A JUBILEE CELIBRATION NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN

By Bob French

I had just cleared the arrivals terminal at Stansted when my mobile bleeped.  I was tired and hungry and all I really wanted to do was have a quiet beer and get my head down.  A taxi pulled up just as I stepped out into the bitter cold wind of May, causing me to curse the English weather.  That’s the problem with working overseas.  Whenever you got back to Blighty, it was always bloody freezing or raining. The driver asked me “Where to?”  and I told him to head towards Braintree, then rested my head back and drifted off.

My nap was interrupted by my mobile going off again, so I eased it out of my pocket and read it

”RV at 218-2115.2805”.

I smiled; always the James Bond. The text told me that Geoff, my brother, wanted to meet me at quarter past nine in the evening on the 28 of May at the pre-arranged Braintree Premier Inn, room 218. I was inquisitive as why he wanted me to get back to home for June. 

I had left Blighty some five years ago having completed my tour of duty with the Royal Marines and took a job out in Saudi Arabia teaching the Royal Body Guards close quarter protection. Even though Geoff wrote to me once in a while to tell me what he was up to and how much Mum missed me, I rarely replied. I knew he had found his niche as a wheeler and dealer; a sort of modern day ‘Dell Boy’, something I didn’t totally go along with.

Whenever I got any leave, I would normally go off scuba diving off the Seychelles or climbing in the Himalayas rather than go back to England, that was until I received his letter last month.  It sounded serious and that he needed my help, so I came.

The taxi dropped me off outside McDonalds where I grabbed a Big Mac and a coke and devoured them as I walked through the park to my home.  I let myself into my small hideaway bungalow on the outskirts of Braintree, emptied my kit into the washing machine and crashed on the sofa and started to think what my brother was up to.

Geoff was always involved in shady deals and if there was a lot of dosh involved, he’d take a chance.  I was surprised that he hadn’t yet come un-stuck with some of the low life he delt with.

It was raining on the evening of the 28^th of May, as I gave the pre-arranged knock-on room 218 and smiled.  Geoff pulled open the door and dragged me inside and gave me one of his hugs that nearly took my breath away.

“Good to see you, Mike.  How’s tricks?”

          After an hour of catch-up and some intense discussion about what the job was, I stood, nodded my acceptance and went towards the door. Geoff blocked my way, then hugged me again and started to reiterated the task.

          “Now remember Mike, it has to be done on the fifth of June at three in the afternoon at the Palace.  I smiled at the mention of the place and now how difficult it would be to gain access. There will be hundreds of people milling around all over the place and increased security around the Palace and throughout London.  I have been informed that it will be by invitation only, so you’re going to have to fix that, OK?  I will tell you who your target is nearer the day, until then just do your normal recce thing, look at your approaches, escape route, you know, all the usual stuff OK.”

I nodded and left the room, taking the back stairs to the car park and noticed that it had stopped raining. As I started to slowly walk home, I thought how I was to get close to my target without being noticed. There would be cameras all around and as Geoff said, Security would be beefed up. 

          I rose early on Monday the 30^th of May and walked down to the station and caught the train into London to recce the areas surrounding the Palace; the approaches, the security arrangements and possible exit routes including back-up plans in case things went west.  I could see the place was already getting ready for the Jubilee celebrations, but made sure I was not noticed.  I stayed until after three to make sure things didn’t change. Once I was happy with everything, I quietly made my way back to Braintree.

Plans and options rushed through my mind. I knew the whole city would be packed; with people wanting to see the celebrations being provided throughout the weekend. I was glad in a way that the job wasn’t on the same day as the thanks giving service at St Paul’s; being a good Irish Catholic, you never interfered with the business of God, no matter how important. 

It was late on Thursday the second of June, when I received a phone call from Geoff. All he said was the name of the target, before the phone went dead. I sat stunned.  The one person I would love and serve until my dying day. So I finished off my pizza from Dominos and relaxed back into my easy chair with a beer to watch the TV.  Everything was set.

The morning of fifth of June was a bright sunny day as I drove my hire car to Hatfield Peverel and parked up.  Bought a return ticket into London with cash and waited for the Colchester Train to arrive.  When it did, it was packed with revelers, all singing and waving Union flags and singing, so I mingled with them.

Geoff had explained the need for timing so I gauged my arrival in London to give me bags of time to approach the Palace, sus out the security before gaining access and doing the job.

As I sat in the park eating a cheese and chutney sandwich, I listened to the noise of the crowds as they filed past, some singing, some already too far gone with drink. Then I hear a church bell chime in the distance and knew it was three o’clock. I knew from experience that if someone else knew when a job was going down, the first thing you did was arrive late, so the security bods would think it was a hoax and relax.

Binning the remains of the sandwich, I casually strolled towards the Palace.  I could see that the surrounding areas were packed and security had been beefed up but I had a distraction planed.  At exactly ten past three, the two kids I had given five pounds to and some Chinese fire crackers, set them off.  Instantly the two Men in Black turned and ran towards the threat.  I slipped past them into a busy stateroom full of people.  The heat of the place and the smell of tobacco and stale beer hit me in the face as I quickly glanced around the room, until my eyes fell on a very elderly white-haired woman in an elegant pink dress sitting in an arm chair with a Corgi sat at her feet. 

I made a determined move towards her, but it was too late.  I had been identified and people were starting to point at me and screaming; some running towards me.  I had to get close to my target so started to increase my pace. I could see the fear in her eyes, then she put up her arms as though to stop me, and screamed.

I knelt down and took her hands.

“Hi Mum, I’m home. Happy birthday.” 

Copyright Bob French