3 comments/ 3804 views/ 2 favorites Not Passing Go! Ch. 01 By: Spencerfiction An occasional series of short stories about ex-Staff Sergeant Daniel Matthews. ***** Chapter 1: The Attaché Case I was crawling up the wall. Literally, climbing up a vertical Victorian brick wall using fingertips and toes. Plenty of grip for an experienced and rather desperate climber. Halfway up I skirted around the illuminated window and carried on climbing up to the attic window. Two weeks earlier I was in the pub spitting nails. My wife of two years Agnes was cute, but dumb as they come. As soon as I brought her home from Norway, where I met her during Army Alpine Training, I could see my Mum's eyeballs roll up. When I was a kid, Mum never stops telling me, we had to take roundabout routes everywhere to avoid pet shops, I was always a sucker for those big soppy eyes in the window. I guess I never grew out of it. The first half of a pint of Best Bitter is the universal elixir. OK, I know a lot of people drink to excess but moderation in all things, me. Half a pint in, I had almost forgiven the silly cow. It had been difficult finding work for the last nine months. Is it my fault the Army no longer needs NCOs only trained by them to kill? I refuse to work menial jobs for minimum wage, so my career was at an impasse. I missed the Army, my unit broken up like so many others to meet the severe military budget cuts. I had 18 years under my belt until regarded surplus to requirements. All that cost of training and maintaining, now ex-Staff Sergeant Daniel Matthews weren't worth jack. Booted in no uncertain manner out of the Aldershot married quarters, we'd used as a base since we wed, we were staying in my Mum's tiny housing association flat in a high-rise in Tottenham. Mum's a harassed nurse, so when Agnes offered to cook, clean and manage the household budget, Mum readily agreed to give her free reign. Agnes is a fair cook, and I thought she was doing marvellously with what little was coming in through my Army pension. Agnes was Norwegian with a touch of Icelandic: cool on the outside, volcano underneath. Her housekeeping was too good to be true, before Agnes tearfully admitted that WE were deep into loan sharks for thousands. There wasn't enough room in that pokey flat for me to blow off the steam building up inside me, I had to walk out and think. That's why I was in the pub murdering that pint instead of murdering the bint. I love her to bits, she may look ice cool but she lights my blue touch paper all the time. But just then, my powder keg was fizzing on a short fuse. Desperation for work to pay off that debt, that was the only reason for being in Loan Shark Leroy's pub, "The Rusty Nail". I was halfway though that pint when approached by one of Leroy's sidekicks, Meat-cleaver McGraph, a nasty drug dealer I normally avoid like the plague. "Barkeep tells me you's looking to work off yer loan. Says y're a bit useful like, yeah?" "S'pose," I replied. "You're lucky, big guy" McGraph said, sitting down, "Big Tone's bin on remand a couple o' days an' Leroy misses 'is muscle." God! He smelt like an Amsterdam pot bar. How he avoided being thrown into the clink I don't know. Every police sniffer dog for ten miles must have their noses pointing in his direction. I'm not proud of what I had to do that week for my agreed 200 a day, mostly roughing up recalcitrant payers and threatening drug dealers who needed the manor governor's say-so to trade. Even worse was Leroy's haughty goth bitch leering at me. No, even worse than that was when she tried to rub her skank, skinny androgynous body up against me; she was affronted when I informed her they didn't make barge poles long enough. At least seven days' pay, though, would give us some breathing space from Leroy's final notice. As it turned out, that relief was found seriously wanting. Big Tone came off remand unexpectedly early, by me at any rate. His court date was set back six months due to an empty witness stand. It's hard standing up for justice with both your legs broke. Anyway Big Tone was back after less than seven days inside and I found myself outside on my butt. Did I get 200 per diem for passing Go!? No, I got 300 in credit on my loan and told to consider myself lucky at that. I can see that goth bitch laughing through her black teeth. I stewed for a day or two, remembering that beat-up old attaché case of Leroy's that held all the incoming cash. Bundles of untraceable bills. So there I was, climbing into Leroy's crash pad, an old furniture warehouse. The ground floor was a garage for his many cars plus a mess room for the armed hired help covering the access; the middle floor high-ceiling rooms were plushly reappointed throughout; the top floor consisting of pokey attics full of rubbish. Hey, I like to explore. So I climbed that wall to the attic and let myself in through some window that a disgruntled recent ex-employee had intentionally left unlocked. Judging by the dust, the half-empty paint tins, wallpaper and solvents lying around, no-one ever tidied up around here. I securely tied up the long rope I had brought with me and doused it in paint thinners. I opened the paint tins, spreading paint and thinners over all the old furniture. I crept down the stairs in my socks. There was a guard: Big Tone himself, at the main residence door. Mostly his attention was directed downstairs, the running commentary from the European football match faintly heard up the stairwell. Holding my heavy knife by its leather scabbard, I struck the goon hard on the back of his head, holding onto his collar and lowered his limp body silently to the floor. I used the knife to lift the door latch into the lounge. I could hear Leroy energetically lovemaking with his abusive tart in the bedroom. The attaché case rested on the table. I tucked it into my haversack next to my boots. I climbed the stairs back to the attic, tossed the solvent-sopping rope out of the window and abseiled down it to the ground. I removed my solvent soaked socks, gloves, jacket and outer trousers, leaving them by the exit door, jammed shut tight with a convenient scaffold pole I had cut to the exact size a few days earlier. I set fire to the clothes, then lit the abseiling rope about head height, before shinning over the fence leading to a series of gardens. By the time I had traversed the last garden, the attic was well alight. I guessed it would be a good ten minutes before the roof and then the ceiling collapsed. No chance of the fire alarm going off. Amazing what those heavy hunting knives'll cut through. I dumped the broken case on some waste ground. There was enough cash in there to keep us in square meals for a few months. They say crime don't pay? Generally, I'd agree. But when some jerk's got you cornered, why not just give him enough rope...? Not Passing Go! Ch. 02 I picked up a very beautiful young woman from her office. I was supposed to take her to the airport. Almost immediately she realised that the limo was the one that Yousif normally drives. Clearly disappointed to find a middle-aged guy like me in the driving seat, she asked tersely, "Where's Yousif?" I fed her a line, not much choice really. "Sorry, Madam," I apologised, "This is my first day with the courtesy car firm. Taking you to the airport's only my second unsupervised job and I really don't want to muck it up." I gave her my most charming smile and hoped she'd buy it. Her brow remained furrowed. Damn! This was supposed to have been a whole lot easier than this. The plan was to drive her to the airport in time for her flight and collect a second two hundred for my trouble. Then see if I could sneak off with her passport, leaving her there tapping her pretty little foot. That was the plan. I knew now that that was far too simple. I should have realised sooner and walked away. Maybe I could still do that. Just stop the car, get out and leave her and that limo well alone. Then I looked at her beautiful face in the mirror and knew I couldn't do that either. She'd be an innocent victim. As for Yousif? Well, he would have to take his chances. She was still waiting for a better explanation from me. I couldn't tell her what was really going on, could I? She'd've freaked. I lied and told her I had been introduced to a dozen different drivers and other staff on this, my first day in the job. They were all a blur of faces but I suggested, maybe Yousif was a tall, slender, dark-haired, charming young man with a neat moustache? "Yes," she said, "That's him, so why's he not driving?" Damn good question, Danny boy, I thought. She's not only attractive, she's a sharp smart chick for someone still in her mid- to late-twenties, I guessed. With a comfortable lifestyle she'll probably still look gorgeous well into her middle years. Me? I'm 39 and well and truly careworn from a hard life, so I look a lot older. I replied that I was just the new guy and didn't know very much. As I understood it, Yousif had planned the afternoon and evening off and left before this job came in. Otherwise, I suggested, he might have been driving instead of me. Without waiting for her to comment, I moved the car out into the heavy early evening traffic. I knew that the airport was almost certainly not the best place to go. In the meantime I'd head that way until I could think of something better. She went rather quiet and closed the soundproof courtesy window on me. She tried to ring Yousif on his mobile. In the mirror I could see her key in the numbers and press her mobile to her ear. I could also feel his phone vibrating against my thigh as it was set on silent earlier in the day. I knew it was his phone in my pocket, because I didn't have one of my own. Eventually it stopped and presumably went to voicemail as I saw her lips move, leaving a message. She fiddled with her phone again, making other calls, probably trying his known haunts. Best of luck finding him girl, he was actually only three feet away from her in the boot but she would never hear him in that soundproofed compartment. She knew his number off by heart, which brought to mind the smirk on his face earlier when he told his caller that he knew the pick-up. I didn't know what religion Yousif was but I'm smart enough to recognise when someone knows another person in the Biblical sense. I was just late in picking up on those signals. I guess I got rusty over the last five years. He had even repeated the name too, Susan Kollikov, over the phone, I now recalled. It was a common enough Russian name, even in London, so it didn't ring any alarm bells in my head at the time. They were jangling like bloody fire alarms at an oil refinery right now. I knew we were both in serious trouble. And Yousif was too, although he didn't know it, nor did she, yet. Obviously there was no way I was going to tell the young lady that I had Yousif's mobile. Nor would I admit that Yousif was trussed up tight and gagged in the boot of our sleek limo, next to whatever was going to kill them both. Me too, if I stuck around long enough. OK, I am no limo driver but you've probably guessed that by now. Sure, I've driven a few getaway cars, smaller, more manoeuvrable and a whole lot faster than this baby elephant. Not by choice, I was driving this limo purely out of desperation. I only got out of nick three days ago. The old muckers I was relying on for a decent leg up, having done my time at Her Majesty's Pleasure solely on their behalf, had disappeared. No doubt off to warmer climes to spend theirs as well as my share of the multi-seven-figure bank takings. I had managed to locate whereabouts in Spain that Mikey was holed up. Now I needed enough seed money to get to him before he heard I was out looking for him and he jumped. Through Mikey I hoped to catch up with the rest of the thieving buggers, Marty and Simon. I intended taking out my fair share from each of them, either in lump sums or simply lumps. I was easy either way. I like accounts to be balanced, debit and credit, settled nice and neatly to satisfy my own self-audit. Anyway, earlier that afternoon, I was sitting relaxed in a café enjoying a warm sweet cuppa. It made a nice change from the tongue-strangling stewed brew I had become accustomed to. I was minding my own business and keeping well out of the winter chill. I wasn't used to being outside much. Just an hour a day exercise for over seventeen hundred consecutive days leaves you a touch agoraphobic. That's when I overheard this skinny guy dressed in a smart grey drivers' uniform. This Yousif was taking a phone call, which I only caught one side of the conversation. The gist was that he had to pick up a girl from a nearby office and take her to the airport. He scribbled down the flight number on a scrap of paper. He added the city office post code, pick-up and departure times and finally the girl's name, which he repeated saying he knew the person. That's when that knowing smile played on his greasy chops. What pricked up my ears was that some guy was bringing round her cases to the café with a two hundred quid down-payment. Yousif repeated the caller's promise of another two hundred at the airport. He arranged to meet someone at the airport who would bring her tickets and passport, provided they were in time to catch the flight. Yousif assured the caller that was no problem. I could definitely use both payments as I was skint. In Freddie the Forger's hands that passport could be used to get me to and from Spain, without my parole officer being any the wiser-like, between our weekly appointments scheduled for my first six months out and about, nit quite free as a bird yet. I went outside first and waited, freezing my bloody balls off. Sure enough a big black car turned up outside the café, driven by a mature heavy-set bloke with a buzz cut, who looked more than a bit useful. From where I stood, in an alleyway behind where this long limo was parked. I could see they knew one another as soon as he went inside. They came out and walked over to the big dude's car. The guy opened his boot and handed over a couple of heavy smart leather cases to Yousif. They shook hands and Yousif was handed four crisp fifties, which he folded and put in his top pocket. The big guy drove off. Yousif dragged the cases over to his limousine and unlocked the boot lid, opening it up. That's when I hit him, short and sharp. In my game one punch is plenty. I bundled his limp body seamlessly into the cavernous boot, taking the keys out of his hand. I dropped the cases in on top of him and looked around. Nobody was about to see anything anyway. I drove the car around the corner where it was even quieter. I opened the boot again. His uniform would never fit me, I was tall and broad, he was just as tall but painfully skinny, so I just took his cap. Good job he had a big head. I had lost a lot of weight in five years. I was a lot leaner and harder than when I went in, I'd had to be to survive. I really needed to drill another hole in my old belt but the battery in my cordless drill round at Mum's had been flat so long it wouldn't take a charge any more, so I had to keep hitching up my trousers to stop them falling down. Apparently hipsters were all the biz with the kids, I was just too old to look right in them. There was a pack of polishing rags in the boot, they like these cars to be kept gleaming. I stuffed one in his gob and tied another over his mouth to keep it in place. Used others to tie his hands and feet and finally lashed them together with his necktie to stop him moving about when he eventually came to. He couldn't move much anyway, jammed up against those heavy cases. Jeez, I thought, this Susan woman was either one big broad or she likes to wear a lot of boots, those cases sure weren't packed with skimpy knickers and bikinis. Perhaps she was going to the North Pole and had flat-packed the sled and a team of huskies? In his pocket, along with the folded fifties, was the note of the office address plus the flight number. I took his mobile, too, using the web function to find out the check-in time. There wasn't much time to spare, so I drove straight to her office. So there we was, me driving up front and Susan sitting in the back wondering where the hell Yousif was and why she couldn't get hold of him. Not much I could do about that. Trouble for me was that I already knew of her hubby, Benny Kollikov. He was the banker who financed my last bank job, my only bank job. I never actually met him, this kind of business uses middle men, so Benny's hands were clean as he raked in his huge cut. Made his money on Afghanistan drugs, apparently, with his hands also on an almost inexhaustible supply of plastic explosive. I needed a few grams of that myself at the time. I had organised the bank job, and took on the risky business of driving decoy. I drove a car recently registered in my own name, while a very similar car with fake plates did the actually getaway from the job. I drove off as the second part of a tag team, with the police following me in hot pursuit, while the other car and the loot was driven into a gated yard we'd rented. Damn those stingers. Stopped me in my tracks, they did. I had expected that, though. They arrested and charged me with the bank job, while I countered with "I thought you were chasing me for unpaid parking fines. It's a fair cop for the fines, officer, but I don't know nuffink about no bank heist!" I thought that when the real getaway car was found later that day, burnt out with almost the same number plate, with an F in the index number and mine with a broken bottom stroke of the E, I would have the perfect alibi. The other car never bloody-well turned up. Somebody put me away, while the others involved in the robber got off scot free. The police had a tape recording of me telling the lads my plan for the raid in the pub. The recording implicated me and me only, the rest of the boys kept schtum during the recording. Yeah, real funny that! I got five years from the judge and ended up doing the lot. I was picked on for fights a lot inside, winning most, losing some, but mostly I lost any chance I might have had of early release for good behaviour. Funny that, too! My buddies on the outside were supposed to look after me missus, while I was inside. They certainly did that alright, she had twins 15 months into my sentence. My Mum told me she'd named them Martina and Michaela, which meant either Simon was innocent or my wife was double-bluffing me and Simon was the culprit. Agnes wasn't that bright, she was cute but dumb when I met her on alpine training in Norway. Agnes and the girls were still living in our cheap near-hovel flat on a sink estate in Tottenham, so she definitely wasn't the mastermind behind my prolonged incarceration. The three stooges didn't have a brain cell between them either, but sod it, all three of them were getting the good kicking they deserved. Susan slid open the courtesy window, breaking me out of my thoughts. "I don't have my passport with me," she announced, "I need to go via my place, first." I had been led to believe that the passport in question was already waiting for her at the airport and that she had been informed of that fact. I knew that was now more than likely extremely bloody unlikely, as was Yousif's promised two hundred for passing Go! Anyway, A, she didn't need to know that and B, not moving towards the airport was a really good plan as far as I was concerned. "Certainly, Madam," I replied, "What's the postcode?" She told me and I keyed it into the SatNav. The resulting route led me to a destination just twelve minutes away, which was way better than the ninety or so estimated to get to the airport. At this time of the evening, it would mean maybe an hour before getting to open country. No way was I staying behind that wheel for anywhere near another sixty minutes. I didn't know what the margin of error was, I wasn't prepared to assume anything at the moment. "Thanks, driver, sorry I don't know your name?" "Daniel, Miss, most of my friends call me Dan or Danny." "It's Mrs rather than Miss, Danny, and you can call me Susan if you like, I prefer informality." I understood that. She'd clearly been very informal with her previous driver. At least she hadn't asked me for my telephone number yet. Perhaps I was too old for her, only being about twenty years younger than her husband. We had a short conversation, she found out I had a family (all right I lied again, this time about Agnes and the twins but it don't count as a lie if we're still married though, does it?) She told me there was just Benny and herself, no kids yet. Like a sixty-year-old gangster with a grown-up family back in Moscow wants more kids? Anyway, she rabbited on, Benny had a holiday home in the Bahamas and that was where they were headed, apparently. "Last minute plans?" I asked, knowing the answer already. "Yes. My husband's secretary called me out of the blue about this spontaneously-arranged trip," Susan said, "I love surprises. ... Although I feel sure that Benny has a Lodge meeting on the first Tuesday in the month and he never misses one. Why the panic, why not fly out tomorrow?" Yeah, why the panic? I guess old Benny had found out about Yousif and legal niceties are anathema to Russian gangsters. Well, that applies to any gangsters I suppose. A Lodge meeting with all those senior police officer brethren present, makes a convenient alibi for a brother Mason. Once we reached the destination, Susan directed me to the entrance of the underground car park. I guessed that limo had 40 minutes left on the clock, enough time to get to the apartment, grab her passport, and let Yousif out. He had behaved himself, after all. I just wasn't sure what to do with Susan herself. She was hot and bright, while my type was more cute and dumb. I smiled at the thought. Yeah, right, any attractive girl was my type. I just didn't have much of a chance to register as hers, even in my wildest dreams. No, even though I would never be rewarded in that way, I would have to get her out of it somehow. Her marriage had terminal stamped all over it, that didn't necessarily have to apply to her life as well. We pulled into a parking spot next to a smart new shiny black Bentley that I had seen already today. Benny's Bentley, no doubt. We both got out. "Do you want me to go up with you?" I asked, "In case you need a hand bringing anything down. You didn't pack your own bags, I believe?" Susan thought, just a momentary hesitation. "Not a problem, please wait here for me, Danny." "OK, Susan." Not much else I could say, she was holding all the cards, calling all the shots. "Shall I come up in twenty minutes if you are not down by then?" "That's a good idea," she smiled, "The Penthouse, the code to the car park door is 1234 and the elevator code is 5678. Damn! That is so lame, I hadn't really thought about it before." I nodded and rested my butt on the bonnet, folded my arms, apparently resigned to wait. "See you in twenty, then." She flashed that stunning smile again and turned, walked through the car park and the code-protected door. My eyes followed her all the way, she sure looked tasty in that pin-striped suit cut just above the knee. I gave her just two minutes before pulling the rubber torch from the glove compartment and following her through that door. I ignored the lift. I climbed those stairs fairly rapidly, I was still in good shape for an older guy. Plain food and plenty of exercise for the last five years helped in that regard. The only problem was that my damn trousers kept wanting to go south. If Yousif had worn a belt I might've tried it on for size. It occurred to me then that I could've taken his tie to hold my kecks up, if I hadn't already used it to lash his hands to his feet. That reminded me about Yousif, I should have dragged him out and dropped him the other side of the Bentley for safety. Plenty of time though, I could leave him for another twenty minutes or so. Just about. The stairs didn't go right up to the penthouse, they stopped at a solid door a floor short. It took a different code to the ones Susan had given me, I guess she didn't use the stairs much. I had to open the window and climb out. Alright, I've done some cat burglary in the past, just never got caught doing it so it's not on my record. I knew the mountain climbing training I had in the Forces would come in handy. Plenty of handholds in the brickwork and I made it to a skylight over one of the darkened bedrooms in no time at all, carrying the torch in my mouth. A little judicious knife work with my gloves on to avoid leaving fingerprints and it was open. I dropped down almost silently into the room, pausing for a moment to hear any sounds in the apartment. I could hear voices, a male and female conversing faintly but animatedly, some distance away. I was in an empty single bedroom. I crept over to the door and twisted the knob slowly, it was well oiled and silent. I opened it a crack, using a single eye to look through into a deserted brightly-lit corridor. I opened the door wider and chanced a glance up and down. A door at the far end was open, where the voices came from. There was another closed door opposite this one, which I stepped up to and opened cautiously, it was in darkness, so I went in and closed the door silently behind me. My eyes had long been attuned to the dark and I soon recovered from the brief exposure to the bright light in the corridor. It was too dark to make out much though. I flicked on the torch. I was in what looked like the master bedroom with one of the biggest beds I'd ever seen. But what took most of my attention was a body on the floor in front of the bed, oozing scarlet onto a very nice Axminster rug. He wasn't quite dead yet, but he didn't have long to go. Gut shot, single bullet, nine-millimetre by the size of the entry wound. Recently shot, longer than ten but twenty minutes tops, so it wasn't Susan. Somebody she rang from the limo? I knew the signature of the gut shot, Dmetri. He was another Russian gangster I knew of. Had been around a while, started off pimping, drug dealing, owned a couple of small bars-cum-nightclubs, all small stuff. Couldn't remember his surname but I knew it began with P, because everyone called him Poppemoff. He liked to hit his victims with a single shot in the gut and let them die slowly, twenty to thirty minutes. Benny on the other hand liked to blow people up, timed to go off outside town in the country. There, it was less messy, but it would not be allowed to go as far as the airport where they had sniffer dogs and the victim might just get away. Also, Benny no doubt wanted to kill two birds at the same time, his cheating wife and the cheeky bastard driver who did the nasty on him. Not Passing Go! Ch. 02 Anyway, there I was thinking about this nearly deceased body, with Benny's life leaking casually into that lovely woollen weave when I realised the obvious. The only reason for a rug on top of the thickest, plushest fitted bedroom carpet I've ever seen in my life was ... a floor safe. I rolled the big bugger over, lifted up the Axminster and there it was. Oh, goody, i thought, a Marshall-Eckhart Mark 2a. Typical Russian gangster, drives a top of the range Bentley but keeps his valuables in the kinda safe you couldn't give away for 99 pence on eBay. Ideally, I needed a slotted screwdriver, but all I had was my trusty heavy penknife, which would have to do. The voices were still coming from the other room at the end of the corridor, so I had to be quiet. I lined up the knife, pulled the carpet back over to muffle the sound and struck the knife with the heel of my hand. I listened for a moment. Nothing came my way, so I checked the safe. It was open. It's criminal what rubbish some of these security firms pass you off with nowadays. Inside were thick bundles of notes plus a lot other papers. I took the lot, with just a quick glance through. In cash alone there must've been eighty grand in fifties. I stuffed the notes in my waistband. At least they solved the problem of keeping my trousers up! The other documents I slipped into my jacket or back pockets. I closed the safe, which gently clicked shut, rolled back and smoothed out the carpet and then rolled Benny back on top. He let out a low groan. I stood up, time to get going, I thought. Suddenly the door crashed open and before I could react a slug hit me at close range and lifted me off my pins. I fell back against the bedside cabinet, cracking my head on the wall and slipped out of consciousness. I don't know how long I was out, the bedroom was still in darkness but now the corridor light was out as well. The only other immediate thoughts that surfaced was that my head and gut really bloody hurt. I was about to lift my hand to my head when I realised there was a gun in my ungloved right hand. That immediately brought to mind where I was and how I got there. I released the gun and fumbled around and found the torch, flicked it on. Benny was still where he fell, he didn't look well, no, not well at all. I checked the gun, it was an automatic with the magazine and chamber empty. It had my dabs on it and I was sure as hell that Benny's dabs would be on it too. I could guarantee that there'd be nobody else's. I imagined how Dmitri's mind worked, the created scenario being that Benny had disturbed me, a known criminal and suspected burglar. He shot me, I wrestled the gun from him and shot him back, he pushed me against the wall and then we both conveniently died of our wounds. That was the scenario. I was feeling less than happy about being that convenient for Dmitri and the recently-widowed Susan. I got up, unsteadily, and checked my stomach. The wads of notes had stopped the bullet going right the way through although I would have some colourful bruises to show for it and probably piss blood for a few days. Written off about five grand, had Dmitri, but maybe Mum could still pass them off for me through the local shops. Blame it on mice, she could; we get a lot more bloody mice round our way than any crisp fifties! Couldn't leave the gun there, I'd wipe it and dump it in the river on my way home. I stuffed it in my jacket, zipped it up and put my right glove on again. As I walked down the back stairs, the building suddenly rocked. Damn it Benny, I thought, used too much plastique again as per bloody usual. I guess when you have to pay through the nose for the stuff you use barely enough; when you got loads you use loads. Well, he'll never learn now. I decided to take the fire escape the rest of the way and let myself out the back of the complex, take a stroll along by the river. Shame about Susan, if she'd stuck with me we could've had a gas instead of being vaporised with both her lovers. I recalled that instant back in the apartment, the open door, Dmitri and his gun, with Susan peering out from behind him, both hands clinging to his protective left arm. Anyway, I've got a few bob literally tucked under my belt now so I can track down my ex-buddies, and got Benny's Russian passport in my back pocket for Freddie to work his magic on. Wonder what I'd look like in a buzz cut? In my jacket I had the deeds for a seafront property in the Bahamas and another set for a luxury yacht; wasn't sure where it was moored but I'd track it down. I may have to invite Freddie over for the next few winters, he don't get out much. I know I carried what was left of Freddie after he stepped on that UID, over five kilometres of mountain desert, so he still thinks he owes me. I'll persuade him he's got to concede that we can finally call it quits so that I can pay him the going rate he deserves in future. Then there was the bank vault key nestling safely in my pocket, along with the yellow post-it with the bank code, account number and password on it. Thank goodness Benny's memory for numbers was like a bloody sieve. I looked upon that as a bit of a bonus. I reached the end of the fire escape and strolled unconcernedly along the riverside walk. I breathed in the night air, which started out heavy with the smell of cordite, burning rubber and fuel. Soon the air became cleaner, with the fresh pungency of the ebb-tide river breaking through. It was a damp chilly evening, a light mist rising from the water. I thought how nice it would for the twins to learn to swim in a warm and secluded Caribbean cove. What the hell, I thought, I can't help it if I'm more comfortable with cute and dumb. To be continued as a series of connected stories. Not Passing Go! Ch. 03 Pain in Spain They say Solitary Sal was anybody's for half a crown, but that was when half a crown was worth sumthink. Now old Sal's nobody's. Except when her son's conscience allows her to spend a week with him in sunny Spain. Motormouth Mikey was never a friend of mine but he had his uses. Last time was just over five long painful years ago. I had a bank deposit vault that I had my eye on, where I was minded to max out the credit by making multiple withdrawals. Now, in the right hands an oxy-acetylene torch is to steel plate safe boxes what surgical stainless steel is to cancer tumours. Motormouth Mikey came highly recommended, apparently a consummate artist with the blue flame. In all other respects though, welder Mikey was an oxy-moron. The job went like a dream, we was in and out with no trouble. The law chased us but I had a foolproof plan, which relied too heavily on honour among thieves. That's where I made my first mistake. Mikey made a clean getaway with the whole damned community chest, moving via St Pancras to the Continent. Meanwhile, muggins here was caught at the opposite end of Go!, ending up doing a nap hand of years' mailbag-sewing time in Pentonville without a get-out-of-jail-free card within my properties. Half a decade later I was out and looking to recover my fair division of the spoils. By hook or by crook I was going to get my cut - and a sharp blade in intimate connection with any one of Mikey's arteries came to mind. Hence my tracking down his old Mum, at her favourite boozer. She was a floozie whose bloom had faded long ago. Getting milk stout in a Wetherspoons pub is like asking a meths drinker if he has any Mouton Rothschild. Five years locked away without pubs adds a new perspective; for what the pimply barkeep charged for a splash of ready-mixed lemonade in half a Guinness, I could've previously bought a gallon of R White's. I won't say Sal had let herself go, but I used to breathe more deeply in E Wing's latrines shared by 300 careless misfits, than sitting across a table in the Flying Ferret with Motormouth Mikey's Mum breathing in what she was exhaling. Very boastful was Mikey, apparently. Told his old Mum all about how he screwed that dumbo Danny Matthews, who Sal obviously didn't know from Adam. According to the old sot, that poor sap Danny's still doing porridge as some banged-up drug baron's fudge-packed bitch, the whore cackled. I forced myself to agree with her that it was a great crack and Mikey must be as smart as paint, as I pushed a second sweetened stout in front of her at arm's length. "So, my old mucker Mikey on his lonesome in his sun-drenched paradise, is he then, eh Sal?" I enquired. "Nah, he hasz an 'arem of bootiful ladiesh at 'is beck'n'call. Doin' very nyshly f'rishse'f, me Mikey ish." Figures, Mikey always boasted he had more sweet tarts lined up than Mr Kipling. He spread BS like a jobbing plasterer butters toast. "I'll have to pay me respects to 'im on me holidays then, Sal," I said, ingratiatingly, "Looks like you brung your boy up sweet." "Oh, 'e wush no trouble, my Mikey, a'waysh looksh after 'ish old Mum, dush Mikey." "When you goin' over to see 'im again?" I asked, "Cos the forecast is grim over here, lots of frost and snow coming, an' you look like you could use some sunshine." "Not goin' over meshelf fer a monff, bu' nexsht week, Mikey'sh shent me a ticket f'r'is former girlfriend Ange, an'll 'range fer a taxshi to the airport, 'esh so good like 'at." Damn, I thought at the time. It was too soon. Only out of clink the previous day. Hadn't got no readies to hand. My wife Agnes was nursing twins without a recognised daddy at what used to be our flat, so I was living at me Mum's. Long story, I'd tell you, but it's hard writing this stuff when your eyes is misted up. Right now I needed a passport and a fistful of readies for the flight. I had more chance of flying to Mars on a bleeding banana. Mum's a nurse; she works all the hours under the sun and moon, and she ain't got two coppers to rub together. Earning an honest living. That's a joke! What chance does an ex-Army NCO, a Staff Sergeant no less, used to hostile ops what I'm sworn to secrecy about, have to get a job? I had no choice but to cash in my long-term investments. My broker Mikey had made me a whole lot broker, by cashing in all my dividends for five years. I needed some reimbursement therapy from him smartish. Sal refused to tell me exactly where Mikey lived. And after three sweetened stouts, rather than loose her tongue, it relaxed her backbone to the extent she was all but comatose. Good job my mucker Freddie's mouse tracked down Ange Spiller's flight for me. Freddie the Forger may have lost both his legs, one above and one below the knee, but his computer and graphics skills are second to none. He's cheap, too. Won't let me pay one single penny for his services. And I only carried him on my back for two or three kilometres through the Hindu Kush after he stepped on that UID. With his missing limbs and all that blood loss, he was a whole lot easier to carry than one of the exhausted twins home from the park after playing all day on the swings. Well, I imagine so, I'd not had the stomach to see the twins or even Agnes at that point. Agnes rang Mum when she heard I was home, to try and get in contact with me. But, hey, she made her bed, right? *** Well, that was last week. Then I had my luck driving a limo after I had slugged the driver, bundled the cheating creep in the boot and picked up Susan Kollikov. It was definitely the shortest trip and the highest tip any chauffeur ever got. So, thanks to a pair of Russians having a terminal territorial tussle over a top tatty tart, I had more than enough cash to fly to Spain and back on a recently available Russian passport. Ask no questions, eh? My best mucka Freddie flew with me too, as I have said before, he really don't get out much. He desperately needed some vitamin D in the form of sunshine and both his Spanish and Russian's so much better than mine. Mum wrapped a big bandage round my jaw, tying a huge knot on the top of my head. I had a bump on my bonce as big as a duck's egg from one of the Russians anyway. A letter on "borrowed" NHS hospital stationary explained in English and Spanish that my injuries meant I was unable to speak, therefore seeing a noggin specialist in Madrid. Hopefully Freddie would doctor Mikey's UK passport with my photo for an easier return trip. I was still seeing my parole officer once a week. Tailing 'Ashtray' Ange (Freddie's nickname, not mine; I find there's no-one more zealous than an ex-smoker) was simple. Mikey collected her himself from the Spanish airport. Nice place it was, that villa in Spain, although a little off the usual tourist track, that my share of the loot had bought Mikey. Not a patch on the photos that Agnes sent back from my new beachside property in Bermuda, though. No independent door alarm had been fitted to the Spanish hacienda, which was a clear oversight on Mikey's side, so I was able to enter the master bedroom without any prior warning. "Hi, Mikey," I opened, standing next to their bed, "Looks like you've been caught with your pants down." Blimey, I thought as I approached, Ange hadn't been off the plane more than half an hour. Mikey yelled a staccato expletive and reached into the bedside drawer, presumably for his handiest armament. I crashed my foot against the drawer, jamming his wrist in tight. MDF it was, poor quality furniture, a lot of give in the wood. Didn't stop him leaking arterial blood all over the show, though, I guess. Mikey was screaming like a girl, outdoing Ange's high-pitched scream by decibels alone. Ange fainted first, though. "Who's had his hand in the till?" laughed Freddie as he arrived in the bedroom. Even with his NHS tin pins, he's pretty pedestrian where stairs are involved. "Oh, caught red-handed too," Freddie chuckled. Gallows humour is an ore mined deeply by those who've been to that particular coal-face and back. "Sing, Mikey," I said, "Where are that other pair of soon-to-be skeletons closeted?" Mikey sang like a bird. To be continued. Not Passing Go! Ch. 04 The fourth in this occasional series of self-contained stories about "Staff" Daniel Matthews and his family. "LAME DUCK?" "Catch!" The four-year-old girl giggles, throwing the light beach ball from the sparkling pool. Freddie reaches up from his electric wheelchair, easily catching the ball one-handed, his head and bare shoulders sprayed with a light shower of warm water. "Hey, careful Mickie! I'm trying to keep my ears dry!" "Sorry, Uncle Freddie, I forgot." She sheepishly tugs her lower lip with a hooked finger. Grinning, Freddie tosses the ball to Mickie's quieter twin sister Tina, at the back of the shallow end. The ball lands in front and splashes her, turning her smile at Mickie's antics into a delightful giggle. Freddie checks they're safe playing, before switching his attention to the split screen on the tablet mounted on his wheelchair. Freddie's a handsome man, always a hit with the ladies, despite losing his legs, one above, the other below the knee. In the five months since getting his carbon fibre running legs, he's escorted a string of eligible ladies to Bahamian nightspots. Freddie was my special forces unit's comms expert when he lost his legs a decade ago and I carried him back to base. Since then he's used his Liverpool University arts degree to good effect, carving a shadowy career as a forger. Can a double amputee competently and trustworthily guard my home and family, especially when my wife is cute but dumb? Absolutely! I trust Freddie with the lives of my wife, twin girls and me. They weren't actually "my" twins yet, the adoption papers tied up in UK red tape. But Freddie's forging skills have included the cute little mites on half a dozen of "my" passports. Out of the corner of his eye, the first of three armed intruders, that Freddie has been monitoring on his tablet, enter the pool area. "Signing off, Staff," Freddie says, with a wink, covering the images on his screen with wallpaper. Freddie never calls me Danny, always by my former rank. From thousands of miles away, I view the same Bahamian CCTV images on my laptop. Freddie's in jogging bottoms, his shrapnel-scarred torso soaking up mid-morning Caribbean sun by the pool. Behind Freddie my wife Agnes, a lean, blonde Nordic beauty, is oiled up and sunning on a comfortably padded lounger. I hear my splashing girls through my left earpiece. I calmly see the drama regarding three large men armed with pistols unfolding, Freddie raising his hands aloft and Agnes gathering the terrified girls to her beside the lounger, wrapping them up over their necks in thick bath towels. I twiddle my thumbs, waiting for the phone call, ignoring my ice-cold, non-alcoholic drink. I enjoy booze but never when working. I'm sitting poolside too, in late afternoon sunshine, flesh sizzling beside the Black Sea, surrounded by the splashing sounds of slightly older children, with another beautiful woman sunning herself within easy reach. I still feel the residue of sunscreen on my fingers after rubbing lotion into her back twenty minutes ago. I'll give her another ten before reminding her to turn over. I clench my fists at the villa scenes and sounds in my earpiece, before my mobile phone chirps. I let it go three rings. "Hello." "Dat Daniel Matthews?" asks a deep Russian voice through my right earpiece. "Speaking," I reply, cheerfully. "Mr Matthews, vu don't know me but mine name's Bogdan-" "-Kollikov, I slightly knew your brother, Benny." "Ah, zen you know vot dis call's about, da?" "I guess so, but why not explain it to me anyway?" "Mine brudder's property... is mine." "Not so. I've paid for it in pain and time served; excepting certain provisions I've made for his immediate family." "Ah, yes, da 'nonymous donation of title deeds to the Moscow kommunalka (apartment) of mine sister, an' monthly bearer bonds' income; much 'preciated, but..." "There is always a 'but', Kollikov; continue." "I want what's stolen from poor Benny and... for his death... your head, or..." "Or?" I ask. "We're on conference call with mine guys at Benny's villa, your wife an' babies hostage," Kollikov says, barking an order, "Make her talk, Boris!" "Hello, dear!" Agnes says brightly. I told you she was cute but dumb. "Hi, sweetheart, sit tight. Do what Freddie says." I view my three girls, wrapped in large bath towels over the kids' heads and up to Agnes' neck, cuddling behind the overturned lounger. Mickie mutters in passable Russian, "My Dad's gonna be sooo pissed at you guys!" While pleased at Freddie's admirable tutoring, he was always so much better than me at Russian and those kids' brains are like sponges, I tut-tut at her bad language. Kollikov interrupts my thought, "You 'ave two days, Matthews. Surrender Benny's Swiss bank account an' passvord. Bring deeds to Moscow. Uzzervise your family an' your pathetic cripple vill suffer pain before slow death." "No need for violence, Kollikov, except towards your four expendable men," I insist, adding after Freddie's whispered information in my left earphone, "And their driver. First check my email message to you and click on the URL." "Wha'?" came back his puzzled reply. "Now, Kollikov!" I order with a crisp bark. Moments elapse, while I pan the laptop camera around the backyard of Kollikov's dacha, framing his three pre-teenagers at play, his sunbathing wife. I tap her shoulder and she rolls over. "Bogdan's on the line, Sasha," I say in my best Russian, coached by Freddie, "Say 'Hi, honey', won't you, before we conduct our business in English?" "Hi, honey!" she laughs, her only English words, echoed by Kollikov's laughing kids in the background. The young ones pick up English so quickly, so I'll have to keep my voice low. Sasha waves her right hand before the laptop camera, displaying a ring with an enormous old fashioned square cut emerald. Twenty years ago, valued at four million roubles, according to Benny's provenance documentation found in his safety deposit box alongside the heirloom, probably worth ten times that now. Angry Kollikov's voice is seething, but clearly defeated and deflated, he asks in a croak, "How?" I wasn't telling him that Freddie hacked his emails, tapped phones and cell phones, discovering the assassin team's plans, plus detailed security arrangements at Kollikov's dacha. Actually, Benny's old Bahamian villa was already sold while my new one was being readied. That is on an isolated former French colony island, where my enemies wouldn't find us. Meanwhile, his dacha guards were cabled-tied to chairs in the kitchen by one of my ex-NCOs. The emerald, Benny's provenance and Freddie's coached script easily had Sasha eating out of my hand. I hear Freddie in my left ear verbally confirming images showing on my screen that the intruders had been dealt with efficiently. "How's unimportant," I reply to Kollikov, "I mean no harm to your family, so leave mine unharmed. Your five men in the Bahamas however, are dead, the price you pay for attempting to frighten us. All the time I have been here I have not threatened your loved ones. I came here as an old friend, and was invited in as a guest while returning your family heirloom to where it belongs. But that is all I am returning, the rest are the fortunes of war, the price Benny paid for his betrayal. Agree to a truce and I won't hunt you down and destroy your dynasty utterly." "Mine brudder's murder must be avenged, Matthews," he seethes, "Family honour, understand?" "I didn't murder him, Bogdan. Check the autopsy and you'll know this to be true. He was gut-shot by Dmitry 'Poppemoff', before Benny's wife Susan and both her boyfriends died in Benny's booby-trapped car. When you examine the facts you will realise that Benny avenged his own death." "Ah," Kollikov pauses for thought. "Mr Matthews, I 'preciate returnin' our emerald, an' your... careful attention to mine family. Are mine dacha guards alive?" "Restrained but unharmed, after all, they did not threaten me or my family. They will be released shortly, once I have your assurances. Your reaction to Benny's death was natural and expected, but once explanations are exchanged and accepted then I expect that to be an end to the matter. I'll stay here for dinner, Bogdan, it would be rude to leave your family's hospitality immediately following the completion of our... business. Meanwhile my family will safety... relocate." "Of course." Kollikov replies. "You should visit here more often, Bogdan; Sasha says she misses her 'Danovitch'. All rest, no play... as they say." "I bear that in mind, Daniel. Goodbye." Click. "Freddie?" I ask. "Staff?" "OK?" "Clinical, Staff, everyone's safe." "Phew! Thanks, Freddie; any probs?" "No. The silenced machine pistol in the wheelchair armrest released easy and effectively. My new carbon fibre legs worked brilliantly. The poolside thugs didn't even get a shot off, but Agnes kept the twins down behind the Kevlar towels and reinforced lounger until I cleaned up. They're packing upstairs now. "What about the other Russkies?" I could replay the CCTV, but then I prefer Freddie's professional reassurance. "I surprised and dropped the guard at the gate. Driver managed to get up into third by the time I caught up. He damaged some trees and bushes when he left the road. I'll tidy up the vegetation with the buzz saw. Corporals Howells and Davies are busy pouring concrete, completing the new boat dock for the new owners, giving Bahamas 'some corner of a foreign field that is forever Russia'." "Ha! I forgot you read Kipling in hospital." "Rupert Brooke, Staff. Anyway, after dragging the hire car to the crusher and removing the cameras, we'll board your yacht and sail to our new home by Thursday or Friday." "What would I do without you, Freddie?" "You'd be completely stuffed, Staff," he chuckles, "When you comin' home?" "I'll pop over to the island Friday for a long weekend. I've got Probation in London tomorrow afternoon. Just three more weeks before officially released and I can apply for an official passport." "Ah, passports. We've got three new Russian and one Ukrainian that I can er... recycle." "Shouldn't there be five-?" "Breast pocket, Staff, 9mm hole; scarlet staining, plus er well... I now need to replace the old pool filter before the new owners arrive." "That's the trouble with moving house, Freddie, sometimes it can be messy." To be continued. Watch out for the fifth story, "Back to School".