C 12 April 2006 – Peter Whittaker

Despite the draft, noise and cold Sammy felt excited, as the van rumbled through the deserted London Streets. Outside the air was crisp, a starry moonless night. Opposite him, the other man’s shadow was awkwardly huddled over the van’s rear wheel. Sammy extended a hand in friendship, “I’m Sammy.”

“Dave.”

“You a friend o’ Tony’s?”

“No!” Dave avoided Sammy’s eyes, looked out the small back window. They both watched a black London cab rush by, “Met ‘im this mornin’, said ‘e needed someone.”

“This is a big job,” Sammy ran a hand through his thick black hair pulling the curls and then letting then spring back into place, “Tony reckons a quarter o’ million.” Dave didn’t answer although he sensed the excitement in the younger man’s voice, “Plenty o’ loot for all of us.”

Dave shifted his bottom slightly, he felt uncomfortable. Sensing the younger man wanted to talk he asked, “Wot ya gonna do wit’ all the money?”

Sammy’s words gushed out of him like wine from a shaken bottle of Champagne, “Mary, that’s me girl, we’re kinda engaged, I’d show ya a pic-cha but it’s kinda dark in ’ere,” he laughed, “see, she … well, we’ve got these tickets, air tickets t’ Hawaii. Tonight, soon as the job’s done, I’ll skedaddle over t’ ‘er ‘ouse and her ole man’s gonna shoot us out t’ the airport. I got this friend; done us false passports; a wedding present like. We have this motel booked, beach front, Hawaii. We’re gonna buy a little business down there.”

“How long you known Mary?”

“A few weeks, she’s a stripper, in Soho. Fed up like me. Wants a change, see. So we got started talkin’ and then Tony came along. Said ‘e ‘ad this job; get us enough t’ start a new life in Hawaii.” The van turned; Dave hung on. “It worries me, though, if there ain’t as much money as Tony thinks, we’re in the shit. What y’ doin’ with the money?”

Dave thought for a moment or two before replying, “Not really interested in the money.”

The van stopped at a red light, “If it ain’t the money, wot then?”

“I’m hungry, not sure where my next meal’s coming from; no roof over me ‘ead, no TV; can’t get a job; don’t have no friends,” Dave paused, the light went green; he continued, “Had friends in prison; regular meals; a home like; TV, got hooked on the Simpsons. Told folks I giv’ me ‘eart to Jesus. These good looking young fillies came calling, take me out, kinda made me feel special, felt wanted,” Dave let his voice trail off.

“Sounds as if ya want to go back,” Sammy said, “You must be nuts. You need to get a good girl like me and set yourself up with a plan.”

“Well, true, I don’t have a girl,” Dave watched the orange shadows of street lights pass through the van, “But I do have a plan.”

“A plan,” Sammy said incredulously, “You got a plan to get back into prison.”

“Sure,” Dave shifted uneasily on the metal wheel cover, “Yeah, you see, I figured a big hoist like this should get me a good long sentence, maybe twenty years, maybe even twenty five.” Sammy stared at Dave trying to see his face in the darkness, “My plan’s foolproof, guaranteed,”

“Guaranteed, GUARANTEED, HOW CAN IT BE GUARANTEED?” Sammy felt a cold shiver spin down his spine.

“See,” Dave lifted his head slowly, “Called the cops jus’ before I left home. They’ll be waiting for us.”

THE END

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