As a young man, I volunteered to work in a kibbutz at Ein Gedi, not far from the dead Sea in Israel, stayed there for two years. On the penultimate day, it was a Thursday; I went for a walk with dark-haired dark-eyed Leonora, my then-girlfriend; it was our final fond goodbye. We met in a café sitting in the corner, eyes just for each other.
The café was on the edge of town. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed fleeting shadows of men entering the bar, and I… we…we’re surrounded by a group of tall, youthful-looking men, obviously Military, you can tell, all hovering over me with malice.
The other customers disappeared out of sight. Leonora got up and left; I never saw her again. An old weary faced man sat down at my table opposite me. He looked frayed at the edges, with grey hair and thin metal-framed spectacles. Sadness clouded his features, and he rested his hands on the table. His unrelenting stare shook me.
“You’re going back home,” the weary old man asked, wheezing, cowering on my chair. I nodded.
There was another pause, a long-protracted pause, as he stared over his spectacles, the wrinkles on his forehead deepened. Then, finally, he murmured in a tone soft but lethal,” You’ve recently been offered employment working at Rockleton House.”
He continued, still struggling for breath, “We have a report that you were involved in a traffic accident last week, knocked a young girl over…she was badly hurt and rushed to hospital.”
The old weary man’s expression closed up, I felt nervous, picking at my fingers, chewing my lip,” he persisted, “The poor thing…almost died, no thanks to you …tut, tut, tut…and she was…is…only ten years old.” He brushed his forehead with his fingers
A coldness descended over me; I looked at him in surprise, stammering, “B-b-but I don’t drive…I wasn’t in a car…last week…it’s a tissue of lies and make-believe,” our eyes locked on each other unblinking.
His face went blank; we circled each other mentally, he snapped, “Here are their signed statements, from the Policeman, involved, the Young-Girl, the two witnesses, this is a serious case,” he smiled, but it was quick to fade, “And likely to lead to you spending many years in prison…Bill, not nice.”
“You are,” he turned away, snapped his fingers at a minion, then glanced back at me through narrowed eyes, drumming his fingers upon the tabletop, he continued, “See, you’re confronted by one of two things…either I can miraculously make this little incident disappear…or” his mouth snapped shut.
I rubbed my mouth and closed my eyes; after a few minutes, I unlocked them again, “Do what, “I asked, taking a deep breath, “How…what do you want me to do…it’s all lies, you know.”
Tugging at his shirt collar, he retorted, “All you need to do is…just report to us on the comings, and goings at Rockleton House, tell us who is visiting the owner, Prince Ben Al-Hoshkent.” He turned around and then back to face me, crossed his arms, waiting. Then, his voice lowered, “In particular, tell us about the Saudis…who visit him often…too regularly for our liking.”
The conversation meandered for a while; I grumbled and bellyached but reluctantly agreed to their offer, which is how I became a Mossad informer.
Who am I, well my name is Arthur Throstle, but you can call me Donkey; most people do, it’s cos’ of my big hooter?
I returned to England after this uncomfortable exchange and began my employment at Rockleton House as an odd job man, sort of caretaker, and cleaner. One of my main jobs was cleaner, well it’s a big house, but one night I was on ‘Butler and Waiter’ duty, Prince Ben Al-Hoshkent liked to show off his Domestic Staff to guests, and spend the night belittling them, the busterd.’
The trouble is he enjoys the white powder and single malt Glenfiddich whiskey too much for his own good. So, I suppose you can understand why he doesn’t need to work – work he doesn’t know its meaning. Life is just one long progression of fun and games, and like a child, he gets bored easily, seeking out increasingly excessive temptations to pep his jaded days.
One evening, he invited a few of his mates over; I use the word mate loosely as a bigger bunch of supercilious high and mighty ‘toe rags’ you ain’t met. They’re so arrogant, cushioned from run-of-the-mill hard reality. They make me puke.
Anyway, they bought around a few beauties, a mix of Slovaks, middle eastern sweeties, and a sprinkling of bleached blondes from God knows where land. But the one who caught the Prince’s eye was a real beauty, long black curly hair, violet coloured knowing eyes and a Sophia Loren figure, that’s what mi’ Dad used to call curvy ladies on the beach when we went to Weymouth every year.
Later that night, God, it must have been two in the morning, Lorraine, or Lucy; let’s call her for Lulu; I can’t remember her name. Still, it began with an ‘L,’ I know that for sure, she and Prince Ben Al-Hoshkent went to his bedroom, he was half cut, and before anything could happen, he crashed out asleep, the Prince being three-quarters sozzled. She came out in tears, I comforted her, and one thing led to another. Well, I’m still a man with all the appropriate desires and tackle in working order and as they so euphemistically, one thing led to another.
The next day, the Prince, the Lord of ‘goat turd’ land, got wind of my previous night’s opportunity and vociferously scolded me using some Anglo-Saxon words I hadn’t heard before; it was very embarrassing in front of his cronies too. He sacked me with a month’s paid working notice. The Prince returned to Saudi Arabia the day after.
I was acquainted with every corner and cranny of the house and knew three of the four safes containing the Prince’s jewels and expensive timepieces were regularly left unlocked. It was just too good an opportunity to miss out on. So, one evening, using the domestic chores excuse, I waited until other staff had left and sneaked into the Prince’s bedroom.
I did this once a night for the next two weeks. The robbery was simple greed and malice, a form of revenge. I took everything, even faintly sentimental, as well as valuable. The safes held a variety of jewellery, diamond, rubies, several plump rubies, and several gold watches. But the creme de la crème the Kurdistan Jewels, well they’re really Sapphires, not jewels, but are very rare. I hid the booty inside cleaning equipment, vacuum bags, and the ‘odds and sods,’ dusting box with its cloths and half-empty sprays and cleaning polishes with no qualms.
To me, it’s not theft but ethical redistribution, my form of socialism. It’s not as though I’m, beating up old ladies or brandishing knives threateningly.
Oh, the thrill when I first held the glittering jewellery in my small trembling hands and imperceptibly shivered. The brilliant kaleidoscopic colours were almost unbearably impressive, giving me a trembling, almost erotic joy. I hid the valuables all over the house, in places I knew they would not be discovered. I concealed them in the large weekly deliveries of nick-knacks I sent to my twin brother’s recently purchased cottage. Then, at the end of the third week, I left forever and fled to Dorset. The Prince was still in Saudi Arabia and didn’t return for a long time after.
My Smartphone bleeped, up popped a text message, saying, ‘Warning …watch your back…you have visitors …be careful… Leonora.’ I switched it off and pocketed it inside my jacket.
“Hello, Donkey,” a man said to me in a deep Willard White sing-song voice. It was Windsor, Windsor Vashti; Vashti has the arrogance of someone I don’t want to cross. Windsor’s nose constantly twitched as though offended someone’s unpleasant body aroma. His streaked black, grey hair looked so closely cropped I had mistaken him for being bald. Beneath his heavy brows, his eyes mean, remote and kinda frightening. I shrugged apologetically. His skeletal thin, tall body seemed to ripple in response as he toyed with coins in his trouser pocket; I hope they were coins.
I muttered, “My name is Arthur…Donkey is, was, my twin brother’s nickname…he’s dead.”
“Shut it,” he replied, anger crept into his voice.
Behind Windsor stood Greg Newton, his sidekick. Leaning against the bar, the red Welsh dragon tattoo on his neck seemed to quiver as though preening itself. His gaze scanned the Pub like a submarine periscope, then he scowled at me, slowly his lips drew back in a snarl.
Newton appeared as though he hadn’t shaved in a while. His face was etched in dirty grey hairs, neither long enough nor shaped enough to be a beard. He has the look of just another wrinkly, a life tired old man, but take a good look, see he exudes evil. Newton is not a man you want to meet in a narrow alley late at night.
I was sitting on a high stool leaning against the bar in ‘The Masons Arms ‘, Compton Raggedapple’s local hostelry; it was empty except for Eileen, the barmaid, the landlord’s plaything, both upstairs together. They sized me unceremoniously, big hands clasped around shoulders as I was lifted high off my stool and plopped in the corner alcove, the one with the high wooden screen and choir stall seats hidden from view. So, like the ham in a sandwich, I sat slouched, trapped, with Windsor on one side, Newton on the other.
Turning to face me, Windsor said, “Your kid brother was kidnapped…show him the video…Greg.” Silence fell, Vashti rolled his eyes and moved closer.
Newton took out his Smartphone from inside his jacket pocket and pushed the screen into my face out of the blue. Then, in a warehouse, I saw William, ‘Donkey,’ my brother. grey duct tape stuck across his mouth, a hand-pulled it off, and Bill started to scream. One kidnapper, bout’ six-foot-tall, thick-set dressed in a dark blue top and denim jeans with a ‘Lone Ranger’ mask put a knife against Will’s throat.
Next in view was a completely different guy. He looked like the ‘Boss-man,’ dressed all in black and a golden watch on his wrist, wearing a hood, a sorta’ black Balaclava. Accompanied by two bodyguards dressed in dark suits and ‘Toy Story ‘face masks. The ‘Boss-man’ sat in front of Bill, smoking a cigar. He was around his mid-fifties, age lined wrinkles crisscrossed. He walked, well, it more of a shuffle, around Bill’s chair leant down pushing a switchblade against William’s neck. The muscles in ‘Boss-man’s face twitched into a rueful smile.
Newton switched off the video screen, Vashti gazed at me, his jaw tightened, and eyes flashed a warning, “This news to you, eh, “I nodded and shot him a started look as I felt bile rise in my throat.
“Look, kid, he growled, “This is no Disneyland make-believe; it’s the real thing; the kidnapping was over in seconds.” An expression of sheer fury appeared across his face.
“One-minute,” he said in a voice bubbling with rage, “William was stopping to help a poor girl whose car had burst a tyre when shazam like a sorcerer trick he was gone. All of a sudden, a car came from behind. stopped unexpectedly and forced him into their vehicle by two men. “
The video was turned back on; I saw quarrelling and heated arguments between the ‘Boss man’ and William. Then, I heard ‘Boss-man’ say,” Where are the diamonds…we know you have them…tell me where they are…if you don’t…” The conversation abruptly became a distorted mumble; then, I clearly heard William’s weary voice say,” Or…what.”
The ‘Boss-man’s expression soured, he laced and unlaced his fingers tenderly leant forwards, dark brows crouched over equally dark eyes, he replied,” We will kill you.”
The following clip went dark, and I could only see monochrome translucent silhouettes. Bill’s arms tied up behind his chair and a hood pulled harshly over his head. The outline of a revolver came into view pressed hard against William’s head, leaving a dent just above Bill’s ear. I heard the click of the trigger catch drawn back.
The grating sound of a harsh voice was heard saying, “I will count to ten …if you don’t tell me where they are…you will die.” The sharp and incisive voice continued, “One…two…three…where are the diamonds four…five…six…who’s got them,” then he bellowed, “This your last chance to save yourself…Where are they?
There was a pause as he sucked in a deep breath, “Seven…eight…nine …this is the last opportunity.” Suddenly a huge explosion blasted through the air, and William’s head exploded.
“Sorry “, said Vashti, “but you need to know who…you…we …are dealing with here…Look, I know you have the jewels…we could force you to tell us where…but …why… let’s agree to a business arrangement.” His hands tightened into fists.
Newton gazed around with a curious expression across his face; he stood up and, without a backward glance, wandered over into the corner to play the one arm bandit.
“Look,” said Windsor, gazing through half-lidded eyes, ”You’re in the midst of a civil war…in Saudi…the old regime is losing grip and the new boy’s scent victory…Prince Ben Al-Hoshkent’s father, Mohammed Abbad, the Monarch’s half-brother…is trying to wrest control for the current King…he doesn’t stand a chance the power behind the throne is the High Commander of Military Forces General Lawrence Tefliq…Now the King believes the Kurdistan Jewels rightly belong to him, and he sent over Lulu. “
Windsor lit up a large cigar, immune or ignorant of the anti-smoking law, who knows?
“I bet you remember her…I thought so.” A thin smile crossed his face momentarily.
“He sent her to find out if they existed…no one has seen them in years…and try to acquire…or steal them…that’s why she seduced you…no,” I winced, “I don’t understand Abbad ’s thinking either…but once they get a bee in their bonnet, there’s no stopping them…you put the kibosh on that idiot scheme…thank God.”
The slot machine erupted in a fanfare of sound and wild flashing lights celebrating the punters winning success, followed immediately by the quickfire clattering noise of cascading Pound coins emptying into Greg’s large mitts.
“William…I’m going to assume that you’re pretending to be your twin brother…Arthur…I know your identical twins with the same physical characteristics and behaviour.” His mouth turned up a fraction, “Like two peas in a pod…eh…and to save face…I will continue this charade…but we both know who you are…William…sorry, Arthur…If that’s your cover…stuff and nonsense…I think…so be it.”
He paused and extended a hand towards me; we shook; what choice did I have? Afterwards, unnoticed, I counted how many of my fingers remained attached to my hand.
Windsor resumed, “I… we…me and my colleagues will keep up that.”
Suddenly Jethro Grunt, a retired tenant farmer toddled in for his daily pint of cider, came into the Pub. Greg’s forehead creased, and his eyes screwed tight. He mumbled something into Vashti’s ear, who nodded an unheard reply. Vashti’s face flushed and grew very angry.
They quickly bundled me out and into a large black windowed people carrier parked in the very far corner of the club’s car park. Sitting in the driver’s seat was the spitting image of Benjamin Zephaniah. His eyes were closed, and a large splif between his lips. I sat in the back seat.
“Look,” I jabbered; God was I scared, “Can’t we do a deal.” My knees shuddered uncontrollably.
Windsor Vashti, sitting on the front passenger seat, next to ‘Zephaniah,’ stiffened, jumped out of the vehicle, and slid upon the back seat close to me, to close I could smell his sweat. His face pushed hard into mine; aggressive menace oozed from his every pore.
“Look, my client wants…the Kurdistan jewels…no argument…if’s or buts…ok.” Vashti glanced at me; his expression soured.
“As were Partners, tell me who your clients are, and” I turned away to stare out the window, “Whose side are you on, “I asked casually.
“None of your business,” Vashti bellowed; his cheeks began to twitch anxiously, now on one side, now on the other, giving his face an unpleasant expression.
I drew back with a shiver, “Ok…come to my Cottage…I will get them for you.” I replied.
“Everything else, the gold and other jewellery,” he said with eyelids drooped, “I will fence for you…an’ you will receive ten per cent…that’s non-negotiable.”
Our eyes locked on, his pupils flared, a deep furrow ran across his forehead, he resumed in a harsh tone, ” Give me the Kurdistan gems…I want to check they’re genuine.”
Ten minutes later, we were sitting in my bijou-sized cottage; the old blacksmiths’ workshop has a semi demolished forge, fireplace, and anvil. The anvil is old and heavy fitted on top of a hollow four and half-foot square brick block. When I first moved in, I’d dug a deep hole below it, oh it’s about four feet deep; in there, I secreted large jiffy bags full of Prince Al-Hoshkent gems, including Kurdistan Jewels, plus watches, and gold, indeed all my ill-gotten gains.
‘Simple Simon’ like, weeks ago, I’d separated out the pocket-sized gemstones, selecting those ones which subtly glinted in mesmeric greens, reds, blues, and green colours and stowed my little beauties in a Tesco’s plastic bag, call it my pension scheme.
“I will go and get the jewels,” I said to Windsor, “You help yourself to a glass of something; look them in the drinks cabinet over there. “I pointed to a nineteen-thirties art deco styled wooden radiogram I’d had converted to display bottles of booze, wines and Waterford crystal goblets and glasses. Then, giving them my best sickly-sweet smile, I strolled to the farriers’ workshop down the back garden.
Now, I know that I’m not the brightest star in the firmament and am never likely to be asked to join Mensa; well, I failed my eleven plus, which says a lot, more than words can. But, still, even I realised the Kurdistan gems couldn’t be simply sold to any ‘Jack Robinson,’ as they say in the trade, too hot to handle. I think that’s the expression.
Wearily, the stress was getting to me, alone I took out the goodies, including Kurdistan gems, minus my little beauties, and carried it back to my home; it took three journeys. Windsor and Newton, smiling ear to ear, eagerly broke open the bags. Vashti took out an eyepiece looking closely at the gems. I suppose to check if there were paste or the real thing.
After sharing a bottle of whiskey until almost empty, I staggered up my higgldy piggledy wooden spiral stairs to my bedroom. I could hear guffaws and high fives coming from Vashti and Greg downstairs. Suddenly, bang, the wooden front door was flattened by countless heavyweight thwacks, in walked three disguised men. In front, a man dressed in a smart double-breasted black three-piece suit holding a sawn-off rifle. He pointed it upwards; it exploded with bullets ricocheting off the ceiling and walls. Luckily, no one was hit.
The whole place erupted in a torrent of noise and threats, wild hand gestures and unconstrained violence. Behind the shooter came a villain dressed in denim jeans, jacket, and white ‘T-shirt with a ‘New York Yankees’ logo. He lumbered across, and karate punched Vashti twice. Windsor fell backwards, but before he hit the ground, he was scooped up and dragged outside?
‘Zephaniah’ exploded out of the settee. Newton, sitting beside him going through gems on his lap, sat frozen, then the two were hit by a series of crushing solid blows to the head and stomach. ‘Zephaniah’ swayed on his feet and slowly fell to the floor. Newton, crumpled by a welter of blows, half rose staggered forward and teetered on the brink of collapse. ‘Zephaniah’ and Newton manhandled to their feet, hooded, handcuffed, and taken outside. To what and whom, I have no idea or interest.
I stopped, crouching low-slung against the staircase wall, silently retreated backwards to the very top of the stairs and into the roof attic closing the entrance noiselessly. Concealed, I gazed through a gap in the attic access flap, watching out and listening for threats. Sometime later, I had no idea how long; I saw two heads, one almost bald, the other blond tight curly-haired, almost youthful-looking. They began to search for a ladder, and the bald-headed smaller guy, cigarette dangling out of his mouth, suddenly dropped into a chair in the corner.
Out of the blue, ‘tight blond curls’ said, “Ummm…look, I can see a police car coming along the road…let’s get out of here…now, we have shackled the thieves and stowed em’ in the back of the van…so we can return to our hideout…leave it to the Boss…find out what he wants us to do with them…you know he said we were to scram if the Cops ever noticed us…let’s go…NOW,” he bawled in a charged, anxious voice.
I heard thuds as they dashed out, followed seconds later by the agitated slam of vehicle doors opening and hastily slammed shut, and the accelerated engine roar as it drove away, leaving only the Birds chirping.
Expecting the criminal gang to return, I waited until evening set in and quickly descended the stairs from my hiding place. Looking around, face creased, It seemed as if tribes of Vandals, Visigoths and Attila the Hun had visited me all at the same time. My lovely furniture, upside down, ripped, broken, and ruined. The drawers and cupboards were lying upon the floor upside down, and its contents scattered, the wooden front door had been crumpled into fragments, and, what’s more, the jiffy bags were missing.
It was now dark, worried about our visitors returning or watching out for me; I worked in the gloom packing full two suitcases. Then, garbed in black jeans, jumper, and waterproof jacket, carrying the bags, I edged down the garden towards the Smithy. Halfway along, I remembered my forgotten passport and retraced my steps.
Eventually, I arrived at the workshop and removed the gemstones hidden in the fireplace. Finally, stepping out of the rear garden gate, I trudged across fields hidden from sight by the darkness and high growing Hawthorne and Rose hedges.
Late the following day, I caught a train, many, many hours afterwards arrived in Amsterdam, found a jeweller, who didn’t ask any questions and sold my lovely beauties for lots of agreeable money. Yesterday I caught a one-way flight from Schiphol airport to Australia. Crime may not pay but God, it doesn’t half help.
Hang on; I have a text message, oh God! it reads, “Alert… alert…well done …I don’t think …your cover is blown …Abbad and his goons are after you …be wary…it’s time to come in from the cold…see you at Ein Gedi…love Leonora.”
