and be waiting for me when I emerged.
The water was foul. The Clyde might be a million times cleaner than it was fifty years ago but it is still a country mile from being drinkable. I spat out a mouthful and knew I would need industrial strength mouthwash for a month to get rid of the taste.
The cold was starting to bite and I seemed no nearer the far bank. I looked back but the goons were out of sight.
Seconds later I was swept under the bridge. I needed to get out and even if the pursuers were waiting for me I was losing the battle with the water and a kicking was marginally better than a drowning. I had no choice but to claw my way to the bank and hope for the best.
Around me the river was hemmed in by a brick wall with a set of steel runged ladders every couple of hundred yards. Even at high tide there is still a clear ten feet between the river and the safety rails that run next to the walkway. At the moment that was closer to fifteen feet.
The next set of rungs were coming up fast and I pushed hard towards them. I wasn’t sure I had the strength to keep afloat much longer.
I was close to the bank and if the goons were above me they were lost to view as the wall loomed up. The next set of rungs were twenty feet down river and I was now skimming the wall, my good hand sliding along the slime that coated everything.
I rushed towards the ladder.
The rungs were old and pitted and the lower ones were covered in the slime. As I drew level I grabbed with my good hand but it slid free. I threw my bad hand over the bottom rung and jammed my elbow into the gap between metal and wall. I screamed at the pain as it stopped my downward travel. I could feel the pressure building on my elbow joint as the river tried to drag me away from safety.
Working against the current I pulled myself a few precious inches closer to the ladder and launched myself at the next rung up. I jammed my good arm in the gap between rung and wall and then let my weight fall on it as I heaved in air. I needed to get my feet out of the water but a combination of the river’s current and the way my arm was wedged tight had me with my back to the wall.
I took a deep breath and let go with my right arm and swung it high, grabbing for the next rung. At the same time I pulled hard on my left arm and felt water slide from my feet as they came free of the water. Every sinew in my body told me to let go as my wrist — already broken in several places cracked. My feet flailed around to find a foothold and I slammed my left foot onto a rung and clung on.
Ten breaths later and I straightened myself and started to climb. My clothes had tripled in weight and the cold and exertion of the swim was draining the last of my reserves. I reached the top rung and, as I placed my good hand on the top rail, a face appeared above me and my heart sank.
‘Not a nice evening for a swim, sir.’
I have never, and I mean have never, been so glad to see a policeman’s uniform.
Chapter 28
Wednesday January 16 ^th 2008
Just out of hospital and I can still taste the Clyde. I am on a course of antibiotics that would protect an army in Zaire. The doctor said it was precautionary. Given the shit in my mouth I reckon it is a fucking necessity.
The police were hardly fazed by my dip. Once I told them where I stayed, they assumed I was on drinks, drugs or both. Thankfully there was no deep questioning and neither of them recognised me.
There was no sign of the goons when I got out and I spent most of the time in the hospital planning a slow, and painful end to Ron’s life. At the moment my favourite is skinning alive and dipping in a tub of salt but I think I can do better. But the truth is I’m not sure it was him that grassed me up. Not sure at all.
The Credit Unions are next on my to do list. I need to go back into the breaking and entering business and that requires some serious planning.
If I’m right about the goons and the kickings then someone has it in for me and I suspect that the key is all part of it — but I may be wrong.
I’ll have to case all three Credit Unions and suss out the best way in. Priority one is a new toolkit. One that allows for contingencies. The days of a stethoscope and sandpaper for your finger tips may be long gone but a decent toolkit will still suffice for most needs. The only problem with that is the price tag. I need cash and then I need to find a source for the kit.
Cash first.
My options are as follows:
Mugging — but I’m out of practice and anyway some of the people you think are fat, lazy or defenceless aren’t, and some people are just penniless. Anyway who can go mugging with a buggered wrist? So that’s out.
A little bit of armed robbery — pick a corner store and a weapon and we are away. Problem is I don’t have a weapon and you really need a gun to do a shop job justice. A gun will cost more than a tool kit — so that’s out.
Housebreaking — a racing favourite at the moment. Back to school for me. The right house and I can purchase a small lock pick kit and it’s time to roll.
Chapter 29
Friday January 18 th 2008
I have acquired a small lock pick kit with no need to return to burglary.
My luck might be changing.
The computer geek put me onto it. There is a small lost property cupboard at the back of the building. It rarely has anything in it. Those that have little rarely lose things — and none of my fellow inmates have more than a penny between them. However, on the odd occasion a new boy rolls up and, fearing for his possessions, asks the staff to look after them. They use the lost property cupboard as a safe place to store stuff. The guests soon discover that their belongings are a dam sight safer under their bed than under the watchful eye of the staff.
Not that the staff are dishonest but they are careless.
The geek told me that a new boy had checked in. As was my wont I ignored him until he also informed me that the new boy was an ex con called Sid Montgomery.
Now I know a Sid Montgomery of old. Not by sight but by reputation. He was a burglar much in the same mould as myself only he worked the Solway coast. He had a good rep and a fondness for hard liquor. More than once he had been caught in someone’s house; passed out with the contents of the owner’s drinks cabinet in his stomach.
I did a bit of asking and it transpired that the Sid I knew and Sid the new boy were one and the same.
It wasn’t the greatest piece of Sherlockian deduction to figure he might be holding a kit on his person or in his bag.
Fortunately he had decided to hand in his bag and the staff duly placed it in the lost property cupboard, as it was the only place with a lock. A paperclip took care of the lock and a quick rifle of Sid’s bag revealed a small but adequate tool kit. I pocketed it, returned his bag to the cupboard and locked it.
I took the kit to the rear of the hotel and, placing it in a plastic bag, buried it in the flower bed. If Sid reported the kit missing they would turn the place upside down looking for it.
Sometimes it feels like I simply swapped one prison for another. The lack of bars and guards seems to matter little. In my head I feel as trapped as ever.
In my fourteen years as a guest of Her Majesty I had dreamed of the moment that I would walk free the way a teenager dreams of his first sexual encounter. Now I was out there seems to be no freedom in my freedom. An ex con, no cash, living in a hostel — at least back in prison I had hope. Out here hope should be piled high
