Just Another Day

by Steven Clark

  Terry could almost feel his boss’s sigh of relief.

  ‘No, no problem, well, just a small one. It’s my fault Terry; I made a cock up with the paperwork back here at the office. The last three numbers on the container should have been five five three, but I didn’t have my specs on when I sorted out the paperwork and I wrote five three three instead so when you went looking for the container in the yard, you hooked up to the wrong box. Not your fault mate, entirely mine.’

  Terry was now definitely suspicious of something. Frank West never apologised for anything. On many occasions in the past there had been errors in paperwork, wrong dates on the gate passes, wrong registration numbers etc. Even though Frank had made some of those errors, he never accepted it was his fault. He was the Transport Manager and he never took responsibility for errors.

  ‘You should all know by now gentlemen, as the transport manager, and the person responsible for hiring and firing, I do not make mistakes with the paperwork do I?’

  Terry had heard that little speech for many years, in fact he wished he’d had a pound for every time he’d heard that little retort. He would be a rich man by now. There was a silence in which Terry was certain he could hear Frank snuffling at the other end of the line.

  ‘You okay boss?’

  ‘Yeah, no problem Terry. Do me a favour, stick another seal on the back and get your arse back here ASAP. Don’t stop off anywhere, and park your wagon right outside the office and come and see me. Okay mate?’

  It was definitely not okay. Terry knew he would be able to exert a little pressure now as his boss was asking him to drive without any stops or breaks for five or six hours and they both knew that this was a serious motoring offence when it came to drivers hours and tachographs. There had been a number of serious and fatal traffic accidents concerning Lorries. The most serious about six months ago involved the death of a family of four. A mother and father and their two little children had been returning from holiday when their car was completely destroyed in a horrific crash on the M1 in Leicestershire caused by a lorry driver who fell asleep at the wheel of his forty ton bomb on wheels.

  Anything involving young kids always tugs at the heartstrings and there had been a flurry of altered regulations in the aftermath of the crash. It resulted in the Directive that every driver of a Large Goods Vehicle was required to stop after driving for no more than 3 hours and was to have a rest break for at least 30 minutes before continuing on the journey. No ifs, no buts. 3 hours driving and then a rest break. There had been a lot of enforcement of the new legislation by the Traffic Commissioners and they had made an example of two drivers who flouted the rules. Each was given a six month ban and had their licence revoked. No licence obviously meant no job and even though this was a first offence, they were dealt with very severely as a message to other drivers who might consider ignoring the rules.

  The image of the Government ‘Minister for Transport’ flashed into his mind when he recalled watching the high profile television campaign and the arrogant posturing from the Minister and usual condescending platitudes of,

  ‘The safety of the public on our roads is of paramount importance to our Government and we will take whatever measures we deem necessary to ensure that the drivers of these very large vehicles comply fully with their responsibilities. I must state the satisfaction of the Prime Minister and I in the manner in which the Courts have responded to our legislative changes and the recent driving licence suspensions of the drivers involved sends out a clear message to others who may be tempted to flout the regulations.’

  What a load of bollocks, thought Terry. The two drivers had been made scapegoats for the killer driver in that he’d been driving continuously for 12 hours and was trying to keep himself awake by popping pills. It was bound to catch up with him eventually. Unfortunately when it did, the circumstances were absolutely tragic. If the driver had just run off the road and killed himself and no one else had been involved, there wouldn’t have been all the changes to the drivers’ hours. Those two poor sods had only gone over the 3 hour limit by 20 minutes, mused Terry, and had only done that because they were sat in another bleedin traffic jam for an hour before. They were just trying to get to the next decent truck stop for a bite to eat when they got pulled over by the traffic cops.

  ‘Come on boss, you know the score, I can’t drive without a break for five or more hours. If I get tagged by the Ministry lads or the police, that’s my licence and my job out of the window. Who’s gonna pay the bleedin mortgage then eh boss?’ Terry could hear the strain in Frank’s voice.

  ‘Please Terry; I need you to do this for me. I can’t tell you why, but I need that box back in the yard as soon as possible.’

  ‘Look boss, just give the customer a ring and tell him that his box has been delayed. Tell him the wagons broke down or something. These things happen. I’m not going to put my licence on the line for one poxey box. You shouldn’t be asking me to do this boss.’

  There was silence on the line for what seemed like several minutes and Terry thought that he might get a decent little bonus if he held out a bit longer. He’d taken a chance before now and like many of his mates who earned their livelihoods in the same way, if the price was right, he’d have no problem driving straight back to the depot.

  ‘Terry, are you still there?’ came the voice cracking with emotion from the other end of the phone.

  ‘Of course I’m still fuckin here, where’d you think I’ve gone, fuckin Blackpool?’ Terry was enjoying having the upper hand and making his boss squirm a bit. Makes up for all the shit you’ve dished out over the years mate, thought Terry.

  ‘Listen, I’m going to tell you why it’s so important for you to get that box back here, quick as possible, okay?’

  ‘Go on then, I’m listening’ said Terry, hoping that he sounded completely pissed off, but by now very interested indeed as to what had got his boss so worried.

  ‘Inside that box, are 24 pallets that are heavily shrink wrapped.’

  Come on sunshine said Terry to himself, that much I do know but I’m not telling you.

  ‘Why would anyone want to shrink wrap a load of old engine parts, he said, keeping up the pretence that he hadn’t opened the container. ‘What’s the point of that? Only makes it more difficult for the lads in the yard here having to rip off a load of plastic before they can crush the stuff. Seems a bit bleedin stupid if you ask me boss.’

  Frank paused, ‘yes, but inside of that shrink wrapping isn’t old engines and gearboxes, its money.’

  ‘What do you mean money, what kind of money, whose is it? Am I in the shit here boss, is this a bent fucking job that you’ve got me mixed up in?’ Again there was a pause at the other end. ‘Come on boss, for fucks sake; tell me what’s going on. Tell me now or the wagon gets left here and I’m on the fuckin train home.’

  ‘Okay, okay’ came the exasperated tone from the other end of the office phone.

  ‘Terry, you must promise to keep what I’m going to tell you absolutely secret. You can’t tell a living soul anything of what I’m about to tell you, do you understand?’

  ‘Oh fuck off Frank, why all the drama?’

  Franks tone changed instantly, it flashed back to the anger and aggression that Terry was all too familiar with as he shouted down the phone.

  ‘Terry, Terry, this is no fucking game. If the wrong people got to know about that lorry, we could both get seriously hurt. We could both get more than fucking hurt. Are you listening to what I’m saying? Is this sinking in to your fucking brain?’

  Terry sat up sharply from his semi lying position in the cab.

  ‘Okay Boss, no need to go off on one, it just sounded like you were going over the top a bit. I didn’t mean to have a go at you. I’m just confused, and you’ve got me more than just a bit worried now.’

  ‘I’m sorry’ said Frank sounding tired and weary. ‘I haven’t slept all night. When I realised my mistake with the paperwork, it was quite late and when I couldn’t
get hold of you I thought the worst.’

  ‘Fuckin’ hell Frank, now I am worried. I haven’t heard you sound like this before.’

  ‘Listen Terry, each of those shrink wrapped pallets contains a million quid in untraceable ten and twenty pound notes.’ There was silence from Terry and Frank continued. ‘Every so often, as the notes get dirty and worn, the banks take them out of the system and they get replaced with new ones. The old notes, which are still legal tender, were on their way for incineration. The Bank of England sometimes transports them this way to save on the massive costs involved when they do it normally. Usually, they would have four vehicles escorting their normal wagons with two armed officers in each of the vehicles. Not so much an armed escort as a small fucking army. Anyway, twelve months ago, a decision was made to try a couple of runs, quietly and without fuss. That worked out well and the Bank saved thousands and thousands of pounds by not having to pay for the armed escorts. There was no problem until today.’

  Terry sat in stunned silence as the gravity of the situation he was in began to dawn on him.

  ‘Terry, can you hear me, are you still listening?’ The words drifted into his ear again, ‘Terry, Terry.’

  ‘It’s okay boss. I’m still here. Fuckin’ hell Frank, how could you do this to me? 24 million quid in my wagon. I don’t think I’ll be able to drive this thing without crashing into something. How the fuck am I supposed to concentrate on driving knowing that I’ve got that lot in the back? Who else knows boss, could I have been followed? What if someone’s watching me now knowing what’s in the container, what if?’

  Now it was Terry who was panicking and it was time for his boss to offer some words of comfort by trotting out that well known Liverpool expression, “calm down, calm down,” and trying to bring a little humour back and lighten the mood and circumstances for both of them.

  “It’s ok Terry, no one knows what’s in the box. When the company took on the contract, it was agreed with the Bank of England management and our MD, Bob Stock that for security reasons, only me and their Head of Security would know which containers would be used. That’s why we have never had a problem until I made that fuck up last night.’

  They were both quiet for a few more minutes. Neither said a word allowing them to mull over the thoughts going through their heads. Terry had a load of questions, but now wasn’t the time to ask them; plenty of time for the inquisition later. What should he do now?

  Terry spoke first.

  ‘Ok boss, you’ve convinced me that you’re right. The safest thing for both of us is to get this wagon back to the yard pronto. You know I will be taking a chance on getting caught so I hope you bear that in mind when I get back.’ Terry could both feel and hear the relief when Frank spoke.

  ‘Terry, you’re an absolute bloody star mate. Fifty quid and a bottle of scotch if you get back here before 12.’ Terry looked at his watch and thought he could make it okay providing he didn’t get snarled up in any traffic jams.

  ‘Okay Frank, lunch is on you, bacon butties in your office.’

  ‘Nice one Terry. One more thing bollocks, less of the Frank; its boss or Mr West ok?’

  They both laughed and Terry said,

  ‘I think we’ve got past the boss bit now eh. Frank sounds about right after today don’t you think?’ Frank laughed again down the phone and said,

  ‘I reckon you’re right Terry, but not in front of the other lads okay. When they’re around, its boss or Mr West, agreed?’

  ‘Sorted boss, now piss off and let’s hope I don’t prang this on the way back. See you soon.’

  Without further ado, Terry jumped down from the cab and went to the back of the container. He opened the doors and got back inside and using the fork lift truck, made sure the pallet he’d moved to collect his torch was put back in exactly the same position as he had first found it. The last thing he wanted was for someone at the receiving depot to know that a pallet had been moved. Twenty quid would certainly come in handy for a few pints but even so, he resisted the urge to slice open the shrink wrapping and retrieve the single twenty pound note.

  He wondered whether or not it was a ploy by the Bank of England bosses to see if any one interfered with the packaging in a similar way to that which used to be used at post office sorting rooms from time to time to test the employees honesty. Sometimes a ten or twenty pound note would be mixed up with the mail and parcels being sorted by the workers. Everyone was well aware that it was a plant and it always amused them when it was the only thing left on the table after it had been cleared of envelopes and packages. A big empty table except for a shiny new note always brought a smile to the faces of the sorting staff.

  He dismissed the idea almost as soon as he’d thought of it. That would defeat the whole object really. The point of this operation, the blandness of the ‘ordinary’ pallets; plain boxes and shrink wrapping, was to make it all seem normal. The last thing the Bank of England staff would want to do is draw attention to the contents of the packages. Far more likely was that a stray note had got caught between the outside of a cardboard box and the heavy duty plastic when being sealed and nobody had noticed it.

  He took one last look at the twenty four pallets all neat in two lines of twelve. In a strange way, he savoured the moment as he thought to himself of the cars and people he would pass on the way back to the depot. Twenty four million quid and no ones got the foggiest idea.

  He climbed down from the back, closed the doors and placed a new seal over the locking mechanism. He thought about putting one of the heavy duty; high security padlocks on that he carried in the cab but then thought better of it. If I turn up at the yard with a decent padlock on the back of a container that’s supposed to be carrying old engine parts, that might just tip the wink to one of the other drivers that there is more to this box than meets the eye, he mused to himself.

  Terry, whilst not exactly a knight in shining armour, did not think of himself as particularly dishonest. He didn’t mind receiving the odd few things over the years that he knew had been nicked from the docks, but he was a long way removed from getting involved in any heavy stuff. He knew some of the other drivers who were into the thefts of lorry loads of gear and he knew also to steer clear of them. He didn’t want to become a target for any of the well known criminal element that frequented the Port. Once you got involved with any of that lot, there was no going back.

  He’d heard the whispers over the years and the names of a few of those who were into it, but he always kept his distance and didn’t get involved. He’d been approached on a few occasions with suggestions of earning a few bob. All he’d have to do was just, ‘leave the keys in the ignition for a few minute’s Terry while you go for a piss.’ He always reacted the same way; ‘not interested mate,’ and after a few gentle suggestions had received the same answer over the years the ‘boys’ left him alone and moved onto someone else. There was always someone looking to earn a few bob. Usually someone who could be leaned on a bit. Someone who was desperate for a bit of extra cash. More often than not, that’s all he would get. A bit of extra cash. It was the driver who took all the risks, sometimes he was knocked about a bit or even given a good hiding by his ‘mates’, ‘just to give it a bit of realism eh Bill?’ It was always the heavies higher up the chain who got the rich pickings.

  ‘Right then me old mucker,’ said Terry out loud, ‘1st gear, nice and gentle, no drawing attention to yourself, no tickets, no speeding and next stop; the Docks.’

  He pulled away from the gates of the breakers yard as they were being noisily opened by the morning workers and saw a quizzical look from the guy in his greasy overalls with the cigarette behind his ear. He gave him a thumbs up and cheery wave and gunned the big diesel engine towards the Motorway as he chuckled nervously to himself, You’ve got no idea mate, not a fucking clue.

  ‘You miserable bastard,’ said Terry out loud to himself as he drove up the slip road of the M5 Motorway heading North, ‘Fifty fucking quid and a lousy bottle
of scotch when I’ll be saving your fucking arse. Fifty fucking quid out of 24 million you tight arsed git.’ He began to get more than a little irate at the thought that it was him taking all the risks of losing his licence while his new best friend; who would fuck him off as soon as look at him if it suited, was drinking tea in his nice warm office.

  ‘You’re just a twat Frank. A bullying fucking twat’, as the wagon joined the main carriageway. The beginnings of an idea began to form in Terry’s head as he drove towards Liverpool, maybe he wasn’t quite as honest as he thought he was.

  Chapter 15

  Terry pulled up outside the portacabin office in the yard. He tried to appear calm and relaxed as he walked toward the office door.

  ‘Hey bollocks, how come you’re back here with the same box on?’ J.J. Roberts the company mechanic emerged from the trailer yard with his oil stained overalls on and as usual, wiping his hands with a greasy rag. Whenever Terry saw him, no matter what time of the day, he always seemed to be wiping his hands on a piece of old cloth.

  ‘Remember when the boss always says he doesn’t make any cock ups with the papers J.J., well he made a cock up with the papers, but don’t tell him I told you.’ He laughed and waved his hand as the affable mechanic shrugged his shoulders,

  ‘You must be mistaken there Terry, golden balls doesn’t make mistakes. You should know that by now.’ They both laughed as J.J. waved the tattered old cloth in the direction of the office and turned back towards the forty foot skeletal trailer he had been working on getting ready for next weeks MOT test.

  Terry glanced around the yard, other drivers and staff were coming and going, but nobody paid him any attention as he walked towards the door with the delivery notes in his hand. He glanced up to see Frank looking out of the window towards him. Terry gave him a wink and saw an almost imperceptible nod of the head in return as acknowledgement of his gesture, steady on Frank, thought Terry. You might strain your bleedin neck if you move like that again.