Lorry loads.

In The Back Of The Lorry.

By Martin Griffin

A bead of sweat forms under my left ear, at the hair-line. With
nothing to think about I concentrate on its downwards trek into my
collar. It's meandering path takes it across the crest of my shoulder
blade and down further, towards my spine where the torrent awaits. Then
it's gone, swept away with the glistening river steadily trickling the
length of my back. The once tiny sweat-bead now one with a thousand
others. My head is bowed, my breathing laboured under the chains
hanging around my shoulders, restricting any movement in my chest and
arms. Here in the dark, in the silence, this is all I can think about.
I cannot sit, there's simply no room. There are others in here, like
me. Sweating, shuffling, stifled whispers, the odd giggle, muffled in
the comfort of my plastic coated helmet. I look around, eyes wider than
ever in the gloom. The only light source, a tiny hole in the side
panelling is stolen away by the bulk of another like me, pitch dark
descends again.
Outside, the other world away from here, goes on relentlessly. The
engines of cars, tyre on tarmac, heels on concrete pass by on either
side. Yet still we are quiet, no-one must know we are here. It's been
an hour since we last saw daylight. A short jolting ride. Holding
tightly to the side walls, jostled from side to side, backwards and
forwards until we reached this place. This place I have only ever seen
marked in red felt-tip pen on a map. In reality my eyes have yet to see
it. I wonder what's out there, what awaits us when we start to run, and
run we will, as fast as we can in our cumbersome clothes. There must be
twenty of us in here at least, when we run it will be a great sight.
The noise, the surprise, the subterfuge as we leap from our hide deep
within their territory. Our very own wooden horse. Another bead of
sweat is forming, it's exactly the same place I notice, still with
nothing to think about.
The bang on the interior wall slaps my senses to attention. "Ok lads,
get ready for the off" the driver barks from the front. The engine
rattles to life, the others shuffle, excited. I am perfectly still,
I've done this a thousand times but my butterflies keep me calm, still,
ready to go.
Were moving again, I'm holding on to the side wall, the weight of
another leaning against my arm, reminding me of our sheer numbers. An
unstoppable force in such numbers, an irresistible quantity, excited
and alert. "Are you ready? Thirty yards to go" shouts the driver,
unseen somewhere behind me at the front, for I am concentrating hard on
the doors at the back. The others are ready, I can tell. I can feel it.
We're all looking at the blackness where the doors should be, any
minute now, any minute....
The screech of the brakes, a jolt. But we're still ready, anticipation
coursing down my spine, the bead of sweat long forgotten in the sea of
adrenaline. The bang on the door is our signal, I hear the shout, It
could have been anything under the noise of the tail gate being raised.
But I know it said "go, go, go". It's the words we've all been waiting
for. Then the shouting starts.
The light blinds me as I leap into the day, and I run. As fast as I
can.

It's all over now. A job well done somebody said .How do I feel? Ready
for a shower, that's how I feel. Just another drugs raid in West London
for me I'm afraid. I'll do it all again tomorrow.