“Not so fast, mate, you sure you’re in the right place? The fancy-dress shop is at the other end of town.”
The whole point in coming inside was to lessen the attention, but it actually seems that I might have made things worse.
His comment was made intentionally loud for the benefit of everyone else in the store and now a small group of guys have gathered around, which gives him the confidence to throw out another comment.
“So what the fuck are you meant to be — a bloody snowman or something?”
He might have a fair point, but before I can answer, a tough-looking young guy pushes the security guard to one side and steps forward to speak. He looks to be in his late teens or early twenties and is tall and slim with a wedge-cut side parting. There is a vicious-looking scar running from below his right ear to just below his chin. It is an obvious mark of a football hooligan and I have no doubt at all that he probably has a Stanley knife tucked away in the pocket of his tracksuit.
He steps forward, then points down towards my groin and says, “Never mind a fucking snowman, are you some kind of fucking pervert? Have you got anything on under that outfit? You can see your fucking nuts dangling!”
The rain has made my overalls extremely clingy and partially transparent, and although the rest of the crowd burst out laughing at his comment, it has attracted more shoppers, including some families with kids. The security guard is starting to look agitated and is about to radio for assistance. I am currently in a cell in real life for murder; the last thing I need now is to end up in a cell in my dreams for indecent exposure.
Without responding to the hooligan’s comment, I brazen it out by pushing past him towards the security guard.
“Don’t panic, Columbo, I was out for my birthday and my mates thought it would be fun to strip me off and dress me up as a snowman. Then the wankers fucking drove off and left me out in the rain.”
The thought that he was right makes him smile and he noticeably relaxes and lowers his radio. The hard case is less convinced and he leaves me with a warning before moving off and continuing his shopping.
“I’ve got my fucking eye on you, mate, just watch your fucking step. Get yourself covered up, for fuck’s sake.”
Getting myself covered up is exactly the reason that I came in here in the first place, so with the security guard watching me like a hawk I move around the store and pick out some clothes and a pair of shoes. The gear I pick out looks expensive, but I don’t bother checking the prices. I don’t have any money and I’m not intending to pay anyway. Inside the changing room, I strip off the wet overalls and dress in the new clothes, taking a moment to check myself out in the mirror. Apart from my hairstyle being completely wrong, I think I could fit in well with the soccer casuals. I have chosen a red Sergio Tacchini tracksuit with a white stripe, a blue and white Fila roll-neck top and a pair of Blue Adidas Gazelle trainers, which also have a white stripe. With the addition of a beige Stone Island casual jacket to keep out the winter cold, the only thing I am missing is the Stanley knife, but otherwise I am good to go.
Outside the changing rooms, the security guy looks me up and down with suspicion and then he follows me towards the checkout area at the back of the store and stands close behind me as I hand over the labels to the young girl operating the register. He is in his mid to late forties, with a good size belly and he doesn’t look like he can run too fast. If he does manage to grab me, though, I could be in trouble, so as she scans each of the items, I make a pretense of looking for my wallet in the various pockets of the tracksuit and the jacket. As she rings up the last item and tells me the price, I turn to face the guard.
“I think I might have left my wallet in the changing room, I won’t be a minute.”
Without waiting for a response, I push past him and face back towards the entrance. He is still within grabbing distance of me, but it’s now or never and I make my move, pointing and shouting over to where the hard case is stuffing a couple of shirts inside his jacket.
“Oy, ya fucking thieving bastard!”
I am already running before the guard, torn between his suspicion of me and actually witnessing a theft in progress, realizes what is going on. As I draw level with the hard case, he smiles at me, then he looks back towards the guard and flicks him the middle finger. We reach the front door at the same time and split right and left down the high street. The fat fuck security guard has no chance of catching either one of us, but I don’t take any chances and keep running through the center of town for another half mile until I am sure that the danger has passed.
The rain has stopped, but the exertion of the run has me sweating like a nun in a cucumber patch. Thankfully, my next stop isn’t far away, but I don’t know how much time I have, so I keep up a brisk walking pace until I am interrupted by the sound of a car horn. I turn just as a souped-up Austin Metro draws level with me and my eyes are immediately drawn to the added rear spoiler, go-faster stripes, and highly polished chrome wheels. I can’t see him through the heavily tinted windows, but I know already who it is before he even rolls down the window.
“Oy, mate, you want a fucking lift?”
There is no hint of aggression in his voice and he doesn’t appear to be at all bothered that I fingered him to the security guard, so I nod and accept the offer. Chances are it’s going to rain again soon anyway and it’s never a bad thing to have a potential ally.
I don’t know when the term ‘Chav’ was first used, but this guy must surely qualify as one. His casuals outfit looks good, but the fake leopard-skin seat covers and the furry dice hanging from the rear-view mirror are a definite fail. As trends go, these ones are best left in the eighties, but I don’t intend to upset my newfound friend by pointing this out.
“Nice car, mate, and thanks for the lift. I’m not sure why you’re doing this, though — not after what I did in the shop.”
He laughs and slaps me on the arm. “Nah, what are you fucking talking about? It’s all cool, son. I thought you were some kind of pervert, but what you did back there was fucking legendary. I go in there at least once a week and pinch two or three bits and pieces, but I have never seen someone walk in there dressed as a fucking snowman and run out in a completely new fucking outfit. That clobber must be worth at least five-hundred quid. Fucking legendary, mate! How about a fucking pint? I want you to meet the lads.”
A nice cold pint would actually go down nicely, but it will have to wait; there are other things I need to do first, so I push my luck and ask him for a favor. “A pint sounds fucking great, but I need to stop off at a couple of other places first, if that’s alright with you?”
“Fuck me, you’re a fucking cheeky twat, aren’t you? Does this look like a fucking taxi to you? I don’t even fucking know your name.”
It’s all said in good humor and as I reach over to shake his hand, he is smiling and calls me a cheeky twat again.
“It’s Sean Smith, good to meet you — sorry again about ratting you out to the security guard.”
“I said before, don’t fucking worry about it, Sean. Even if I do go back in there, that fat cunt is too fucking scared of me to do anything. My name’s Darren by the way, Darren Philips, but my mates call me Daz. So where is it you need to go?”
This can go one of two ways, so I brace myself for his reaction before I blurt out, “Well actually, I need to drop into Luton Police Station.”
If I hadn’t been ready for it, I would probably have gone through the windscreen when he slams on the brakes. The car behind just manages to avoid ploughing into the back of us and the extremely pissed-off driver lets his feelings be known as he passes.
“Fucking arsehole, where did you fucking learn to drive!”
My focus, though, is on Daz. His hand is in his right-hand pocket and the earlier aggression is back. He doesn’t bring it out, but at least I know now where he keeps his knife.
“Are you having a fucking laugh, mate? Who the fuck are you? Are you a fucking cop?”
&nbs
p; “Don’t be a fucking bell end, Daz. How many pigs do you know that go shoplifting in Intersport? I just need to check in as part of my parole.”
The mood instantly lightens and I am relieved when he takes his hand out of his pocket and releases the handbrake.
“For fuck’s sake, Sean, I nearly fucking shit myself! So you were inside, then — what did you do?”
The look on his face tells me that my credibility is rising by the minute and I am happy to play along.
“I got eighteen months for aggravated burglary.”
“Aggravated burglary — so you gave someone a few digs?”
“Yep, I was doing a place over in Croydon. Some posh twat woke up as I was leaving and tried to play the hero. He was a big fucker and I had to stick the nut on him a couple of times before he went down. His blood made a right fucking mess of my best Lyle & Scott jumper.”
He is hanging off my every word as I continue to embellish the story of my arrest and imprisonment and soon, we pull into a parking space around the corner from the station.
“Sorry I can’t get any closer; this car is not exactly legal, if you know what I mean.” Then with a laugh, “A bit of a mix up with the tax and insurance — it got lost in the post.”
I smile and tell him that I won’t be long, adding, “If I’m not back out in ten minutes, don’t wait for me. The fuckers will probably have pulled me for the bank robbery last year.”
Understandably, he is unsure if I am serious or taking the piss now, but as I walk away, he opts to go with belief and shouts through the window.
“Fucking legendary, mate!”
The clock on the wall behind the reception counter is one of the very early digital types with clumsy-looking red letters. The time is showing 4.22 pm and the date is 24th December, Christmas Eve, which probably goes some way to explaining why the duty sergeant is looking so pissed off. The rest of his mates are no doubt either in the pub already or at home with their feet up in front of the TV with a beer in their hands.
As I approach the counter, he looks at me as if he is hoping that I might change my mind and leave him to get back to his crossword, but when I move closer, he lets out a sigh and straightens up in his seat.
“Yes, sir, what can I help you with?”
I am taking a huge risk coming here but knowing what I know about Clive Douglas I am confident that there is only a slim chance he will be working today. If by some miracle he is working on Christmas Eve, I will need to make a swift exit and come up with another plan.
“I’m looking for Detective Sergeant Douglas. He asked me to come down to speak with him.”
My request doesn’t go down well and as he slumps back in his chair again, he doesn’t even make a pretense of being polite. “He’s not on shift today. Come back after Christmas.” Then he looks back down to his newspaper and carries on with his crossword.
“Do you mind checking, please? He literally just called me thirty minutes ago and asked me to come in straightaway. He said it was urgent.”
Reluctantly, he lifts up the desk phone and makes a call, presumably to the office that Douglas works in. My luck holds. When he doesn’t get an answer, he stands up and comes out into the main reception area.
“I don’t get paid extra for this, you know. Wait here while I go and check if he is here.”
He points to a scruffy-looking bench and I turn to sit down, but as he walks towards the door leading to the back area, I am close enough to see him punch in the code to the access lock. Even by the security standards of the 1980s, having 9999 as the access code in a police station is dumb, but what do I care? I have work to do and as soon as he is gone, I am up on my feet and letting myself into the restricted area.
I probably have a few minutes at the most before Sergeant Charisma comes back down; but, as expected, the station is all but deserted and I find the locker room quickly. On Christmas Eve, the station will be running on a skeleton crew, with probably just the duty sergeant, a few guys out on the beat and maybe one or two constables on standby. The rest will be kicking it back at home or in a pub somewhere.
This locker room is no different from locker rooms in any other station in the UK, then or now. The room is long and straight with a row of tall steel lockers either side, and a crappy-looking wooden bench in the middle of the floor. The door at the end of the room probably leads off into a shower and bathroom area and the whole place has the aroma of old socks, stale sweat, and cheap cologne, lending it an air of familiarity. I ignore the lockers with padlocks and go to work on the rest. The first three come up empty, but on the fourth I hit the jackpot. I quickly stuff the wallet and other items into my back pocket.
I sit back down on the bench in the reception area with just seconds to spare. When the duty sergeant comes through the door, he looks even more pissed off than before.
“Like I said, he’s not here — come back after Christmas, preferably when someone else is on duty.”
Faking puzzlement at my apparent error, I apologize for wasting his time and then calmly walk towards the door and step out into the street. In my back pocket, the watch is digging into my ass, so I take it out and put it on. I feel a bit guilty for taking it, but perhaps the unlucky victim might learn a valuable lesson about securing his locker in the future.
Despite his wish to remain out of sight, Daz is doing a really shitty job of remaining inconspicuous. Even though I was only gone for around five minutes, he obviously gets bored easily. He is leaning back on the bonnet of his car flirting with two teenage girls with his stereo pumping out ‘Homely Girl’ by ‘UB40’. When he sees me coming, he smiles and points me out to the girls.
“This is my mate Sean I was telling you about. Sean, this is Sarah and this is Karen. How about we take these two lovelies off to the pub for a few bevvies?”
They both look to be around eighteen or nineteen and as rough as a bear’s arse. I assume that they are not the lads he wanted me to meet, but why not, the more the merrier.
“Sure, why not? I need to make one last stop, though, before the pub; it’s not too far.”
Daz is about to protest, but he stops when I pull out the wallet and flash a twenty-pound note at him and say, “For petrol, this fucking beast must guzzle the juice.” My compliment works and after I give him the address, we head off with the two girls giggling away on the back seat.
As he drives, Daz gives me a sideways knowing smile and then loudly says, “I think after a couple of drinks, Karen might want to suck you off, me old mucker.”
Darren and Sarah burst out laughing and Karen makes a half-hearted show of protesting, “Fuck off, Daz, I ain’t no fucking slag, you know!”
I suspect that Darren is probably right and whether she thinks it or not, both Karen and Sarah are probably the proverbial ‘right old pair of slappers’. Mercifully and before the conversation deteriorates any further, we arrive in Clive Douglas’ street and I tell Darren to park a few doors down from his house. The rain has started again and I ask Daz to turn on the rear windscreen wiper so that I can see Clive’s front door. The girls are getting restless in the back of the car and so is Daz.
“So, are we here for a fucking reason, Sean? There is a pint with my name on it and it’s not gonna fucking drink itself.”
“Yeh, Sean. What the fuck are we doing here?” Karen chips in.
Then Sarah adds, “Have you come to visit your Nan or something? Don’t you like blowjobs? Ignore what Karen said — she’s had more cock ends than weekends, haven’t you Karen?”
While they all piss themselves over Sarah’s comment, I keep watching the door. A few seconds later I am rewarded when I see it open and Clive Douglas steps out onto the doorstep. He turns to kiss his wife on the cheek, then he gets into a Red Vauxhall Cavalier and pulls out into the street. When I tell Daz to follow him, he throws me that same earlier look of suspicion and aggression.
“It’s all good, Daz, just scoping this fella out for a job I’m planning. Play your cards right and I mig
ht cut you in on the job — if it’s not too heavy for you, that is?”
At first he looks offended, then he looks defiant as he puffs himself up. “Nah, not too heavy, mate, count me in.” He turns back to face the girls. “What did I tell you? He’s a fucking legend.”
While the girls giggle away in the back seat, I keep Daz focused on making sure that he doesn’t lose sight of Douglas. I have no idea where he might be going or what I am going to do when we get there, but I pride myself on my ability to think on my feet, so I don’t worry too much. Five minutes after leaving his street, we are back on Luton High Street and much to Darren’s excitement, shortly afterwards Clive turns into the car park of the White Hart pub.
“Well then, Sean, it looks like it’s time for that fucking pint after all. Come on, girls, let’s get fucking slaughtered.”
The pub is absolutely packed, as you would expect on Christmas Eve, but Daz is obviously well known and he pushes his way through the drinkers easily and makes a space near the bar for us. Most of the punters are well oiled already and are singing along to ‘A Fairy Tale of New York’, which is belting out from the speakers. It is a miracle that the barman can hear anything, but he nods his understanding when Daz places the order.
“Two pints of Budweiser and two double Southern Comfort and lemonade for these two, John.”
As John starts to pull the pints, it is clear that Daz has no intention of putting his hand in his pocket to pay, so I pull another twenty-pound note out of the wallet and hand it over. While I wait for the change, Karen moves closer and puts her hand on my ass. Much as I enjoy blowjobs, I tell her that I need a piss and I push my way through the crowd to look for Douglas. At the back of the pub, there are some partially screened booths and one of them is occupied by Douglas and two other guys. It’s too noisy to hear what they are saying and I don’t want to risk moving any closer, but it’s clear from the body language that this is more than just a friendly Christmas drink.
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