But I was worried about the company’s financial future. Before Sandra moved in with him, Roger used to work long hours, particularly when it came to drumming up new business.
But even a glorified bookkeeper like myself knows that if you don’t put in the hours, and you take more out of the business than you put in, then things don’t look too good in the long term.
Which is why I was surprised when Roger called me into his office one day.
“You’ve been a loyal servant to the company, Trevor,” he began in an unusually formal tone of voice that made my heart sink because the “you’ve been a loyal servant” bit is usually followed by the “but we’re going to have to let you go” bit. And then the “this hurts me more than it hurts you” bit.
But it didn’t happen like that. “Which is why I’m giving you a long-overdue promotion,” he went on. “How does Finance Director sound? And there’ll be a company car, of course, and a salary to match your new status.”
My new status? I was astounded. Pleased, too, of course, but more than a little worried. That’s not the sort of behaviour I’ve learned to expect from Roger and I couldn’t help wondering what had brought about this sudden change of heart.
Could it mean— ? My mouth went dry and my palms began to sweat. Oh, no, surely not. Could it mean things were over between Roger and Sandra and she was packing her six suitcases, or probably more likely ten by now, and heading back to the marital home as we spoke?
But I needn’t have worried because Sandra didn’t come back. And Roger began spending even more time away from the business and I got on with my job in the same old way.
But I was getting increasingly concerned about the company’s financial position, and every day I was taking calls from unhappy suppliers demanding to know when they were going to be paid as the bank balance was sinking further and further into the red.
“I’m out there getting new business,” Roger said when I tried to tell him about the company’s cash-flow problems. “In spite of what you may think, it’s not all wining and dining and funny handshakes. It’s damn hard work. So you do your job and leave me to do mine.”
He turned to go but I called after him. “That large withdrawal you made last week,” I said. “The bank says—”
He whirled round, his face flushed with anger.
“Listen,” he said as if talking to a less than bright child. “You get back to counting beans or whatever it is you count and leave the higher financial stuff to me. I need hardly remind you, Trevor, that the title of Finance Director is, in your case, what they call a courtesy title. You leave the real directing of finance to me. OK?”
So that’s exactly what I did. Until, that is, the day there was a knock on my office door and two grim-faced police officers stood there.
“Mr Trevor Pringle?” said the younger one, whose ears could have been used to direct taxiing aircraft. “We’ve a warrant to search your offices. We have reason to believe a major fraud has been perpetrated here.”
“F-fraud?” I stammered, while my insides turned to water.
“If we could just go through your contracts files,” he said. “We’ve been following the activities of this company for some time. It seems you’ve been putting in false tenders for council work, defrauding the local taxpayers out of tens, maybe hundreds, of thousands of pounds in the last eighteen months.”
“I think you’ve made a mistake,” I said, handing them the keys to my filing cabinet. “Mr Fraddon has some good contacts on the council but all the contracts have been won fair and square. He’d never do something like this.”
“We know that, Mr Pringle. That’s why we’re here. Mr Fraddon has owned up to the odd irregularity, but it’s not him we’re after. It’s your name on the contracts. You’re the Finance Director, and I think you’d better see about getting yourself a decent lawyer. It looks like you’re going to need one.”
~ * ~
The police were quite right. I had committed a fraud. But where they’d got it wrong was that it wasn’t against the local taxpayers but against Roger.
All those years ago, when he’d refused me a rise, made me work all those hours for peanuts, then stolen my wife and rubbed my nose in it, I, the bean counter in charge of the payroll, invented this old chap called Bert Netherton, gave him the job of night watchman at the old long-forgotten fish factory and began paying his modest wages into a bank account I’d set up in his name.
I’d always intended that, one day, Trevor Montgomery Pringle would disappear and I’d start a new life as Bert Netherton. I just hadn’t planned on doing it quite so soon.
But when Roger’s little scheme to get me to carry the can for his fraud kicked off, Trevor Pringle walked out of the office that Tuesday evening, never to be seen again - and Bert Netherton came to life.
That was five years ago now and I’m very happy here in Bert Netherton’s ramshackle cottage, living the quiet life and enjoying watching the sun set over the salt marshes each night, with only the sea birds for company.
I’ll have to move out soon, though, because I’ve just had a letter to say that Fraddon and Son (Construction) Limited are going into Receivership and all the staff are being laid off. I hear, too, that Roger Fraddon has had to sell his posh house and fancy cars.
I shall be all right though. Bert made some sound investments over the years and has a tidy sum tucked away, more than enough to buy a modest little bungalow down by the estuary that’ll do me nicely.
As for the police, they’ve still got Trevor Pringle’s name on file, of course, but they’re not looking for him quite so hard since they received an anonymous tip off about a secret bank account that contained the proceeds of the council contracts fraud.
Poor old Roger never was much good at planning ahead, a necessary attribute for a successful fraudster. In order to stay out of jail, he’d had to deny all knowledge of the account, which meant he never got his grubby little paws on a single penny of his ill-gotten gains.
As for Sandra, she’s left him and last I heard was living with a shoe salesman from Norwich and is, I imagine, as happy as she’ll ever be.
So why am I writing this confession? Well, I have a lot of time for reading now - not to mention birdwatching, painting and listening to music - and it says in this book I’ve just finished about how confession is good for the soul so I thought I’d give it a try.
Writing this has taken longer than I thought and the evening has grown quite chilly while I’ve been sitting here. I think I’ll light the fire. I scrunch up a piece of paper and toss it on to the kindling. Then I strike a match and hold my hands towards the flames, watching as the words I’ve just written writhe and twist before they disappear in a shower of sparks up the chimney.
What do you know? It works. The fire is drawing well and it feels good. The book was right after all. Well, nearly right. Confession, it seems, really is good for the coal.
<
~ * ~
TEN BELLS AT ROBBIE’S
Tony Black
T
hing about Uncle Barry is eys no quite fukn right in the heid. Eys a scripto mad cunt the bastard tae tell the truth. Haufwey tae no bein the full fukn note, if ye ken what a mean.
Soas ahm straight wi ye, by the by, eys no ma real uncle. Ah ken that cos he’s gein it tae ma maw. Ah rummilt the pair ay them years back, afore ah goat pit away likes, fukn at it like dugs so they wur, didnae even ken ahd clocked them ... uncle ma baws.
Ah tells him, the other night there ... stroll the fuk on wi yer heid the baw plans. Like ahm fir pleyin shoatie whilst that bawjaws is pittin eys bits intae fukn Scotbet.
Scotbet, aye, fuk tae fuk ... boy’s scripto. Telt ye.
Ah but, wee man ... it’s a piece ay pish, so it is. Ey goes.
Way tae fuk ... piece ay pish. Ye’ll get fukn turned ower, think they’re no set up fir that caper. Think they’ll no clock ye strollin in there wi a pair ay Pretty fukn Pollys
oan yer napper and flick a button fir the polis ... Away tae fuck, ya radge.
He gauns all cranky but, pittin oot that big fukn lip ay his. Eys goat een lik dugs’ baws nawtae ... Ah think eys gonae stert greetin oan us. Widnae put it past him, fukn nut-joab thit ey is.
C’mon, Davie lad ... aws ahm askin is ye keep shoatie oot the back. Gis a wee blast oan the horn there if the polis or onay cunt shows. Ahm telling ye Rab fae the flats telt eys they’re drawin some fukn poppy in there ... we’ll be fukn laughin.
Tae fuk, man.
Ahm pure heyin nane ay it. Man’s a fukn radge ... Standin ower Scotbet oan Leith fukn Walk fir fuksake. Ah gis him the haun, ken thon Trisha wan like they dae oan the telly and ahm gaun, talk tae the haun, talk tae the fukn haun. Ey disnae like that wan wee bit. Sparks up tae fuk. Should be taking eys prescription so ey should, ah ken eys no been ... far too fukn radge so ey is. Eys awa wi it, man. Ah shit ye not.
Ahhh ... might ay kent you’d hey nae boatil, Davie ... nae boatil fir the likes ay this. So ey says.
Whit’s that supposed tae mean? Goat me a bit rattled that has, kens where all the buttons are likesay. Eys mental, but a right smart cunt nawtae.
Means whit it means, ey goes tae us.
Ahm no heyin this. Ey kens ah’ve goat tae clock in wi the probationer every other fukn week ... eys at it. Kens ahm pleyin it cool the now, kens, normally like, ah catch any cunt getting wide wi us they’d be fukn leathert ... But like ah say, ahm big fukn Mr Frosty the noo. Goat tae be likesay ... ahm no gaun back inside. Fuk that all tae fuk.
Whit ye sayin, Barry? Sayin ahm some kind ay fukn pussy?
He does that shrug thing. Puts eys heid tae wan side and huffs. Ah watch him pittin the eye oan me and then he gobs oan the road. Ahm no heying this cunt makin oot ahm a fukn fannybaws. Cannae hey that. It’s like day wan in the jail, goat tae gaun in smackin heids or ye’ll get the erse rode aff ye worse than any Calton Hill rent boy. Shittin blood through the eye ay a fukn needle every day and night ay yer stretch ... fuk that tae fuk.
Alls ahm sayin is, Davie lad, that if ye had the baws ye wouldnae be shittin it.
That’s me. Oaf the fukn page. Ah goes fir the cunt.
Shittin it... whaes fukn shittin it, ya cunt?
Ah goes tae panel the cunt, but there’s something stoping me, wouldnae be right tae ley intae yer uncle ... even though he’s no ma uncle and eys gien a length oot tae ma maw. Ah stoaps masel in time, just kindae pushes intae him an sticks ma chest oot and that. Like they used tae dae at the skill. It’s all pure daft as fuk and ey laughs it up. Ahm seeing red but, pure ready tae lamp the cunt ... even though a cannae, and dinnae.
Davie lad ... whit ahm ah thinkin? ‘Course you’ve goat the baws ...we say ten bells at the Robbie’s Bar?
Fukn right. Ahm there ...
Afore ah know it, that’s me hauled intae anither wan ay Bad Barry’s bawjaws plans. Ah’m up tae ma fukn nuts in all kinds ay shite awready wi the cunt and eys goat me farmin oot a shooter tae him, wan some cunt goat plugged wi no log ago doon Burdiehoose wey.
Ma maw would kick ma cunt if she kent. Pure kick Barry’s nawtae.
~ * ~
So ahm staunin oot the back ay Scotbet watchin oor Barry pit the fukn tights ower eys heid and eys pure spraffin away like a mentaller ... oaf that medication, likes. Been that wey fir weeks, no supposed tae be a day aff the fukn Harry Hills but there eys fukn blowin eys heid aff wi the puff, powerin intae the Caly Specials and, fuk tae fuk, knockin ower Scotbet cos wee fukn Rab eys pal says there’s bags ay poppy just sittin aboot.
Man’s a pure cunt. But what can ye dae? Eys femly. Well, likesay, ma maw calls him femly ... Uncle Barry, isn’t ey? Ah ken, eys a fannyrat. Ah ken eys... whit d’ye cry it nawtae... bio-fukn-polar, and eys no taking eys pills and that... But man alive, it’s no like eys ma faither. Ah dinnae owe the cunt fukn fuk all. Reallys, ah dinnae.
Ahm sittin at the fit ay the Walk and ah’ve goat the keys in the motor, nice fukn set ay wheels nawtae, big fukn 4x4 some horsey fukn square-peg cow left in Tesco car park wi the fukn keys in ... easy as fukn shootin fukn fish in a fukn barrel. Ahm waiting tae hear the shooter ah gied Barry go aff, or see some cunt come running oot the bookie’s but there’s fuk all gaun doon. There’s nae fukn noise at all, except some auld jakey cunt pishin himsel and singing “Danny fukn Boy”. Fuk me.
C’moan, Barry y’cunt... whaur the fuk are ye?
Ahm gettin a wee bit restless now, beginning tae think this cunt’s goat himself too fukn jaked tae pull this aff, that some cunt’s panelled him in the heid and eys leyin oan the flair like some big fukn polar bear rug or sumthin wi every cunt in the place staunin ower him scratchin their heids. And then, fuk me, right oot ay naewhur it’s fukn Barry chankin it doon the Walk and shouting tae get the fukn motor stertit.
Davie, y’fukn radge ... Get they fukn wheels movin.
There’s folk watchin, ah’ve telt this cunt afore aboot using ma fukn handle oan a joab but eys no gien two fuks ... It’s they pills ay his, needs tae get fired intae they pills and get eys fukn heid sortit. Ma maw said as much ... Big daft cunt that ey is. Ahm pure ragin at the cunt so ah am.
Get the fukn door shut, Barry, I tell the cunt as he gets in the motor wi the bag and the shooter oot.
Ahm blastin the cunt fir using ma handle and ahm spinning they fukn tyres like fukn Pete fukn Tong oan the decks, but Barry’s away wi the fukn pixies oan this massive fukn belter ay a high ...
Shouldae seen the cunts man, faces oan them ... pure fukn shittin it they wur, he goes.
Whit aboot the poppy? How much we get?
Uncle Barry’s too fukn hypo tae gie two fuks aboot the poppy, eys fukn gaun scripto, eys jumpin oot eys heid n’all that. Ah have tae take the shooter aff the cunt, put it in ma jaicket pocket and tell him tae calm it fukn doon or ah’ll be leyin intae the cunt. He disnae settle but. Cunt’s radge. Pure mental.
Whit a fukn rush that wis, Davie ... whit a fukn rush. Ah could dae anither yin! Ey says that like eys just had a fukn Chinkie or sumthin, no robbed a fukn bookie’s. Eys totally fukn serious nawtae. Scanning aboot, taking a sketch oot the windae fir another fukn Scotbet.
Are you aff yer fukn scone? Ah says.
Naw ... naw ... serious, man. Oan a fukn roll so am are.
Ah take a deck at the cunt and eys fukn roarin oot the windae and screamin and gaun half fukn caked oot his nut, and ahm thinkin, whit the fuk is this cunt oan? Man needs eys fukn heid seein tae ... Ma maw said the likes.
There’s wan there, there’s wan there, Davie. The cunt’s clocked anither Scotbet - fukn rarin tae go nawtae.
C’moan, Davie ... pull ower, we’ll dae anither wan.
He hauns me the bag wi the poppy ... There’s aboot twenty grannies in there, ahm thinkin. Ah could fuk aff and get maself set up wi that, oot ma maw’s hair fir guid. That’s whit she needs, some peace and fukn quiet ... no all this shite wi me jist oot the jail and under her feet and Uncle fukn Barry aff eys Harry Hills.
C’moan, Davie ... c’moan, Davie ...
The cunt’s up fir it. Fukn surein ey is. Fukn een sittin oan fukn stalks so they are ... eys goat this big red fukn set ay cheeks oan him nawtae. Looks like that fukn Hell Boy cunt. Radge is just as fukn daft likesay. Ah canne dey it but, eys femly and ye look efter yer femly don’t ye? Ey is femly, kindae ... ah ken eys no ma faither and ah ken eys no even ma fukn proper uncle n’all that, really ... but femly’s femly.
Awright, Barry ... get yerself oot the motor.
The cunt stomps oot, eys like a fukn dug wi two dicks, fukn rarin tae go so ey is ... pure shoutin at me fir the shooter. Fukn shooter some cunt fae Burdiehoose goat plugged wi, mind ey disnae ken that. So ahm oot the 4x4 and ahm telling him tae cool the fukn beans right doon. Eys gonae gie himsel a hert attack if ey disnae keep the heid.
Aye, aye ... gis the fukn gun, Davie, ey gauns.
So ahm passing the gun ower and eys getting the Pretty fukn Pollys oot again a
nd telling me tae keep shoatie like the last time. Aye, aye, ahm gaun, and ahm thinking this cunt’s away wi the fukn dizzy dippits. Needs proper fukn medical attention n’all that. Shouldnae be aff they Harry fukn Hills likes ah say. And ahm femly, well, likes as close as much, and ah need tae dae the right thing by the cunt. But mair so, ma maw. Ah need tae gie ma maw a breck here.
There ye go, Barry ... here’s the shooter, mate. Now, mind ... keep the heid, eh? ah goes.
Eys oaf like a fukn rat up a drainpipe, disnae even look at eys. Just grabs the shooter and eys aff. Ah gie him tae the end ay the pavement thit eys taking like a fukn whippet, time tae get ootside the Scotbet, before ah tip the bullets ah took oot the shooter. Ah mean, cannae hey some cunt being shot if things gaun erse ower tit. Ah could’ve been a right cunt and left them in the fukn gun, ah mean, ah could, but ah didnae, cos ahm the kind ay cunt looks oot fir folk ... looks oot fir eys femly n’all that, eh?
The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10 Page 30
