The Final Heist

by William Pullar

  Samantha was now standing and smiled at Glynis, who squealed in delight, flung out her arms and hugged her, saying, “Sam, darling, it’s so good to see you. How long has it been?”

  “Some forty years, since we trod the boards.” She turned to her husband, and said, “We used to be in the same dancing troupe together.”

  The Bishop smiled, placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder and said, “You two have a lot of catching up to do. I have a church meeting to attend to. I’ll leave you in peace to chat.”

  Samantha leaned forward and kissed her husband. “I’ll see at home later. Take care.”

  The two women were left alone, sipping wine and reminiscing. The last the Bishop heard was his wife telling Glynis about other surviving member of the old days. Little did he realise what the future held with these two meeting after so many years.

  Back at the Retreat, a ginger cat sat on the branch of the oak tree, cleaning its forepaws and backside, the way cats do. She stopped with one paw raised at the sound of the bagpipes, singing and the departure of a military-style woman heading for her car and driving away at speed as a loud cheer rent the air.

  Chapter 19

  THE next morning, Glynis stood in front of a full-length mirror in her bedroom, admiring her buxom, slim-hipped shape, pleased the way her reunion with Sam had gone. Turning from side-to-side, pouting her lips and raising almost vertical one of her shapely legs, she said out loud, “Well, gal, you’ve still got what it takes. I wonder if I can get a slot in the Guinness Book of Records as the oldest Burlesque dancer in town. Now that’s something to aim for.”

  She began choosing her attire for the day when a thought struck her, “What a super idea, the Tappings reformed. I’ll talk to Sam and see how many of the girls we can get together, just fancy we could be the oldest troupe of burlesque dancers in town. Now that would be a story. I bet that reporter fella would be interested in that.” Glynis then dressed for the day.

  This would be the day the mystery of the dead mouse and the vanishing pie contents would begin to be unravelled.

  At lunchtime, Sergeant Wallace sought out the Colonel in one of Crabby’s many pubs.

  “Found you at last,” was his opening welcome.

  “Now, what can we do for you?” the Colonel genially required.

  “It’s you I want to chat to. Let’s go somewhere quiet.” He turned to the others, and said, “Sorry lads. This is business,” and headed for a quiet corner of the large bar at the Crown Hotel.

  They two sat down with fresh drinks, and the Sarge enquired, “You in business to earn a few honest quid?”

  “Maybe, what’s this all about?” the Colonel enquired. “Earning some honest dosh? Sounds dodgy t’ me.”

  "No, nothing dodgy. This idea of yours about giving after lunch and dinner talks about your days as a villain and how crime doesn’t pay and destroys family life. Do you still want to do it?

  For payment, of course." The Colonel became interested and shuffled in his chair. “Go on, you’re beginning to sound interesting.”

  “Well, you might not know it, but I’m the secretary of the Area Police Federation Social Club. We’re looking for someone to give an interesting talk about being an ex-bank robber. You interested in doing it?”

  “Could be. How much dosh do I get?” the Colonel enquired.

  “You get a free meal plus travel exes and a fee of say, two fifty.”

  “Mmmm, sounds interesting t’ me. When do I start?”

  “A week Friday at the club in Crabby. I’ll give you better details later,” the Sarge replied.

  With that, he bought the four a drink and waved goodbye.

  Lenny was the first to speak, “So, why all the secrecy?”

  “I’ve got a bit of thinkin’ to do. Tell you about it in a couple of days.”

  “Sounds dodgy t’ me,” Reg volunteered.

  For the next two days, the Colonel hardly saw his three pals as he walked along the beach and the footpath alongside the River Crabbe or sat in his room. Contemplatin’, he called it. There was no mention of the Last Heist.

  One the second day, he walked along the bank of the River Crabbe. As he strode along, with the aid of his walking stick, he muttered, "What a choice! Rob the post office and back to the choky or go straight and tell the world about the futility of being a bank robber or even write a book.

  He strode along, enjoying the still waters of the estuary river some three miles from the town. He’d have a pint at the Waterman and catch the bus back to town. As he decided, two swans glided past in their regal way, only moving to the shoreline when two canoes, as he later described them to the others, swept passed with each having two females in. Each stroked the water with their oars.

  A pair of coots appeared to run across the water towards the opposite bank and disappeared into the bushes.

  He sat on a riverside bench, looked at the scene and decided the robbery had to be done for ‘research purpose’. He would build-up a talks’ circuit and earn a few honest quid, now there was a novelty. He muttered, “Yes, a book was a possibility. I’ll surprise everyone. That’s what I’ll do. If I behave, the prison will let me out on day release. Oh! Yes, the best of both worlds.”

  He downed his pint in the Waterman and caught the bus back into town. As agreed earlier, he met the others in the Talbot, telling them they had to practise their gorilla walk.

  To the others, the robbery had its attractions. Their criminal minds reasoned the idea. To Reg, it meant doing his time in the prisons’ hospital wing. To Lenny, it was logical. He had no other family. Prison life was his family. Jock was beginning to enjoy his freedom and wasn’t wholly convinced but went along with the scheme. He liked the idea of the gorilla costumes. It would bring a bit of humour to the escapade.

  Back at the little St Jasper’s church hall, Glynis met fellow members of SOBS. Samantha, the Bishop’s wife, attended.

  “OK girls. What I plan is to reform the Tappets and become the oldest Burlesque troupe in town.”

  “Martha Samuels was the first to say something after the laughter died down.”Good God, Glyn, we’re all over seventy.

  Thankfully, I can still do the high kicking."

  Anne Pritchard called out, “Go on. Let’s see you do it.”

  Martha stood up and standing on the spot, she kicked her legs out level with her waist. “See, still got it in me,” she spluttered as she placed her right arm across her ample bosom, wheezing with the effort.

  Samantha quietly commented, “Martha, you’ll have to lose a few pounds and get fit.”

  “I’ll work on it. Sounds a great fun thing to do.”

  “But there’s only five of us. We need to find at least another seven. C’mon, let’s see if we can do a line up kicking session.” Amidst laughter and giggling to the sound of a piece from the film, Cabaret, the five did a short attempt at a high-kicking routine.

  Martha said, puffing with effort, “I think I know someone who used to dance with a resident troupe based at Bournemouth Pier. She’s something to do with publishing and visit the old Bishops at the Retreat. I’ll grab her next time she visits the old man.”

  Samantha suddenly said, “I know a couple of gals who used to work the Northern circuits. I think they’re still fit and well.” An hour later, the five dispersed, excited at the idea of being a troupe of high-kicking oldies. The idea of the Oldest Burlesquers was taking shape.

  The Colonel arrived home earlier than usual, having been working on his first talk. He’d bought a large portion of cod and chips and was looking forward to eating them whilst watching one of his favourite TV programmes.

  As he walked into the lounge of his flat, with his arms full of his meal and notepad, he was confronted with a long-haired, ginger cat sitting in the middle of the floor, with its large, furry tail swishing from side to side. Lying in front of the cat was a mouse, either comatose or dead.

  "Well, what have we got here? He went into the kitchen and deposited his meal and pap
er work, returning to establish what was going on. The cat gave out a mournful deep-throated meow and continued swishing its tail from side to side. Then for no apparent reason, it gave the mouse a flick and sent it nearer to the Colonel’s feet.

  “What this? A strange cat bearing a gift.”

  The Colonel bent down and picked up the carcass of the mouse by the tail and headed for the toilet. The cat followed. It stood with its fore paws on the edge of the bowl as the mouse was dropped into the water. It let out another mournful cry as it was flushed away, looking up at the Colonel.

  As the Colonel walked back to the kitchen, followed by the cat, he said, “I rather suspect you are the guilty party who left the last mouse here.”

  He collected his packet of fish and chips, switched on the TV and as he unwrapped the package, he changed channels, so he could watch the latest episode of Heartbeat. The cat jumped up onto the dining table, sat down and swished her tail, looking longingly at the meal.

  “Now that’s not on, pussy. If you want to share my meal with me, you sit on the chair,” he patted the chair. The cat moved from the table to the chair. The Colonel discovered his ‘guest’ liked chips.

  He found, attached to her collar, a small disc with her name and an address. She left through the small, open window as the Colonel made ready for bed.

  He woke in the morning to find his new companion curled up at the foot of his bed. Minnie had found a new home.

  Chapter 20

  Crabby was normally a peaceful, small seaside town unheard of and rarely visited by the national community. Its last weekly newspaper folded a few years before, the Brighton Daily, which generally forgot the community.

  The SOBS began searching for old friends in the high stepping showbiz world.

  The four old lags continued plotting their heist idea. The Colonel scribbled more notes relating to his after-dinner speeches and possibly the outline of a book entitled as, the Failed Robber. He continued his quest to find Minnie’s real landlady or landlord.

  For two weeks, the bells of St Jasper’s had clanged into the life of the town. For two Tuesdays and two Thursdays, evening practice took place and the vicar hoped that the Sunday efforts, even with the undisciplined cacophony of noise, would attract more parishioners to his little church.

  It was the third evening session that the all-gay team of bell ringers of the Crabby Campanology Group were due to begin their practice without any help from anyone who knew the art of delivering a decent peal. Sergeant Wallace was away at the police college on a course entitled, ‘How to deal with the unexpected?’

  It was fifteen minutes before six and the start of the practice session. In the church’s belfry, the bats began to rouse from their sleep much earlier than usual. As if by a hidden signal, they fled from the church and in an un-bat-like flight pattern. They flew in a straight line, heading for the wooded hills beyond the town. They were joined by many species of birds, even the swans on the River Crabbe headed inland. Many seagulls flew to Brighton.

  Others fled to the seas off Shoreham and beyond.

  Pet dogs and cats raced for the sanctuary of the woodland. In the town’s little zoo, the normally sturdy cages keeping the animals in captivity were torn down. Elephants trumpeted with delight, aided by a pair of rhinos and a lone hippopotamus. They demolished fencing and hedgerows. All other animals fled to the hinterland, causing traffic on the normally busy main road to come to a halt. Many accidents were reported as drivers gazed in amazement at the exodus. Trains on the busy south coast came to a grinding halt as the mass of wildlife blocked the line. The local council tip suddenly lost its residential rat population as they fled. Two herds of Jersey and Holstein milking cows broke out of their pastures and joined the rest.

  The vicar winced and groaned at their efforts. Residents drove out of town. The police were inundated with accident reports and traffic jams.

  The motley collection of gay bell-ringers, now emphasizing their campanology credentials, continued to pull the ropes of their clanging efforts with no realisation of the mayhem they were causing. The noise of the bells being rung out of sequence was horrendous.

  As the mass of wildlife and domestic pets reached a point where the bells couldn’t be heard, the motley crew of gay campanologist did their best at pulling the ropes in the right order. No such luck. Hotels in Brighton became fully booked.

  Airlines operating out of Gatwick, Bournemouth and as far afield as Southampton, Bournemouth, Exeter and Bristol were inundated by Crabby’s residents wanting peace by taking any flight going anywhere. Wealthier Crabbynites headed for Heathrow to catch any regular flight going anywhere.

  At the smaller airfields at Shoreham and Farnborough, executive jets and small private planes queued up to make a hasty departure to fly anywhere to escape the racket before night time closed in and the airports were shut down.

  This absurd situation began to end at nine o’clock when the bells ceased clanging. The ‘pullers’ headed for the nearest pub oblivious to the chaos they had caused. The team had departed when the police turned up to plead with them to cease the racket.

  The domestic pets and the wildlife began the journey back to their various homes. The bats nervously returned to the belfries of many churches and the eaves of old houses. The seagulls and other birds flew back in.

  Motorists and train passengers waited patiently as the walking animals blocked their way. Many had been prevented from escaping because of blocked roads and rail.

  Later, they experienced the sight of the animals from the zoo and two herds of pedigree milking cows ambling back home. By eleven that night, national newspapers, the Press Association, BBC and Sky News had received e-mails from the local news ‘stringers’ and many photos taken by readers’ and viewers’ mobile phones.

  By midnight, all absconders had returned home. No zoo animals had gone astray. Family pets resumed their domestic bliss.

  The early editions of newspapers and the breakfast broadcasts of radio and television news outlets were delighted with this crazy story on a slow news day. By early morning, outside broadcast units were beginning to descend on Crabby. The more clued up reporters and photographers found the little town. Some news and picture desks sent operatives to Suffolk, Yorkshire and Cornwall to cover the Crabby wildlife crisis story.

  The Daily Mirror ‘splashed’ the tale across the front page and two inside pages by using interviews of motorists, train passengers and police sources. A large colour image used up most of the page with a headline emblazoned across the picture.

  It read:

  FLEE TO

  THE HILLS

  With a one-line sub-heading:

  Animals scared by church bells

  The Daily Star was always seeking readership-boosting headlines, even if they challenged accuracy, it splashed with:

  POLICE

  SEARCH

  FOR ALIENS

  Animals flee invasion

  Bells and bats warning

  The Daily Telegraph’s main story was a political one, and the Crabby story was assigned to the bottom of page three, with a single headline, reading:

  Wildlife experts baffled by exodus and return of animals.

  It was paragraph-five before they mentioned the bell ringing. The Times managed a four-paragraph piece on page seven.

  The Daily Express ever anxious to keep their readers abreast of the weather blamed the wildlife phenomenon on a storm approaching the British coast from the Caribbean. Their take on the story informed readers:

  WILDLIFE HIDE FROM STORMS

  The Daily Mail opted for a page-five piece with the headline:

  ANIMALS FLEE THE NOISY BELLS

  The newly launched News wanted an in-depth view of events, so they sent one of their up-and-coming, young female columnists, daughter of the Chief Executive, to Crabby. Julia Johnson decided an interview with affected residents should be the main theme of her piece, so she sought out interviewees in local pubs without much success until arrivin
g at the Talbot where the gang were assembled.

  Lenny stood by the bar as the landlord took his order and overhead the privately educated reporter. He grandly announced to the young barman, in what Lenny later described as a la-de-da way. She was a columnist from the News and wanted to interview locals about the fleeing animals’ saga.

  Lenny returned to the others and quietly told them what he had heard. The landlord arrived with their drinks and said in a whisper. “I’ve said your locals,” he looked around furtively and added, “Give her the wind-up lads.” He returned to the bar and soon after Julia sat at a table next to them.

  Lenny opened the dialogue, “Well, Colonel, what’s going to be done about this?”

  “Ah, the only real solution is to shoot ’em.”

  “There’s t’ many,” Jock responded in a reasonably good vocabulary.

  “Difficult to hit when they fly,” the Colonel added.

  “Let’s not attack the bats. Let’s stop those bells,” Lenny added.

  Reg was sunk deep in his chair when Julia unable to contain her curiosity any longer, leaned across from the adjacent table, and smiling sweetly, said, "Sorry to interrupt you, I’m Julia

  Johnson from the News. Are you all local chaps?"

  “You could say that,” the Colonel responded. “Why do you ask?”

  Reg feigned a snore and shuffled in his seat as Julia, hoping for an exclusive interview, continued, “I’d like to understand more about the migration of the birds and mammals from the town and how the locals feel about it.”

  “Oh yes, don’t forget the frogs and the fish,” Jock added, with a hint of a smile.

  The Colonel leaned forward and said conspiratorially, holding his nearly empty glass of bitter and stared at it, saying, “A refill might oil the wheels of knowledge.”

  Reg suddenly ‘woke up’, muttering, “A refill? I’ll have a pint.” Julia headed for the bar and placed the order for drinks with the landlord, who looked over at the Colonel and winked.

  He brought the drinks over, saying as he departed, “If you want more, let me know. I expect she’ll pay.”