Writing for Fun
February 2016
The Vanishing - Pete Norman
Brian Bristow was invisible, but he knew that if he didn't vanish soon then sure as hell someone else was going to make him vanish from society for a very long time indeed.
Of course each one of the other nine had thought they were invisible too, but perhaps premature senility had affected their reasoning and had made them more careless, had made them put their heads up above the parapet, had made them visible.
They were not the brightest bulbs in the box, that's for sure, in fact most of them had spent the majority of their adult life behind bars – recidivists each and every one of them. The number of high profile heists they had pulled off between them might have been impressive, but every single time, after every single job they had done something wrong, had left behind some piece of vital evidence, had whispered something incriminating into the wrong ears or had been indiscrete in the disposal of the loot.
While they were planning this job Frank had suggested that they should be called the 'Ten Musketeers', but Eddie had said that with an average age approaching sixty, 'The Ten Old Farts' would be more appropriate, and if Brian had been a gambling man he would have put his money on Eddie, because in the end Eddie was the one who was clearly closest to the truth.
For the whole of the last week Brian had been watching the news bulletins, but it was not a comfortable experience; it was just like watching an angling competition, every time a line came out of the water there was another fish wriggling frantically on the hook at the end of it. Day after day, one after another, the old farts were getting themselves nicked and it wasn't long before all nine were back behind bars again. The cops, of course, were gloating like mad; every bulletin contained snappy sound bites from the Yard about the brilliance of the latest arrest or the size of the latest haul they had liberated from its supposedly secure hiding place.
There was only one thing they were not gloating about, however, and that was the 'Mystery Man' – the tenth member of the gang. No one apart from the nine in custody and the man himself knew the identity of the tenth man and Brian hoped against hope that it would stay that way for as long as possible. However he knew that police interrogators could be very persuasive, that they had their slippery, slimy little deals to offer, their clever little ways to make your life easier, their simple little ways to reduce the length of your sentence . . . all you had to do to achieve this was . . .
Brian knew that the Old Bill weren't clever enough to work out for themselves that the burglars might bury their hauls in the final resting place of their ancestors, no, someone must have helped them out on that one, must have listened to the slippery, slimy little offers and been taken in, hook, line and sinker; someone must have made a deal to lessen their sentence . . . but how many years would the name of the tenth man be worth? How long could Brian reasonably expect to remain invisible? Not for long, he guessed, because every minute he spent as a free man the other nine would be sitting in their six by six concrete rooms brooding over where they were and where he was, the very fact of his anonymity would burn into their subconscious where it would fester and intensify.
It was time he vanished while he was still able to choose exactly where he was going to vanish to.
Of course, it was never going to be easy, he had no way of telling whether one of the old farts might already have blabbed already, whether the Yard might be holding his name back from the Press while they covertly scoured the city for him. If he was to simply walk into the Departures Lounge at Heathrow, would he feel the hard cold barrel of a machine pistol in the small of his back? No, it was never going to be easy, he could not walk out of the front door, he had to slip unnoticed out of the back window. He had to vanish without trace. Now in this business there were very few people you could trust – everyone had a price and everything was up for sale. The people that Brian had worked with in the past had all been just about as reliable as you could get; he had a gut feeling for that sort of thing and he had never once been let down. He attributed that to his innate sense of judgement and his meticulous care and attention to detail when planning a job. He had also concentrated on the less newsworthy heists, which usually attracted less police attention than a Hatton bloody Garden bloody Safe Deposit Vault. Why he had ever allowed himself to be tempted into something that sensational with this bunch of geriatric losers he would never know, but he did know that this was the end, this was the very last job he would ever do. All he wanted to do now was to settle down somewhere comfortable and safe and enjoy the rest of his days in peace and luxury.
However, that was the hard bit, he kept coming back to the same sticking point, he would never be safe in these isles, he had to be far away, far from inquisitive eyes and somewhere where they did not have an extradition policy with the British Government. But how to get there without using the usual channels? - that was the hard bit. Who could he trust to arrange his vanishing in such a way that he would be long gone before the Met got wind of who the tenth man was?
William Baker was probably about as good as he was going to get; he and William had worked together on a couple of small jobs when they were both a good deal younger and William had always proved to be ingenious, reliable and discrete. He also had connections with river boatmen and that seemed to be a good place to start. Brian was well aware that William liked his name exactly as he had been given it and took offence when it was shortened, so he had always made sure he did not call him Billy as a lot of the others did. William always suffered in silence, because such an exhibition of personal pride could be viewed as a weakness in this line of business, however, Brian's deference had always put him in good stead with this useful man and it was to William that Brian went for help.
Brian put the proposition to William in the Rose and Crown – he was a little economic with the truth of the situation perhaps, but William did not question his reasons and he did not appear to be too bothered with the obvious duplicity of the explanation.
It was in the Rose and Crown that he secured the means to achieve his vanishing trick. The Almira was apparently a Tramp Steamer, flying the Liberian flag of convenience, with a captain to whom gold was the only acceptable currency. The coincidences were beginning to mount up: the Almira had just emptied its hold of bananas and was ready to take on board an eclectic mix of cargo ready for its return voyage to Venezuela; Venezuela was one of only thirty three countries that the UK Government did not currently have an extradition treaty with; Venezuela had a tropical climate with a low cost of living, so with a moderate amount of cash behind him he could afford to live in luxury for the rest of his days.
It all sounded too good to be true, but Brian's mother had always drilled into him that if it seemed too good to be true, then it usually was. He knew that security on the docks would be tight, but no way would it ever be watertight; however, he could not take the slightest risk that might end up with discovery and capture. This is where William again came up trumps – it is not what you know, but who you know and William knew just about everyone who plied their dubious trade on the river.
Brian had wanted to meet with the man personally to make his own arrangements, but William said that the man would meet with him at the boat and not sooner, it appeared that he too wanted to remain invisible, and Brian could not blame him one bit.
As soon as it got dark Brian set off, dressed all in black, and scaled the low wall of the cemetery. There he scraped the marble chips off Auntie Marjory's grave and liberated a large black carry bag, which he slung over his shoulder, delighted with the precious weight against his back.
William had agreed to drop him off at Two Tree Island and make the introduction with the man. They made the journey mostly in silence; William did wonder exactly what was in the black bag and why it was so heavy, but he had learned to be discrete and not to ask questions which he knew had no chance of eliciting a direct answer.
In the long drive across the marshes Brian looked around him as the shadowy Essex countryside drifted ghostlike past them, knowing that was the last he would ever see of it. The thought did sadden him a little, but the prospect of the life he had planned pushed those dreary thoughts far, far away.
Once out of the car his eyes quickly became adjusted to the almost pitch darkness. The moon was new and cast very little light over the jetty and if it wasn't for the glowing tip of William's cigarette he might have believed that he was alone in this wilderness.
The luminous hands of his wristwatch crept slowly round the dial, passing the time they had agreed and Brian was beginning to get worried that he had quite literally missed the boat, but then out of the darkness came the faint putt-putt of a motor and soon a dark shape appeared. The small boat was painted a matt black so dark that the boat was truly in stealth mode. It was abundantly clear that the man had been here before – many times before.
Brian shook William's hand, thanked him for his efforts and passed him a brown manila envelope. He accepted the proffered hand which guided him into the gently rocking boat and without another word the boat glided out into open water. They were soon alone in an eerie watery world.
A dark shape was moving slowly across their path, silhouetted against the Kent coastline, not the huge bulk of a container ship, but the tighter economy of an itinerant trader. Brian grinned, this was just about as anonymous as it got. However, as they got closer the ship grew larger and larger and for the first time a nagging concern began to surface.
'Er . . . how am I supposed to get on board the damned thing? It's huge!'
Throughout the short trip the man had said nothing, he remained a vague shape against the faint red light on the dashboard. A grunt was his only reply. It was only when they were manoeuvring carefully alongside, the black hull towering high above them, that he got his answer.
'Stand at the back. Flash this torch up at the deck. They'll drop a rope ladder.'
Brian was horrified – this was something he would never have contemplated in the daylight, let alone in the pitch dark on a boat bobbing up and down and moving at a fast walking pace – but he knew that he had no option. He slung his bag over his shoulder, but as soon as he did so he realised that it was not going to work – he would need both hands free to scale the ladder and even then he was not certain he could do it.
'I'll tie the bag to your waist.' The curt suggestion seemed to make perfect sense and confirmed Brian's suspicions that the man has most certainly been here before. He moved to the stern and lifted up his arms, feeling the captain fumbling with the rope. He reached down beside him and was reassured to feel the bag against his leg, with a piece of rope tied firmly around the handle.
His thumb located the button on the torch and he began to flash the beam of light up the side of the hull. All of a sudden the motor roared and the small boat surged forwards. Brian let out a scream as the gunwale took his legs out from beneath him. He hit the cold water hard, an empty piece of rope following behind him.
The man dragged the heavy bag up to the safety of the cab and in his wake Brian finally achieved his dream – he vanished from the world . . . without trace.