A Christmas Gift for my fellow members. A seasonal John and Frances frolic.
My characters John and Frances were expecting a quiet Christmas this year, rather than spending it with her family. Just some quiet husband and wife time, country walks around their home in The New Forest, leisurely meals and lazy mornings.
But they stumbled on a chance to have a bit of fun and do some good at the same time. It proved irresistible and they woke me up early this morning to tell me about it. But not âcharity poachingâ this time.
It was fun for me too, the humble chronicler of their lives, to take John outside his comfort zone for a while.
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No such thing as âdirty moneyâ. Copyright, 2018, John Mathewson. (Gyppoâs fiction pen name.)
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10 PM, Christmas Eve.
âYouâll be safe enough with the life jacket.â Frances reassured John, as he looked uneasily at the dark waters passing alongside the small inflatable, purring down the river under the leisurely impulses of a small and very quiet electric outboard motor.
The long-shaft motor was running deep and leaving virtually no obvious wake. No give-away phosphorescent gleam. The mottled dark grey hull was almost invisible, and it reminded him of times when heâd looked down on a dark night during a poaching trip and not been able to see his own camouflaged legs. Under those conditions it made him feel secure. Here it was anything but.
He didnât seem convinced, and she had to admit that to any non-swimmer a dark night, a small boat, and only a few inches of freeboard was probably well into nightmare territory. But it was a two person job.
âI didnât pluck you from the English Channel seven years ago just to lose you in Southampton Water now. If you do go over the side hit the strobe lamp and Iâll find you.â The rescue light was strapped securely to his arm. âBut donât swallow. Youâre more likely to die from pollution than drowning.â
She smiled at Johnâs unenthusiastic grunt of response.
âYou can do your bit when we get there. Wonât be all that long before you can play with your knife.â
She gave the trussed figure in the bottom of the boat a nudge with her foot. âIf it comes to a choice heâs on his own.â
A muffled curse, due to the strip of duct tape across his mouth, suggested the passenger wasnât impressed by this. But for Rod (The Sod) Lawrence, who had fancied himself a rising man in drug dealing circles, it had been a total bummer of an evening.
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Lured to a dark stretch of the Woolston waterfront, expecting to shift nearly two thousand pounds worth of top grade gear to some rich bitch stocking up for a Christmas party, heâd been reassured by the sight of the posh Range Rover waiting to greet him. The customer was a small woman, who appeared to be on her own. He was big man, full of confidence, and his well honed instincts werenât shouting âcopâ.
Normally he would have stayed in the car, engine running, foot on the clutch. Dealing through the window and ready to roll if things went wrong. But she was reluctant to get out in the darkness, and just held out the money through her own window, mouthing something he couldnât quite catch above the sound of the two running engines.
The wad of ready cash had further lowered his guard, and heâd stepped out with her bag of goodies. The bright zap of the stun gun at the back of his neck as he turned back to his car took him totally by surprise.
When he came round he was on the ground, chained hand and foot with his mouth taped shut. His clothes were in disarray and heâd obviously been searched because a man was looking through his wallet.
âAfter taking back our own money, thereâs still the thick end of three thousand here. Canât be bothered to count exactly. Plus three different driving licences, but at least one of themâs in his name. Iâd hate to do what weâre doing to the wrong man.â
The woman, wearing a knitted black hat and dark clothing, was checking over the tricked-out full-spec Imprezza. Nearly fifty thousandâs worth of motor. As she perched on the front of the driverâs seat and checked out the controls he saw she was wearing gloves.
She wound down all the windows, started the engine, put it in gear, and ran it forward to the edge of the sloping slipway. Driving it gently over the edge she jumped out and rolled safely clear as it ran down into the water and vanished under the surface with a few bubbles but a remarkable lack of fuss.
She walked back past the cursing Lawrence and her Cornish accent was clear as she said "Thatâs pissed on your fireworks, hasnât it? And itâll get even better dreckly.
âCouldnât be bothered to search his car either. The police might find all sorts of things in there later. Wonder why so many dealers use silver cars?â
Lawrence, still assuming he was in the hands of business rivals, struggled as they lifted him to his feet and started marching him down the side of a building, towards the water. He assumed he was going in and struggled even harder.
âJust zap him again, Love Itâll be easier to just carry the awkward sod. No-oneâs likely to see us now.â
There was a low contralto chuckle and another flash.
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The boat was surging up and down on the long heavy swell from a passing container ship theyâd had to allow past.
âYou feeling sick there?â Frances saw how John was hanging onto one of the rope loops along the side.
âNah, much to my surprise. Shit-scared of falling in, but not sick.â
âGood. Nearly there anyway.â
The flashing light was much closer and John could just make out the swaying metal structure. A couple of minutes later heâd secured the inflatable with a deft half hitch.
It was a bit of a struggle to lift Lawrence out of the boat, but once theyâd secured one of his hands to the angle-iron framework with a set of handcuffs there was no risk of him falling in and drowning. Not that Lawrence seemed to appreciate this if his muffled language was anything to go by.
Frances swarmed up, dragged his other arm out and around and secured it. Then she unchained his legs and, watching his frightened eyes, dropped that length of chain into the water with a deliberately theatrical splash. As he started to kick John cuffed one ankle and then the other, leaving him spread out like a starfish.
Dropping back into the boat and sitting down Frances smiled, her green eyes positively devilish in the flashing light from above Lawrenceâs head. âShall we deep six the gear, or leave it with him to entertain people in the morning?â
âNo need to poison the poor damned fishes any more than they already are.â
She passed it up, a carrier bag with two grands worth of mixed pills and powders. John dropped the three driving licences in there as well and taped it securely to the angle iron above Lawrenceâs head.
Frances shivered, the cold was starting to get through her wet gear. She laughed up at Lawrence, and John clinging on alongside.
âTime for your little bit of knife work now. To make sure he remembers tonight.â
Lawrence suddenly pissed his pants when John, moving carefully and holding on tight with one hand, opened a sturdy clasp knife with a one-handed thumb stud, and grinned at him.
âHappy Christmas, Bastard.â
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It was half past five in the morning when someone on a passing ship spotted the pale figure on the Hythe Knock marker buoy and assumed it was some poor sod who had fallen off a ship and reached temporary safety.
When the Harbour Masterâs launch got there the nearly naked man, shivering with cold, was almost too far gone in hypothermia to speak. His clothes were hanging from him in long strips, saltwater and wind had done their worst to his exposed skin.
Firm but initially gentle hands supported him as heavy duty bolt croppers released him from his old fashioned cuffs. Wrapped in blankets he watched helplessly as someone else collected the carrier bag, looked inside, and he heard the skipper contacting the police on the radio.
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Watching the early morning news about the man on the buoy and drinking coffee in their kitchen Frances watched as John, still wearing his gloves, sealed up the sturdy envelope. He printed a name on it in deliberately rough block letters, plus the word âDONATIONâ.
âThree thousand and seven hundred.â It hit the table with a nice solid thud as he tossed it across to her. âWhile you divert Major Morganâs attention, by giving her a Christmas card, Iâll quietly slip this under the tree at the Salvation Army homeless dinner. We know sheâll make good use of it.â
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