Ten Year Stretch

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Nae worries, hen. Ah’m just kidding ye. And in the name of Christ, don’t call me Mr Fulton. It’s Colin. Col to ma’ pals. Mr Fulton makes me sound like a screw.’ He must have registered the confusion on her face. ‘A prison officer, hen.’

  Polly wasn’t sure what to say. She’d never come across anyone quite like him before. She’d come to the station fully prepared to find a scarred, morose, knife-wielding thug, and instead she was faced with a man who wouldn’t look out of place in a Father Christmas suit. Even in mid-July. But he was a criminal, and he was coming to stay. She sighed. And sighed again when he picked up a dustbin bag that she hadn’t spotted before. ‘Is that your luggage?’

  ‘Aye. The wife took the Samsonite. Left me with the fancy stuff. Fancy a pint, hen?’ Colin nodded his head towards the bar in the station.

  ‘A pint?’ Polly looked at her watch. ‘Of beer?’ She mentally added another black mark to Colin’s tally. Alcoholic. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. It’s only eleven in the morning. Besides, I promised Graeme we’d be back before midday. And…well, you’re just out of hospital after a heart attack. Surely you shouldn’t be drinking?’

  ‘Aye, mibbes you’re right, hen. The doc said I should give up the drinking and the smokes. I’ve got a new addiction now, anyway.’ He registered the look of horror on Polly’s face. ‘Calm your jets, hen. Pear drops.’ He shook the bag at her and popped one into his mouth. ‘And where is the fruit of ma loins anyway? Couldn’t be bothered to come and meet his old da?’

  Polly wasn’t quite sure how to answer that one. She looked this harmless-looking elderly gent in the eye. ‘Something like that, yes.’

  Polly hated driving. It made her shoulders tense. Graeme always told her off for leaving the seat all the way forward. She clenched her hands on the steering wheel, nose almost touching the windscreen, and carefully put the car into gear. As they drove along in silence, she could sense his eyes on her and felt strangely uncomfortable in her faded blue skirt and the bobbly pink jumper that was three sizes too big and twenty years too old. She wanted to take a hand off the wheel to smooth down her mousy brown hair. She should really get her roots done.

  ‘You look a bit stressed, hen.’

  ‘Really? I have no idea why that would be.’

  ‘Those tension lines have been there a wee bit longer than you’ve known about me.’

  She glanced round at him but he had turned away and was looking out of the window at the dull, flat countryside which bordered the road. Fields of carrots, potatoes, and wheat, interspersed with occasional ploughed fields of rich, dark earth. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured.

  Polly swerved. ‘I’m sorry?’

  Colin pointed towards the sleek, white blades of a small cluster of wind turbines scything through the sky. ‘The wind farm. I love to see them.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ She lapsed into silence again and he turned away once more, as if disappointed. ‘Graeme hates them. Says they’re ugly and a blight on the countryside. He stands at the living room window and glowers at them.’

  ‘And you? What do you think, hen?’

  She shrugged. ‘I like them. They’re...graceful. I wish they came in other colours, though.’ She flicked her eyes his way, briefly, before turning back to the straight road. ‘You know—wouldn’t it be lovely if they were bright red, turquoise, purple, daffodil yellow? Like a town I once saw in a documentary about Madagascar. I tried to get Graeme to go on holiday there a couple of years ago, but…’

  ‘He preferred Margate?’

  Polly sighed. ‘Something like that, yes.’ She pulled off the main road into a neat housing estate. The houses looked new and there was hardly anyone around. Despite that, Polly dutifully indicated as she turned down various streets named after waterfowl—Grebe Way, Gull Crescent, Heron Place—finally turning into Cormorant Avenue and pulling the car into a gravel driveway.

  ‘Very nice, hen. No grass. No good for burgling, what with the crunch of gravel under your feet. And those spiky bushes under the front windows.’ She looked at him, mouth open in horror. ‘Ah’m kidding, hen.’

  He followed Polly to the boot of the car but she waved him away. ‘You’ve just had a heart attack—I’m sure heavy lifting isn’t allowed.’ She lifted the black bin bag out of the boot. As she did so, the bag caught on the boot’s latch and split open. Trousers, jumpers, underpants, socks, and a pair of trainers came tumbling out. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry Mr Ful–Colin.’

  ‘Nae problem, hen. No idea how that could have happened—I double bagged it tae.’

  ‘Didn’t you...couldn’t you...?’

  ‘Nick a suitcase?’

  She felt herself reddening. ‘I didn’t mean that. I meant...couldn’t you...borrow one or something?’

  He was about to answer when the front door of the house opened. ‘For Christ’s sake, Polly, get that damned mess cleared off the drive and bring it in here before the neighbours see.’

  Colin nudged Polly and gestured with his head towards Graeme. ‘He talking about me, or ma’ stuff?’

  Graeme stomped out of the house and snatched the bin bag from his wife’s hand. ‘Christ’s sake, it’s not as though I asked you to do anything difficult, is it, Polly?’

  Polly stood aside to let Colin go into the house in front of her. He was careful to wipe his feet ostentatiously on the welcome mat, which said ‘Come In’ in bright red letters. He raised an eyebrow at Polly. ‘What does it say on the other side? “Fuck Off?’”

  Polly sat at the dressing table in front of the mirror. She adjusted the table lamp until the light shone more clearly onto her face, reflecting off her cheeks—shiny from scrubbing with exfoliator—and seeming to deepen the lines around her eyes. She was only forty-four—how could she have such deep lines? It wasn’t as though they were laughter lines—God knows she had little enough to laugh about. She picked up the tube of moisturiser and started to spread some on her face, dabbing her cheeks, nose, chin, before carefully patting it outwards. Mind you, she’d had a few giggly moments since Colin had come to stay, which had surprised her rather. She still didn’t want him there but he wasn’t the monster Graeme had painted him as. Nor had he stolen anything. Not yet, anyway. She’d been checking every morning but, so far, all their valuables seemed intact. She’d even tried that trick with the hair, to see if he’d opened any doors and put a bit of thread under some of the Lladro figures Graeme loved, but they hadn’t been moved at all.

  ‘He’s all right, really, isn’t he, Graeme?’

  ‘Who?’ Graeme sat on the bed, undoing his tie.

  ‘Who do you think? Your dad, of course.’

  Graeme snorted. ‘All right? All he’s done since he got here is sit on his useless arse and read the Racing Post. Are you coming to bed? You know I can’t sleep with the light on and I need to be sharp tomorrow.’ He puffed out his chest self-importantly. ‘Michaelson’s out meeting his art dealer about some painting he’s gone gaga over and he’s asked me to whip the sales team into shape.’

  The unwanted image of Graeme in chaps, carrying a cat-o’-nine tails and bending Denise over his desk came to Polly’s mind. She tried to banish it. ‘I’m thinking of getting my hair cut and coloured.’ She fingered the lank mousy tresses, surveying the split ends.

  ‘Why? It’s not as though anyone ever sees you.’

  Because you never take me anywhere, she felt like saying. ‘I just thought I’d treat myself, is all.’

  ‘Well, as long as you can afford it from the housekeeping budget.’

  She looked at him in the mirror. He was taking off the diamond-studded cufflinks she’d bought him last Christmas—bought with money she’d saved from the admittedly generous housekeeping budget he made a great show of giving her every month. The same Christmas he’d bought her a new lawnmower. Yes, she had plenty of money saved out of the housekeeping budget. She’d get him a pair of socks next Christmas. From
the pound shop. She pulled her hair back off her face and turned her head from side to side. Blond? Maybe red. Shoulder-length? Or should she be really brave and go for short and spiky?

  ‘A job interview?’ Raspberry jam dripped off Polly’s knife onto the kitchen table. She scooped it up with a finger and licked it off. She looked over at Graeme, who just grunted.

  Colin took a bite of his toast, chewed slowly, and swallowed. ‘Aye, hen. Ah thought it was time I paid my way around here.’

  Graeme grunted again. Polly kicked him under the table. ‘That’s great. Isn’t it, Graeme?’ Another grunt. ‘But are you sure you’re up to it, Col? You’re not long out of hospital.’

  ‘Aye, hen. The advert said it was just light work. Look.’ He pulled the job advert that he’d cut from the local paper out of his pocket and read it to her. ‘‘Men aged between 40 and 60 wanted urgently for light manual labour. £25 an hour paid, plus expenses. Please meet on corner of Market Street and Hazel Lane at 10 a.m. on 26th July. Transport will be arranged. Please come ready to work: jeans, fluorescent-yellow working jacket, hard hat, and industrial face mask.” I popped into B&Q and got myself kitted out.’

  Polly was dubious. ‘Twenty-five pounds an hour for light manual labour? That sounds a bit too good to be true. What do you think, Graeme?’

  Graeme stood up and picked up his briefcase. ‘Just let him get on with it, Polly.’ He looked over at his father, who was spreading butter on his fourth slice of toast. ‘It’ll be the first honest day’s work the old bastard’s ever done. And. for God’s sake. stop calling him “Col” as though he’s your new best friend.’

  ‘Graeme!’ Polly stood up as her husband stomped out of the house, slamming the door behind him. She turned to her father-in-law. ‘I’m so sorry, Col. I don’t know what’s got into him.’

  Colin turned away and looked out of the window at his son, who pulled the Mondeo out of the driveway with a screech. ‘He’s right, hen. I’ve not been very good about honest work. But I’m trying to make up for that now. Can’t blame the lad if he needs a bit more proof.’

  Polly joined him over at the window. ‘But there’s no need for him to be such an...arsehole.’ She felt weird saying it, but it was the only word that suited her husband’s behaviour.

  ‘Maybe it’s in the genes. I’ve been an arsehole all my life.’

  ‘I’ll take you down there and do a bit of shopping. I might even go to B&Q and get myself one of those jackets and hats and join you.’

  Polly dropped Colin off on the corner where he was meeting his new employers, just outside the bank.

  ‘Good luck!’

  She parked at Sainsbury’s, just across the road, and rummaged in her bag looking for her notebook and pen to write out a shopping list. Graeme didn’t like her to go into the supermarket without a plan, just in case she came home with something frivolous. She hesitated and then wrote ‘something frivolous’ at the end of the list.

  She glanced over towards the bank. Colin had been joined by around thirty other men in fluorescent-yellow donkey jackets and jeans, all milling around outside the bank. Some were carrying their face masks and hats; most were already wearing them. Passersby were looking curiously at the motley crew as they passed. It looked like some sort of weird living art installation.

  Polly was about to get out of the car and head to the supermarket when she heard a shout. A man—dressed in fluorescent-yellow jacket, jeans, hard hat, and mask—was running out of the bank, a large sports bag in his hand. He dodged in and out of the crowd of identically dressed men, chased by two security guards who looked increasingly confused.

  Polly started the car. The man with the sports bag rounded a corner and Polly pulled out of the car park and drove off in the same direction, leaving the chaos behind her. As she turned into the quiet street, she saw the man throw the bag into the back of a silver BMW, jump into the front seat and drive off. She followed him, her heart pounding. Fuzzy black spots started appearing in front of her eyes. She should stop and call the police, but if she did that, she would lose the car. She could take the plate number down but it would probably turn out to be fake—she watched enough crime dramas on TV to know that was a dead certainty. The only thing she could do was follow.

  Luckily, the man was driving carefully and slowly. Another thing she had learned from TV—no doubt he didn’t want to risk getting caught. She followed him out of town and across the fen roads. The traffic was becoming lighter, but luckily, the terrain was so flat that she could stay quite far back without losing him.

  Polly wondered once more whether the sensible thing would have been to call the police. And what would Colin be thinking? Two cars ahead, the BMW was slowing down. It turned into a driveway. Polly speeded up and was just in time to see the BMW disappearing through a tall iron gate between high stone walls. The gates closed behind the car. As she passed, Polly caught a glimpse of an imposing and ostentatious front porch—all pillars and lions. The kind of porch that indicated an interior reminiscent of a 1980s cruise ship. Polly speeded up and drove on for a mile before pulling into the side of the road to call the police. As she took her phone out of her bag she discovered a missed call from Colin. She listened to the message.

  ‘Ah’m at the polis station. The one near the park. You’re ma one phone call, hen. The nice young polisman that’s just brought me a cuppa says you can come and pick me up. Bring a file wi’ a cake in it.’ She could hear someone mumbling in the background and then Colin again. ‘He says I’m a cheeky auld bastard. Ah’m gonnae report him for police brutality for making ma tea too hot.’

  She clicked the phone off and stuffed it back in her bag. She would tell the police when she went to pick up Colin.

  Polly had never been inside a police station before. A group of disconsolate-looking men wearing fluorescent jackets and hard hats sat on the waiting room chairs. They looked collectively like a rather uninspiring group of strippers. She hoped they didn’t suddenly break into ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On.’ She walked straight up to the counter and said to the man behind the desk, ‘Polly—Hippolyta—Fulton. I’m here to collect my father-in-law—Colin Fulton.’

  ‘Here I am, hen.’ Polly turned round to see Colin standing behind her, workman’s jacket and mask in hand.

  ‘Oh, my God—are you okay? Have you been arrested? What have you been charged with? Do you need a brief? Are they going to send you to the big house?’

  Colin exchanged a look with the policeman on the desk. ‘You any idea what she’s on about, Officer?’

  ‘Not a clue, sir.’

  ‘I was just helping the polis wi’ their enquiries, as they say on Crimewatch.’ Colin took Polly firmly by the arm and led her towards the door. ‘C’mon, hen, let’s get out of here and go and get some scran. By the way...Hippolyta?’

  Polly could feel the blush always occasioned by the revelation of her full name. ‘Unfortunately, yes. My parents were hippies. And probably smoking something. They saw fit to blight my childhood and make my life utter hell at school by naming me after a Greek goddess. She was—’

  ‘Aye, I know who she was. Queen of the Amazons. She had superhuman strength.’

  Polly looked at him. ‘That’s right. How do you know that? Are you a fan of the Greek myths?’

  Colin spluttered. ‘Naw, hen. DC comics. She was Wonder Woman’s maw.’

  As he led her outside she took her arm away and turned back. ‘I need to tell the police I saw him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The bank robber. I followed him. I know where he lives.’

  Colin stared at her for a moment before taking her firmly by the arm and leading her down the steps outside the police station. ‘Is that right, hen? Well, let’s just cool our jets on that one a wee bit, shall we? I’ve got a wee score to settle wi’ that arse.’

  ‘And why, exactly, are we here?’

  Colin’s eye
s were fixed on the tall gates. ‘Just a wee scouting mission, hen. Gie’s yer mobile.’

  ‘My…You’re not…?’

  Colin sighed. ‘Naw, hen. I’m not gonnae call to get ma horoscope. I want to find out who lives here.’

  Polly passed her phone across. After a few seconds, Colin let out a shrill whistle. ‘Well, well, well.’

  Polly tried to see over his shoulder. ‘What is it? Who does the place belong to?’

  Colin turned to her, grinning. ‘Have you never been invited for dinner at the boss’s house?’

  ‘Mr Michaelson?’ Polly blinked. ‘Oh, no. Graeme’s been a couple of times, but he says I’m too dull, so he made excuses for me. I’ve met him, of course, but Graeme always rushes me away before I can say something stupid. Why? Why are you asking about Mr Michaelson?’ Colin tilted his head towards the house and raised his eyebrows. ‘Mr Michaelson? Mr Michaelson lives here? Oh! Then we should really tell the police that the robber’s hiding out here and Mr Michaelson might be in danger. Graeme would never forgive me if his boss came to harm and I could have stopped…’ She broke off. Colin was slowly shaking his head, the grin still on his face. ‘You mean…?’

  ‘Aye, hen. That’s exactly what I mean. And that makes this a whole load easier for us.’

  ‘But what…? But why don’t we just go to the police and tell them?’

  ‘Because, hen, then we’d never see hide nor hair of this.’ He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and smoothed it out. ‘I picked this up at the polis station; the bank were quick off the mark. They’re offering a hundred thousand pounds reward for the return of that money. They must have lost a packet. Now, let’s go home. We need to get into that house and see what we can find before we go to the polis. And I’ve got a plan for getting us in.’