Polly clutched her knees and rocked backwards and forwards as Colin paced the living room. ‘Are you sure this is going to work, Col?’
‘Like a dream. Now, remember, leave all the talking to me, hen, okay?’
Polly nodded, then opened her mouth to say something else. She was stopped by the crunching of tyres on gravel and looked at Colin. He nodded and they both rolled the balaclavas down over their faces and pulled on gloves.
Polly was quite enjoying the sight of Graeme spread-eagled on the bed, trying to free his ankles and wrists from their bonds. She smiled to herself beneath the balaclava. That would serve him right for insisting she wore Spanx to keep what he called her ‘ugly rolls of flab’ in check. Now they were keeping him in check. He had been bellowing and blustering for the last ten minutes to no avail, his face red and sweating underneath the blindfold—her sleep mask with the cat’s eyes on it.
Colin spoke for the first time since they had…well, Polly supposed that, technically, they had…kidnapped Graeme. ‘Now then, Mr Man. Why don’t you just stay quiet on that cock-a-doodie bed?’ His accent was American and his words were…strange. Colin turned to her and shrugged and she could see a movement in the balaclava where his eyebrows would be. However, his words had the effect of quietening Graeme down.
‘Now,’ Colin drawled, ‘we’re going to put this little ol’ newspaper on your belly while we take a couple of snaps of you, you dirty birdie.’ He flung the newspaper down on top of Graeme where the headline screamed: Time to scrap pointless Human Rights Act! just underneath the date.
As Colin took photos with Graeme’s phone, Graeme opened his mouth once more. ‘I don’t know what you two thugs think you’re doing, but I swear I will…I will—’ Polly didn’t give him a chance to finish. She stopped his mouth with the dirty socks he had thrown on the floor the night before.
As she pulled the door closed behind them as they left the bedroom, she whispered to Colin, ‘Misery?’
‘Aye, hen. Great film.’
Colin nudged her in the ribs as she pressed the buzzer on the gate. ‘Look distraught,’ he said, out of the corner of his mouth.
‘I am bloody distraught. I’ve just kidnapped my husband, tied him up, possibly choked him with a pair of sweaty socks and I’m now trying to break into a bank robber’s house.’
‘We’re not breaking in. He’s going to let us in.’
‘Same difference. Anyway, what look is it that you’re going for?’
Colin tilted his head to one side and opened his eyes wide. ‘I’m going for harmless old codger, first stages of dementia. What do you think?’
Polly snorted. ‘You look like you’re suffering from irritable bowel syndrome to me.’
‘Aye, that, too.’
The box on the side of the gate sprang into life. ‘Yes?’
‘Mr Michaelson? It’s Polly. Polly Fulton. Graeme’s wife. Something terrible’s happened. Can we come in?’
Polly couldn’t believe how easy it had been. She was now sitting in one of Michaelson’s slippery black leather armchairs and holding the largest glass of gin she had ever seen. She was quite impressed with her performance. She’d even managed to conjure up a few tears from somewhere as she told Michaelson how they’d been overpowered by a gang of thugs and forced to come here with the phone pictures as proof.
‘But what did they want? Why did they want you to come here?’ Michaelson was—understandably, Polly thought—confused. They hadn’t quite thought that one out themselves, having concentrated on getting into the house. She looked at Colin, who was playing his part almost too well, gazing round vacantly at the walls full of art.
‘I need a pish,’ he said.
‘Oh, errrr…right. There’s a bathroom at the far end of the hall, just by the stairs.’ Michaelson waved a hand and Colin shuffled off. ‘Will he be all right on his own?
‘Oh, yes. He’ll be fine, I’m sure.’
‘So…did they mention a ransom?’
‘Errrr…what?’
‘This gang. Did they say they wanted money?’
‘Oh! Yes. Um…they said they knew that Graeme worked for you, and that you were rich and could afford to pay for Graeme’s safe return. And…yes…that’s what they wanted. Money.’
Michaelson laughed, hollowly. ‘Yeah, well. They were wrong.’
‘Wrong? What do you mean?’
Michaelson shook his head. ‘Business isn’t great at the moment.’
‘But…they only want…ten thousand pounds.’ She plucked the figure from thin air. It had a realistic ring to it, she thought.
‘Ten thousand?’ He gestured towards the garden. ‘I couldn’t afford to pay a ransom for one of the koi carp at the moment.’
Polly stared back at him. The man had over a million pounds tucked into a sports bag somewhere in this house and he couldn’t afford a measly ten thousand to get her husband away from the clutches of a dreadful gang of thugs? In other circumstances, she’d have been quite indignant on Graeme’s behalf.
Michaelson looked at her. ‘I was actually thinking of giving Graeme the old heave-ho.’
‘The…but after all those extra hours he puts in? How loyal he is to the company?’
‘Extra hours? He’s strictly a nine-to-five man. What extra hours?’
Ah. Denise. It would serve Graeme right if he did choke on his own sock.
A groan from the doorway made them both turn. Colin was standing there, clutching his coat to his stomach. ‘We need to go, hen. Ma IBS is playing me up something awful.’ He turned to Michaelson. ‘Sorry, Mr…Matthews. I’m sorry; I’ve made an awfy mess in that bathroom. It’s the stress of ma’ beloved son being taken hostage.’
Michaelson sprang up. ‘Oh, my God. I’ve just had that room re-grouted.’ He dashed off down the corridor.
‘C’mon, hen, let’s go.’
‘But your stomach. Don’t you want to wait…?’
Colin lifted the corner of his jacket. Tucked underneath was a sports bag.
Polly looked glumly down at the pile of cash on the living room floor. ‘I just can’t believe you did that. We were supposed to go in there and find proof that he had taken the money. Now what?’ Colin looked at her, sheepishly. ‘We have my husband tied to a bed upstairs—which, by the way, he has wee’d all over. I will never get that out. We have a bank robber who will soon discover that his money is missing and can only have been stolen by us. And we’ll soon have the police after us for stealing…stolen goods.’
‘Just like Bonnie and Clyde, eh, hen?’
Polly picked up a packet of notes and threw it at him. ‘Bonnie and Clyde were shot, you idiot. Graeme was right; you are useless.’ His head dropped. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Colin; I didn’t mean it. But…what are we going to do?’
Colin stood up and moved over to the window, slapping the notes she had thrown at him against his palm. The wind turbines turned slowly over the other side of the neat and tidy estate. ‘Did you know, there’s no extradition treaty with Madagascar, hen?’
The Snapperoody
Caro Ramsay
Yesterday was a great day. It was her birthday. I had to be polite and wear a frock, but it was okay. SHE got a Tiny Tears and a vanity case and had to kiss Auntie Nell. I had to kiss Auntie Nell, too; well, I tried to escape first but she caught me a smacker. I told her the bristles of her moustache hurt. It was sore. I got a sore ear for being cheeky.
My first for the day.
SHE was showing off in the front room, twirling in front of the aunties in a lemon ballerina dress and angora jacket. The aunties were impressed. Auntie Chrissie said she was an angel. Auntie May said all she needed was a halo. I said all she needed was a Christmas tree up her arse.
Sore ear number two.
I did enquire, sometime after the ritual singing of ‘Happy Birthday,’ the lighting of the candles, and
the cutting of the pink cake, why SHE got new things and I didn’t.
‘Because you’re the youngest.’
It’s the same reply, every time.
‘But I’m the tallest.’
‘You’re still the youngest.’
‘But…’ there was a pause, I sensed another sore ear coming and left it at that.
But the bestest, bestest thing of all, was her Big Present. The Diana Flash Camera. Working on the inheritance theory, I crept into her room, like a thief in the night, and claimed the Box Brownie. I wasn’t going to wait. I hung it round my neck, tucked under the collar of my jumper, putting a special napkin over it for birthday-cake-eating purposes. I do like eating with my mouth open because it annoys them and they all go hysterical when food falls out.
As we are having a day out tomorrow, I spend the evening practising. I decide to be George of the Famous Five. Kimmy Kim is Tim, but our fat old Staffie is much more smelly and much less obedient. She darts around, posing for photographs, snapping at the camera as it snaps her. Kimmy Kim and I have fun together. Then SHE, I suppose SHE would be Anne, the pathetic girlie one in the Famous Five, comes out and tells us to Stop The Carry On.
I stand with the camera flat against my stomach, and pirouette on my good leg. I pretend to be a submarine, periscoping to the world. SHE is standing in view. If I had a decent torpedo, I could fire and SHE would be blown away into a million pieces.
Which wouldn’t be enough.
SHE takes the lens off her Diana Flash and explains to me, in simple words, that her camera takes proper photographs. My inherited camera, the Box Brownie, can only take snaps. It is a camera for children.
I tell her that Kimmy Kim and I have no interest in photographs and immediately christen our camera ‘the Snapperoody.’
So today the Snapperoody and I are going on a great adventure, an awfully great adventure as the Famous Five would have it. They are all going to Millport in the car, going on the ferry. I am allowed to tag along if I am well enough. I have a secret plan, of course.
Kimmy Kim was not allowed to join us, so I will be numbered in the adventure. Kim has been confined to barracks for chewing the fridge so I ate her doggy chocs ensuring I will throw up in the back of the car. True enough, just as we go down the Haylie Brae at Largs, I am violently sick, up it all comes, a brown stinky sludgy mess. I manage to get some of it on SHE.
I get a slap on the leg for not using the sick bag, but I claim I didn’t have enough warning.
I feel rather proud as people walk away to avoid the smell on the ferry.
As we walk from the slip to Millport, I refuse to answer to anything but George. I lag behind, of course, as they forget.
SHE explains to THEM about George of the Famous Five and that she was a girl pretending to be a boy. She explains it is a ‘little girl’s story.’ She thinks she is grown up. SHE tells them I read too much. THEY say I have an overactive imagination.
I think they might be laughing at me. THEY are walking well in the front of me, thinking I can’t hear, but I notice everything.
Once we are on the beach near the Crocodile Rock, THEY put down a travelling rug and slip off their socks and shoes. Mum starts to unpack the peanut butter sandwiches and I show her the worm I have been carrying around in my pocket for a while. Then, SHE says ‘that is not a grown-up thing,’ and the worm flies from my hand, accidentally hitting her in the face. I explain it was an accident, but I still get a slap on the ear ‘for frightening your sister.’ I try the ‘as she is older’ defence but age is no defence against worms, it seems.
So I walk away and sit down, stretching my leg. I feel the tension. I have to change, before they change me.
So I change.
I decide to change into a wild dog of Africa, a bit like Kimmy Kim, but taller and with a brain. As a wild dog, I am alert to all that is around me. My nose finds scents on the breeze. All my senses are keen to the sound of nature. I am also keen to the sound of Dad asking if anybody wants an ice cream.
He must be in a good mood, we are getting 99s.
I watch him carefully, my cunning eyes narrowed, my ears pricked, as he breaks a flake in half. I tell him, that I know from my rods, that a half is two equal parts of one. So why is SHE getting the bigger half? Indeed, is there such a thing as a bigger half?
He says it is a grown-up thing and bites the larger of the two bits of chocolate, making the long bit shorter now. Then he bites the other, the only person getting chocolate is him. My good foot starts to tap in anger now. I point out the error of his ways, so SHE ends up with both bits of flake and I get a slap and another sore ear. I guess that’s a grown-up thing, as well.
Children must be seen and not heard. Wild dogs of Africa, ditto.
Still, I can escape. I put a peanut butter piece and three happy-face biscuits in my pocket. I am wearing my brown Sloppy Joe and bush hat so I can merge in the crowd on the beach. I disappear. I walk invisible. I am the adventurer.
I don’t tell THEM where I am going. I circle round THEM, watching carefully. Dad is making a paddle steamer out of sand, measuring the funnels with a straw. SHE is collecting seashells to make portholes on the boat. Mum, who must be obeyed, is rubbing sticky stuff into all and sundry, and saying ‘don’t come crying to me if you get sunburned.’ They are playing happy families.
I am not playing.
Because we are not a happy family.
The sun starts to climb in the sky, and the air gets hot. I may die from dehydration, but that never bothers George, so it won’t bother me. George would have lashings and lashings of ginger beer. I’ve tried it, but it gives me the dry boke.
I slip away. I have my piece of peanut butter. I have my Snapperoody. I have a mission in life. I am off to snap a crocodile.
I scramble over the rocks quickly, but my leg is heavy and it gets caught on the jaggy bits. I keep having to pull it clear. I keep having to stop and rest. I stand up and periscope, surveying the scene, viewing the horizon. I am still the wild dog of Africa. I am alert to all danger and all beasties with nasty stings. I pan round, eyes and ears alert, all-sensing, twitching, hearing and seeing all that there is.
The crocodile slides into view.
A big grey rock with a bright red smile and white teeth.
From here, one eye looked a bit skelly…or maybe it was the other. Or is that the same thing?
I scramble down from my viewpoint, holding the Snapperoody high in case my leg should give way and I fall. I walk right up to Mr Crocodile. He is very big. With a very big smile.
‘That’s a nice camera,’ says the man emerging from the other side of the rock.
I don’t answer. It isn’t a question.
I hold the Snapperoody to my stomach. I stare hard down the lens, trying to line up the picture.
‘A Box Brownie, I see.’
So I figure he’s not blind.
I am too busy periscoping to answer. I watch him, watching me, through the camera. And soon the man is walking towards me. He is now watching me, watching him, watching me. And he is in the way of my picture.
The crocodile is big and fierce from this angle. George would be proud of me, and Dick and Julian would make me an honorary boy.
I ask the man to get out of the way. He shrugs his shoulders. He still walks towards me. I ask him to go away. The man says I shouldn’t know language like that, as I am a nice girl. He asks me if I like chocolate. I tell him I am busy. That really gets me annoyed and I snap the crocodile anyway. I walk around, here and there, unsteady on my leg, avoiding this man who persistently gets in my way. He’s talking but I’m not listening. I have Kimmy Kim, so I don’t want to see some puppies, thank you, and I have a peanut butter piece in my pocket, so I don’t want sweeties from you.
I walk up the beach and sit on a rock; my leg is really sore now. I pick the dog hair from my jammy dodgers
and start to eat, beginning to wish I had lashings of ginger beer. It is very hot now. I keep the crocodile in view.
He is not watching me now.
I am watching him.
He says something to another girl, pulling his hat down over his face, then points the little girl in the direction of her mum and dad. The man offers to take a photograph. The family poses in front of the crocodile. Thanks are said. The man walks away.
But I am not fooled.
The bloody cavalry appears along the beach. My wild dog of Africa senses tell me SHE is there, her slim arms and legs spinning in the air, she is looking for me. SHE dances along the sand, turning cartwheels with the grace of a gazelle. Her long brown hair blowing behind her in the gentle breeze as she makes her way up to the crocodile.
I watch her as the man talks to her.
She nods her head. She points along the beach, points along the direction I have come from. She points to her leg, indicating my calliper. A horizontal hand indicating my height.
He points along the beach, away from the rocks. Away from everybody.
I watch as she nods her head again. His hand comes out of his pocket. His face is hidden by sunglasses now. He takes one last look behind him, nobody is paying any attention.
They walk away together. His hand is on her back, guiding her to where he has told her I am.
I watch, finishing my biscuit, stretching my bad leg and walk slowly after them.
Snapperoody is at the ready. The wild dog of Africa has seen its prey. The hunter and the hunted...and the hunter.
I have a bad leg. I may have an overactive imagination. I can be George, a submarine, or the wild dog of Africa.
The one thing I am not—is stupid.
Caro Ramsay
Inside the Box
Ian Rankin
‘Bloody hell, I thought you were dead!’
Ten Year Stretch Page 20