Potholes and Speed

Potholes and Speed

Ed Bruce (c) 2000

Fine rain on the windscreen placed Tower Bridge in soft focus as
Duncan turned left off East Smithfield and drove across the Thames. But
he felt safe and at home in old London whatever the weather. Another
left took him past Tooley Street Magistrates Court. As always he
blinked to obliterate Embarrassing memories from his youth and
travelled on to Jamaica Road. Just a mile from his daily destination
his rugged features adopted a thoughtful frown as he deliberately
dawdled in the slow lane.

Back at Harebell Close in leafy Loughton, Stacey would be getting
young Allan ready for school. The postman would deliver more final
reminders and later she would sip her Earl Grey and prepare an even
stronger argument about the need for her to take that vacancy at the
local supermarket. In their new house, magnolia inside and out, a
monument, he now realised, to thwarted ambition.

"Our business is moving." The old slogan repeated over and over in
Duncan's head. In the dismal December dawn he dragged open the gates
and drove his decrepit Ford Granada into the yard. "Yeah, rapidly into
the hands of the liquidator," he told himself as he slouched through
light drizzle to the van. It used to be lines from songs, sometimes
even upbeat numbers, but lately the voice inside him had adopted a
mocking, negative, tuneless mode. He placed the key in the ignition of
the near obsolete Bedford TK pantechnicon. "Click." With practised
resignation he brought his car alongside and connected the jumper
cables.

I know," he said to the vehicle whose bodywork and moving parts he had
nursed lovingly for a year, "a new battery would be nice - so would
some paying customers."

A distant clock spire chimed eight as he picked up the milk, undid the
padlocks and entered the nearly empty railway arch lockup. In the
office he hesitated by the flashing light on the answerphone but turned
away towards the makeshift kitchen to organise a brew.

With the truck's engine ticking over sweetly in the courtyard and the
kettle starting to boil, Duncan's dour scowl melted a little. Gone too
was the voice of doom in his brain reminding him about his unfulfilled
ambitions in the furniture removal business. In its place boomed the
chorus from Carousel and "You'll Never Walk Alone."

"Yellow Pages," he murmured, eyeing the answerphone, "change my
luck!"

His one-truck business, MacKay Moves, finally had a listing in the
classified directory. This would be the first day of customer response
- if any - and he was nervous. It was the last throw of the dice. He
rolled and lit a cigarette and fantasised about cash up front, all
bills paid, a foreign holiday with Stacey and a new bike for Allan. He
poured a mugfull from the cafetiere, moved tentatively towards the
answerphone, pulled up a chair and pushed 'play'.

"Do what?" asked the speaker. "No I don't want to leave an effing
message. What's the matter with people these days? Well, it's your
effing loss."

There followed more bleeps, then a long agonising silence during which
the second caller's brain could almost be heard fashioning a response.
"Aw, gotcha! One of those sodding machines is it? Thanks for nothing."
Click.

Duncan switched off and his haunted look returned. No he couldn't hold
his head up high and now and he was feeling afraid of the dark again.
Terry's arrival was untimely, especially for Terry.

"Morning Dunc. They've raised Tower Bridge again." He went straight to
the coffeepot. "You wouldn't believe the traffic tail back; right up
the Old Kent Road."

"You'll have to go," said Duncan, staring past his employee at the
blank 'Work Pending' board. Terry stepped into his line of vision,
sipping the scalding black beverage, his face a contorted blend of
sleeplessness, hurt and dismay. "Sit down Terrence, old pal," said his
boss kicking a chair towards him.

The use of his full Christian name sounded ominous. "OK, so my
time-keeping's a bit dodgy..."

"I can't afford to pay you Terry, that's all. We're skint - broke! I
can't even afford me. I have a truck that should be in a museum, a
porter who sets his own flexi-hours, enough bills to rival the national
debt and a long-suffering wife who's probably being comforted by our
local shop manager as we speak."

"But...the Yellow Pages?..."

Duncan sighed as he rewound the tape and replayed the first two calls.
He let it run on, bleeps and silences indicating callers' reluctance to
leave messagees. Then fortune smiled. Eventually no fewer than six
messages were noted, each requesting quotes for full house removals at
a later date. He let the tape run on.

"Well?"

"Yeah, not bad, but that's in the future. We still have to survive in
the present Terry."

As Duncan went to reset the control an authoritative voice boomed from
the machine causing him to fall back in his chair. "OK,listen up! Get
this down and act on it. It's a big earner so get it right, understood?
Cancel everything for Monday, right?" Spontaneous ironic smiles
appeared on the faces of the listening duo. "There's a pony in cash up
front and I'll double your normal price for the job plus a monkey for
safe delivery, got it? Your place nine a.m. Monday. Be there! Name's
Kane." Click.

"Now do you believe in miracles Duncan? That's over six hundred
smackers. What if I do this job with you for free, then you can decide
my future; how's that?"

"Terry, Father Christmas is a myth. He never really existed, so he's
hardly going to show up in South London in early December. Can't you
smell a stitch-up?"

"OK so it could be iffy, but the man's talking cash in hand. Six
hundred quid for God's sake Dunc. We could fill the diesel tank to the
top and do long distance jobs again..."

"I'm blowing it out. We may be in trouble but we're still
le-git."

The big Mercedes drew up with a screech of tyres and parked across the
entrance. A tall, bronzed, slightly overweight man in a Saville Row
suit emerged and walked swiftly towards the lock-up.

Duncan went into the yard and met him half way, squaring his broad
shoulders and thrusting his face into the visitor's. "I should move
that car away from there unless you want your Monday to start as badly
as mine."

"Do what?" asked the newcomer, his composure ruffled but only briefly.
"Kane. I'm Mr. Kane. Don't you check your 'phone messages? You're
working for me today."

"No, I'm working for me today and I won't ask you again." Duncan
turned casually towards his truck.

Kane's right hand made a reflex move inside the lapel of his jacket,
then checked. He swallowed hard. "OK, let's start again. I'm sorry if
you misunderstood. My regular firm let me down on Friday and this
collection is top priority. It's only half a day's work top whack, it's
pre-arranged and you'll be paid in readies. In fact I'll give you half
the money up front. How bad's that? Are you up for it?"

The trucker turned round. An appreciative whistle came from Terry, now
standing next to the visitor. "Come on Duncan, the van's ready to
roll..."

"I don't do bent gear and that Merc is about to become a mascot on my
truck's bumper."

The would-be client laughed unconvincingly. "Bent. You mean stolen?
Good heavens no." He laughed again. "On the contrary. The payment only
reflects the urgency of the situation. Customer pressure you
understand, and my appreciation of your co-operation. All you have to
do is collect an antique desk from East London Freight Terminal and
deliver it to my home in Amersham. The papers are in order and I've
taken the liberty of consigning it to you for expediency." At that
moment an electronic jingle could be heard in the distance. "Excuse me
- my 'phone."

Terry was already sold. "You could treat the van to a new battery, pay
off a few bills and still have enough to treat the missus to a night
out."

"I've a gut feeling about this one Terry, he's just too convincing.
Besides there's something vaguely familiar about him."

Like he could afford to be choosy? And what about Stacey and that
smarmy supermarket manager? Sure he trusted her but she was too
attractive to be so na?ve. Some ready cash to tide the business over
for a few weeks was all he needed.
The customer returned from his car looking even more flustered. "Look,
I know I've been less than tactful and I apologise. You have a business
to run. I realise that. But I'm asking you - begging you - to help me
out here. Please! Half a day's work? What do you say?"

Duncan crossed his sturdy arms and stroked his beard reflectively.
"Freight terminal you say. I spent a whole day there once just
collecting just two boxes."

"I've 'phoned to sweeten them up. I'll pay waiting time if
necessary."

Terry was beside himself. "For God's sake Duncan, it's something to do
if nothing else!"

"OK, but it better be kosher." He offered his hand, limply.

"Trust me, Mackay," said Mr. Kane, offering an equally insincere
handshake and parting with the paperwork and money - which Duncan
checked.
The deal struck, the customer's demeanour changed. "Right. Now be sure
to keep your part of the bargain. And be warned; I don't tolerate
cock-ups." He walked smartly to his car and sped off.

With the unfamiliar elation of so much cash stashed in his denim
jacket pocket, Duncan's smile returned, albeit reluctantly. The demons
in his brain had whisked him to the Albert Hall for the last night of
the proms. He was in the front row with the Hooray Henries, those
pissed, poncey, over-privileged patriots, crucifying Blake's Jerusalem.
"I will not cease from mental fight. Nor shall my sword sleep in my
hand...."

But the unease was still there. At Whitechapel they had indulged the
almost dry diesel tank. At the freight terminal the collection was
unbelievably straightforward. Even the traffic on the North Circular
Road and the M25 was so unusually sparse that by the time they left the
motorway Duncan was becoming paranoid. It was as if the whole operation
had been carefully choreographed...by a ghost from the past...

"Gotcha!"

"What's up?" Terry had been dozing most of the way.

"Mister smartass Kane. Oh yeah, I've got your number now."

"You know him?"

"Firm I worked for a few years back, mostly tippers and skip lorries.
Kane was the brains behind the business, although I think I only met
him once. They had a junkyard near Watford and a contract to collect
scrap metal from a high-class outfit in Harlow. But the waste we
collected had precious metal mixed in and when the crunch came Kane's
manager carried the can and went down for a five stretch along with the
other firm's security chief. Company went bust."

"So now he's doing antiques?"

"I doubt it somehow, he lacks the finesse. I saw his picture in the
local press about a year ago. You'll like this one Terry. He's only
bought this house in Amersham but it's at the end of an unmade road. So
he tells the neighbours he can have a tarmac road built for a price and
they all chip in some cash. Well, the new road crumbles with the first
frost and the first rainfall washes it back to its original state.
Caused a right hooha. They sued but he walked, on some
technicality."

"Nice bloke then? Still, we'll soon be rid. Next left I think."

They had driven slowly down the narrow side road when the turning came
suddenly into view. Duncan had to back up to take a wider sweep and saw
that the surface was the worst he had ever encountered. He pulled in at
the widest part of the lane and switched off. They had purchased
sandwiches and coke at the filling station.

The driver collected his thoughts. How could he sink this low? Was it
really twelve months since he launched the business on the strength of
verbal contracts from the big stores? How na?ve was that? Six months of
lucrative work delivering furniture direct from the department stores
to customers in the home counties. Magic. A mortgage on a house in the
country. Playing happy families away from the dirt and fumes of the
city, could that be wrong? No, just the timing. He hadn't expected a
recession so soon and there was no rainy day fund. Stacey never
complained but lately she seemed just a little distant.

"Of course you know how to tackle roads like these don't you
Duncan?"

"How d'you mean?"

"Potholes," said Terry, "there's a way to beat them y'know?"

"I know; fill them in with asphalt - a proper job I mean - not Kane's
cowboy workmanship." He patted the truck's dashboard. "This will test
your suspension old girl."

"Huh! You really don't know, do you mate? Speed Duncan - hit them at
speed! There was this driver I knew when I worked for
Pickfords....."

"Pickfords! Do me a favour. I'm still trying to correct the bad habits
you brought with you from that company."

"Straight up. I wouldn't tell you porkies. Think about it - when you
go slowly, the whole weight of the truck swings towards the hole, so it
has to swing all the way out of it. That's how you can lose control of
the steering. Whereas, if you give it some wellie, one of the other
wheels soon finds another cavity and that levels it out - know what I
mean? Trust me, when you drive fast you set up a momentum that carries
the van along on an even keel. Try it."

"Crap!" The premonition of impending doom was grabbing Duncan again.
"But what the hell; might as well go out with a flourish." He started
the engine and drove slowly on to the driveway. "Hold on tight!"

Terry slipped a disc into the CD player and soon The Ride of the
Valkyries resonated appropriately round the cab. Duncan accelerated and
moved quickly through the gears to fifty miles an hour. His knuckles
whitened as he gripped the steering wheel, which was continually
threatening to spin out of his grasp. Even at speed it seemed a long
country mile.

With the last house in sight and his arms numb with tension, he slowed
to a halt. Everything that wasn't fastened down, and some things that
were, now lay scattered on the floor.

"Phew. Last time I try to argue with gravity Terry...Terry? Terry, are
you all right?"

He leaned across and pulled his dishevelled comrade off the
floor.

"Can't think what you could've done wrong," Terry muttered.

They stayed motionless, collecting their thoughts. Then they faced
each other, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "The bloody desk!" they shouted
in unison.

The straps and blankets had come adrift and the piece of furniture had
shifted a few yards down the van. But it was still intact barring a
loose back panel which seemed superfluous since a more solid backing
plank was built into the desk, six inches or so from the outer edge.
Although all the drawers had fallen out they were mostly undamaged.
Brown shoe polish, the removal man's stock in trade, restored near
normal colour to scratches and panel pins were found to secure the
wayward backing piece.

Within twenty minutes they had completed the delivery and collected
the promised double fee with an extra twenty on top for "a nice drink".
Still wary of Kane, Duncan declined the proffered malt whisky and soon
they were rocking and rolling, very slowly this time, back down the
driveway to the sedate strains of The Blue Danube.

They ate a hearty meal at South Mimms Services and Duncan
double-checked their earnings for the morning's work all the time
shaking his head in disbelief. He handed a roll of twenties to his
mate. "There you go Terry - you did talk me into it after all."

"Look, I'm sorry Duncan. I mean about the potholes and speed thing - I
really believed...... Oh never mind. I'm just glad the van didn't get
damaged."
"My fault mate. I have suicidal tendencies sometimes. I just felt we
were being manipulated and it made me angry. I like to be in control of
my own life."

They were back at the yard when they found the white tablets, as they
folded the blankets they'd used to protect the desk. It was something
Duncan always insisted should be done at the point of delivery, a
safety measure he had ignored in favour of a hasty getaway from Kane.
The pills were in small polythene packets that were scattered profusely
around the floor.

"What the hell are these?" asked Terry selecting one for closer
inspection. "Hang about 'though, I know, I've seen them on Crimewatch
UK."

Duncan noted the 5 stamped on each tablet and the maker's initials. He
held one to his mouth and licked it. "Yeah, probably Speed -
Dexedrine." Absently he pocketed the packetful.

"How can you tell from the taste?"

"I can't. I've been watching too many gangster movies. I knew someone
once who used uppers."

"But how..?"

"That sodding desk! The false back on it must have been crammed full
of them. I just knew that job would come back to haunt us. Pass me that
sack, sharpish Tel."

They filled the sack, stashed it under the folded blankets and secured
the rear door of the van. The speeding car swung in the gates and
screamed to a halt dangerously close to them as they walked to the
office.

"I'll handle this Terry. Take the store keys. Phone the Bill and tell
them to get here like yesterday." He folded his arms to stand his
ground but mostly to disguise the fear inside him. "Mr. Kane! Something
wrong?"

The irate customer stopped a foot away from Duncan, his expression a
mixture of distaste and disbelief. "Did somebody put you up to this
MacKay or was it just a sudden death wish?"

"Do what?"

Kane sighed. "The easy way is hand over the gear. The hard way is
having your place torched just for starters. Are you beginning to
understand me?"

Crazily Duncan tried to recall whether fire insurance was one of the
unpaid bills. "Gear? Oh, gotcha! You must be referring to the packets
of pills we ditched back there. You're not saying you wanted to keep
that stuff are you? Don't you know the harm out of date medication can
do?"

"You dumped them? Where?"

"Oh, about half a mile down the lane from your house."

"Right, call your mate out, we're all going back there in your van -
now!"

"I'll go with you but you don't need Terry, and anyway he doesn't know
the score. Let him stay."

But Kane fetched Terry from the lock-up and escorted both of them to
the truck. Duncan drove away slowly, regularly checking his rear view
mirror hoping to catch sight of a squad car, but none appeared.

His passenger seemed to read his mind. "That would be really stupid,
driver. Remember this, if the police get involved you're the one in
trouble. The cargo was consigned to you MacKay, so you're in deeper
than you think. You were selected from Yellow Pages and today is just
the beginning of an on-going business relationship. You'd better
believe that. You didn't really think I was Father Christmas did
you?"

They travelled in heavy traffic along the Embankment then up to White
City where they picked up the A40. Glancing in the rear view mirror at
the Hanger Lane underpass Duncan spotted a police car amongst the
trailing traffic and decided to go for broke. He had been holding to
the speed limit, but now he gradually accelerated to eighty miles an
hour on a down slope. Aware of the increased momentum, Kane shouted to
Duncan to slow down. Simultaneously glancing in the mirror, Duncan
could see the expression of disbelief on the patrol car driver's face.
As he activated the flashing blue light and siren, Duncan applied the
brakes.

Kane's reaction was swift. "Listen to me MacKay. I have a gun pressed
against your mate's ribs here. I'll pull the trigger if you say
anything out of turn. Think hard."

As Duncan slowed to a halt he glanced at Terry who nodded
confirmation. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow. "O.K, O.K. For God's
sake be careful with that thing."

The police constable had donned his cap and walked over to the truck
as Duncan wound down his side window.

"I can't believe what you just did there driver; unless you wanted a
speeding ticket for this old heap to impress a likely buyer. Anyway,
climb down from the cab and bring your tacho disc."

"Be cool or he's dead," whispered Kane, prodding Terry with the gun in
emphasis.

Duncan walked to the roadside and towards the police car. Keeping his
back to the truck he handed over the tachograph disc. "Don't look back
at the cab," he said as they made eye contact, "this is a hostage
situation. I was speeding so you'd pull me over. My passenger is a
basket case and he's carrying a gun. He's into drugs and my mate's life
is on the line if he even suspects I'm talking to you."

The amazed officer instinctively looked past Duncan without raising
his head. "That's original, I grant you. Let's see your licence
driver."

Duncan produced the document from his wallet and handed it over. "What
can I say to convince you?"

"Can you come out here Frank?" the policeman shouted to his partner.
"Bring the breathalyser will you? This one's suffering
hallucinations."

After Frank explained the procedure to Duncan his colleague outlined
the driver's extraordinary claims.

"Oh God, you've got to help us - please!" The desperate driver took a
deep breath and blew hard into the mouthpiece. "Now do you believe me?"
he asked, handing it back, "maybe you could tail us up and..... "

Frank took the initiative. "What d'you reckon Mike? The story's too
damned daft to be a wind-up. The test's negative. Tacho and licence OK.
We'd better run with it. If we didn't, and someone got
hurt......"

Mike took over. "Yeah, OK we'll buy it driver, but just one hint that
you're having a laugh and your feet won't touch. Where are you
headed?"

"He lives just outside Amersham. Look, I have to go or he'll suspect.
For God's sake don't let us down."

"We'll radio for back-up. Don't worry, it'll be a covert op. You
OK?"

"I'm shi.....just holding it together. Remember my mate's life is at
stake."

Duncan climbed back into the cab. Terry managed a feeble smile as they
drove off.

Kane was now agitated and sweating profusely. "Took your bloody time,
didn't you? Thought for a minute you were arranging your mate's
funeral. Check your mirrors - are they following?"

"Yeah, they're still with us. Hang about. Phew! Yeah, it's all right,
they threw a left at the last junction."

But for the steady throb of the engine, the remainder of the trip
passed in silence. Duncan stole an occasional glance at Terry and was
surprised to note that he now seemed totally unconcerned. He was toying
with a classical music CD and engrossed in its cover. The journey
seemed endless.

God, what a mess! Sold his scruples for a wad of readies just to buy
some time for an ailing one-horse empire. There was nothing between
Stacey and that store manager, was there? She just wanted to help pay
the bills. Sure he just happened to live next door but he did have a
vacancy - didn't he?

Eventually the entrance to the driveway appeared up ahead and he
slowed to a crawl then swung wide to negotiate the sharp turning. In
the rear view mirror he could see at least two police cars at a
discreet distance. He gripped the steering wheel hard as it reacted to
the first pothole. Then he looked across to check the status of the
others in the cab. At that moment Terry leaned forward, placed the CD
in the player and switched it on.

At first The Ride of the Valkyries only evoked in Duncan painful
memories of their earlier traumatic experience on that road. He
glowered across at his sidekick who only smiled and nodded towards the
road ahead. Only when Terry leaned back to grip the frame of the seat
firmly did his assistant's meaning become clear.
By swinging the steering wheel wildly from side to side, Duncan
effectively unsettled the other passenger. As he did so he accelerated
sharply and applied jolting gear changes to add to the effect of the
potholes. The truck was soon racing above maximum speed for the
conditions and gaining. At times the heaving and swaying threatened to
turn the van on its side.

Much later he slowed considerably to check that his mate was still
seated as they approached journey's end. Earlier he had been vaguely
aware of a hapless Mr. Kane being thrown around mercilessly by the
momentum. Now he was slouched in the seat and lolling lifelessly
there.

"Hold tight Terry," he shouted, then braked hard causing the
dishevelled gunman's head to impact with the dash.

Terry removed his hands from the seat frame and rubbed them together
to revive the circulation. Then he pressed the stop button on the CD
player that had continued to play Wagner at peak volume.

Duncan sighed, nursing the ligaments of his wrists, which seemed to be
swelling up. He eyed the pathetic unconscious figure of the gunman.
"Call that a road?" he queried.

Terry smiled across at his long-suffering friend. He shook his head
slowly signifying despair. "You still haven't got the hang of it even
yet, have you Dunc? That was too fast!"

The first of the squad cars pulled up seconds later. An armed response
unit took up positions behind the hedgerow. Terry picked up the handgun
and passed it to Duncan who laid it gingerly on the floor by his feet.
In he rear view mirror he caught sight of Frank and Mike organising a
loud hailer. He pulled the Dexedrine packet from the top pocket of his
jacket, studied it for and while then dropped it on the floor by the
gun.

"Don't know about you mate," he said, "but I could murder a double
Scotch right now. This could be the scariest part of the day."

Ends

Glossary.

pantechnicon - large furniture removal van,
dodgy - suspect,
big earner - lucrative job,
pony - ?25,
monkey - ?500,
stitch-up - confidence trick,
iffy - probably illegal,
quid - ?1,
blowing it out - cancelling,
le-git - legal,
top whack - maximum,
readies - cash in advance,
straight up - truthfully,
porkies - pork pies (lies),
the Bill - police,
basket case - psycho,
wind-up - irritating scam.