PAST TIMES 

by Richard Banks 

It was Saturday, time to get up and clean the car. Not that I wanted to. After a week on the road reping bathroom consumables I really wasn’t in the mood. But it had to be done and on a blue sky day there was no good reason for not doing what couldn’t be put-off past Sunday evening. Of course I only had myself to blame for the way I was feeling, too much to eat and drink the night before. Little wonder then that, after a restless night, indigestion and a hangover were giving me all the excuses I needed to stay in bed. None-the-less I got up. Of course I got up! I’m a doer not a shirker and with a few pills inside me I was on the job by nine and determined to be feeling better by lunchtime and the big match on Sky. 

         I suppose when you have a hangover there’s no better job than sloshing water about on a warm day and with that thought in mind I was almost as wet as the car when the hose went bang and the water stopped. It must be a fuse I thought, but with wet hands and wet everything else this was not the moment for finding out. So, I finished off the car with a bucket of water and a chamois, got changed, and with dry hands set about putting things right. It was a five minute job. At least it should have been, except that there was nothing wrong with the fuse or anything else I could see. It was a job for the shop where I bought it and with only thirty-five minutes until kick off I departed there minus guarantee which had expired the week before. 

         The day was not going well but nothing a good win over United wouldn’t put right. Then it got weird. There was a new face behind the counter. Usually it was Kevin, if not him the Governor, but today it was Arnie. But Arnie belongs to eight years ago. What is he doing here? But with two customers in easy earshot I’m not about to ask. For now we’re two guys who don’t know each other and whose only business involves the repair of a pressure hose. He gives me a receipt on which he has scribbled, ‘round the back, 15 minutes’. He means the kitchen where we use to meet when the shop was a cafe, the four of us, the ‘Invincibles’  the guys who would never get caught, and so far no one has. I should be beating a rapid retreat but I don’t. What would be the point? If he don’t know where I live he’ll soon will, the shop has my address. I stay and make myself a cup of tea. If Arnie says fifteen minutes it’s more likely to be twenty and anyway the shop doesn’t shut for lunch until 12.15 so I’m not surprised when he waltzes in fifteen minutes later. 

         The players will be on the pitch, the match about to start but that don’t matter any more. I’m looking at a dead man and he’s looking at me like it’s Halloween and he’s playing the scariest trick of all time.

         “Thought you were dead,” I say. 

         He doesn’t reply. He tries not to scowl but he does. Never did like the bugger. Then he smiles, more friendly like. Perhaps this is going to be OK.

         “Haven’t you made one for me?” He points at my mug or perhaps the kettle. 

         “Black, no sugar?” I say. Even after all these years I remember that as clear as all the other stuff I would rather forget. I switch on the kettle and put a teabag in a mug that declares the owner’s allegiance to the Hammers. No change there. 

         “So how come you’re in the land of the living?” I ask. I try to make it sound like normal conversation but normal it ain’t. 

         “Well, no thanks to you, that’s for sure. But I suppose I’ve only got myself to blame. Never trust a villain and in those days that’s exactly what you were, a villain with a gun I didn’t know you had. And don’t think because you shot me in the back I don’t know it was you. Who else was there in Kenning Forest at 3am? No one, just you and me, unless you count Bernstein but then he was the reason we were there, the guy we had robbed and were about to bury. No shallow grave for him, you said, you wanted it dug deep so there was no chance of him being found. Room enough for two is what you really meant, except you didn’t. That would have been stupid, even more stupid than me thinking you were a mate. Anything to say or are you just going to sit there looking like the ghost you wish I was?” 

         So, what do you say to a man you shot and left for dead, face down and three feet under? How did I slip up I’m thinking. If I still had the shooter I’d finish the job, but now he’s the one pointing a gun. 

         “Well?” 

         “What can I say, you’ve got me, guilty as charged. Pull the trigger if that’s what you want, but then what good would that do? Why risk spending the rest of your life in prison when you can have all the money that’s owing you. £200K? What about that? No, tell you what, I owe you big time, so you can have half as much again. That’s from my share. What do you say, Arnie? Come on now, you know it makes sense.” 

         “Yeah, that sounds good except that you can’t give me what you don’t have. How did you blow it, Billy? The nags, poker, slots? The bookmaker’s friend that’s what you are. Let’s face it, if you still had the dough you wouldn’t be doing a shitty job pedalling bathroom tat. No, you gambled it away long ago which is why this is all about revenge. Let me tell you what’s next. I’m going to shoot you in the guts and watch you slowly bleed out, then I’m going to bury your dried out carcass next to Bronstein, by that old ruin that use to be a hunting lodge. So, Billy, any last words? Aren’t you going to make a dash for it? Too shit scared? In that case here we go. I’m pulling the trigger. Now!” 

         The gun fires, I scream, scream again, keep screaming but no body hears, so no one comes. I’m on the floor leaking blood. The glare of the sun streams through the window across my face. I shut my eyes to block it out. Then it all goes black, not a glimmer and I’m falling down a big rabbit hole to Lord knows where. “Help me!” And someone does.        

         “It’s OK, Mr Forbes, keep still. No cause for alarm. I’m Dr Assam. You’re in St Benets hospital. I’m afraid you’ve had a bit of an accident – an electric shock from that power hose you were using. You blacked out for a while but you’re back with us now. We’ll be keeping you here overnight but, all being well, you should be leaving us tomorrow. How do you feel, fit enough to answer a few questions? If not it can be put it off until you’re up to it.” 

         “No, that’s fine. St Benet’s you say?”

         The geezer in the white coat smiles. “Yes,” he says. “I’ll hand you over to Sergeant Willard.  He was passing your house when the paramedics arrived.”

         He moves to one side and a rosser steps forward into view and sits down by the bed. He reads me my rights and gets out his notebook.     

         “You’ve been talking in your sleep, Mr Forbes. An interesting conversation with Arnie about missing persons and an unsolved crime. You can deny it, of course. No doubt you will, but if we find those bodies near the old gatehouse it won’t be looking good for you. ..I gather you support Spurs?” 

         “Did they win?” 

         “No sir, it seems their luck is no better than yours, but at least they get to go home. As you keep pointing out this really isn’t your day.”

 

The End

             

Copyright by Richard Banks