‘There’s Something I Have To Do’ by Dave Rigby

 

We’re sitting around a couple of tables that have been pushed together in a dimly lit corner of The Spark. A sea of empty glasses covers most of the table tops. Gerry the Collector is off duty. Visiting a friend in hospital, somebody says. His red plastic glass carrier is in full view on the right-hand end of the bar, next to the jar of pickled eggs. But nobody else can be bothered to use it.

Tan decides it’s time to get another round in and takes a token empty with him to the bar. With an obligatory stop at the smoking shelter, it’ll be a while before he’s back.

We’ve been mainly talking rubbish, but now and then there’s a gem in the dross. Roke’s story about his shoes being nicked in a restaurant and Fletch’s account of cycling home one night on a bike fitted with stabilisers.

Tan eventually returns carrying three pints with shaky hands. Packets of tomato sauce crisps tumble from the many pockets of his parka. Someone clears a space for the new arrivals.

    “You can fetch the rest of the ales yourselves!” he says. “I’m in need of a sit down.”

We shuffle up to the bar and back, moaning about Tan’s lack of service.

Just as I sit down, my burner rings.

    “Change of plan. We need to exchange now!” The same Geordie voice I heard before.

    “I’m a bit tied up just now,” I tell Geordie. “Let’s stick to the original timetable.”

    “Look, pal! It’s now or never. Suit yourself.”

I’m four pints in, mellow and looking forward to the next couple. But … it’s good business. I’ll just need to bring forward the French trip.

    “OK, but you’ll have to give me a lift. I’m over the limit.” A grunted, reluctant agreement.

    “Pick me up at the Market Cross. You know it?” He does. “I’ll be there in ten. Six/two, beard, black jacket, black baseball cap.” I cut the call.

    “One of you lot will have to down my pint,” I say. Incredulous looks.

    “C’mon Kip. You never leave a drink!” Tan says. “We’re nowhere near ready to wind up yet. And you won’t get a refund!”

    “There’s something I have to do,” I say. But that’s all I tell them, despite the flood of questions. They know I’m in sales, but I’ve always been deliberately vague about what the product is.

A quick thumbs up to Roke as I leave.

Out on the street it’s sleeting. Collar up. Hands in pockets. It’s a five-minute walk. I buy a paper from the old feller on the corner and scan the sports news.

A 22 plate, green SUV pulls up on the double yellows. The window slides down, without any of the screeching I’m used to. A good-looking woman tells me to get in.

    “I was expecting Geordie boy,” I say.

    “I’m here instead,” she says. “Get in!” Fair enough. I walk round to the passenger side and do as she says.

    “Where’s the bag?” she asks, obviously not into small talk.

    “In a barn. You drive and I’ll give directions.”

    “That wasn’t the deal!” A sudden change of tone.  

    “Today wasn’t the deal either. We’ve both changed the rules. Take a left here and head for the ring road.”

    “I can smell drink on you. You’re not going to throw up in my car, are you?”

    “Relax! I never throw up.” Well, it’s almost true.

She drives at speed along quiet roads, following my directions. The trickle of houses finally gives way to open country. A left turn, up a stony track. Her speed drops, but not by much.

The old barn stands, surrounded by waist-high nettles, at the side of a freshly ploughed field. No trace of the urban sleet. She stops on a gravelled verge.

    “Is the bag in there?” she asks, putting a heavy emphasis on the word there. I nod and get out into the cold.

    “Fetch it,” she says from the warmth of her SUV.

There’s a knack to using the padlock key and luckily, I have it. I open the big, timber, left-hand door and drag it across loose gravel. My torch beam bounces off dark walls in the windowless barn as I climb the ladder to the platform above, which is stacked with straw bales. Heaving on baler twine, I move three of them to one side. It’s a relief to see that the rucksack is still there underneath. I put it on and shin down the ladder.

A quick check of my phone which is on silent. This is the point at which it could all go wrong. But Roke’s text tells me his vehicle is in position. The benefits of being a non-drinker! Doc’s orders.

As I close and lock the barn door, a silver pickup bounces along the track. Geordie boy I assume. Must have been tailing us. I’m getting slack.

I open the rucksack, place it on the edge of the nettlebed and stand back. Geordie drops a second bag alongside and opens it so I can see the contents. It’s what I ordered. He inspects my bag, nods and takes it to the pick-up. The two vehicles turn and drive off.

I light up and think about Paris.

Roke’s call comes five minutes later. He has the rucksack from the pickup. No real hassle.

They know nothing about me – or Roke. The burner will disappear.

And I’ll be in France by the morning.