Losing a few pounds

Losing a Few Pounds

It was Dougie Hampton's first evening at work and he sat, rattling
around the confines of the back of a security dispatch van. John, the
driver and his partner/mentor, sat up in the front and they fell into
an easy banter as only young men eager to learn and old men willing to
divulge can.
'So what am I supposed to do, sat back here all night?' He asked
through the intercom.
'Well,' replies John, 'My last partner, Jamal, used to play solitaire.
His cards should still be back there somewhere.'
Dougie roots around and finds the deck, 'Cheers.' He deals out cards in
a circle on the floor.
'This next pickup's not bad though. National Gallery. The chap there,
Big Pete the Controller, I've know for, what? Eleven years. Our misses'
get on - we both work nights and they do the bingo or watch films with
a bottle of wine together.'
'That's nice.' So far, the cards were providing better distraction than
the conversation. It was a bit like being paid to sit in a prison cell.
Except they had a bed. And he was handling more money than he'd ever
encountered in such a confined space.

A shadowy figure lithely slips between the chimneystacks above Orange
Street and slides down the corner of a building into Whitcomb
Street.

The van swings onto the pavement in front of a large metal grille and
sounds the horn. A security floodlight clicks on and the grille lifts,
exposing a white brick room with a thick metal door and mirrored window
in one wall. The van drives in.
'Eh up Pete' John leans out of the van door and waves at the one-way
mirrored window.

The shutters clunk down, 5cm a second.
One metre?. Three quarters.? A shadow slips beneath the lowering grille
and crawls, like a spider on its elbows, fingers, toes and knees,
beneath the van.

The Guard opens the van door and hops out into the small secure bay. He
goes to the hatch at the side of the van and pickes up three black
cases and a cash bag.
He walks towards the side of the bay.
'Come on man.' He says impatiently at the mirrored window and pulls on
the handle of a tightly sealed door.
'The shutter's not down yet John,' an intercom'd voice crackles into
the room, 'You know the rules.'
The electronic bolts slide into the shutter and the six lever lock
automatically snaps open, the door seal hisses like a sci-fi airlock
and the van driver enters.
He drops the money cases in the office doorway and clumps off down the
corridor. "I've got to go to the shitter.'
'Who's riding with you tonight?' Pete calls from the control room, half
over the intercom.
'New lad, Dougie' shouts back John, from the bathroom doorway.

The shadow slides from under the vehicle, up through the open door into
the cab.
He picks up a helmet from behind the seat and pulls it on. He hops from
the cab and smartly steps through to the fat Controllers' office.

'You're a bit eager aren't you Dougie?'
The helmeted Guard nods.
The fat Controller sighs as he turns to the safe in his swivelling
chair, 'I suppose old John is taking a while'. He dumps the bags of
notes and coins in a seemingly random fashion onto the desk.

John, meanwhile, is slumped over in the gents', the DMSO and weak
Pethidine mix (previously dripped onto the door handle that morning)
having taken a full 38 seconds to cause his ass to explode in a most
ungainly manner. 'Ge-owd,' he moans.

The Guard and Pete begin counting the bundles into the opened
cases.
'He is taking a while, do you think he's ok?' Pete slips his glasses up
onto his head. The Guard shrugs.
The fat Controller heaves himself up and walks out of the office. He
starts down the corridor, 'John? You alright mate?' He wheezes a
little.

Rapidly, the Guard turns to the small bank of lockers behind him. He
opens one, takes out an empty kit bag and stuffs the bundles of notes
into it from the secure boxes, snapping each one shut as he empties it.
He loads the bulging kit bag back into the locker.

'It bloody stinks down there. What's he been eating, eh? He said he's
feeling a bit weak but he's all right though, he'll be back in a
minute.' Pete comes waddling back in, waving his hand in front of his
nose.
'Ok,' Goes the Guard, muffled through his helmet strap, 'I'll wait in
the van.' He picks up the cases and walks out of the office.
'I'll load them in to you.' Offers the Controller, and picks up the
cash bag filled with coins.

The Guard paces out of the office. Then he crouches and tiptoes into
the secure bay. He gently places the boxes beside the hatch, then
slides into the cab. Closing the door behind him quietly, he deposits
the helmet and slips out of the passenger door and down, underneath the
van.

Dougie sits engrossed in the turn of each card.
Pete waddles into the bay, the coin bag weighing him down
further.
He hums patiently, then taps on the plexiglas window, 'Dougie?'
A face appears through the dim black panel and the hatch slides open.
They load the money and empty cases into the van.
"Where's John?' Dougie's shout is muffled inside the van.
'He should be here in a moment, I'll check he's all right. Bloody hell,
I can smell that shit from here now. ' He walks back down the
corridor.
John's washing his hands with his tie off and shirt undone as Pete
pokes his head around the door.
'Dougie gave me a hand, it's all ready to go.'
'Great, cheers mate, don't know what hit me.'
'When you gotta go - you gotta go!'
'Ha ha. ' They laugh.

John hops up into the cab. "Bloody hell boy, that's the worst case of
the shits I've ever had.'
'Ha ha,' Dougie crackles through the intercom, 'You can hardly keep the
windows open either, I bet it stinks up there.'
John looks down at the collection sheet - checked off. 'Got
everything?'
'Let's go.' Goes Dougie from the back.
He starts the van up and Pete waves and retreats into his Control room.
The grille clanks up and the van reverses slowly out into the
street.

As the van accelerates up the road, a young security Guard in uniform
steps into the illuminated bay. He waves at the mirrored window and
holds out an ID card.

The grille locks shut and Pete opens the door with the button on his
desk.
'Hi, I'm Martin, I'm on the day shift.' The young Guard removes his
glove and they shake hands.
'I just forgot to take home my laundry earlier.'
'Oh, go ahead.' Pete waves his hand and plops down into his groaning
chair. 'Does it still smell in here?'
'Yeah, what is that?' Martin hauls the kit bag out of the locker and
over his shoulder.
'Some guy had the shits, it's put me right off eating my tea.'
'Well,' Goes Martin from the door, 'You could lose a few pounds?'