by R. W. Hughes
It was 12.30pm and there were more people about now. ‘What are we waiting for?’ asked John nervously.
‘Just till those two young shop assistants go for their lunch,’ was the reply. ‘There they go now! We don’t want them chasing you, do we John?’
Both lads stood near the entrance to a small bookshop with a sign saying ‘Antique Books & 1st Editions’. ‘Stay here near the window and you can see me in the shop, when I give you the thumbs up give me a minute before you come in.’
‘How do I know a minute will be up?’ enquired John, looking at Geoff with a puzzled frown on his face. Geoff smiled and pointed to a large clock hanging from a jeweller’s shop window across the street.
When John Bolton again turned around Geoff was already entering the swing doors of the bookshop. He knew exactly what he was looking for and slowly made his way to a separate rear room where the rare books and first editions were kept, protected behind locked, sliding glass partitions. An assistant had just removed a leather-bound book for a customer and relocked the glass door. Both men were studying the book, which was opened out on the counter.
Geoff went to the window and gave the thumbs up to his accomplice standing in the street trying to look with interest at the books in the shop window.
He then went back to the rear room where the assistant and his potential customer were still inspecting the rare book on the counter. Geoff stood looking in the cabinets with his back to them, giving the impression of looking at a set of books through the protective glass but, in actual fact, unknown to them he was watching the reflection of the two men behind him.
He saw in the reflection the shop assistant look up in his direction and make a move towards him, but his attention was drawn back to his customer asking him a question about the book in front of them.
The minute that John Bolton was waiting outside the book shop seemed to go on forever, the finger on the large clock didn’t seem to move at all, he’d walked up and down in front of the shop twice, so as not to be too obvious he stopped again in front of the window.
Eventually the large finger on the face of the clock above the jewellers clicked over. John Bolton walked into the bookshop, grabbed the largest hardback book he could see that was nearest the door, turned and walked straight out again.
The electronic tab on the book set the alarms ringing at the exit.
John Bolton was off like a shot running down the street followed, several seconds later, by two middle-aged shop assistants.
Geoff was passed by the remaining assistant, followed more slowly by his customer, as they both went to view the excitement at the front of the shop.
On their return a short while later the light in the room was turned off, it took the assistant several seconds to find the light switch for the florescent lights that controlled that section of the shop, and then to turn them on again. It took several more vital seconds before he realised that the book on the counter, although slightly similar, was just a leather-bound, reasonably modern novel from one of the nearby shelves, and not the rare first edition that was there before the disturbance.
The alarm was still ringing as Geoff walked out with a carrier bag with the shop’s name printed on the side, just as the two panting assistants returned carrying the book that John Bolton had discarded as they got closer to him in the chase. Geoff turned, quickly losing himself amongst the milling lunchtime crowd on the busy main street.
It was much later that he met up with his nervous, red-faced companion John Bolton at the prearranged meeting place outside the railway station.
John told him how the two shop assistants had nearly caught him; he had only managed to give them the slip by dropping the book and running across the road in front of the moving traffic, to the annoyance of the drivers who made their feelings felt by blasting on their horns at the urchin who had risked his life amongst the fast moving traffic; by then the shop assistants had fortunately given up the chase.
Sitting on the train leaving the station Geoff inspected the worn, leather-bound book. John Bolton showed some mild curiosity. ‘I don’t understand the risks we took just for that book,’ he moaned.
‘You have to speculate to accumulate,’ replied Geoff, continuing to study the book while also trying to ease the pain on the heels of his feet as the cardboard had pushed up in his sock and the shoes were rubbing again.
‘Well, we’ve yet to make our way back to the school unseen and return Shelly’s clothes to his locker,’ John continued. His comments fell on deaf ears as his partner carried on looking at the beautiful, engraved lettering at the beginning of each page in the leather-bound book. The edges of the pages had started to go a light brown in colour but the print was still quite clear. The book had been written and first published by a Reverend Angus Mackay in 1886 in defence of the Mackay clan. Apparently he had been moved to research and had recorded the true facts of the clan’s heritage, their history and events, which had been badly misrepresented in a previous history book by an earlier author, a Sir Robert Gordon of a nearby clan called Sutherland.
Their station arrived all too soon for Geoff who was engrossed in the old volume. ‘Come on, hurry up Geoff,’ shouted John Bolton as he held open the carriage door.
The secret of getting in and out of this station was that it had to be done while railway staff were busy and their attention was taken up with the passengers leaving the train.
Unseen, the two lads slipped around the far corner of the main building. Reaching the fence, Geoff pulled the two bottom boards in the fencing. This usually allowed them to slip out into the car park at the side but, on this occasion, the boards remained firmly in place.
‘You’re pulling the wrong boards!’ exclaimed John, the tension sounding in his voice as he pushed the smaller frame of Geoff out of the way, proceeding to tug at several of the boards on either side of the ones Geoff had been trying. Still none of the boards moved.
During the short time that they had been away the railway maintenance staff had arrived and re-fixed the loose boards, in response to a report previously submitted by the station master of lads using the loose boards as a private entrance and exit to and from the station platform.
‘Hi!’ the shout from the far end of the building galvanised the boys into action.
John Bolton was slightly bigger and stronger than Geoff. With a few steps back and two quicker steps forward along with a great leap John managed to reach the top of the fence, dragging himself up and over the top.
‘Coming over!’ shouted Geoff as he threw the bag containing the book over the fence. He then tried the same movement as John Bolton twice, but could not reach the top of the fence, falling back again on each attempt.
A quick look over his shoulder showed two men walking briskly towards him. They’ve no need to hurry, he thought. They can see I can’t get over the fence and I’m trapped in this bloody cul-de-sac. It was in sheer desperation that he grabbed one of the bottom pieces of the fence and tugged with all his might.
It must have been the fear of being caught which gave Geoff added strength plus a hefty kick from John on the other side of the fence, because the single board came away from its fixing on the frame with an almighty creak. The opening it left was small but he realised he had no alternative. Another glance over his shoulder showed the two men, on seeing that their quarry may be escaping, had now broken into a shambling run.
Quickly twisting his shoulders into a vertical position he forced himself into the narrow opening, but he became stuck by his chest and the P.E. instructor’s thick sports coat. He could hear the approaching footsteps of the two men. So near, yet so far, he thought to himself.
Suddenly his wrists were grabbed from the other side of the fence.
It felt as if his shoulders were going to be pulled out of their sockets, as John Bolton heaved with all his might, his feet planted firmly against the bottom of the fence and leaning backwards.
He was pulling on Geoff’s wrists for all he was worth
, while Geoff was pushing from his side as best he could with his feet digging into the hard soil.
When the fence did finally release Geoff it was like a cork from a bottle and he ended up on top of John Bolton, attempting at the same time to swing his legs out of the way and clear of the opening.
He wasn’t quite fast enough as one of the men reached through the small gap in the fence and grabbed one of his ankles. A quick downward kick with his free foot on the man’s fingers brought a curse from the other side of the fence, and forced the grip to slacken slightly, but it still remained holding tightly onto Mr. Shelly’s shoe.
Geoff could feel the panic rising; his heart was beating faster and faster as he was pulled back towards the gap in the fence.
‘You won’t get away from me that easy you little sod!’ This was followed by a triumphant laugh from the other side of the fence. Geoff was twisting his foot this way and that in a vain attempt to release himself from the clamp like grip. Suddenly he was free; his foot had slipped out of the oversized shoe leaving the man just holding on to Mr. Shelly’s by now, scratched and very battered footwear.
‘We’ll get you one of these days you little bastards!’ the workman shouted in frustration, placing his face against the gap in the fence.
He was met with a torrent of filthy abuse from the two lads ending with, ‘Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!’ from Geoff, shouted between their bouts of hysterical laughter, as they ran off alongside the fence towards the road. While Geoff was being forced to run with a lop-sided motion through wearing only one shoe.
‘Thanks for not leaving me back there, John,’ said Geoff when he was sure they weren’t being chased, and they had stopped to regain their breath.
‘Think nothing of it, that’s what mates are for,’ replied John, feeling very relieved and quite pleased with his achievement and the fact they had not been caught
They set off for the playing field with Geoff still walking with a funny up and down gait caused by the lack of one of Mr. Shelly’s shoes.
‘What will we do about the missing shoe Geoff?’ John queried, sounding quite concerned. Geoff had been pondering on that very same problem himself.
‘We’ll put everything back in the locker as it was, they won’t be able to pin anything on us if we’re carful,’ replied Geoff with a confidence he did not feel.
It was only when he came to change into his own clothes in the bushes near the playing field that he discovered all the buttons on the front of Mr. Shelly’s sports coat were also missing. They’d been torn off in the process of being dragged through the narrow gap in the fence and the knees of the long grey trousers were also covered in mud from his scramble through the fence.
Mr. Shelly took great pride in his footwear, it was a habit carried on through his long time service in the Royal Air Force. The pair of highly polished and once shiny shoes was now down to just one, and this was so scratched and badly scuffed it did not have the faintest resemblance to the shoe that had started the journey earlier that day.
Well there’s nothing I can do about that now, Geoff thought to himself. He didn’t bother to mention his discoveries to his companion, he couldn’t see the point at this moment in time, his friend was of a nervous disposition and it was to no avail bothering him with this minor hiccup, and things had gone roughly to plan anyway.
It was now just before three o’clock. If they hurried they had sufficient time to replace the clothes and shoe in Shelly’s locker then mix with the rest of the pupils in the playground during their afternoon break. They would be in time to make the last lesson.
Little did they realise the drama in the school that had, and was still being, played in the classrooms in their absence.
Chapter Five
Derek Bolton had signed in both Geoff and his brother for the P.E. lesson. Shelly was the only teacher who allowed the boys to sign themselves into the class; it was his method of trying to give them responsibility. So if any boy wanted to skip a lesson, it was usually during P.E., getting a mate to forge their signature and cover for their absence.
Derek Bolton thought he was the only one in the class on the playing field who saw the shadowy figures of his brother and Geoff behind the bushes at the far end of the school grounds. He also thought it would be all over before the scheme had even got off the ground as he watched Mr. Shelly looking in their direction as his two mates climbed up the far embankment; he was helpless to intervene. He was as surprised as Mr. Shelly when Harry Sutton’s voice popped up out of nowhere, to attract the teacher’s attention, Derek watched relieved as the boys disappeared onto the road, just as Shelly turned around again.
It was the second lesson that could cause problems. Derek would have to shout out, ‘Here sir!’ as the names of his brother and Geoff were called out. He could get away with Geoff’s name, as there was a large gap between Bolton and Larkin, but his brother’s name was straight after his own and the teacher might well recognise the similarity in the reply.
Even though Shelly had not missed the two boys from his class, both Dave Higgins and Wilf Norton had twigged that something was going on, especially as Geoff Larkin and John Bolton were both missing from class. They were looking intently at Derek as it came closer and closer to both his and his brother’s name being called by the teacher.
What was in Derek’s favour was that the teacher taking the history lesson that particular week was a young, temporary, student replacement and, as yet, he was not familiar with all the boys in the different classes. The student teacher’s name was Mr. Lonsdale and he had, for some unknown reason, been nicknamed Hikky Lonsdale by the pupils. Perhaps this was from his habit of cracking several wooden rulers hard on the desk in order to get the boys’ attention.
‘Bolton D,’ shouted out Hikky.
‘Here, sir,’ replied Derek Bolton.
‘Bolton J,’ shouted out Hikky.
‘Here!’ replied a gruffer sounding Derek Bolton.
‘Here, sir, if you please Bolton J,’ Hikky shouted back.
‘Here, sir,’ replied Derek Bolton, breathing a sigh of relief as he shouted, ‘Here sir!’ when Larkin was called.
There was no reaction from the teacher who continued calling out the rest of the names that made up the class. The boring history lesson with Hikky Lonsdale took the class up to lunchtime without any further mishap. If any of the other pupils had heard Derek Bolton cover up for the absence of Geoff Larkin and his older brother, they kept it to themselves, with the exception of Dave Higgins and Wilfred Norton.
At the lunch break Derek Bolton was coming out of the urinals that were situated in a brick building in the corner of the school playground. There was only one exit and blocking this exit were Dave Higgins, Wilf Norton and two of his gang. They roughly pushed Derek back into the corner of the large, slate urinal. ‘Where’s Larkin and your brother?’ said Higgins quietly, pushing his face close up to Derek’s.
Several weeks earlier, Dave Higgins had seen a film about the American Mafia and one of the gangsters had been called Whispering Joe Bianci. This deadly character spoke very, very softly to people. Apparently, he could not speak any louder as his throat and voice box had been permanently damaged in a previous knife fight. After watching this film Dave Higgins had started to imitate this gangster by speaking very low, so low in fact it was difficult to hear what he was saying.
‘Hey! What do you say?’ said Derek, standing his ground.
For his bravery he took a knee in the groin from Dave Higgins and a punch thrown over his cousin’s shoulder by Wilf Norton landed on the side of his head.
Derek, still doubled up from the knee in the groin, raised his arms and elbows to protect his head. One of his arms was pulled away and he took another blow on his forehead from Higgins plus a kick on the shin from Norton. The other two members of the gang were hovering and bobbing in the background waiting to throw a punch or a kick at the huddled figure in the corner of the urinal.
‘Hey! What’s going on?’ the shout cam
e from the far doorway to the toilets.
‘Tell whoever it is to piss off or they’ll get some of the same!’ shouted Norton, not bothering to turn around as he sent another punch into the unprotected ribs of the cringing body in the corner.
‘Watch out Wilf, it’s that bloody nutter Sutton,’ the shout came from one of the gang standing on the fringe and waiting to get into the action.
Wilf Norton heard the shout and started to turn then blackness peppered with stars exploded in front of his eyes.
Dave Higgins was a little quicker and managed to swing a punch but it was smothered by the bulk of Harry Sutton who grabbed Higgins by the shoulders, upended him and forced his face into the trough of the urinal, holding him there for several minutes. The other two members of the gang, by this time, had scarpered as soon as the doorway was clear. They were now standing in the playground watching the entrance to the toilets.
It was only when they saw Harry Sutton and Derek Bolton leave that they felt it was safe to venture back into the building to assist their friends. They found Dave Higgins splashing water from a wash basin over Wilf Norton’s swollen face as he slowly regained consciousness.
The lesson after lunch was woodwork with their form teacher, Mr. Ashness, Terry Ashness! The pupils hated this man and he in turn hated them. He thought all boys were stupid, insolent, rude and scruffy. He had fits of temper, smashing to pieces in front of the class some of the boys’ poorer efforts at making wooden joints.
Where the other teachers used detention for punishment, Terry Ashness seemed to delight in using verbal abuse, coming so close to the lads that the froth he generated splattered the unfortunate victim all over his face and, even more so, if he had been in one of his vile rages. The boys had nicknamed him ‘Whiplash Ashness’ after an old black and white western television series that was being re-run at the time called Whiplash.