The Retirement Plan

9781483517803

CHAPTER 1        ADIOS LONDON

Look, you can come with me, if you want, but I'm leaving Friday, with or with-out you said the animated, East-End voice, on the other end of the line, I've made my mind up, an' that’s it. I ain't changing it for nothing.

Do you not think we'd better off 'angin' 'round 'ere for a bit, coz...

Listen, I'm going Friday. You can do what you like, but I'm gone. I'm getting out of this cess-pool. I can't be doin' with it no more. If you want to stay 'ere an' get nicked, that’s up to you but see me, I'm gone.

No, no your right, I conceded.

You know it makes sense. Gather your things up, an' I'll collect you tomorrow evening, at nine. Dal paused for effect, An' be ready when I get there, yeah! You know what you are like. I don't want to be sat 'round the 'ole night

Yea, yea...see you then, mate

Ta-ra

At once, a wave of relief washed over me. The decision was made that I would be returning to Spain. Shutting my eyes, I pictured the blazing costa del sol sun, while outside of my tatty bed-sit, the conveyor-belt of traffic, trundled along the A-12.A red double-decker, half-full with noisy, uniform wearing adolescents, pulled in at the bus-stop, as a small black GTI, with a ridiculous brightly painted spoiler, recklessly chopped lanes. The unending whirr of motors spliced together with the loud voices of youths energetically mocking one another, to form a depressing cacophony.

Upon the opened sleeping bag, which was serving as a duvet, lay a copy of The Daily Mirror, folded unevenly, displaying two in-complete crosswords. The aroma of last night’s homemade Madras, still lingered in the room. Sky-Sports News was on the muted television set, offering up the latest football transfer information, and horse racing results; an essential for the un-employed male. Gazing hypnotically at the 'Breaking News' icon, I pondered over, what to cook for dinner. Szechuan chicken with red-hot birds-eye chilli was the leading candidate.

Five pint, cans of Carling extra-cold, was required to accompany a full night of television viewing, that old routine, as comfortable as a well-worn sweater. A pleasant thought passed through my mind. Soon, all of this would be in the past. Nights, planed by a TV guide, and sustained by an average consumption of three litres of beer. I had slipped into a rut. Inertia, the stealthy stalker, had crept up and slowly, clasped a cold hand over the mouth, and began to suffocate. It was indeed, time for some fresh air, and plenty of vitamin-b.

Slamming shut the paint-chipped, brown house door, for what I hoped would be one of the last times. Making my way down the garden path, with the unkempt grass overhanging its edges, I was contemplating toasted baguettes for breakfast, Chorizo oil dripping succulently over melted Manchego cheese. Morning walks on golden Andalucía beaches, by the sparkling Med’s waters, passing Cafe-bars, where in it was still possible to smoke. Scantily clad chicas, olive-skinned beauties, to bring a smile to the lips, would soon be everywhere. I strode purposefully, with a renewed vigour.

Waiting for the traffic lights to change, I spotted the familiar contours of a Securicor security van draw close. Ten months in the sun, had been forfeited, in the elusive pursuit, of that particular El Dorado. Those black plastic boxes carried by the guards, each containing twenty thousand pounds, which were routinely deposited into backs of ATM machines. We had endured ten long, desperate, spirit-crushing months, where weeks of studious planning were wasted on projects, which were destined never to come to fruition.

Chilly mornings spent trailing vans at a distance, following them to far-flung satellite towns. Hours wasted parked in Supermarket car-parks planning the perfect 'out', returning the following week at the same time, only for the van, to fail to show. Slowly it dawned upon us that the armed robbery game had altered drastically, since we last crossed the pavement. Security vans no longer followed a set routine. Smart Water was now prevalent; an invisible dye, which could be triggered from inside the van, the moment the box was stolen. A dye, that was only visible to the naked eye, under florescent lighting, which rendered the tender void. Times had changed.

Entering Havering Park, I'm taken aback at how idyllic it appears, in the June sun-shine. The pleasant aroma of freshly-cut grass is all around. As a mother watches her two young sons in the play area, an old man in a flat-cap, walks his lively Yorkshire terrier. I reached the centre of the park, pausing to gaze at the vista of the city. The tall cranes of the docklands, to the looming edifices of the canary wharf. London’s out-line shimmered in the hazy sun. However, from this Essex Park, that London promise seemed so very far away.

True, framed by a perfect summer’s skyline, it gave off an intoxicating vibe, however in winters freezing damp, it could overwhelm with demoralising fumes. Small Spanish coastal, villages, could never compete with the allure, of the great smoke, The Marble Arch, Piccadilly Circus at night and Soho’s seedy eccentricities. All the great movies and music, the city had inspired. Which begged the question, sun, or culture? I was of the opinion that culture was for the rich .I had made my riches, squandered them, and now, needed to make them again. Culture would have to wait.

Beer and chicken procured, I returned to my bed-sit, pacing the small confines of my room, anxiety, and anticipation, battling for supremacy. After reviewing every possible scenario, I came to the conclusion that leaving was the only sensible option. Should I choose to remain in England, the likelihood was that I would be arrested sooner, rather than later. It was only possible to out-run fate for so long. Paramount in my thoughts was the fear, that the next room I'd be pacing in would be a cell, wondering why I never left, when I had the chance.

My main concern about returning to Malaga was the meagre amount of money with which, I would be returning with. Dal had a plan, albeit it, a wildly optimistic one. It involved sending home, a couple of kilos of hash, amongst a small consignment of women’s handbags, through the postal system. Which, when they arrived would be collected by a courier service. Dal had five different addresses, to which he could send the illicit packages. He also had a relative, whom was a customs officer. Should our package be intercepted en-route, we would be informed. The mark-up value on a single kilo, when sold in the U.K., was upwards of eight hundred pounds. Selling would not be a problem.

From a starting point, of two kilos per week, Dal had estimated, that with-in four months, we could be up to sending ten kilos a week. 'That’s not too spiteful', reasoned Dal. It wasn't, but the plan had more holes in it, than the script for your average Stephen Segal movie. Its success, depended on the lottery, of passing through customs, undetected, though Dal was steadfast in his belief, that those odds were not as grim, as I was given to suspect.

In addition, we would be reliant on the generosity of our contacts, to achieve such a handsome mark-up. A single kilo of hash, normally retailed at eight hundred euros, but our contacts dealt in tonnes, and thus, could afford to sell to us for a flat five hundred. Such a tiny amount would be an inconvenience to them, but given our good standing, in such circles, it was not inconceivable to think, that we might pull it off.

I awoke bleary-eyed. It was Friday morning. Stumbling from the bed, I dragged open the heavy curtains, to be greeted by dark clouds and a torrent of rain. Good! The quickest way to kill off any lingering nostalgia was just such an ugly day. No matter how poetically one tried to describe it, or lyrically dress it up, it was, what it was; a cold miserable, wet day. This particular aspect of home, I would miss like an aperture in the cranial cavity.

Slinging on my heavy winter jacket, I traipsed to the local barbers. The rain permeated my clothes, chilling my bones. I stepped into the dinghy barber-shop, which had, had no visible alterations since the seventies. Pride of place, hanging above the mirror, was a framed, faded photograph of the 1971 Spurs double-winning team. The proprietor was an affable, old east-ender, with yellow hair, parted immaculately. He wore thick black spectacles, and possessed a rapid-fire wit, indigenous to those born with-in earshot of the Bow-bells.

We avidly discussed the merits and weaknesses, of the teams competing in the European championship finals. His nicotine-stained fingers guided the scissors expertly, as he bemoaned England’s failure to qualify. Whilst predicting success for Germany, as, 'the krauts always do well in the finals'. I favoured Spain, and the conversation turned to my imminent departure, to her warm shores.

Spain, it's a bit too hot for an old' codger like me, wheezed the barber.

Not me mate, I love the sun...what's the damage?

Seven-fifty, please. You got work over there?

Got a mate whose starting 'is own business, that has offered me a job. ‘ Ere, keep the change.

Thanks. An' good luck to you

Cheers mate! I'm going to require a healthy slice of it.

Ello. You ready then?

Yeah

All nicely packed then? inquired Dal, adopting a patronising, children’s television presenters' tone.

Ready to rumble I enthused.

Well done my son he continued, before reverting to type, Right, I’ll pick you up in forty minutes. You sure you’re ready? Don't 'ave me waiting.

I just told you, I'm ready, ain't I

Alrite, keep your 'air on mate, I was only asking'

Sorry mate. España, 'ere we come, eh!

Too right, me ol' mucker! Got to go; save some of this credit .Ta-ra

There was no turning back now. Time had been called on London and I. One could only speculate as to what fresh lunacy lay ahead. Deep down I had a yearning for the quiet life. I just needed to make some fast cash, first. Then I planned to get out of the game, as quickly as possible. However, I'd been around long enough to know, that was merely a pipe-dream. Once you started to play the game, you had play to the end .Only a modicum ended successfully.

I vowed to make changes, from my last Spanish sojourn. No more, four in the morning, drinking sessions, which never required a reason, merely a will. No more coaxing jellied legs to last the distance from the pub to the house. No fumbling blindly with the keys, for an obscenely long time. Peeling off clothes, and flinging them haphazardly about the bedroom, before passing out on the bed, neglecting to get under the duvet.

Such heavy drinking sessions, usually coincided with the football schedule which conveniently was spread over four to six days, of the week. During the match, it was all innocuous banter, with everyone free to participate. After the post-match interviews, a change would occur. Social drinkers bade their farewells, and headed home. Soon, only the hard-core fans/heavy drinkers remained.

The pub became a forum. The merits of United, and Chelsea’s, respective title credentials, were analysed and strenuously debated. Those with a limited, or blinkered knowledge of the beautiful game, found themselves navel gazing, or nodding blankly. Over the following few, liver-eroding hours, we rarely deviated from the subject-matter. Until total inebriation was attained, where-upon the karaoke machine was plugged in.

The familiar hard rap sounded on my door. Which was always created a moment of anxiety, due to its similarity to a knock employed by law enforcement. I was convinced that Dal did it on purpose, as he always came straight in, neglecting to wait for an invitation; which rendered the usage of the knock redundant. Dal strode in; wearing his three-quarter length, winter jacket, with neatly ironed jeans and polished to the hilt, black leather shoes. He stood an imposing six-three, with a strong physique, marred slightly by a protruding belly. Come on then! he moaned impatiently.

Fucking 'ell, give us a minute, will you! Ere sit down I gestured towards the deck-chair, by the bed.

No insisted Dal, I'm parked downstairs an'....

Look, I just got to grab some things from the bathroom. Relax, I'll only be a minute I interjected, as I brushed past.

I began to realise, what I was getting myself into. I'm a tad claustrophobic, and don't react well in confined spaces. A twenty-hour car journey, through France and Spain, had about the same appeal as syphilis. With Dal at the helm, this could lead to a complete mental collapse, or murder. I chuckled at the thought, as I gathered my toiletries.

Ahh, would you look at 'im with all 'is hair gels, mocked Dal, Wotcha bringing all them for? We're only going to Spain, y'know

An' I'm still gonna be putting gel on me bonce when I'm in Spain. It's not the fucking moon, we're going to, you mad bastard!

You can call me Dal if you like! he dead-panned. There it was, the disarmer; Worked every time. It never ceased to raise a smile. It was part of his charm, sometimes, his saving grace. It was impossible to stay mad at him, for any great length of time. He was the type with whom you could fall out with for a couple of months, but, when you got back in contact with, you were always glad, you did. Somehow, any grievances one might have were forgotten in an instant. The slate was wiped clean.

Right, you grab the suitcase an' I'll 'ave the bags

I bet you will. Leave off, Dal, your stronger than me, you take the case.

What? I'm fifty-one you know!

Exactly, you've 'ad more experience, intcha

Cheeky bastard

Shuffling down the break-your-neck, stairwell, for the last ever time. I felt a deep-seated loathing for this place. It was a daily reminder of how bad, my life had become. Those past seven months, spent living like a degenerate monk. At times, I wondered if, I would be better off going to court and accepting my sentence. Prison however, didn't seem to be all that accommodating, to those of a claustrophobic disposition. More importantly, having survived this far, I didn't want to give the bastards the satisfaction.

Y'got everything? chirped Dal, No good remembering when we're in Callas

Shit...yeah...

Wotcha gone an' forgot then?

The digi-box...that might work over yonder, like how it does with the Sky, I indicated to the terrestrial digital-television receiver, atop the television set.

Unbelievable, course it ain't going to work in Spain, you doughnut. It’s the BBC; they ain't going to 'ave a Freeview for bleedin' Spain now is they? Sometimes I wish they didn't 'ave a signal for 'ere neither. Useless shit-cunts!

That was Dal’s acute assessment of the British broadcasting corporation, useless shit-cunts. There was no point in asking him to validate that statement, with reasons. It would only inspire him to invent some. When Dal felt the need to unburden him-self of pent up frustration, his targets were indiscriminate.

Ever willing to exploit this weakness, I retorted, You can't knock the Beeb, mate. Some of the best telly, of the last fifty years has been made by the BBC. Renowned 'round de 'ole world they is. What 'bout Porridge? That Ronnie Barker geezer cracks me up no end. Fools 'n' 'horses!! And what about Match of the d...

Just get in the motor, will you! snapped Dal, The boat will most probably be in France, before we even get to Dover, the way you’re going on

Smiling profusely, I flopped into the soft leather seat, of Dal's Rover M.G. It was undoubtedly a very classy car, too classy, for an unemployed ex-blagger, with no discernible savings. Dal, the entrepreneur, had gotten the car on hired purchase and simply not bothered to pay for it. Four months, he had been driving around, having neglected to make a solitary payment. Now, he was on the cusp of driving out of the country, with no intentions of ever returning.

Dal’s cousin Sid, had rather daftly, allowed Dal to put him down as a reference. For the past three months, he had been besieged by irate telephone callers, demanding information as to his uncle’s whereabouts. Sid’s problem was, whilst usually quick with his tongue, when put under the spot-light, he froze. When quizzed by a caller, he would stutteringly reply, that he hadn't seen Dal for weeks. All the elaborate stories, concocted by Dal, for Sid to relay, were forgotten amid his anxiety.

On many occasions, whilst Dal and I, were out, scouting for security vans, Sid would call. After taking the call, Dal would launch into a furious tirade. Usually it began with the word 'Dimlow'. And continued in the vein of, 'e's a proper Dimlow 'im. 'e may be related to me, but 'e's as thick as two short planks. I told 'im to say, that I was starting a new job as a chauffeur. An' that I'd sort them out with the readies next week. What does Brains go and do? Only goes and tells 'em, that 'e ain't seen me in weeks. They'll 'ave the Repos on me now. Dimlow!'

I for one am thankful for hired purchase as I get comfortable. Outside, the rain teems down from the dark skies above. Headlights light up the green road signs, amid the shadowy fields. I have always been fascinated by the countryside at night. I can vividly recall, as a child, returning home from my grandmother’s place, in Dorset. The return leg was the only time when I was quiet, on the journey. I remember staring out the window, imagining tree creatures coming to life, innocent times. Neither Dal, nor I, spoke much .Preferring, the quiet company of our thoughts.

We here then?, I enquired, as I rubbed my tired eyes.

No, that's the white cliffs of Liverpool, Dal deadpanned, I've brought us up to mickey-mouser land. Of course, we're 'ere. I reckon you was dropped on your 'ead when you was a little un.

The white cliffs of Dover, eh! I remarked, upon exiting the car. I looked up at one of Britain’s iconic landmarks, and sighed. Dull white rock sheathed in protective green mesh. Standing amid a biting wind and lashing rain, failed to help deepen my appreciation. The brooding presence of the passport-control hut was equally off-putting. A sense of uneasiness, steadily took hold.