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 39 years old and living in the North of England. Have travelled a bit, worked abroad and moved around the country. Have two children and two websites - both demand as much attention as each other! Am currently writing 2 novels (1st and second part of a story) as well as submitting short stories/competition pieces. I have the outlines for 3 other novels drawn up as well as an almost complete children's book. Am currently working with an illustrator for the children's book.
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MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
- Worked on my own site recently > www.rgrayling.co.uk as well as some for other Struggling Authors.
- Started a resource website for unpublished authors - www.strugglingauthors.co.uk - have so far had some great interviews from a couple of well known authors. This site is growing every day.
- Took an Open University Course on Creative Fiction and got 93% for my 1st assignment and 97% for my second. That's quite an accomplishment - for me :-)
- Got my first article published. It's an interview with a debut author that appears on Douglas Reeman's site. The piece is currently here - http://www.bolithomaritimeproductions.com/Kim%20Reeman/Interview.html
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MY NEWS:
My website is now up and running at www.rgrayling.co.uk
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MY FAVORITE LINKS:
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MY RESIDENCE INFO:
City: York
State/Country: United Kingdom
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BOOKS PUBLISHED:
 Green Kiddies
By Richard Grayling
Noun: Green Kiddy: An awkward or inexperienced youth, wet behind the ears, unversed in the ways of the world.
Chapter 1
June 1992
Hull, England
With a resounding thud, a monosyllabic knock bounced off my front door.
The brass letterbox flicked open and a gloved hand pried its way into my personal space. I had already tucked myself into a corner of the room, having half expected a visit like this, yet praying it would never happen.
Another knock, business-like and brisk, shook the wooden panels, then voices, peeling off curses like bank notes. The pause before they tried again was almost too much to bear. I wanted to hold myself up to the window and say, ‘Yes, I’m here, I did it, now leave me alone to get on with my life.’ An inbuilt survival instinct held me back, thankfully.
Another knock, harder this time, more determined.
One of the strangers approached the bay window and peered inside. A no-nonsense face parking itself just inches from mine. All my bits and the vast majority of my bobs were packed in boxes scattered around the room. It was glaringly obvious, even to a detective, I was going somewhere in a hurry. Furniture was conspicuous by its absence - I had sold it all within the last week and was expecting a visit from a man with cash-money anytime now. It wouldn’t be good form if he turned up at this precise moment but he did need to turn up sometime or this would the shortest trip around Europe on record.
Knock.
In my eyes, I hadn’t done anything wrong. I’d been told to look after something by my girlfriend’s brother and to not, under any circumstances, ask any questions. That deal was okay with me. I couldn’t afford to turn down the fifty-pound keep-quiet fee, but it was now turning sour. The girlfriend cheated so I quickly got rid. Unfortunately, breaking up with the rest of her family turned out to be less cut and dried.
The murmuring outside increased for a second and I caught a snatch of conversation.
“Judging by that mess it looks like he’s done a runner already, Sarge.”
I heard a small cough.
“I reckon we should come back in an hour,” pause for effect. “With a team.”
Great, I thought, a team. Nice one. At least they were policemen, it could have been worse, a lot worse.
“Aye, we’ll shake the place apart and see who or what falls out.” The older voice said, obviously for the benefit of anyone inside the house.
The ‘something’ I was looking after was out in the back yard. The sad part was that I had only to keep my nose clean and not draw attention to myself for a couple more days and I would have been in the clear. And yet, although I may be wrong here, getting very drunk on Pernod and boasting that I was a bank robber – in my local pub - may have reneged on that deal somewhat.
Now I had a sore head, cold arse and two burly coppers at my door. I looked back to the window where there were now two faces pressed against the glass, gloved hands shielding their eyes, viewing the disarray. I held my nerve and stood still, quietly counting off the seconds until they spotted me.
A cigarette would have been nice, to take the edge off the tension. However, the flame would be spotted instantly and my reward much more than a nicotine hit. Prison is not a good place for naïve young men in their early twenties. Especially when they look this good but don’t know how to fight.
“Mr Richards!” An authoritative voice broke my concentration.
“Graham,” A second, more amiable voice pleaded. “Just let us in. We only want two minutes of your time to follow up our enquiries on some missing property.”
No dice. I had fronted it out this long and could tell this was their last stab.
They paused, obviously waiting for someone stupid to show their face, then - when I didn’t – retreated. I heard doors slamming and a car start up and move off. The house settled back into silence once more, the only noise being occasional birdsong and the distant hum of traffic on Princes Avenue.
***
Exhaling a breath I may have been holding for longer than was healthy, I surveyed the room again, eyes flicking from fireplace to door, to detritus in the centre. The police were coming back in an hour with a warrant, and a team. I needed to act fast. I needed to be sick.
I hurried to the bathroom, picking my way through the carnage, barely making it in time. Vomiting into an unplumbed sink wasn’t a pleasant experience but I felt marginally better afterwards. I can’t say the same for the floor though. After inspecting my pale, thin face in the mirror, I took the brave decision to go into the backyard and try somehow to dispose of any evidence.
I paused to light a cigarette before venturing outside, which proved, incongruously, to be a lifesaver. Stood outside the rear door, with their backs to me, were two figures in black jackets and balaclavas. They must have been waiting for the Police to leave before scaling the fence at the back of the yard. They obviously knew what they were looking for - and where to find it. My hand froze on the door handle, not daring to release it in case it squeaked. They hadn’t seen me yet – being too interested in the contents of my old washing machine - but had only to glance behind them and I would be in plain sight. So, with as much stealth as one can muster in flowery boxer shorts, I released the door handle and tiptoed back into the living room. I pasted myself to the bare wall and inched sideways towards the hallway door, hoping my movements wouldn’t attract any attention from outside.
I made it to the stairs and, once in the relative safety of my bedroom, tugged an old sweatshirt onto my skinny frame and backed into a pair of faded jeans. My long, straight hair spilled out in all directions but would have to do for now. Thus attired, I pinched back the curtains carefully, checking for anyone else lying in wait out front. I couldn’t see much of anything so crept through to the back bedroom where another tall window gave me an excellent view of the yard. There were no curtains to hide behind so I peered over the bottom corner of the windowsill and watched the men at work. My mouth went dry as my palms did the opposite. On the floor of the yard, next to the hollow shell of my washing machine, was a pile of bulging moneybags.
Chapter 2
Frozen to the spot, I watched in horror as more and more bags appeared from the washing machine’s innards. I felt a desperate need to ring Dave, my travelling companion, and let him know what was happening but the telephone downstairs was in full view of the rear window - and was disconnected last week. I jittered back to my bedroom and sat down heavily on the bed. I had been awake now since the early hours of the morning, worry having denied me proper sleep, and it was starting to affect my thinking. I would need a clear head if I were to survive the next few hours, as it wasn’t just the Police I had to worry about now the money had been found.
***
I finished my cigarette and sat for a while counting off the minutes. I had to be out of here before the police came back but I also really needed the money my visitor would have with him. It was only three hundred pounds but it was better than nothing. I wandered back to the other bedroom see how the meatheads in the yard were progressing.
Incredibly, the place was now empty. The washer was still there, on its side now - and in pieces, but both blokes and bags were nowhere to be seen. I double checked out front too but couldn’t see far enough along the street. If I wanted a better view, I would have to go downstairs. I just made it to the last step when the large brass letterbox in the centre of my door lifted up and two beady eyes glared in.
“Shit,” I said to myself - and aloud, “Bollocks.” Images of prison beatings and gang rapes flashed through my mind, stopping me in my tracks.
The eyes fixed me with a glare, piercing the gloom of the hallway.
“Graham, is that you?”
“Who the….?” It couldn’t be, “Is that you, Sir?”
It was my visitor, my old headmaster; bang on time and about to get me banged up. I rushed to the door, wrenching it inwards and dragging my elderly visitor into the living room as quickly as was polite.
“God, I’m so glad it’s you!” I shouted, breathless with reprieve, “Did anyone see you? Is there anyone outside?”
“Er, not that I know of young man. Why?” he asked, bemused and confused.
I quickly invented a story about bailiffs and unallocated payments hoping it wouldn’t affect the deal with the furniture or his opinion of me. When I had told all I stood back and waited for his reaction. He pressed his fingers to his long nose pensively then spoke quietly, so as not to be overheard.
“Does that mean you’ll be selling the telly as well then?”
I could have kissed him, in a manly way obviously.
“You can have the friggin telly mate,” I said, genuinely pleased I hadn’t damaged our relationship, then at the sight of his raised eyebrows, I added respectfully, “Sorry I meant, please take it with my compliments, Sir.”
We concluded the deal and Mr Henderson pressed three hundred pounds in crisp new notes into my hand before packing the television (and some adult magazines I had lying around) into his pickup. His loneliness became more apparent when he tried to engage me in various conversations about the old days, modern warfare, and the state of the pond in Pearson Park. I eventually had to make my excuses and leave as the clock was ticking and I was better off not being around the next time somebody knocked on my door. He chugged off slowly and I waved for what was to be the last time.
I was now alone with the dilemma of what to take with me on the trip and what to leave. I reckoned I had twenty minutes before the police returned, less if they got a move on. I pecked hurriedly at my belongings trying to trim the load. Dave and I had agreed we would take only one bag each for our clothes and had somehow managed to stick to. Unfortunately, nobody had said anything about how many books, pairs of trainers, jackets, or cassette tapes we could pack. There was only one thing for it, I would have to carry it all to the car and just abandon what didn’t fit.
***
Somehow, I managed to pile all the essentials onto the passenger seats and then squeeze myself behind the wheel before setting off slowly in search of a telephone box. My esteemed travelling partner had constantly aired his concerns about the size – and age - of the car but had failed to come up with a viable alternative in a reasonable time. I, on the other hand, had no qualms about the Capri and had recently spent a large part of our limited budget on preparing her for the mammoth journey. We were lucky that a mutual friend was a mechanic so had been able to get many things done at cost or cheaper. To date we had replaced the clutch, prop shaft and gearbox, as well as renewed the spark plugs, filters and tyres. We had also purchased spare bulbs, a warning triangle, first aid kit and a torch – all of which were listed in the Michelin map of Europe as required to be carried at all times. Other than buy a new car; there wasn’t a lot more we could have done.
I took one last look at the house then set off. My home now reminded me of a corpse, an empty husk. The large bay windows with their thick, chocolate bar ledges no longer had a soul living behind them and the old wooden front door with its brass knocker and uneven grin of a letterbox was already starting to decompose. The street wasn’t at all bad as streets go. At one end lived the drummer with the Housemartins and at the opposite end, on Princes Avenue itself, the lead singer of the Fine Young Cannibals had bought a shop for his elderly mother. It sold nick-nacks and bits of tat and didn’t look to do what I would call a brisk trade but she always looked happy. My own grandma was born and brought up only a street away, a fact I hadn’t even known at the time of buying it. Moreover, only five minutes further was a furniture shop called Turners whose logo ‘Everything but the girl’ gave rise to the band with the same name. There was not much else Great about Britain in 1992. Unemployment was high and house repossessions were commonplace. Everybody you knew had their fingers in some kind of fiddle and if they weren’t working and claiming unemployment benefit then they were selling knock off shell suits and Gucci t-shirts. In the days when interest rates rose dramatically in only a few short months, you had to do what you could to try to hang on to your house. I however, refused to do anything dodgier than work a couple of shifts in a pub while claiming benefit. Those were the days…
The reverie train was rudely derailed as the windscreen filled with the flash of police lights. Only a hundred yards away - and heading straight for me - were a marked police car and a large white transit van. The ‘team’ had arrived and they were playing at home today, my home. I was caught in the crossfire of their headlights and, with nowhere to run in such a narrow street, pulled over to the curb in defeat.
The police vehicles shot past without a second look and carried on towards my house. I sat tight for a second watching them in my side mirror when another car flashed by; I recognised one of the coppers from earlier but he paid me no heed. Either they were blind or they did not know what kind of car I drove.
Checking nothing more was coming, I accelerated quickly away from the scene and down the street towards the junction, the uniform rows of little terraced houses zooming past in a blur. A light grey van followed me out onto the main road, staying well back but never quite disappearing from sight.
Pulling up sharply at the first telephone box that wasn’t vandalised, I dialled Dave’s number, stabbing at the keys manically. It was engaged so I drove onto the next one, nearer Chanterlands Ave. This particular phone was an old-fashioned rotary dialler and took forever to connect. I sheltered myself behind plumes of nervous cigarette smoke and waited for the clicks to finish. Finally, the line connected and rang, and rang. I stared around at the filth on the floor of the cream coloured metal box. It smelt of stale urine and cigarette butts and there was a half-eaten kebab stuffed in the corner turning an oily green colour. I could feel the bile rising in my stomach again.
“Morning Graham,” A happy voice chanted down the line - eventually.
“Morning!” I shouted, “Morning? It’s half past one you idiot!” I was not happy at the moment, having had two coronaries already today and being well on my way to my third.
There was a pause at the other end of the line, a silence I now had to fill.
“Anyway,” I said, “Get your shit together, we’re going now!”
“What?”
“I can’t talk.” I was paranoid the phone was bugged, “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Be ready!”
I slammed the phone down and got back into the car, opening the windows wide to help divest myself of the smell. My sleep-addled brain had a brief flirtation with the idea of ringing my ex-girlfriend and giving her a piece of my mind but was conscious of how under her spell I had been. I knew I would probably end up saying something stupid like ‘why don’t you come with us?’ - or similar - so started the engine before my resolve weakened. After all, she was the reason I was going abroad earlier than planned and the reason the police had been battering down my door. Her and her big mouth; her big, beautiful mouth.
Chapter 3
Within a few short minutes, I was at the crossroads of Beverley Road and Ferensway - the centre of the sprawling metropolis that is Hull. Checking my rear view mirror first, I indicated right as if going towards the town centre, but swung left at the last moment onto Beverley road. The van matched my turn but again, stayed back.
I approached the top of Wellington Street, slowing to let a battered, Lada taxi go past before pulling into Dave’s cul-de-sac. I drove past his flat and beeped the horn before doing a three-point turn in the ‘ten-foot’ at the end. The alleys running behind Hull’s terraced streets are known locally as ‘tenfoots’, probably because they are ten feet wide. It is a word you grow up accepting as a proper noun until you question its etymology. Once facing the opposite way I crawled slowly back to Dave’s front door.
The grey van was nowhere to be seen.
The front door of Dave’s flat flew open and he came into view; Jamaican Rasta coloured bag slung over his shoulder and sunglasses perched optimistically on his shaven head. His normally handsome features were screwed up into an uncharacteristic scowl.
“What’s the big rush?” he asked, impatiently, “I thought we weren’t going until tomorrow.” He walked around to the passenger side and wrenched the door open. Even though Dave was short, standing no higher than my chin, he looked like a tower of trouble at the moment.
I quickly filled him in on the days events, including everything but the van - which I now put down to paranoia - but kept my eyes peeled all the same. After I had finished my tale, Dave said nothing, just climbed out of the car and walked back to his flat. He said he had managed to finish packing yesterday and, after my story, was glad he had. This meant he took only a couple of minutes to do a last look around and check the power to the flat was off. It still felt like forever though. My mind kept thinking the police had only to check my Known Associates and note the proximity of Dave’s house to mine before making a connection and sending another ‘team’. It didn’t even register that you needed a Police record to have Known Associates and, as I said, I had never been in trouble with the law before.
Dave reappeared and gave me a thumbs-up sign. He locked up quickly and skipped over the fence to the house next-door, tapping on the window lightly with his key. A couple of moments passed before a red-faced old man, who I recognised as the nosy landlord, answered the door. From behind the chain, he demanded to know who it was disturbing him.
“It’s me Dave, from next door.”
The man behind the chain rumbled.
“My final rent cheque mate.” Dave leant over and passed an envelope towards the gap where an angry paw reached out and snatched it from him, “And thanks for everything.” The door shut firmly in his face, ending the conversation.
“How rude,” Dave said camply, skipping back to the car. I had locked the door as soon as he got out so he stood there clicking the door handle impatiently until I leaned across to unlock it again.
“Good night then?” I had spotted the telltale red bruise on his neck.
Dave flushed and murmured something about acne then reached over and tried to rearrange his bag on the back seat.
“What’s all this shit in here?” he jerked the passenger seat forward, allowing him to see the belongings in the car better.
“Stuff we need!” I said defensively, but knowing I was on shaky ground.
“What, we need all of it?” He was holding up a girlie magazine, which had been stuffed behind the passenger seat.
“Yes we do, thank you,” I snatched it from him and squashed it under my seat then, after picturing a burly female customs officer finding it, let it drop out of the window into the gutter.
“Well I just hope the car makes it to the end of the street with this lot in it.” He dropped back into his seat.
“I hope it makes it a damn site further than that.” I whispered, my fingers crossed on the wheel.
“You what you say?” Dave hadn’t been listening.
“We off then?” I said around the side of a cigarette.
“Aye, I reckon now is as good a time as any.” He had spotted his landlords door opening again out of the corner of his eye. “In fact, we ought to go right now.”
“For why?” I asked, putting the car into gear.
“Because I think my landlord’s just opened that empty envelope!”
***
Progress was markedly slow to the M1 South; traffic was glutinous and people seemed unwilling to make way for such a tatty old car. After the initial exhilaration of making it out of Hull alive, both of us were now quiet, mulling over what we were about to do. I was impatient for the first of our hurdles to be reached - the ferry. I knew full well that when we got to Dover, if we made it that far, we would be passing through British customs. Once across the channel and at Calais, we would be under the watchful gaze of the French Douaniers. All of this with a car packed full of luggage and only day return tickets. The motorway crept by underneath us slowly, each mile taking an inordinately long time.
Rubbing my eyes, I stifled a yawn; the amount of hours I had been awake was taking its toll.
“Do you want me to drive?” asked Dave, first to break the silence.
“No mate, not yet,” I gripped the steering wheel jealously and took the opportunity to check the rear view mirror again, “I think we’ll wait until she needs filling up and then swap.“
To be honest, I preferred it when I drove. I didn’t have any qualms about Dave’s driving ability; I just preferred to be behind the wheel.
“How much juice we got?” Dave asked.
“A carton of orange and half a can of Coke,’” I delivered dryly.
“Funny,” Dave gestured towards the dashboard. “In the tank numb-nuts.”
I looked down at the fuel gauge, the car was renowned for showing full for ages and then dropping quickly once it got past a quarter of a tank. If the needle was to believed, then all was well.
“Bout three quarters left so it should get us quite a bit further.”
“Shall I skin up then?” Dave asked with a cheeky grin.
”Jesus Christ!” I almost drove into a bridge support, “Please tell me you haven’t brought dope with you!” Images of customs officers swathed in rubber gloves flashed through my mind, rapidly replaced with mug shots, prison bars and bad tea. “Don’t you think we’re in enough trouble as it is?”
“Calm down, calm down.” Dave warned, patting the air in front of him. “It’s only an eighth. We should easy finish it by the time we get to the ferry terminal.” He paused for effect, “Anyway, what’s this ‘we’ business Tonto?”
It was true, I had got myself into my current predicament and there was no way I would ever let Dave take any of the blame. I had been the one too scared to say no when asked to store ‘something’ and it was my girlfriend who had grassed me up to the police.
Dave made a small joint and lit it with the cars cigarette lighter, drawing deeply on the thick smoke and letting out a small cough. After a few drags he held it out to me.
“Want some?” He shook it invitingly.
I was busily concentrating on my lane discipline; traffic was starting to thin out but it still didn’t mean I was in the mood for recreational drugs
“You’re joking!” I snapped but seized the proffered joint anyway and took a couple of small tokes.
Under normal circumstances, I would never smoke whilst driving. In Hull there were far too many obstacles - and an abundance of police to contend with - so I would usually try to stay straight while we were out and make up for it when we got home. With our current objective being about two hundred motorway-miles away, I was fairly sure we would be safe from pedestrians and cyclists until then. Besides, with any luck, the effects would have worn off well before Dover and, these were very far from normal circumstances.
Darkness lowered herself upon us gracefully and before we were fully aware, it was night. A sign loomed out of the darkness informing us the next Motorway Services would be in sixteen miles, the ones after that, forty-eight. I glanced at the fuel gauge and decided this presented an excellent opportunity to fill up both the car and ourselves; I had grazed sparingly today and was in need of a proper meal.
‘We’ll fill up at the next one then, yeah?’ I asked Dave, testing to see if he too was hungry enough to stop yet.
“Cool.” He waited a few seconds, calculating, then added, “Time for another one then.” And set about making a second joint.
“You alright man?” Dave asked, passing the spliff back over in my direction.
“Yeah yeah, cool”. I kept my eyes on the road and refused the joint.
“Wasn’t that the exit for the service station back there?”
“What?!” I spun around in my seat but saw only the blackness of the empty road behind us, “You are joking?”
“No man, I thought you’d changed your mind so I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh bloody hell!” I looked down at the fuel gauge again, leaning forward in the seat to make sure I was getting the best view of the needle, it showed empty. We would have been fine if we had stopped back there for fuel but after doing a slow, cannabis dulled calculation in my head I worked out we now had another thirty-two miles to go. I couldn’t remember if I had ever driven a similar distance when the needle was so low before. To be honest though, I couldn’t remember much of any use at the time.
“We’ll have to come off at the next exit and turn around,” I said impatiently.
Dave leaned over and looked at the gauge.
“There’s plenty in there mate, looks like”.
“Yeah but you can’t see it properly from there man, it’s at an angle.”
“Ok.” Dave kept quiet. He knew I always got stressed when we were going somewhere. He had been to enough out of town raves with me to know I was always nervous when going places. There had been a set of lights sat just on the periphery of my rear view mirror for quite some time now, I just hoped it was another car full of stoners and not something more insidious.
The car jerked, Dave looked, eyeing me suspiciously, as I eyed the petrol gauge, again. I lowered our speed again, to conserve precious fumes, and the lights in the mirror drew nearer with each mile.
With the aid of what can only be described as a motoring miracle we somehow limped the remaining miles to the service station, coasting the car the last few metres to the pump. I didn’t even need to turn the engine off as it coughed, spluttered and died.
“Right,” I said, unclipping my seat belt, “You pay and I’ll fill her up”. I felt too stoned to be trusted with anything important and too paranoid to be around strangers.
“Er, no,” said Dave, “You fill up and we’ll both go and pay – you’ve got the cheque book remember!” Dave was used to having to point out the obvious when I was stoned so talking like the parent of a small child came naturally to him.
“Piss off!” I shot him a startled look, “I can’t go in there! There’s people and stuff in there!” I thought it was blatantly obvious I couldn’t go anywhere there might be people. They would invariably ask difficult questions like, “What pump number?” and “Would you like a receipt?” Oh no, I wasn’t going in there. I spotted a straw and clutched at it.
“Besides, I don’t want to use the cheque book anymore now…” I hesitated. “We might get traced.”
“What?” Dave uttered incredulously, “Get traced by who?”
“The coppers, you muppet!”
“And they’ll do what exactly?”
“You know,” I didn’t.
“No, I don’t know…”
“Well they’ll guess that we’re going abroad and stop us at Dover!” I offered limply.
“Oh I’ve heard everything now!” Dave got out of the car and made his way around to the pump, snatching the nozzle from its holster and filling the car full of lead.
After a moment’s deliberation, I got out too and stood next to the door, eyeing the security cameras nervously. Dave managed to squeeze as much fuel as was possible into the tank while I held the cheque book in my sweaty hand, tapping it nervously against my leg and wishing I were somewhere else. Outside of the halo of light from the pumps, it was dark, very dark. If anyone were still following us, they could be sat out there in the shadows, waiting for us to leave. I edged closer to Dave, who had finished and was twisting the petrol cap back on grumpily.
“So, that’s £19.70 mate.” He pointed at the gauge, “Which is nineteen pounds more than I’ve got left in English money.”
He strode away, wiping his hands with a tissue, and left me to my dilemma.
After a brief hesitation, I followed Dave towards the brightly lit kiosk where, once inside the warm fluorescent haze, I felt more stoned than ever. The old man behind the counter eyed us both suspiciously, sending me into a cycle of looking suspicious then trying not to and failing miserably at both. Dave emptied the tall fridges of their stock of Coca-Cola then, arms laden, marched up to the till.
“Number two please mate.” Dave pointed to the Capri, the only car on the forecourt, “and give us forty Bensons and two packs of red rizlas as well, ta”.
This was the part I hated about late night filling station purchases. I knew as soon as you asked for cigarettes and rolling papers the staff were aware of what you were up to and despised you for it. I imagined the old guys gnarled hand reaching out under the counter to a secret button marked ‘Goddamn Dope Smokers’; calling up a fleet of Drug Squad units to come and haul us away to Sing-Sing or wherever. I watched the old guy intently, looking for the giveaway move and waiting for him to start a meaningless, delay-them-for-as-long-as-you-can type conversation. Neither happened and it just ended up with Dave and the attendant staring at me expectantly.
“Hello,” Dave wiggled his fingers at me. “Earth calling Gray, come in Gray.”
I snapped out of my daydream and stumbled elegantly over to the counter, grabbing a carton of Ribena on the way for balance.
“Right, yeah sorry,” I apologised, feeling my face flush bright red.
“How much is it mate?” I asked the attendant as I fumbled open the cheque book. Only four cheques left I noted. I would actually be glad when they ran out, as there had not been any money in the account for weeks. Dave and I had used quite a few of them this week buying camping equipment and the like and I had shuddered every time anything brown dropped through my letterbox, especially if it was a bill.
The old man behind the counter, obviously used to drugged-up customers, tapped the green LED readout displaying the amount owing. I looked at Dave’s wares piled high in his arms and politely asked for another two packets of cigarettes, Marlboro this time. After scrawling a rough approximation of my signature at the bottom of the cheque, I took the receipt and left as quickly as was possible.
“Shit!” I exclaimed loudly once we were outside the main doors, “We didn’t get any food.” My mind had been elsewhere while we were paying but it had returned and reminded me just how hungry I was.
“There’s a Little Chef over there,” Dave pointed with his chin, the only part of him not loaded up with purchases.
“And there’s a Little Puff over here.” I joked. Dave had been my best friend for over ten years and it was natural for us to make personal jibes about his sexuality. He would never take offence.
“If I wasn’t laden down with goodies I’d smash your face in.” Dave threatened.
“Cool.” I said, unlocking Dave’s door for him, “I’ll get you a ladder.”
I held the door open while he placed can after can onto the back seat, laying them carefully so they wouldn’t roll about when we set off.
“By the way,” I said casually. “How many?”
Dave looked at all the cans, a sea of red and white cylinders taking up the last available inches of room.
“They might not sell Coke where we’re going.” He said matter-of-factly.
I manoeuvred the Capri over to the roadside café and parked up under a streetlight, in full view of the main windows. I was paranoid enough at the moment and knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on my food if I couldn’t see the car.
***
Once ensconced among the smells of bacon and frying sausages, our hunger took over and we ordered an Olympic breakfast each with extra toast, coffee and doughnuts to follow. There was no time for talking as we each ploughed our way through the mammoth portions, eagerly slurping coffee and taking bites out of anything that strayed within arms reach.
After half an hour of stomach distending eating, we admitted defeat and got up to pay. I instinctively felt about for my wallet as we approached the counter, reckoning that the bill would not be enough to warrant a cheque. I was still very paranoid about leaving a paper trail the length of the country for even the dumbest law enforcement officer to follow and would have rather pay everything in cash. Dave raised his eyebrows in my direction as the woman behind the till waited expectantly for payment - less than twenty pounds. With a sigh, I fished out the cheque book once more, opening it slowly to try to make a point.. As we passed through the foyer and towards the exit, I signalled I was going to the gents and reluctantly handed him the keys.
I stumbled out of the café a few minutes later, refreshed and revitalized, and fell into the waiting car. Dave was busily trying not to look guilty of something.
“What’s up with you?” I asked, eyeing him with suspicion.
“Nowt.” said Dave.
“Hmmm. I beg to differ.” I said, “Will we go then so?” I made a pushing motion with my hands and Dave revved the car, too much for my liking, and kangarooed off. Dave had always had a love hate relationship with the Capri and I blamed it on the fact he couldn’t see over the bonnet without sitting on a cushion. He said it was because it was a hairdresser’s car and therefore not in tune with his masculine side.
I picked the road atlas off my knee and let it fall open at a random page, hoping to find the thick blue line of the M1 without too much searching. The place names found it hard to keep still as the car bounced along and, even when they did, none of them were recognisable to me. I quickly flicked a couple of pages further on while Dave watched me intently, a grin spreading across his face.
“I can’t find the M1,” I admitted after a while, “only the A1.”
“Is that right?” said Dave.
“And God knows where these places are. Roye, Noyon, Punchy, Soissons…. Soissons…. Ah.” Realisation dawned slowly in these parts and I snapped the map book shut, looking across at Dave who was fighting to keep a straight face.
“That’ll be the French map book then,” I said feebly, somewhat embarrassed at my gaffe.
“Yes.” said Dave
“No M1 in there.”
“No?”
“I’ll use this one until I find it,” I said, picking the Michelin Road Atlas of Great Britain out of the foot-well and allowing it to fall open at a random page.
“Splendid idea.” said Dave, still laughing.
“Er, don’t laugh,” I warned him in a mock serious tone, “It was a simple mistake, anyone could have made it”.
“Yeah, only if they were themselves simple.” Dave muttered under his breath.
“Watch it,” I pointed, “Or you’ll be buying the next round of four star!”
Dave snorted derisively then reached down under the driver’s seat and pulled out a pile of envelopes. It was the collection of bills and final demands I had stowed there yesterday.
“What are these?” he asked, holding them up for me to see clearly.
“Oh. Er,” I was embarrassed, again. “I was keeping them so, you know…” my voice petered out.
“What for man?” Dave raised his voice.
“Cos, I thought I could get ‘em sorted out, you know,” I stumbled, “Pay them off when we start earning big money…”
“Do you know how to sort these out, right now?” Dave asked.
My ears pricked up, I hated leaving loose ends and these had been playing on my mind since they had arrived through the letterbox at various points during the week.
“No. How?” I said, excited at the prospect of clearing the decks.
“Like this.” said Dave and wound down the window, the wind sucking them greedily into the night air. They streamed behind the car for a few seconds like a comet-tail of debt then disappeared off into the darkness. I was dumbstruck, spinning around in my seat to watch them go.
I turned back to Dave, a disgusted look on my face.
“I can’t believe you just did that!” I said, totally unconvinced by his ‘solution,’ “Can’t believe it man.”
I turned my attention back to the map book, shifting uneasily in my seat; a strange feeling had come over me as I watched those bills flying out of the window - it felt a little bit like freedom. I shuddered and set about finding out where we were.
Another hour brought us to the outskirts of Dover. It was still relatively quiet on the road at this time of the morning but traffic had increased slightly. Here and there, we saw a foreign registration on a car or a strange company name plastered down the side of a lorry. This was unfamiliar territory for both of us as neither had even been to France before, much less gone there by ferry.
I broke the silence.
“Right, so it’s midnight now,” I checked my watch, “And our ferry goes at six o’ clock. That leaves us five hours to have a kip then get checked in and get aboard.”
My cannabis-fuelled euphoria had vanished now and I was back into worrying mode. I felt there were so many things to go wrong, were bound to go wrong, that we needed to leave ourselves plenty of time to get sorted. I turned around and eyed the huge load of belongings filling up the back seat, partially blocking the already limited view out of the back window.
“We need to pull over somewhere quiet first and sort this lot out.” I said, nodding my head in the direction of our luggage.
“Why, what’s wrong with it?” Dave answered in a ‘what now’ tone of voice.
“Mate,” I explained, as if repeating to a child, “We can’t go abroad on a one day…”
“Yes, I know, on a one day ticket,” Dave made a face but pulled into the next lay-by anyway.
The car ticked and clicked for a while, cooling down after the long journey, while we got out to stretch our lungs and fill our legs. I pulled Dave’s bag out of the car and stuffed a few bits back inside that were making a bid for freedom, zipping it back up with a struggle. We patted and slapped the rest of the uncooperative luggage into a smaller bundle then covered it over with Dave’s beach towel. Once we were happy with the results, I casually wandered around to the driver’s seat, preferring it to be me who drove the car onto the ferry when we awoke later. As I reached the car door, I noticed some writing in the dust and stood back to get a better view. There, scrawled in the dust down the length of the car, were the words...
SPONSORED BY BARCLAYS!
“What the bloody hell’s this?” I shot an accusing look at Dave who ducked down behind the back of the car, “That is not even remotely funny,” I fumed, wiped it off and then got into the drivers seat, moving it back to accommodate my longer legs.
Dave got in sheepishly, stifling his giggles. The fact it had been there since the Little Chef really tickled him. I hadn’t the heart to point out we had been driving in the dark since then.
We shared a last English joint in silence and, after we had finished it, I made Dave dispose of the last of the cannabis. He stumbled around in the dark for a while then, once we settled down, we dozed the last few hours until it was time to leave. I kept one eye on our mirrors but we looked to have lost whoever was following us earlier.
I shook Dave awake, “So where do we go now then?”
“Looks like we queue up over there for Calais and wait for the ferry to arrive,” Dave pointed to a line of traffic building up over to our left.
If ever our trip were going to take a sudden u-turn, it would be here.
At the front of the queue was a box, not unlike the tollbooths on the Humber Bridge, where a man in an official looking hat was conversing with each driver as they passed through. We could also see, just behind the booth, a couple of men in fluorescent jackets with torches, lighting the way for drivers too tired to navigate with their eyes. Just as we approached, they started a new line and we slid in at the front, first in line for the other side, I couldn’t decide whether that was a good or a bad omen. A grey van pulled up two cars behind us and made the decision for me.
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