfully at the outline of the French coast, disappearing into the dusk, lights of the little town twinkling. Is this really it? Is this the beginning of the end, of our lives in the land of sunsets, and olives?
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 41