The Stash (An Action Packed Adventure Thriller filled with Suspense)

by Dan Fletcher

  ‘Fuck me,’ exclaimed Alan, pausing for effect.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I take it back, maybe all that expensive tutoring wasn’t wasted on you after all,’ said his friend, laughing at John’s expense.

  ‘Sod off! You bloody inbred Neanderthal,’ John replied, grinning back.

  Getting back to business Alan said, ‘Right so it’s settled then. We’ll hide the stuff at yours, meet this geezer in the pub and have a little chat. As soon as we’re sure everything’s kosher you shoot back home and pick it up. Meanwhile I’ll make sure no fucker leaves the pub. When you get back give me the bag and you can count the money in the bogs, while I sit there and keep him, and the gear, company. If all the dosh is there you walk directly from the khazi, straight out the pub. I’ll hand the shit over to him, and we can all go our separate ways. Sound OK to you Einstein?’

  Realising that they were short of time, John replied, ‘I suppose so. If we don’t like the look of it we can just walk out, the place will be packed on Friday night so they’re not likely to risk anything in there. We’ll have to park the van somewhere handy anyway, maybe Compton Street, and just make a run for it if we have to. If we can’t get to the van we’ll head for the tube station and get lost in the crowds.’

  Alan lifted his glass to toast their agreement, ‘One for the road then? It is your round after all mate.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  John was still half asleep when Alan picked him up in the van at seven o’clock the following day for work. After they left the pub he spent another night with Vanessa, the Spanish student, exploring most of her smooth olive skin in the process. Like John, she seemed to have an insatiable appetite, two nights in a row left him feeling drained and ill prepared for the day ahead.

  Alan looked across disapprovingly at his friend as they pulled away from the kerb, ‘You look like you’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards. What the hell happened to you?’

  John, for all his faults, was not one to boast. He looked sheepishly at the floor between his feet, and replied, ‘Nothing much. Just couldn’t sleep thinking about today.’ Hoping that his friend would accept this as a feasible excuse, he turned to stare out the side window. The streets were already bustling with people on their way to work.

  Alan appeared to accept what John said as being true to character, ‘I told you not to worry so much. Everything’s sorted as long as we stick to the plan.’ As Alan turned his attention to negotiating the morning traffic, he felt his stomach churn. On the surface he knew he needed to appear as calm and in control as possible, to keep John’s fears at bay.

  The reality was that inside Alan was more worried than John. He after all had been involved in this type of situation before, mixing with some of London’s most ruthless gangsters. So he knew full well the levels of force they would be willing to employ. Levels that would, no doubt, outweigh his and John’s. No matter what kind of weapon he was carrying, Alan realised that they were likely to be out numbered, and out gunned.

  Steve and his associates would also probably be willing to use their weapons, whereas Alan had never actually shot anyone. In the past he only liked to brandish them for effect. Nothing made a bank clerk, or bystander, more co-operative than the site of a sawn off shot gun or pistol shoved in their face in his opinion. Alan often wondered whether he would be able to pull the trigger if really necessary, and always concluded that he was glad he didn’t know.

  Traffic was always worse on Friday, for some unknown reason, but eventually they arrived outside the apartment in Knightsbridge. After spending a couple of hours painting over the areas that needed touching up, they ate a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs, at a cafe around the corner. Well Alan did anyway. John ate a bit then spent the rest of the time pushing it around his plate, hoping that it would disappear.

  Eventually Alan got annoyed with his friend’s repetitive actions. ‘You gonna fucking eat that? Or are you doing a post mortem on it? I’ll have it if you’re finished,’ he said, reaching across the table to grab John’s plate. Unceremoniously he used his knife to scrape the contents onto his. Scattering bits of grease, eggs and baked beans all around his plate and over the fake pine veneer table.

  ‘All right, calm down you bloody animal, you only had to ask,’ not that John was bothered, he was far too anxious about the day ahead to eat. Or maybe it was last night’s antics? Probably a combination, if he was honest. ‘I can’t believe you can sit there and stuff all that lot down you on a day like today,’ he said, watching Alan ram another huge forkful of scrambled egg into his mouth.

  Still chewing, his mouth half full, Alan replied, spitting bits out as he spoke, ‘Ah see, more important today than any other day. Can’t go into battle on an empty stomach after all can you?’ He waived his fork in John’s direction to emphasise his point. As Alan devoured the rest of their meals, John picked up a Sun newspaper that was left on the table for diners.

  John thought the whole country must have gone mad with Royal wedding fever, looking at the front cover. Discarding the usual format of showing a few articles alongside the main headline, the whole front page was dedicated to a picture of Wills and Kate. The bombshell headline read, ‘With Mummy’s ring I thee wed’ and the couple were featured arm in arm, beaming at the press, after just announcing their engagement.

  On the left of the page there was a small insert, showing a photo of Prince Charles and the then Lady Diana in an identical pose. John smiled at the editor’s sense of irony, ‘Hope the poor cow knows what she’s letting herself in for!’

  Alan, just mopping up the remnants from his plate with the last piece of toast, looked up, ‘Come again?’

  Letting the paper fall, so that Alan could see the front cover, John replied, ‘This Kate. I mean the whole Diana thing is not exactly a good omen is it?’

  Alan shook his head despairingly, ‘You and your bloody conspiracy theories. Come on its time to go, we better get everything looking spick and span before lady muck gets here.’ Not waiting for John’s reply he stood up from the table, donning his checked lumberjack style jacket.

  ‘You know best I suppose,’ John replied, getting up and walking to the door. Shouting thanks to the friendly woman behind the counter, they went back out into the almost arctic air. A cold front had enveloped the country and it was unseasonably cold.

  After the short walk back to the apartment, they did a final clear up in preparation for Miss Fielding-Brown’s arrival. Just before one o’clock they had nearly finished, and were tying up the last of the rubbish bags in the kitchen, when she did. Strutting in from the hall with her head tilted back, as if she was on a Paris catwalk.

  ‘All finished then are we?’ she said, not bothering with pleasantries.

  ‘Yes, all cleared up and ready to go,’ Alan replied, looking confident, ‘I’m sure Mr Akin-to-la will be satisfied with the work.’ The way Alan said the name made it sound like there might be something wrong with the owner’s foot.

  ‘If he’s not then you will definitely be hearing about it Mr Shorey,’ then she added, ‘but everything looks to be in order.’ Coming from her this almost sounded like a compliment.

  ‘Right, here’s the key and other stuff you gave us, we’ll be off as soon as we settle the small matter of payment,’ Alan said, rubbing his hands together and smiling at her.

  ‘I take it a cheque from Mr Akintola will be acceptable,’ said Miss Fielding-Brown, reaching into the Gucci handbag draped over her shoulder.

  ‘I didn’t know people still used those things,’ Alan replied, ‘but I suppose he’s probably good for it.’

  Not for the first time she wondered how these two had come to be recommended, but she continued retrieving the pen and cheque book from her bag. ‘He most certainly is Mr Shorey. Now who shall I make it out to so we can all go our separate ways?’

  Seeing that Alan was getting more and more wound up by her arrogant manner, John once again intervened and finished the formalities with her. He just wanted t
o get out of there as quickly as humanly possible. Unable, as he was, to get the picture of the empty space behind the grill where the cocaine used to be out of his head.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  They somehow managed to leave the apartment in Knightsbridge without Alan losing control and giving Miss Fielding-Brown a piece of his mind, or worse.

  ‘Right you chuck the crap in the skip and I’ll go in and get the coke,’ Alan said, pulling up outside the yard in Tottenham.

  ‘You hid it in there?’ John said, looking at the lock up’s feeble wooden doors that were half rotten, falling apart at the hinges.

  ‘Well I wasn’t going to take the bloody stuff home, now was I? Caitlyn would kill me if she found it. Where else was I going to put it, up my arse?’ Alan replied, heading inside.

  John laughed to himself. Alan wasn’t afraid of stealing coke or dealing with villains, but he was scared to death of Caitlyn. Then again he lived, and more importantly went to sleep, with her, not them.

  John emptied the rubbish out of the van and threw it in their skip, whilst Alan retrieved the cocaine from the paint tin stored on the shelf.

  All done, they drove the couple of blocks to Alan’s house, where John received another frosty reception from Caitlyn. Whether Alan had used him as an excuse in the past, or she just believed her husband was perfect, John wasn’t sure, but for some reason Caitlyn thought him to be a bad influence. Any time that Alan was ever late home somehow became blamed on him. John had a sneaky suspicion that it might be down to his friend, but Alan always denied it. Whatever the reason she was ignoring him, as Alan took a shower upstairs.

  John talked and played with the girls for a while. They did like him after all. Probably because John found it easy to get on their level, and he was soon rolling around on the floor with them doing mock gymnastics. Falling sideways from a headstand, he accidently knocked over a small side table that crashed heavily to the floor. Luckily it didn’t break in the process.

  Caitlyn came in from the kitchen to see what the noise was. Disturbed preparing the kids dinner, she was holding a large knife in her hand,.

  ‘No need for that, nothing broken,’ John said, in mock horror, staring at the knife dramatically.

  ‘Never mind that! You just sit on the sofa and wait for Alan like a good boy. Girls you settle down too or there’ll be no more TV tonight,’ Caitlyn said sternly.

  Dutifully they stifled their giggles and settled down on the sofa next to John. Rachel flicked through the channels until finally settling on watching the ‘Sarah Jane Adventures’. A big hit with the girls.

  At that point Alan came bundling down the stairs, clean and ready to go. ‘Right love we’re off then,’ he said, calling through to Caitlyn, who was banging around in the kitchen.

  He said goodnight to the girls, and Caitlyn saw them to the door, ‘Don’t you go getting him into any trouble mind!’

  John, once again wondering why she had it in for him, gave her a nervous peck on the cheek goodbye.

  ‘Of course not we’re only going out to have a few quiet drinks.’

  Caitlyn gave him a look that said she had heard it all before, and closed the door behind them.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They hid the packet in John’s room, and he managed a quick shower and change, before they were back in the van, on the way to their rendezvous with Steve. The journey taking only a couple of minutes, they were soon parking nearby on Compton Street, next to the Union Chapel. The road was a dead end, but steps led down to a short path leading through the railings, to the large roundabout at the centre of Highbury and Islington.

  The ‘White Swan’ was immediately across the road to the left of the cutting. Ideally parked for a quick getaway, and if anyone followed him from the pub John would be able to spot them easily. Quite what he would do if he did he wasn’t sure, but at least the cutting through would give him a chance to make a run for the van and get away from them, whilst being out of sight momentarily.

  Outside the pub, and stretching down the road to the McDonalds, was an assortment of dodgy looking characters talking on mobile phones, or amongst them-selves, huddled together in conspiring little groups. Most of them were smoking, presumably taking a break from the clear air of the various bars they had been in. Since the ban on smoking in pubs this was a regular sight across the country.

  John saw a woman quicken her pace as she hurried to get past them, head down, avoiding eye contact. He knew that the pub employed bouncers at the weekend to control fighting, but that was not normally until later at night. Two burly looking gentlemen were already on duty outside the door. ‘Great,’ thought John, ‘how am I going to walk back in there with a kilo of cocaine under my jacket?’

  Alan gave the bouncers the usual greeting of, ‘Good evening fellas,’ and they went in, going straight to the bar to buy a drink.

  Situated on the ground floor of what used to be council offices, built in the sixties, the pub was part of one of the big national chains. Trying to design an area more in keeping with the building’s architecture, the pub was relatively modern, with a floor to ceiling glass front and a gallery area overlooking the bar. Unfortunately it already looked like it had seen better days. The decor was tattered and fading, and some of the leather was torn from the stools in front of the bar. Probably as a result of the general abuse caused by the less than reputable clientele.

  John had suffered the misfortune of drinking there once with Alan, on a late Saturday afternoon a few years ago. The place had been swamped by football fans. Little known to John, a match had just finished at the Emirates Stadium and the mob of over jubilant away supporters had stopped at the pub to celebrate their victory. Most of them smashed before they arrived, the hooligans proceeded to cause havoc in the pub.

  Obviously a regular occurrence, and not wanting to turn away good business, the owner and bar staff acted as if everything was normal, as the youths behaved drunkenly.

  Unfortunately the melee got out of control and somebody bumped into Alan’s shoulder, causing him to spill his pint. ‘Watch where you’re bloody going will you?’ Alan shouted, putting his pint down on the table and flicking his hand down by his side, to get rid of the dripping lager. Alan wasn’t really bothered, that sort of thing happened in packed pubs after all, and he intended no menace in his warning.

  The youth, whether believing it to be an insult, or just out looking for his usual after match punch up, replied, ‘What the fuck you gonna do about it mister?’

  Looking the skinny youngster up and down slowly, Alan came to the obvious conclusion that he wasn’t worth the effort, ‘Look, just run along now, that way nobody needs to get hurt.’

  His manhood deeply offended, he reached into his back pocket and produced a flick knife, which he extended and pointed at Alan, stretching his arm out towards him as he did. That was a mistake, Alan expertly grabbed his hand in a swift movement, forcing it back unnaturally and causing the youth so much pain he dropped the knife to the floor. Alan stood up and continued the move by twisting the teenager’s arm around his back. With his head up against the side of his attacker’s, Alan grunted, ‘I told you to run along,’ and with that pushed him forward, sending the unbalanced youngster sprawling onto the stained carpet.

  At that point the group of supporters, who had been too stunned by the speed of events, started to react and congregate towards Alan. One of them tried to rush him from the side, as Alan was distracted looking down at the youth he had just pushed over. Seeing what was about to happen, John intervened by springing up and tackling the man sending them both crashing. The whole place erupted like a volcano, some of the other drinkers joining in.

  Evening the numbers up slightly, but not enough and John found himself taking repeated punches and kicks from other people, as he struggled with the man he bundled over on the floor.

  Finally managing to get his hand free, he hit the man a couple of times on the temple, forcing him to loosen his grip and allowing John to get to his f
eet. He saw someone coming towards him from the left, and instinctively swung a fist towards them. Alan caught hold of it in the palm of his hand, smiling, ‘Watch where you’re going with that will you?’ Just then sirens could be heard, getting closer and louder. The landlord, not wanting to see the pub completely demolished, wisely called the police.

  The youths all rushed for the door, carrying Alan and John along on the tide with them. They ran off down St Paul’s Road to avoid the police, battered and bruised, sirens ringing in their ears. John never went back to the pub, until now, and irrationally hated the team and its supporters ever since.

  Now scanning the room and receiving his pint, John located Steve and Max, sitting together at a table in the gallery with Frank opposite them. He nudged Alan and nodded towards the group. In unison they walked up the stairs and over to the table where the three men were huddled, carrying their drinks.

  Steve alerted Max of their arrival when they entered the pub. He was watching them closely ever since from his vantage point. Glaring at them menacingly as they approached he spoke calmly, in contrast to his expression, ‘There was only supposed to be one of you, which one’s John?’

  ‘I am,’ John replied, trying to appear calm.

  ‘Who’s this then, your girlfriend?’ said Max, nodding towards Alan, who was casually sipping his pint.

  Wiping froth from his mouth with the back of his hand, Alan replied on his own behalf, ‘Who the fuck wants to know?’

  John took the one free chair, ‘Let’s just call him moral support. Now can we get down to business or are we wasting our time?’