Writing for Fun
December 2019
Conviction - Pete Norman
John Bond sat on the patio at Sunnyside Nursing Home, as usual, in his usual chair where he usually spent most afternoons in the summertime but today was not usual – Frank was not sitting beside him. Frank – the clumsy bugger – had fallen in the shower and they had taken him off to hospital in an ambulance.
Today happened to be Friday and Friday was usually ‘It’s just a little flutter’ day. Come rain or shine – well, not if it was raining, of course – he and Frank usually risked a small portion of their pension on the result of a horse race, or a football match or even on a game at Wimbledon. They were not very good at it and seldom walked out with more money than they went in with but on one rare occasion a few months back one of Frank’s four horse accumulators came up trumps and with the proceeds he purchased a mobility scooter – it was almost brand new and it was huge. Whenever no-one was looking there was room on it for John to climb aboard and ride part of the way down to the Betting Shop perched precariously on the foot rest while Frank struggled to keep the thing on the path. However, if any of the staff had ever seen them they would both have been grounded for certain.
On the other side of the lawn, a few feet away, he could see the garage that housed the lawn mower. The door was open and inside was the scooter. He stared thoughtfully at it for some time and he was absolutely certain that one of the lights had flashed – it was winking at him – surely that meant that it wanted him to take it for its Friday morning constitutional in Frank’s absence?
He heard a telephone ring in the office behind him and the Gestapo on patrol outside rushed inside to answer it. This was his moment. It was now or never. He hurried across the lawn and sat in the soft seat of the scooter. He gripped the handlebars. He could feel his adrenaline pumping. He knew that even if he got captured there was not a lot they could do. They might give him a detention? Throw him in solitary confinement? Call the cops?
He reached for the key . . .
. . . but it wasn’t there. The crafty old bugger must have taken it out and hidden it – as if anyone would ever consider taking it out for a joy ride, eh?
Disappointed he was forced to revert to Plan B – he would have to ride Shanks’s pony down to the gambling emporium instead. It wasn’t that far away and he reasoned that maybe the walk might actually do him more good than taking and driving away Frank’s scooter.
It was mostly downhill and there was only one road to cross so he tried to keep up a good pace . . . but that didn’t last for long – very soon he was walking much more slowly and wheezing hard. Then he found himself clinging tight to a lamp-post – just to make sure it didn’t fall over, you understand – and staring at the gaily lit picture window ahead, which was tantalisingly close. The shop occupied a corner plot and there were no more roads to cross. He steeled himself. One final push and he would be there. He let go of the lamp-post – which, in fact, did not fall over without his support – and struggled the last few yards.
Just as he reached the door a large red bike came screaming round the corner and passed within inches of him. Instinctively he whipped up his stick and swung it purposefully. It hit the youth behind the ear with a satisfying thwack! and he watched with satisfaction as the bike careered out of control for a few yards before it and its young rider spread themselves across the pavement.
‘Serves you right, you young yobbo!’ he snorted as he pushed open BetFred’s door and, to the sound of a tinny, jangly bell, hobbled across to the leather seat in the far corner which was next to the Racing Times and a pile of betting slips.
The next ten minutes passed in a haze of horses and racetracks and times and odds which his tired brain finally narrowed down to Blue Boy in the 3:30 at Chepstow. A racing certainty if there ever was one. He scribbled his choice on the slip, selected what looked to be a lucky five pound note from his wallet and struggled to the counter and placed his bet.
He heard the dulcet tones of the tinny, jangly bell. In the doorway stood a very tall uniformed policeman, built like a brick outhouse. The officer looked around the betting office and saw that John was the only occupant – he had clearly found his man.
‘I think we need to have a word,’ he said, in a broad Scottish accent.
John’s heart sank. He tried to bluff his way out of this mess with a winsome smile. ‘I’ll have a chat with anyone, me. What do you want to talk about?’
The officer did not return the smile. ‘Shall we talk about a young boy who was assaulted outside just a few minutes ago.’
‘So why would you want to speak to me, officer?’
Exasperated the officer said, ‘Just step outside will you,’ and then added, ‘please,’ as if that made it so much better.
John stepped outside and was gratified to see the young yobbo still sitting propped against the wall beside his bike and holding onto his knee while he snivelled. John was just about to repeat his earlier comment but thought that might not be quite the best thing to do right now.
Pc Buchanan was most efficient, he took John’s name, date of birth, address and even asked what he did for a living. His answer, ‘Tryin’ to win some money off these robbing beggars,’ did not go down too well.
The officer went back to his car and picked up the radio. When he returned a few minutes later any trace of geniality had gone. ‘John Bond, you are wanted on warrant for armed robbery and theft. You’re nicked.’ John was stunned and as the officer read out his rights he tried to work out what on earth was going on. His pleas of innocence – as he had never once broken even the most minor of laws in his life – fell on deaf ears and he was propelled towards the police car and assisted onto the back seat.
At the Police Station the Custody Sergeant had the decency to look surprised but he was no more friendly and, after handing over a few bits of property and signing the big pink form, he was led down a corridor into a cell and the big, heavy metal door slammed behind him – just a little bit harder than was really necessary.
He sat in quiet claustrophobic contemplation, wondering just how he had got into this mess. There had clearly been a mistake but no-one would listen. Perhaps they were just upset because of what he had done to the whimpering little yobbo but surely making up offences just so they could nick him was a bit over the top. He smiled to himself as a memory drifted past – it was a good job he hadn’t taken the scooter!
The sound of a key in the lock was followed by the door opening and a gush of fresh air swept in. Pc Buchanan’s voice was curt, ‘Come with me.’
The interview room was small and Spartan and John sat one side of the table staring at the little red light on the tape recorder while the officer went through his rights yet again – probably thinking that someone of his advancing years might have forgotten them. Then he picked up a piece of paper and waved it at John. ‘You’re a right little recidivist, aren’t you? Previous convictions going back to long before I was even born: Housebreaking with an implement, larceny, armed robbery – the list goes on and on. You have been a busy boy, haven’t you? It says here you have spent at least three terms in Holloway and I reckon that’s where you’re going back to today.’
The officer’s face froze and his eyes scanned the document again . . . and again. He stood up and opened the door. He called back over his shoulder, ‘Stay there. Don’t move.’
From his seat John could hear a heated conversation but could not make out what was being said. He walked over to the door and opened it wider. The Custody Sergeant appeared to be shouting at Pc Buchanan and the more he heard of their conversation the broader his grin grew.
Now he knew exactly what had happened.
A few minutes later the Custody Sergeant pushed the door open and very politely asked him to step back into the Custody Room. Pc Buchanan was sitting in the corner looking very glum. The Sergeant explained that there had been a dreadful mistake. It seems that with the officer’s broad Scottish accent, when he made the name check on the car radio the operator had not heard him clearly and it seems that the warrant is in the name of Joan Bond not John Bond.
John grinned, ‘Well, I am clearly not a woman, am I? But if you would like me to drop my trousers just to make sure?’
The Sergeant laughed just a little too hard at the weak humour and said, ‘That won’t be necessary, sir.’ He placed the small bag of property on the desk.
John asked, ‘What’s happening about the young yobbo on the bike?’
The Sergeant shook his head. ‘I’m sure that Johnny Fraser deserved all he got. Under the circumstances we might just give him a little advice, don’t you think?’
John was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘And do we also forget the unnecessary arrest and the unlawful imprisonment?’
The Sergeant, for once, was speechless.
‘Only joking,’ John said, ‘but you can do me one favour.’ He smiled. ‘Can you find out who won the 3:30 at Chepstow?’
The Sergeant grimaced but pulled out his smart phone and in a few moments said, ‘It was a horse called Blue Boy.’
John clapped his hands together. Something good had come out of this at least. ‘Then when you give me a lift home you can stop off at the Betting Shop, ok?’
In the back of the car John chuckled to himself. At one point he had been about to mention his twin sister, Joan but then he thought that perhaps they didn’t really need to know that. However, the next time he was at at the Crematorium, taking her some flowers, he would tell her all about it . . . and how she’d laugh!