Sean P Durham

Photography

The Luxury of Sleep is for the Vigilant Cat

by

Thinking of you keeps me awake. Dreaming of you keeps me asleep. Being with you keeps me alive.

Late one night, my cat wouldn’t stop scratching and whining at the front door. I kept telling him to leave it, but he insisted I investigate.

I opened the door, a man sat on the steps, one shoe and his crumpled sock on the floor, a needle between his toes.

I told him, “Finish off, then leave,” I was firm but friendly.

He was a drug addict, a shelf-life client of the darkest side of capitalism. I wasn’t going to be mean to him. Just not on my doorstep, please.

I don’t like drug dealers. They create hellish neighbourhoods, and prey on those who are tired and vulnerable.

I will ensure that my environment is safe and secure for me and mine. My home, from the front door extending into the immediate street area — that’s my home. I want to know that when my partner walks out the door, she doesn’t need to look over her shoulder or cross the road to avoid danger.

We moved into a third floor flat in Madrid, where the people live close knit, streets are like hot baking sheets, the locals are warm and mixed.

Shortly after, local drug dealers found a patch by a lamppost outside my home; At first, I observed them like a cat. I could hear them at night, hanging out, talking, laughing, bored.

They would wait for their clients to turn up and buy, the supply being dropped off by taxi — a bag lobbed out of the moving taxi window.

They woke me most evenings. So, I would move to my balcony and silently watch.

I gleaned knowledge of how they operate, whether they had bosses, how intelligent they were, and who they dealt with.

One of them loved practising his martial arts on his two associates. The second, made snide remarks to young women. He was all gold chains, open shirt and slicked back hair. The third dealer was clearly learning the business. He hadn’t fully immersed himself in the dealer mentality, he seemed too open and chummy. He politely greeted me by day, and kept himself in the shadows at night.

After a few weeks of my cat-like activities, I could single out one of the drug dealers as being the stupidest. The martial arts fanatic was good at swinging his feet and arms about, but stringing three words together was a laborious task for him. His chaotic dance, when practising kicks on his two friends, indicated a fuzzy brain.

Like a bird dancing to its mate, he would do his martial arts moves when women passed, he’d flap his arms and legs about like a wounded chicken to impress them. When local men walked pass, he would be still and look along the road to avoid eye contact.

The Romeo with gold chains and slick hair, was vain and overestimated his own prowess. I think just the fact that he dealt drugs for a living made him feel like he was “Lord of the Street”.

His problem was that he had chosen the outside of my home, and inside my environment as his work place.

He was therefore a threat to my security and happiness. I watched and listened, and he didn’t know how well he informed me.

My partner slept soundly at night. The home and our safety was more important than my sleep. If I didn’t take action against these dark shadows, then who would?

Late one night, after about three weeks, I noticed that the street was empty. For the first time, the drugs dealers weren’t in sight. It was hot and balmy, so I stayed on the balcony anyway.

After ten minutes, a car cruised along the street, slow and deliberate, it stopped and started, as if the driver was looking for something. It stopped exactly at the lamppost where the drug dealers hang out.

A man in a leather bomber jacket got out, he had a small torch in his hand which he shone under three cars, he got down on his knees and peered under the car. After he stood up, he walked over to a storm drain and shone his light, he put on a glove and ran his fingers across the drain-grill.

I figured he was a cop, plain clothes drugs squad. He didn’t stay long, it seemed to me that he had some knowledge about the location and wanted to see for himself.

I hoped that would be the end of the drug dealers. Maybe they’d been banged up in a cell and would be kept there for a long time.

The next day, I heard from a neighbour that all three men had been arrested while carrying drugs. But then they’d been released. Apparently, it was only grass in their pockets and the Spanish Policía weren’t interested in the paperwork.

Next day, the drug dealers were back at their lamppost. Hanging out, practising martial arts moves, Gold-Chain-Man eyeing the women as they passed, and the third, the quiet fella, leaning against the wall, on watch.

I felt something had to be done. I’d seen enough, but I didn’t know how to motivate the local Policía to take action.

It was still light, a few people on the street were finishing their tapas and beer. The drug dealers seemed boisterous and overly confident. I figured they had beaten their arrest and felt untouchable.

A middle-aged woman passed them, she stopped, looked at the martial arts expert and gave him a piece of her mouth,“You shouldn’t be here. Get a proper job — or you’ll end up in jail for the rest of your life!”, Spanish mothers worry a lot. Other people’s wayward children need a mother’s voice too.

He insulted her. He told her that she was a fat old bird, and she should mind her own business. Old lady, meddling witch, get lost!

Her face reddened.

She slapped him. A slap? More like a mother’s right-hook straight to the heart of the matter. His cheek glowed, then he backed off and dropped his chin— I watched and hoped it was shame that he felt.

The Spanish Mother said a few more harsh words to all three men, then without rush, set off on her way.

I watched from the balcony, the men exchanged astonished words with each other. Mostly they laughed at their friend for allowing the woman to slap him in the face. There was empty banter of retaliation.

I received a phone call from my partner, she told me that she was in the bar across the street with her parents. They were visiting from New England, and I should join them. I looked out the window and saw her standing outside the bar with her mobile phone.

The drug dealers were close by, hanging around their lamppost.

I put my shoes on and fumbled with shirt buttons. There was a noise outside, shouting followed by a screech. I looked out. My partner and one of the drug dealers were arguing face to face, in the middle of the road.

My wife is a beautiful woman, charming and polite, but deep inside her there is a lioness that’ll face-off a water buffalo and defend her territory with might and courage.

With half tied shoe laces flapping about my feet, my shirt wide open, and one mean intention in my heart, I ran down the three flights of stairs.

The metal doors burst open with a clatter as I entered the street and made a straight line towards the drug dealer.

His hand rose up in front of my wife’s face and his glassy eyes rolled as he moved closer. She slapped his hand away, and I drove myself in between them. She back-away.

I have had plenty of fighting experience in life — boxing, martial arts, street fighting outside pubs in England — but that was all many years ago. I was now middle-aged, a bit slower, and no longer fighting fit.

My heart beat like a drum, and I could feel the tremble in my legs. It’s always the knees that go first — fear and adrenalin, it can freeze you up and make you useless.

My view from the balcony gave me perspective and I could figure these guys out from how they acted and spoke. Now, I realised this one was bigger and broader than I’d thought, but yes, he was stupid; that gave me confidence and an advantage.

If I wrenched my back, and got a bloody nose in sending this man away, then so be it.

The trembling in my knees stopped. I knew I had to act, I turned and looked at my wife who was now in a safe place.

My mind felt sharp and ready. Because I was defending the one I love, and our home, I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t shake and tremble anymore, just the opposite — I felt like a thirty-year-old, solid and agile on my feet, my chin down and forehead tipped, ready to do battle. The spirit had taken me — the flesh better play along too.

The adrenalin rose in me, my shoulders cracked with delight, and my arms felt like power-pumps with hammers at the ends. I assumed the fighting pose and looked my opponent in the eye.

His watery brown eyes caught the sun, and a lock of curly dark hair flopped onto his forehead. His doughy features looked boyish.

Over his shoulder I saw customers from the restaurant had gathered in the street. The middle-aged woman who he’d insulted stood among them, she waved her arms as she explained something.

My wife stood to the side with other neighbours. A young woman among them, who I later discovered was the drug dealer’s girlfriend, shouted insults and Gypsy curses at me. Her curses weren’t convincing, but her mouthiness fired us up.

His two friends shouted encouragement. He raised his hands and took a swing at me. I dodged, but felt his palm brush the top of my head. Like a button had been pressed, my arms came into action and I landed three good hits to his ribs. He backed off. He seemed shocked, an old guy coming at him, and punching hard.

I don’t go looking for fights, nor do I want physical combat, but when it gets this far you have to have the winning attitude — or you’ll end up on the floor with blood all over you, and your opponent will rule the roost.

When you square up to another man, it’s the lonliest place in the world.

Probably my biggest weakness in a fight, is that I believe in the “fair-fight”. Fists up means a fist fight; don’t draw a weapon, nor suddenly change the game to a wrestling match, it’s a fist fight. Unfortunately, the world is an unfair place and drug dealers are as sly as snakes in the grass.

The three punches were enough to make him falter and feel insecure. It was coming back to me; there’s more to a fist fight than punches. Put the fear of God into your opponent, see it in his eyes, and don’t give him a chance to recover from it. Keep him in fear — he’ll soon buckle under the pressure.

I couldn’t get the first impression of him out of my mind; he looked like a boy, but he was at least thirty years old. He lacked experience, but faked it with bravado. He was out of his depth in the real world of confrontation.

He made unpleasant quips and remarks to passers by, he mocked middle-aged women, he tried to intimidate my wife on the street and with that he riled me up.

After I hit him, he suddenly side-stepped then got closer to me. Before I could react, he’d wrapped his arm around my neck and pushed me down towards the ground.

He’d fooled me into believing that he was just a frightened boy with curly hair, now I felt the power of a pressing-machine attached to my neck.

I flailed with my arms, trying to get a hit or two in, but my position meant that each attempt skidded past his body.

He twisted and pulled at my neck, it worked, it caused me a lot of pain. I did get a punch in to his belly, but my breath was short and quite honestly, my energy was waning.

I waited for the inevitable; he’d take this opportunity to pummle my face with punches that would be hard to dodge.

I can take hard punches, you train yourself to not react to pain or shock. That way you can think straight in the chaos. Come up with a good plan — like one that would get me out of a headlock and a barrage of blows to the face.

The punching started. He hit my face several times. Hard and fast. I focused on trying to slip my head sideways so he’d miss my nose and eyes, that didn’t work. My ears hurt.

My arms were tired but I hit him anywhere I could. I’d wait till he got tired, or bored, with hitting me. Then it’d all be over, and the drug dealer could rule his roost along my street.

I heard his feet shuffle, he dragged me away from the curbstone in to the middle of the road, then a bit more, then sideways. That’s when I could see another pair of feet close by. My vision was limited to the tarmac road and both our feet.

A pair of red boots with square heels followed our steps as the drug dealer dragged me around the road. He was on the run, taking me with him as he attempted to avoid the red boots.

I twisted my head as far as I could towards the red boots. Then the penny dropped. It was my wife who was chasing him away.

She’s a tough woman. She’s also beautiful, and tender hearted. That day, something tripped the switch and she turned into a Lioness.

It didn’t take much longer before I heard a thudding sound. Three solid thuds. Each time, a red boot came up and skimmed past my face then landed firmly in my opponents guts. He buckled, and twisted, I heard him groan and squeal like a pig being rounded up on the farm.

Gusts of air left his lungs. He coughed a couple of times, but now I could feel his body move as my wife laid into his curved back and sides with her small fists.

He released his grip on me, and in a rage turned, and headed towards on her. I stood up, grabbed at the back of his collar, my hands slipped, I gripped his shirt tail which hung out of his jeans.

I looked over at my wife. Her face as red as her boots, sweat beading on her cheeks, and a grin like a Cheshire cat spreading across her face.

I’d never seen her use violence. Hit anybody, let alone a mean and stupid drug dealer; she seemd to be having fun.

The drug dealer was still dangerous, even though we were all tired, and the fighting didn’t seem to prove anything. I felt like we should all put our hands up and go home.

My wife had other ideas. She stepped in close to the panting and bent body of the drug dealer, grabbed his hair and lifted his head. Then she gave him the hardest thwack on the nose her small fists could give. Small fists or not, blood ran from his face, and as he wiped it off it became clear he’d didn’t want any more.

I was done, tired, and my ribs ached. He just looked beaten with his sullen look. His big brown eyes were dull now, and his locks of dark hair sweat smeared around his pudgy face.

The only person standing upright, grinning, and pleased with herself, was my wife. She’d saved me from a heavy beating.

I’ve never seen my wife behave that way since she kicked the the dealer in the guts, but she won a new respect from me.

I know she could do it again, anytime she’d need to.

Now, our home is free of drug dealers on the street. The cops turned up and arrested all three of them.

The landlord apologised to us personally for not dealing with the matter by informing the police.

We stayed a while, but the pangs of homesickness drew us back to Berlin where we live together with our cats in a peaceful neighbourhood.

The Safest Room in the Club

by

unsplash.com/@mvdheuvel

I’d always wanted to be a thief. The type who didn’t get caught. Well, I met Dave. That was good luck.

He taught me the art of robbing and thieving.

Robbing took me away from the miserable shithole I was born into, and put me into the “game”.

You learn the ropes.

The way you play the game isn’t set in concrete. If it is, then the concrete is still wet, and the rules of the game shift and change like the weather. There are names fingered into the wet concrete of time. People I never met. Some worked the ropes for decades, others came and went like spring rain.

It all gets harder, meaner, and more brutal. Greed makes the rules. The greed grows among us.

If you want to survive and prosper in this game of crime, then you have to be a weatherman. Make it all up and convince other’s it’s the truth. Then, everything will be fine and sunny.

We were all sat in the safest room in the club. Lots of banter about places to rob, the good, the bad, and the downright, no-bloody-way-mate, or the, ‘maybe it sounds like good graft,’ type of jobs. Men and women throwing ideas about the room, cards spread on the table. The game half played, never finished. The conversation heated up, drinks were spilt onto the green velvet.

We brainstormed each other for a job that’ll pay enough to satisfy all of us.

I watched Dave. He sat like a king at the top of the table. Everybody had to respect him as boss. He had the years and the knowledge. He had a quick temper and carried a gun. And we all knew he’d use the gun. Most of all, that’s what made him boss.

The gun always made things edgy when we argued. He’d rub his chest, screw his face up and scowl at us when we didn’t agree with him. Then his chest rubbing turned to his hand sliding onto the bulging metal halfway covered in his trouser belt.

That was his sign; don’t get arsey with me, don’t disagree and make a fool of me. I’m boss, show respect, and we’ll all get along.

Keep your bottle for out on the street.

There’s an old bloke in overalls at the end of the room mopping the floor. He swished his mop about like an expert, slopped it in a bucket, then swished it across the floor again.

He was the only outsider allowed in. He did his floors every three days, then left.

We let him in because he knew the score. He limped badly, dragged his left foot behind him. And he was deaf as a door post. Try talking to him, and he’ll cock his head towards you, and just say, “Wot?, wotcha saying?”.

Pretend to be deaf, and you hear everything.

We had our own drinks trolley, chipped glasses, and sandwiches. The clubroom was for talking business. No parties, no drunks, and no friends of friends.

Dave was listening to the chatter, me too. Stay quiet and listen to everything. Even when you think you know better, keep your mouth shut. You can weigh in afterwards. The final plan has to satisfy everybody’s greed.

How big the split after the job, the risk, it had to be water tight and tickety-boo all round. Otherwise, you’ll end up with an unhappy thief on your hands. You won’t know it at first, but he’ll show up some day. Revenge is always a threat in our world.

And that’d be an unknown force. And you might find yourself out in the woods on a dark night, digging a deep wet hole with a gun pointed at you.

There are many loose threads in this world. People have long memories, they wait patiently for their moment. Like a staged drama with actors’ cues. A thing is said, an actor steps into their space, and a dark figure emerges from the wings, sword in hand. Their eyes on the crown.

It’s happened before. It’ll happen again. Sometimes it comes as a big surprise, like you didn’t hear the voices on the wind. A warning. Bang! And it’s all over.

Then, greed moves on to the next devious plan.

Each one of us are fools. We plot, and we plan. Our devious hearts heed no wisdom, only driven by hearts full of bloody avarice.

Dave told me how he learned his trade and that alone helped me study mine. A good teacher, a gentleman in the classroom, but a hard man on the street.

What Dave learned, he learned from his mentor — he refers to him as the King. So Dave will also be called King.

An unknown force can be your end, even when it seems harmless at first. That was a lesson that Dave drilled into my head.

Don’t trust people, he told me. That’s basic training.

“You’ll learn it in time, and in time it’ll become second nature to you. Even when you really like a person, you won’t ever trust ‘em”.

That sounded about right, so I went with it. Like an epiphany, it freed me up inside, made me feel confident.

“I learned that from the King — God rest his greedy soul,” Dave’s grin was like the dripping edge of pale wax.

Criminals are in the game for money, for sure. But really, we’re all about the life. We want things. You have to impress to get. Nobody gives a ragged toss for a poor criminal. Where’s the trust factor? So, you have to flash cash, and drive tasty motors. Get seen in smart establishments, keep up with the lingo and sit with the best people.

To be seen, you need to take risks and make money. Like I said, flash the goods.

It’s an education. I’m glad I met Dave. He was my lucky break.

Dave has served his time as far as I’m concerned. He’s a mentor, not a master. These days I see him as a helpful bloke open for a chat, exchange ideas, all that good stuff; but he’s over the hill.

And like I said, really, we’re in it for the life. Living it. The thieving, the risk, the getting away with it as long as you can. The thrill.

Every criminal has a life span. Ten years of full-force whirl-wind robbing. Then, after a couple of stints in the nick, run-ins with the law, and all the suspicion that other criminals put on you, you get tired. Ghosts come back to live in your head. And then, that’s that. You become a nut-job that nobody wants to work with, and you’re left at home playing with yourself all day long.

Dave told me that. I took it with a pinch of salt at first, but as time goes by, I watch how they fall.

One by one.

Sometimes, it’s ugly.

I watch Dave.

We are thieves. But the most common deed is revenge. Somebody who thinks they were hard done by. They see red, grab at straws, and shoot blindly at the first thing that moves. Dead blokes everywhere for a week. Then it’s back to normal — back to robbing shiny objects.

Dave was an intelligent bloke. I really got to like him, and it felt good that I could talk, ask questions, bend his ear for information about the criminal trade, for as long as I did, and still I didn’t trust him in the slightest. He was a sound criminal man.

I asked him once, “how long you been in the business, Dave?” He pretended to be deaf. More likely, he didn’t want to answer. More than ten years, I reckon.

I listened. Dave sat there picking his nails with a bottle opener. A woman who I hardly knew was pitching an idea at the table. Some prize worth taking in North London.

The cleaner clattered the bucket, slopped the water, and swished the mop. He was a tall man, long legs, and baggy trousers that didn’t fit his hips. His pockets were stuffed with rags, pencils, cigarettes, a small row of screwdrivers poked out from his top pocket. He used them for fixing electric cables. He wore a wool cap that he’d pulled down to his ears. His blue eyes flickered as he look across at us, then he looked right into my eyes, then at Dave.

He dragged his foot as he mopped. Then he leaned over and pulled the bucket closer to his mop. He kept repeating this action, it got on everybody’s nerves.

A small fat man at the table, wearing a green pork-pie hat, threw a soggy beer mat at the cleaner and told him to be quiet. The cleaner didn’t hear him. He just kept clattering his bucket, and sliding his mop in our direction.

Dave turned to the cleaner, and told him in mime, with his hands, “keep it down, or I’ll thump you.”

The cleaner leaned forwards, cupped his ear, growled back at Dave,”Wotcha saying?”, Then he lifted the bucket, instead of dragging it.

The woman said, “I’ve been around the place, last night. It’s sweet. We could sweep through the top floor and come out with the goodies. It’ll take about thirty minutes, tops,” She took a swig from a glass of whiskey. Red lipstick smeared the tips of her fingers. She kept wiping her mouth.

“Where is this palace of goodies?”, Someone asked.

“North London, geezer’s rich as fuck. Loaded with coin.” She said.

Everybody called her Beth.

At first, Dave called me “eh you”, and sometimes when he had something to teach me, he called me “Laddy”. That went on for a year. Then he suddenly called me Rabbit.

I didn’t like it. It stuck. Nothing I could do about it. I’m Rabbit.

Criminals are greedy. They don’t take much convincing about a job, except when it looks like they’re going to get caught. Their minds become addled when the chance of a big take outweighs the risks. The money first, the chances of getting away with it second. That’s bad maths, but that’s The Life.

The fat man in the pork-pie, spoke, “Yeah, I know it sounds nice an’ all that, but will it spread. The money, I mean. It’s got to be enough to feed the masses, or else I’m not interested.”

“You’ll be counting your dosh in the sunshine, don’t worry about that. The place is full of old paintings, the owner collects them. Gold coins in boxes stacked in a room where he sits and ponders his lucky life,” Beth said.

Ricky Nipper tilted back on the legs of his chair, “Who knows where to get rid of paintings? And anyway, what do you know about art?”, his chair tipped forwards, and he put his elbows on the table, “I certainly ain’t got a clue.”

Dave spoke, “Yeah, well, Beth here, knows about old paintings, and vases, and she’s already got an interested party for the gold coins.”

Pork Pie Hat said, “Wait up, you two been talking about this behind all our backs. I thought the Safe Room was the only place to discuss a job?”

“Beth mentioned it, so I told her to bring it up in this meeting. She’s not going to waste your time with all the details.”

“Thirty minutes inside, to collect our prize — that’s a long time, ain’t it?” Said Ricky Nipper.

“No probs. The geezer’s away on a business trip. Picking up a load of old paintings, I expect.” Said Beth,

“That’s right. Beth can confirm that, so we’ll have plenty of time to do a decent job of it, and be away on our toes lightly, in no time,” Dave looked at Beth, nodded, then sipped his whiskey.

The cleaner was closer to the table, he’d just shifted his bucket next to Dave’s chair, and now Dave was beginning to look uncomfortable about it.

“What the rubber-duck is this cleaner up to?”, Dave put his glass onto the table and went to stand up.

The cleaner dropped his mop into the bucket with a splash. The dirty water sprayed onto Dave’s trousers.

The room went quiet.

The cleaner leaned towards Dave, patted his chest. Dave tried to shove him away, then took a swing at him but realised he couldn’t stand up.

We gawped at the cleaner as he laid his large grubby hand onto Dave’s shoulder. In his other hand he held Dave’s gun. A scratched black Glock G29, a nice small job that can be slipped in and out easily — so easily, that Dave hadn’t notice as the cleaner pulled it out of Dave’s waistband.

(This is a fragment of a crime story for a new book compilation)

Hardwin Rust – Notes on a short Story

Dark Stories from Between the Cracks of Time — Part II

by

I heard a very low humming sound coming from inside somebody’s pocket. One of the two men sitting at the table behind me pulled out his phone and clicked a button.

The phone stopped ringing.

The man standing at the toilet door put his phone away and walked towards the bar. He stopped next to me. I looked at him, he was tall, and looked like he spent a lot of time doing bench presses. He looked down at me, nodded, then asked Yola to get him a drink. She put the drink on the counter, he walked along the bar and prodded at a customer who was snoozing, the drinker’s head supported in both his hands, eyes closed. He rocked in his cupped hands, then looked up at the robber, surprised.

“We’re closing, so get on your way,” Said the robber.

He watched the man stand up, stagger, and then make his way to the door. He hadn’t paid, but Yola let him walk.

The robber did the same with each customer. Some of them were too drunk and didn’t understand that to follow his instructions was better for their health than to sit and argue over the dregs in their glasses. He grabbed them by the shoulders, dragged them across the bar then pushed them out into the street. He was direct about it, but kept enough respect to ensure they didn’t try and fight back. They got the message, and moved on to another bar.

The two other robbers sat at the table behind me, they sipped at their tea, and waited till everything was right. One of them looked at his mobile phone again. It was buzzing lightly. He clicked a button and listened for a moment, then he quietly said, “Okay, Weasel. we’re here,” He slipped his phone into his pocket. He stared at Yola, then the robber who was throwing people out the door.

The bar was almost empty, I sat on my stool. I’d already made my mind up that I wasn’t leaving. Two reasons, the first was that Yola would be left alone with these robbers. I didn’t want that to happen. Secondly, I hadn’t finished my beer and I wanted at least five more to get blitzed enough to send me to sleep that morning. Driving a cab in the night time city can put your brain on full-alert, it’s hard to wind down. I don’t know any cabbies who can just quit driving after all those fares, each one of them a bag of problems, or aggressive, and always looking for something, and then crash into bed and sleep like a baby. The drink can douse the flames of thought and help you forget the night.

I ordered another beer as the big man threw the last customer out onto the street. Yola hesitated, then thought better of asking me if I was sure. She tipped the brew into a tall glass and put it onto the counter in front of me.

The robber came and stood next to me, leaned over, and in friendly way, said, “You should just leave. We’re closing up, now.”

I just told him straight that I’m staying, and explained that I’m doing what I do, drinking after a hard shift of dealing with scallywags and basket-cases. He smiled, then asked me where I came from. He had heard my accent as I spoke German. I told him.

He then asked me what I was doing living in Berlin. I told him. I used to be in the British army. The old story, I met a woman, fell in love, married, then fell out of love. And now, I’m a cabby who lives alone with his television and books. I could see that he was interested.

The two robbers finished their tea, stood up, one gripped a heavy looking tool bag made of canvas. I watched them pass me, they walked behind the bar and lifted the cellar door flap. As they descended into the darkness, I saw a logo on the side of the bag, the print of a hedgehog, and the words, “Boss Hedgehog’s Motor Shop”.

As soon as they were down in the cellar, the robber standing next to me pushed a button on his mobile phone. He spoke as soon he put it to his ear, “Okay, get on with it, it’s okay up here.”

Immediately after that, the sound of hammering could be heard from the cellar. It surprised me, but they didn’t seem concerned about the clunking sounds they made with their hammer and heavy chisel. Then it stopped. A few moments later they started drilling. The slow grinding noise vibrated along the floor boards.

I don’t know how to crack a safe, but this wasn’t how it was done in the films. I looked at the robber, he was sipping on an orange juice with ice. He put his glass down, smiled at me, and asked me about cab driving. It was a normal bar-room conversation with another drinker. He suggested I should probably go home, but I refused. Then, his eyes lit up.

He looked at the street through the large glass windows. A Polizei patrol vehicle slowly moved along the street. It stopped. The driver wound down his window and peered into the bar. The robber hit a button on his phone, his face turned red and sweaty.

He spoke to the safe crackers down below, “stop, do nothing. Cops are outside,” The drilling stopped, they waited.

I said, “Don’t worry about it, they always do that.”

“Do they? How do you know?” He asked.

“This is that type of bar, the people in here are pimps, robbers, and local nut-jobs. The cops are looking for likely-faces,” The robber nodded his head. It made sense, the place was a dive. Of course, the cops were looking for an easy collar.

“Really, I mean it. It’ll be okay.”

I realized I had just helped a criminal do his job. I hoped that I was right about the police patrol. The cops weren’t moving, and the driver looked like he was preparing to get out of the vehicle. He picked up a clip board and looked at it. Yola looked over at me, the robber was fumbling with his mobile phone. He clicked the button and spoke to the safe crackers.

“Rabbit? Start packing up, it doesn’t look good.”

Before he clicked the hang-up button, he said, “Tell Fox to look for a back door,” They had nicknames.

Rabbit and Fox, and the sweaty robber standing next to me, probably called Hedgehog. Amazing what comes out of the forest at night.

I watched the cops, but tried to look as if I was in conversation with Hedgehog and Yola, I nodded at Yola a couple of times, for no reason, the Hedgehog raised his juice glass and toasted to something or another. I was still aiding and abetting. Couldn’t these guys do the job alone, without civilian help?

The cop in the driver’s seat spoke with his colleague, then threw the clip board onto the dash and fired up the wagon. They drove off slowly, without looking back.

The Hedgehog told the Fox and the Rabbit, downstairs, to carry on. The sound of a deep sigh rose up the cellar steps, followed by German cuss words. The slow drilling started again, the Hedgehog kept looking at his phone, occasionally, he would call them, and it sounded like they told him to go to hell, let them just get on with the job. They were having trouble with the drill. The job was turning out to be tougher than they’d thought.

The Hedgehog turned to me, he wanted to speak, but he didn’t. He looked at the table closest to the door.

“Yola? Why is that guy sitting there?”, He looked at Yola.

Yola looked across at the table. An old man in a long coat sat drinking a glass of beer.

“I didn’t see him come in, I don’t know”, She said.

“Well, you served him a beer, He needs to go”, Said Hedgehog.

I thought it’s none of my business, the job and everything, me helping too much. So I kept quiet. I hadn’t seen the man come in, and I hadn’t seen Yola serve him a drink.

I did notice that Hedgehog was making mistakes. I shrugged my shoulder at all three of them, and drank some beer.

The drill sounded laboured. I expected to hear the sound of a broken drill bit, at any moment.

The old man turned to all three of us, he nodded at me as if he knew me. His beady eyes were alert, shifting back and forth as he checked the bar. The Hedgehog walked halfway across the bar room, but stopped close to the edge of the counter. He appeared to sense something, a reason to stay away from the man.

“Listen, the bar is closing. So, take your beer and go somewhere else, will you?” Said the Hedgehog.

“Don’t worry son, you’re screwing everything up, anyway. I’m not the spanner in the works for you” Said the old man. He pulled at his coat, and looked down at old beer stains on the floor.

“You’re doing a grand job of fluffing this caper yourself. Let me drink my beer.” The old man turned away, gripped his tall glass and surveyed the street outside.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about”, The Hedgehog looked scared.

Hedgehog went to Yola, she leaned over the bar, and he whispered something that I couldn’t hear. Hedgehog put his hand on Yola’s shoulder. I watched. It wasn’t the touch of a stranger, a robber that frightened her. It was a well known touch, just as the way he spoke her name, as if he’d called her Yola a thousand times before.

I realized I didn’t need to be here, protecting Yola from dangerous robbers. Nor to help, when the police arrived later. That was all going to be a ruse. A set-up between the inside and the outside, the keys easily obtained from Yola, no questions and, I supposed, a wad of cash for Yola when they made their getaway.

The Hedgehog had a new plan. The old man had put his spikes up, put the jitters into him, he was trying to fathom who this man was, but couldn’t. Nobody knew him, or how he’d come to be in the bar. Worse was, he knew about the robbery. That was a bad thing. The old man, poor sod, had knowledge and seen faces that he could talk about.

The Hedgehog told Yola to open the cash register, and give him all the money. She looked shocked.

“No, that’ll put me deep in the crap with the owner, the police. They’ll all know something’s up,” now she’d let the cat out of the bag. I heard her say it, more or less admitting to a conspiracy with the animals of the forest.

Yola looked across the bar and caught my eyes. Her forehead crinkled into a frown, then a nervous smile. Her lips shifted and pursed into the form of the shush word. I understood it. I had to be quiet about everything.

It was the old man that bothered me, his safety. What the hell was he doing here. I watched him for a moment, he gripped his glass firmly, and slurped the foam off his beer. His tongue popped out now and again and licked his lips.

Hedgehog was fishing around in his pockets, Yola leaned on the cash register, she watched Hedgehog struggle with his mobile phone as he shoved it into one of his pockets, to free his hand. Then he dug deeper into his inside pocket, finally, he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a small gun. It had a barrel that rattled when he moved his hand, it was old and scatched up all over.

Yola uprighted herself, and took a step back towards the rows of bottles, behind her. Her face pale now, and her hands trembled.

The old man sniggered into his beer, then hissed.

I couldn’t do much. I had a feeling I should hide, or take cover, but that wouldn’t do much for me in this small room. I looked at my glass of beer, and for some reason that I can’t explain, I suddenly had a tremendous thirst for it. I picked up my beer. Hedgehog moved his hand, and the barrel rattled. I saw the gun pointed at me.

The sound of the drill in the cellar stopped. A loud crack from a hammer blow filled the bar, then one more hammer blow. We heard the sound of heavy steel hit the floor. The Fox and the Rabbit laughed, and hedgehog’s phone started buzzing. He answered, his gun hand went a little limp, he listened, then smiled once.

Hedgehog looked at Yola, “A couple of minutes, then we’re out of here,” He said, “Give me the money from the cash register,” He knew it would be a problem for Yola. She wouldn’t be able to explain the stamp on the time line. But he didn’t care, he was now getting all the money. He’d deal with Fox and Rabbit when they brought the bag upstairs.

As it turned out, I heard later, she was supposed to open the register thirty minutes after the robbers had left. She would keep the money as her pay-off. That would leave a timing imprint on the computer that showed the owner, and the police, that the robbery had happened later than she reported. If everything was done perfectly, it would give the robbers enough time to get clear of Berlin before the cops started looking for them.

Now, she knew she would still have to make the call late, if not, she would have to deal with the Weasel. And Yola didn’t want the Weasel getting upset with her, she’d heard about his methods.

When the police eventually figured that something was out of whack with her story, they’d arrest her, and she’d be back in prison for a long stretch. Yola didn’t want to go back to that darkness.

Hedgehog turned to Yola, and pointed the gun at her, “open it, the register!”.

Yola clipped one of the buttons and the register popped open. Hedgehog grabbed at the notes and stuffed them into his pockets. He even scraped up the big coins with his large hands. Yola watched every move. He stepped closer to look into the slots for more money. Yola grabbed at his arm, then the gun.

I heard the barrel rattle, then a shot. Bottles shattered, and whiskey dripped to the floor. The gun fell from Hedghog’s hand, he backed away from Yola. She was leaning on the counter. Her breathing heavy, confused by the shot, she checked for blood. She hadn’t been hit, but there was blood and whiskey on the floor.

Yola bent down and grabbed at the gun. Hedgehog backed off, and slipped into a chair at the same table where The Fox, The Rabbit, and he had at first sat that morning. He was bleeding badly. His shirt wet with blood. He couldn’t feel pain, but a rising fear that he’d made a terrible mistake gripped his mind.

The old man stood in the middle of the room. He looked at The Hedgehog, his black eyes dry, lips wet from the beer.

The Fox and The Rabbit came up from the cellar. They carried a shoulder bag with the night’s takings. It was a good haul, and had been worth the trouble. The drill bit had broken at the last moment, but the hammer had finished the job, and the door prised open.

They walked into the room and stood next to the old man, he greeted them both with nods and a faint smile.

The old man spoke to them, “Take it out to the van, the white one with dark windows. Then wait a minute for me, I won’t be long.”

Hedgehog looked up at the old man, he was confused and frightened.

“What’s this? It ain’t your job to have, old man.” Hedgehog dropped his chin onto his chest, the blood was oozing down his shirt.

“I told you, son, you made too many mistakes. You’re too cocky, moving about on my patch”.

The old man put his empty glass on the bar, and signalled to Yola to get out. She put her jacket over her arm and walked out of the bar to meet The Fox and The Rabbit.

The Weasel stood close to The Hedgehog and looked down at him. He sniffed the air, then made a snapping sound with his teeth. The Hedgehog curled back into the chair, his chin tucked down low, both hands pushed against his wounded chest.

“This whole job was mine from start to finish, I decided that when The Fox came to see me about it. He was sly enough to check he wasn’t hunting in my territory.”

The Hedgehog’s eyes flickered as he looked up at The Weasel.

“I thought you didn’t like rabbits, either?” Said The Hedgehog.

“I don’t. He’ll find out about that, soon enough.”

END

Part I of Dark Stories from Between the Cracks of Time

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Dark Stories from Between the Cracks of Time

by

If you stand on top of the Teufelsberg in Berlin and look out into the distance, all you’d see is a carpet of tree tops. Green landscapes that seem to spread out into the mist.

Woman walking through barroom

Imagine though, that you start to run along the sides of the derelict works of this old listening station, a relic of the Cold War that is now left to the winters and the rains. With all the energy of your legs, and your mind, bent on jumping from the Teufelsberg into the realms of air.

The atmosphere around Teufelsberg was once full of signals, vibrations, and radio waves that spread above and below the tree tops. The air is full of these invisible waves that once intercepted and captured information. What was being said, who was planning what, and what people had done.

As you spring away from the walls of that old relic, you sail above the trees towards the city of Berlin. That place where things happen. You hear the sounds of a city that is never asleep. The voices of present and past vibrate through its streets. The deeds of men and women, the sighs of love, found and lost. Berlin is the fluxus of life.

If you do this thing, fly, then you could do many things just as astonishing. You are probably a person who is down to earth, you would never entertain any such idea that allowed your mind to wander among the spheres of the unknown. You are sensible. But when you run and then fly, you can see the things that you have missed. Your mind no longer weighed down by the cumbersome worries of everyday life. But a mind that picks you up and carries you to those twilight places where darkness and light meet, formed in the cracks of time, a place where things happen.

In Berlin, long ago, at five O’clock on a Saturday morning, a bar was robbed by three men. It all went to plan, and the men left the bar with a bag full of the night’s takings.

In those days, bars stayed open as long as they liked. So long as somebody spent one hour cleaning the bar at around six in the morning, they could then remove the stool that was blocking the open doorway, and allow morning customers to enter and eat breakfast with a beer.

At five O’clock in the morning, in a popular bar that served people who liked to drink one beer after another, didn’t like an empty glass, and had a bar maid who encouraged them, the register was full with cash. Yola the barmaid, had already emptied the till three times that night. She took the cash down into the cellar and shoved the bundles of notes, and bags of change into the old safe that was kept in the corner part of the cellar.

As I mentioned, the robbery went well. The three men came into the bar, then sat down at a table in the corner. They spoke quietly for a short while, looked around the bar and noticed which customers were already out for the count, heads down, snoozing on their folded arms, and which customers were wide awake and alert. One of them got up and walked over to the bar. He stood next to me. I listened to him speak to Yola.

He ordered three hot teas, paid immediately, then sat down. The men drank their tea in silence. After ten minutes the larger one of the three stood up an ordered another tea, he then went to the back of the bar where the toilets are situated.

A moment later, Yola asked me to watch the bar. She had to go to the store room, also at the back of the bar, and get fresh tea bags. I obliged, and drank my Hefe Weissenbier. I’d just finished a gruelling taxi shift, and all I needed was to drink a few beers and listen to good music. You have to wind-down a little after a night out on the streets of Berlin.

The bar had an excellent juke box with a classic selection of the best rock, prog-rock, and number one hits of the seventies, and eighties. I kept my eye on the gap that led to the space behind the bar and the cash register. Then I went over to the juke box and put a coin in the slot, selected “Here Comes the Sun” by the Beatles, and four more eighties rock songs that would wake up the bar. I think one of them was Van Halen’s, “Jump”.

On my way back to the bar where my drink was, I noticed that the man who had gone to the toilets was now standing next to the toilet door, he had his arm extended and gripped Yola’s arm. She was a small woman, petite, but feisty. Nobody messed her around. Yola could put rowdy customers in their place in the way a boxing referee splits two unruly fighters. Customers always quietened down when they heard her voice cut through the din of the bar.

Yola spent three years in a prison cell, long ago. She told me it was horrible. It was an Eastern European prison, she lived in that part of the world back then. A man had befriended her. She liked him, and she thought he was legitimate until the day came when he forced her onto the street. He used violence to get her out there. She was on the street every night, until one day she realized that there would be no end to it. The street had been chosen for her by a brutal man. She made a decision that if she didn’t do something about her situation, then she’s be forced to be a prostitute till the end of her working days. Yola searched about, asked people, and finally managed to find what she was looking for. A gun.

As she explained to me what happened that night, I listened in quiet shock to her story.

The next time she was supposed to go out onto the street and make money for the man, she just stayed in the flat where he had put her. He was nothing too big, no heavy contacts that he could rely on, and not a respected member of a gang. He was a chancer who wanted to exploit anybody he could, and make money off them. He didn’t care for people, but he knew how to trick and swindle others into believing his stories.

Yola waited at the flat. Finally, the man came looking and entered through the front door. She wasn’t sure if he’d be alone. She wanted to keep the element of surprise, so the gun stayed in her bag. She’d planned to make an excuse of looking for something when she finally needed to pull the gun out. He came into the room, alone.

The pimp grabbed her, then dragged her by the hair out into the street. She hadn’t expected this much violence, she had banked on him trying to persuade her to go out and work, but the sheer force of his rage, the pain of being grabbed by the hair and led down into the street had taken her resolve away. She felt that the chance to pull the gun had passed, and her simple but deadly plan was foiled.

He took her to the spot where she always waited for customers. The night was cold and wet, it was starting to rain again. Yola knew if she complied with his bullying, she would never again find enough determination to end this nightmare. She opened her bag, and with hand hidden under the flap, fingers wrapped tightly around the gun grip, she told the man she had bought him a present. He smiled at her for the first time, and took a step towards her. Yola pulled the gun up and fired two bullets. The bullets hit his knees, just as she wanted them to do. He fell onto the floor in pain. Yola had no compassion for him, she walked away. She knew he wasn’t going to die, but she felt good that she’d dealt with her problem.

Yola was arrested, and sentenced to three years in a Polish prison. She told me it was a gruesome place to be, hard and merciless people ran the place. She doesn’t regret shooting the pimp who tried to ruin her life. The prison time she did for the deed gives her nightmares. And like I said, she’s a tough woman, but she has a heart.

I stood close to the bar, and called up to Yola and asked her if she was ok. She told me that the man wasn’t bothering her, then she shook his hand away from her arm. I heard the rattle of keys, and watched as she slipped one of the keys from the ring and handed it to him.

I didn’t think that was normal. They hadn’t greeted each other when he entered the bar with his companions. So, as far as I was concerned, he wasn’t her friend.

The man took the key and pushed it into his pocket. Yola came back to the bar, and smiled at me. She had a glint in her eye that I’d never seen before.

Dark Stories from Between the Cracks of Time Part II