6.The Assignment
Tuesday, 12th December, my first day out since the injustice and hoping that the nineties might inspire me to regain my identity, tears flowing in joy, it had been too many months since I had last dressed in feminine clothes. Hair frizzy, the weather awful, but the driving rain washed away the smell of prison. In a rush, at that moment, I reckoned that nothing could dampen my spirit. Stuck on parole for six months. I didn’t want a ferry back across the Mersey, adhering to my licence, released from one nick; I had to see another in Manchester.
Three hours later, I had done well to hang on for so long. Breaking down in the probation office, my resolve expired. Wanting to help, Nick genuine, I could tell, great to be back among the good guys. Thirtysomething, plain and married, futile I know, but I needed someone steady like him. Sobbing, I began
“I’m no criminal – I’m innocent! I won’t stop, I’ll say it to the end of my days.”
Nick gave me the address of some digs in Didsbury near the city. As I arrived at the property, feeling very let down, all the other occupants ex-cons and no locks on doors. On top of that, up in the attic, mine not the only bed in the room, three more standing empty beside it. Nick said that two girls would join me next week when they got out – great a shared cell. I was having none of that. Unable to leave right away, my life still not my own, I had to ask first; parole put me on a leash. Stuck until morning, I dumped my backpack and took a hike. Still pouring down, well it was Manchester. Glad to be back, I had missed it.
Bright floodlights lit the sky and not far away, Maine Road home to Manchester City. At once, it made me weepy. Years ago, when I joined Mum and Dad and visited the stadium, before kick off, a press photographer from the Football Pink, took our picture inside the ground. Printed on the back page, the newspaper had circled Mum’s head! A competition, it won her a few quid, she spent it buying the photo. Will it always be like this? Then it had made me happy.
Pulling myself together and heading back, I joined the others in the lounge. A treat to watch the news, but his eyes on me and leaving no space between us, his thigh pressing hard against mine, a young guy joined me on the sofa. Nudging my elbow, as he offered me a spliff, I declined, but his attention pleasing, only 18, he was very nearly only half my age. When my teenage admirer disappeared into the kitchen, after a while, returning with a laden tray and placing it before me, he had cooked for me a divine vegetable curry. After prison rations, like haute cuisine, I devoured it. Sated, when I popped up to my bed, chef wanted to
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Tuesday, 12th December, my first day out since the injustice and hoping that the nineties might inspire me to regain my identity, tears flowing in joy, it had been too many months since I had last dressed in feminine clothes. Hair frizzy, the weather awful, but the driving rain washed away the smell of prison. In a rush, at that moment, I reckoned that nothing could dampen my spirit. Stuck on parole for six months. I didn’t want a ferry back across the Mersey, adhering to my licence, released from one nick; I had to see another in Manchester.
Three hours later, I had done well to hang on for so long. Breaking down in the probation office, my resolve expired. Wanting to help, Nick genuine, I could tell, great to be back among the good guys. Thirtysomething, plain and married, futile I know, but I needed someone steady like him. Sobbing, I began
“I’m no criminal – I’m innocent! I won’t stop, I’ll say it to the end of my days.”
Nick gave me the address of some digs in Didsbury near the city. As I arrived at the property, feeling very let down, all the other occupants ex-cons and no locks on doors. On top of that, up in the attic, mine not the only bed in the room, three more standing empty beside it. Nick said that two girls would join me next week when they got out – great a shared cell. I was having none of that. Unable to leave right away, my life still not my own, I had to ask first; parole put me on a leash. Stuck until morning, I dumped my backpack and took a hike. Still pouring down, well it was Manchester. Glad to be back, I had missed it.
Bright floodlights lit the sky and not far away, Maine Road home to Manchester City. At once, it made me weepy. Years ago, when I joined Mum and Dad and visited the stadium, before kick off, a press photographer from the Football Pink, took our picture inside the ground. Printed on the back page, the newspaper had circled Mum’s head! A competition, it won her a few quid, she spent it buying the photo. Will it always be like this? Then it had made me happy.
Pulling myself together and heading back, I joined the others in the lounge. A treat to watch the news, but his eyes on me and leaving no space between us, his thigh pressing hard against mine, a young guy joined me on the sofa. Nudging my elbow, as he offered me a spliff, I declined, but his attention pleasing, only 18, he was very nearly only half my age. When my teenage admirer disappeared into the kitchen, after a while, returning with a laden tray and placing it before me, he had cooked for me a divine vegetable curry. After prison rations, like haute cuisine, I devoured it. Sated, when I popped up to my bed, chef wanted to
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offer me dessert. As he made for my room, foiling him, I had wedged a weighty fire extinguisher behind the door.
Turning my hand to blackmail, I warned Nick that unless he found me a better place to exist, I would demand to finish off my sentence in gaol. Don’t know how serious I was, but I think that I meant it and Nick didn’t call my bluff, instead, appearing confused, I don’t think that he had met a similar threat. I was a unique experience, no con, though hardened to it; little bothered me, except loneliness. That’s what Nick dreaded too and why he had placed me in a group, but it was hardly my scene.
As Nick made a special effort, loads of phone calls later, he asked his younger helper, Phillipa, to take me in her car to view a council flat in Miles Platting. A seriously scruffy area and the flat on the tenth floor of a many storey tower block, not easy to forget, it brought to mind my jaunt in Germany. Indeed, most things I saw recalled my past. In the dark, the block didn’t look too bad and once inside the flat, I found it clean and newly decorated. A great view, overlooking the city, it offered me the privacy and virtual peace I craved and straightaway accepted it. I still had to spend one more night at the digs and bumping into a young woman on the doorstep, dolled up, just going out, wearing a vivid red see-through blouse, for sure, not looking, her nipples erect and provocative. A cold night, a matching red mini barely hid her knickers. Suggesting that I should join her, she told me
“I’m going to find a few tricks – come with me, luv, blokes like two women.”
A great offer and needing to get out, but I didn’t wear the right gear. Maybe she was a social worker. The Probation Service claimed that they always vetted digs, before giving them their approval.
Next morning, taking the train and trudging two miles from Piccadilly station in pouring rain, I fell into the flat. Unable to sleep at the digs and used to stretching out on concrete, I soon dozed off on the bare floorboards. Waking up later than I wanted, it went dark early these wintry afternoons. Out of the flat and in a hurry, I struck for the city before the shops closed. Among my wares, I bought a sleeping bag, an electric kettle and on my way back, unable to resist, I treated myself to a tiny black and white telly. Leaving my shopping in the flat and dashing out to the local chippy, no safe streets around here, used to it, Beirut had been nearly as bad. On my return, making a cup of real char, not the prison poison that passed for it, snug as a bug in my bag with fish and chips as I watched the telly. Like Chris Rea sang in his Road To Hell album, Heaven.
Next day, no money, I had to claim benefit. I felt awful asking for handouts, it made me feel like a beggar. Even worse, it made me feel dirty explaining to the clerk that I had just come out of prison.
Turning my hand to blackmail, I warned Nick that unless he found me a better place to exist, I would demand to finish off my sentence in gaol. Don’t know how serious I was, but I think that I meant it and Nick didn’t call my bluff, instead, appearing confused, I don’t think that he had met a similar threat. I was a unique experience, no con, though hardened to it; little bothered me, except loneliness. That’s what Nick dreaded too and why he had placed me in a group, but it was hardly my scene.
As Nick made a special effort, loads of phone calls later, he asked his younger helper, Phillipa, to take me in her car to view a council flat in Miles Platting. A seriously scruffy area and the flat on the tenth floor of a many storey tower block, not easy to forget, it brought to mind my jaunt in Germany. Indeed, most things I saw recalled my past. In the dark, the block didn’t look too bad and once inside the flat, I found it clean and newly decorated. A great view, overlooking the city, it offered me the privacy and virtual peace I craved and straightaway accepted it. I still had to spend one more night at the digs and bumping into a young woman on the doorstep, dolled up, just going out, wearing a vivid red see-through blouse, for sure, not looking, her nipples erect and provocative. A cold night, a matching red mini barely hid her knickers. Suggesting that I should join her, she told me
“I’m going to find a few tricks – come with me, luv, blokes like two women.”
A great offer and needing to get out, but I didn’t wear the right gear. Maybe she was a social worker. The Probation Service claimed that they always vetted digs, before giving them their approval.
Next morning, taking the train and trudging two miles from Piccadilly station in pouring rain, I fell into the flat. Unable to sleep at the digs and used to stretching out on concrete, I soon dozed off on the bare floorboards. Waking up later than I wanted, it went dark early these wintry afternoons. Out of the flat and in a hurry, I struck for the city before the shops closed. Among my wares, I bought a sleeping bag, an electric kettle and on my way back, unable to resist, I treated myself to a tiny black and white telly. Leaving my shopping in the flat and dashing out to the local chippy, no safe streets around here, used to it, Beirut had been nearly as bad. On my return, making a cup of real char, not the prison poison that passed for it, snug as a bug in my bag with fish and chips as I watched the telly. Like Chris Rea sang in his Road To Hell album, Heaven.
Next day, no money, I had to claim benefit. I felt awful asking for handouts, it made me feel like a beggar. Even worse, it made me feel dirty explaining to the clerk that I had just come out of prison.
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I wanted to add, but done with going on about being innocent, nobody cared. They gave me a crisis loan, thirty quid. I had to repay it out of my next giros. In the next few days, I bought an electric cooker, a bed from a second-hand shop and reporting to Nick, a gent, he let me rummage for domestic odds and ends hiding in the household jumble stored in cellars under his office.
As I watched the firework display, 1990 and set to abandon my mission. Lonely and bitter, my depression seriously worried Nick. He promised me that a heart-to-heart with another woman might help and as he assigned her to my case, Phillipa called to the flat.
“I’m hurting inside“ I told her “I lived each day in prison reckoning that after my release I would prove I’m innocent. I was naïve, I’ve no chance of achieving that.”
Plunging into long weeks of apathy, the lump on my arm growing ever larger, I didn’t bother doing anything about it. Phillipa urged me to be positive, to take an interest in the flat. Just to satisfy her, using up most of the meagre savings I had scraped together and for a moment back with me as I thought about it, I reckoned that Mum must have begun this way. The notion gave me spirit. I bought a sofa and a table from Argos and paid some blokes to fit carpets. Cheap, but luxury, I had nigh forgotten what it felt like to stand on pile. The flat looking tons better I felt pleased, then suddenly overcome, I broke down crying.
Needing a doctor, the prison provided some, my œstrogen about to run out and facing another quack, ridiculing me, she declared that without medical records for all she knew, I could be a liar. Not treating me like a gaolbird, I stormed out of her surgery and found a proper doctor. A good guy, I got my œstrogen and about to show him the lump on my arm, my downer more blatant, he meant well, giving me anti-depressants, but they wouldn’t lift my gloom. I begged him to fix a date for me to see a shrink. An operation would release me and once back in the flat I dropped the tablets into a drawer and for now, forgot all about them. Meanwhile, Nick wished to see me in his office. Uh oh, he warned me
“The police are here, they want to question you.”
Showing me into a spare room, Nick left me with two detectives. As I took a seat before them, large men maybe in their 40s from Warrington. I had done no wrong, that didn’t always matter and telegraphing my unease, they began by asking me if I could help them. I had not grassed him up. They knew about Mick at Risley, the screw that I had rescued from the shitty con in the strips. I felt that some cons deserved the odd luxury. Well, lets face it the government committed far bigger crimes. Anyway, as he opened the file, the first cop told me
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As I watched the firework display, 1990 and set to abandon my mission. Lonely and bitter, my depression seriously worried Nick. He promised me that a heart-to-heart with another woman might help and as he assigned her to my case, Phillipa called to the flat.
“I’m hurting inside“ I told her “I lived each day in prison reckoning that after my release I would prove I’m innocent. I was naïve, I’ve no chance of achieving that.”
Plunging into long weeks of apathy, the lump on my arm growing ever larger, I didn’t bother doing anything about it. Phillipa urged me to be positive, to take an interest in the flat. Just to satisfy her, using up most of the meagre savings I had scraped together and for a moment back with me as I thought about it, I reckoned that Mum must have begun this way. The notion gave me spirit. I bought a sofa and a table from Argos and paid some blokes to fit carpets. Cheap, but luxury, I had nigh forgotten what it felt like to stand on pile. The flat looking tons better I felt pleased, then suddenly overcome, I broke down crying.
Needing a doctor, the prison provided some, my œstrogen about to run out and facing another quack, ridiculing me, she declared that without medical records for all she knew, I could be a liar. Not treating me like a gaolbird, I stormed out of her surgery and found a proper doctor. A good guy, I got my œstrogen and about to show him the lump on my arm, my downer more blatant, he meant well, giving me anti-depressants, but they wouldn’t lift my gloom. I begged him to fix a date for me to see a shrink. An operation would release me and once back in the flat I dropped the tablets into a drawer and for now, forgot all about them. Meanwhile, Nick wished to see me in his office. Uh oh, he warned me
“The police are here, they want to question you.”
Showing me into a spare room, Nick left me with two detectives. As I took a seat before them, large men maybe in their 40s from Warrington. I had done no wrong, that didn’t always matter and telegraphing my unease, they began by asking me if I could help them. I had not grassed him up. They knew about Mick at Risley, the screw that I had rescued from the shitty con in the strips. I felt that some cons deserved the odd luxury. Well, lets face it the government committed far bigger crimes. Anyway, as he opened the file, the first cop told me
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“We have a copy of a statement you signed in Walton, I mean Liverpool Prison. When you accused a Mr Brookfield of sexually assaulting you – is that true?”
I assured them that it was so they asked me if I had seen him mixed up in other misdeeds. Ian had stuck to a small clique, Mick part of it, not only did he look like a spiv, but he made me offers I refused. I told them that I didn’t know about Ian, but Mick seemed well bent. In response, the second cop quizzed
“You mean queer?”
“I mean crooked and before we go any further, I’m not bent in any way”.
Defiant, ready for them to have a pop at me, maybe they had spotted the gleam in my eye. As my suspicion subsided, these cops okay, did I hear them right, they only agreed with me. Sorry Mick, the truth I told them
“He was into car deals, he went like a bee from screw to screw. He claimed he could get them new wheels well below list price.
“Did he say where he got them from?”
“Many screws asked him the same question. He told them trust me, they’re not hooky.”
“Did Mick offer any other deals, not just car deals, to any of the inmates?”
“Some cons said that he had offered them deals, not big stuff, just booze, burn, dope, any idea what happened to my complaint against Brookfield?”
“Who the fuck knows,” they suggested, shrugging.
When my parole ended, lonely the flat felt like solitary, Nick was amazed when I asked him if we could please continue our chats. Craving it like a drug, my mind starved of intelligent company. Now on the margin, Nick provided me with my only link to society.
In July, my spirit soared. In the post, I had my date with a shrink. Wanting to look my best, benefit didn’t stretch far and out all day scouring charity shops for something nice to wear, I found a smart skirt and jacket. Like the ant and the rubber plant, I had high hopes, but when I got there, the shrink only asked me how often had I indulged in sex while in prison. Deeply shocked I cried
“I’m a virgin!”
”You’re lying,” he insisted, “You must have had sex.”
A fortnight later, when I read his letter the shrink had decided to reject my plea.
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I assured them that it was so they asked me if I had seen him mixed up in other misdeeds. Ian had stuck to a small clique, Mick part of it, not only did he look like a spiv, but he made me offers I refused. I told them that I didn’t know about Ian, but Mick seemed well bent. In response, the second cop quizzed
“You mean queer?”
“I mean crooked and before we go any further, I’m not bent in any way”.
Defiant, ready for them to have a pop at me, maybe they had spotted the gleam in my eye. As my suspicion subsided, these cops okay, did I hear them right, they only agreed with me. Sorry Mick, the truth I told them
“He was into car deals, he went like a bee from screw to screw. He claimed he could get them new wheels well below list price.
“Did he say where he got them from?”
“Many screws asked him the same question. He told them trust me, they’re not hooky.”
“Did Mick offer any other deals, not just car deals, to any of the inmates?”
“Some cons said that he had offered them deals, not big stuff, just booze, burn, dope, any idea what happened to my complaint against Brookfield?”
“Who the fuck knows,” they suggested, shrugging.
When my parole ended, lonely the flat felt like solitary, Nick was amazed when I asked him if we could please continue our chats. Craving it like a drug, my mind starved of intelligent company. Now on the margin, Nick provided me with my only link to society.
In July, my spirit soared. In the post, I had my date with a shrink. Wanting to look my best, benefit didn’t stretch far and out all day scouring charity shops for something nice to wear, I found a smart skirt and jacket. Like the ant and the rubber plant, I had high hopes, but when I got there, the shrink only asked me how often had I indulged in sex while in prison. Deeply shocked I cried
“I’m a virgin!”
”You’re lying,” he insisted, “You must have had sex.”
A fortnight later, when I read his letter the shrink had decided to reject my plea.
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It was a beautiful August day. I spilt all the anti-depressant tablets into my palm and in a rush, swallowing every one I lay upon the bed waiting to die. I’ll never know how long I stayed there suspended in coma, but as I returned to it, I would never forget the intense bitterness, which consumed me. Fragile and muttering as I flit from room-to-room pacing every corner, deep in my misery, I had done it many times before and tried to reason why. My big mistake to return, did MI5 really want intelligence from me when they tailed my car or was that all a bluff too, if my false incarceration was retribution, but for what?
Like Dad, my record unstained, the blood on my hands Avrim’s. No killer, as a soldier and some will disagree, but never with Sharon, I know the difference, my enemy terrorists they knew the score, they went in with their eyes open. Unlike them, I never once hurt the innocent. Their suffering, not my conscience kept me awake at night. Not religious, though aware that the General observes every move and nothing that I ever did criminal. Like our little chat when I was aged 3-years, never troubling the Almighty without good reason, my gender status Big Chief’s clanger in the first place. But was it a blunder? I reckon that He sometimes makes deliberate mistakes to make people see. Anyhow, furious with Him – who knows, perhaps that should be Her? Otherwise, alone in the flat and I cried
“If You’re so bloody anxious for me to live, then like Moses, You’ve got to show me the path forward – just say Follow Me!”
The overdose made me dreadfully ill. As I began to recover, the cupboard bare, still feeling fragile, this time managing to reach the shops without falling over. As a reward, needing something to read, I bought a copy of the Manchester Evening News. Scouring the paper, I found a job in the classified section that intrigued me. A Chartered Accountant advertised for a Practice Manager. It meant resurrecting a career, which I had once binned. Many years had elapsed since I was last in the profession. Still, I had taken the course at the Mossad Academy and had forgotten nothing. Applying for the job, I got a quick reply offering me an interview.
Next day, wearing my one and only outfit and meaning to maintain my record for punctuality, barely able to afford it, I took a taxi to Trafford Road in Salford. Roy Trick’s practice no more than a large room really near the United Reformed Church. No résumé, still the truth, I told him that I had left work to care for Mum until her death and wished to restart my career. Roy proposed that I begin work the following week. My next stop a bookshop, I bought a bag of boring tax manuals and once back in the flat, avidly studied them.
My effort paying off, I created a niche for myself. Soon handling interviews and making it worthwhile, once again, an agony aunt, friendly and efficient, as I helped them solve their
Like Dad, my record unstained, the blood on my hands Avrim’s. No killer, as a soldier and some will disagree, but never with Sharon, I know the difference, my enemy terrorists they knew the score, they went in with their eyes open. Unlike them, I never once hurt the innocent. Their suffering, not my conscience kept me awake at night. Not religious, though aware that the General observes every move and nothing that I ever did criminal. Like our little chat when I was aged 3-years, never troubling the Almighty without good reason, my gender status Big Chief’s clanger in the first place. But was it a blunder? I reckon that He sometimes makes deliberate mistakes to make people see. Anyhow, furious with Him – who knows, perhaps that should be Her? Otherwise, alone in the flat and I cried
“If You’re so bloody anxious for me to live, then like Moses, You’ve got to show me the path forward – just say Follow Me!”
The overdose made me dreadfully ill. As I began to recover, the cupboard bare, still feeling fragile, this time managing to reach the shops without falling over. As a reward, needing something to read, I bought a copy of the Manchester Evening News. Scouring the paper, I found a job in the classified section that intrigued me. A Chartered Accountant advertised for a Practice Manager. It meant resurrecting a career, which I had once binned. Many years had elapsed since I was last in the profession. Still, I had taken the course at the Mossad Academy and had forgotten nothing. Applying for the job, I got a quick reply offering me an interview.
Next day, wearing my one and only outfit and meaning to maintain my record for punctuality, barely able to afford it, I took a taxi to Trafford Road in Salford. Roy Trick’s practice no more than a large room really near the United Reformed Church. No résumé, still the truth, I told him that I had left work to care for Mum until her death and wished to restart my career. Roy proposed that I begin work the following week. My next stop a bookshop, I bought a bag of boring tax manuals and once back in the flat, avidly studied them.
My effort paying off, I created a niche for myself. Soon handling interviews and making it worthwhile, once again, an agony aunt, friendly and efficient, as I helped them solve their
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problems, I impressed the clients by easing their worries. Much more old fashioned than me, Roy hailed from Blackburn and difficult, I didn’t care, most days he went on the road aiming to make a name for himself as a troubleshooter, leaving me to run the practice. At the desk next to me, a young vibrant guy, as we chatted, as he gave me a lift into Chinatown, we became firm friends. Michael So unveiled that once he had finished his studies and qualified, he planned to live in Hong Kong. Like him, paid peanuts, that didn’t matter, I had regained an identity the job had restored my poise.
Three months later, secure in my career, I wanted to move from Miles Platting to be closer to my work. The lump in my arm worrying, but not a good time to do anything about it and needing an op for that too, I didn’t dare take sick leave and ruin it now. I needed 1991 to turn out well. Making fresh plans, I asked about a move to Salford. In February, the council invited me to view another tenth floor flat at Ordsall. A no go area, no bobby on the beat here, crime a way of life and just like Miles Platting, reminiscent of Beirut. Settling it, the flat only ten minutes walk from the office. I moved to Nine Acre Court in March.
Each day, upon leaving the flat for work, I passed a security lodge in the lobby. Always the same guard on duty, when work ended and I returned to the flat, he was still there. Waving every time we spotted one other, we knew he must stop me. Glancing at my briefcase, the guard queried
“Are you a student?”
“I’m in accountancy,” I responded.
We chatted a few minutes more until as I got the lift, leaving it there for now, we knew what was brewing.
Next morning, my day off and as I passed his lodge, Jim asked me if I would like a coffee. We had a lovely chat. A genial chap, Jim loved music and I knew then that I had rediscovered my Man Friday.
We agreed to meet again that evening. Just an ordinary guy and alone in the flat together I could trust Jim. Sharing our first kiss, I adored this man, tall, slim, dark and bearded. I deny that it was his uniform he made me feel safe. A character and all heart, a real gypsy, and teasing him, I loved his big beak. Younger than him by over ten years, love matters more and like Avrim, telling him all. Jim pledged
“I’ll see the doctors for you. I’ll tell them you’re a woman!”
Overjoyed to have found us, still denied my rights and marriage. Life too short, we held our own ceremony, losing no time living together. Content for now with kisses and cuddling, until an op released me. As I wept upon his shoulder, taking weeks, I held
Three months later, secure in my career, I wanted to move from Miles Platting to be closer to my work. The lump in my arm worrying, but not a good time to do anything about it and needing an op for that too, I didn’t dare take sick leave and ruin it now. I needed 1991 to turn out well. Making fresh plans, I asked about a move to Salford. In February, the council invited me to view another tenth floor flat at Ordsall. A no go area, no bobby on the beat here, crime a way of life and just like Miles Platting, reminiscent of Beirut. Settling it, the flat only ten minutes walk from the office. I moved to Nine Acre Court in March.
Each day, upon leaving the flat for work, I passed a security lodge in the lobby. Always the same guard on duty, when work ended and I returned to the flat, he was still there. Waving every time we spotted one other, we knew he must stop me. Glancing at my briefcase, the guard queried
“Are you a student?”
“I’m in accountancy,” I responded.
We chatted a few minutes more until as I got the lift, leaving it there for now, we knew what was brewing.
Next morning, my day off and as I passed his lodge, Jim asked me if I would like a coffee. We had a lovely chat. A genial chap, Jim loved music and I knew then that I had rediscovered my Man Friday.
We agreed to meet again that evening. Just an ordinary guy and alone in the flat together I could trust Jim. Sharing our first kiss, I adored this man, tall, slim, dark and bearded. I deny that it was his uniform he made me feel safe. A character and all heart, a real gypsy, and teasing him, I loved his big beak. Younger than him by over ten years, love matters more and like Avrim, telling him all. Jim pledged
“I’ll see the doctors for you. I’ll tell them you’re a woman!”
Overjoyed to have found us, still denied my rights and marriage. Life too short, we held our own ceremony, losing no time living together. Content for now with kisses and cuddling, until an op released me. As I wept upon his shoulder, taking weeks, I held
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nothing back. Unfazed and drying my tears, no astronaut no racing driver no lies. Jim told me all about himself.
“I was born in Newbridge Lane in Stockport. I lived next door to a foundry in an old lodging house; my grandparents looked after me and ran it. I didn’t know my Dad, he never returned from the war, Mum worked in a cake shop.”
As a boy, roaming streets late at night, avoiding attachment to his peer groups, they led happier lives. Jim survived the hard way. Leaving school at 15, training to be a butcher and at 30, managing a supermarket. Jim got married. Not a happy alliance. A responsible dad and hanging on for the sake of his children his partner into possessions and when the family grew up and left home, depressed and like most folk, Jim found solace in booze. After his divorce, as he dwelt upon his misery, addiction to alcohol became a problem. I knew about hard times and here and now together we would beat it. One fine summer evening, as we strolled by the shimmering water down at the old docks, no arty Lowry Centre then, Salford Quays still trendy. Casually, I queried
“Jim, do you really love me?”
“Of course I do!” he insisted.
“Then why do you hurt me?”
“I’d never want to hurt you.”
“Then why do you still drink heavily?”
“I don’t know” his face sad, it hurt me to upset him.
“Can you give up alcohol?”
“Of course I can!” he cried, adamant.
“Can you give up drinking today – I mean now?”
“I’ll need time to cut down.”
“You have a choice…me, or the bottle.”
“I choose you!”
“See!” I told him, as raindrops mingled with our tears “He's crying for us too!”
Enjoying simple pleasures, we loved watching football and avid Manchester United fans, Old Trafford only around the corner; we joined the crowd on the Stretford End. At night, staying in, we enjoyed tuning in to Piccadilly Gold and listening to James Stannage on the radio. An old hippie, he hosted a provocative late night chat show and incredibly outspoken, one day, he must face the sack. Needing a family, we rescued three lovely kittens from Tib Street. As Jim worried about my arm and urged me to see the doctor. As he examined the lump, I told him
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“I was born in Newbridge Lane in Stockport. I lived next door to a foundry in an old lodging house; my grandparents looked after me and ran it. I didn’t know my Dad, he never returned from the war, Mum worked in a cake shop.”
As a boy, roaming streets late at night, avoiding attachment to his peer groups, they led happier lives. Jim survived the hard way. Leaving school at 15, training to be a butcher and at 30, managing a supermarket. Jim got married. Not a happy alliance. A responsible dad and hanging on for the sake of his children his partner into possessions and when the family grew up and left home, depressed and like most folk, Jim found solace in booze. After his divorce, as he dwelt upon his misery, addiction to alcohol became a problem. I knew about hard times and here and now together we would beat it. One fine summer evening, as we strolled by the shimmering water down at the old docks, no arty Lowry Centre then, Salford Quays still trendy. Casually, I queried
“Jim, do you really love me?”
“Of course I do!” he insisted.
“Then why do you hurt me?”
“I’d never want to hurt you.”
“Then why do you still drink heavily?”
“I don’t know” his face sad, it hurt me to upset him.
“Can you give up alcohol?”
“Of course I can!” he cried, adamant.
“Can you give up drinking today – I mean now?”
“I’ll need time to cut down.”
“You have a choice…me, or the bottle.”
“I choose you!”
“See!” I told him, as raindrops mingled with our tears “He's crying for us too!”
Enjoying simple pleasures, we loved watching football and avid Manchester United fans, Old Trafford only around the corner; we joined the crowd on the Stretford End. At night, staying in, we enjoyed tuning in to Piccadilly Gold and listening to James Stannage on the radio. An old hippie, he hosted a provocative late night chat show and incredibly outspoken, one day, he must face the sack. Needing a family, we rescued three lovely kittens from Tib Street. As Jim worried about my arm and urged me to see the doctor. As he examined the lump, I told him
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“I can’t bend my arm properly. I keep on getting sharp stinging needles of pain in and all around the lump.”
Admitting it could be serious, as he eyed my souvenir battle wound, the doctor asked me how had I won the fading scar. Saving time, the truth took much longer, an old excuse, I put it down to a childhood riding accident. He arranged for me to attend hospital where I had an x-ray and ultra-sound scan. The results doubtful, I had to return to the hospital for a needle-biopsy. No anaesthetic, using a special needle and the doctor stuck it in the tumour, painfully snipping off a sliver of tissue. The lab report claimed it might prove malignant. A rare one, when a specialist examined the lump, turning to his assistant, he whispered
“Its cancerous.”
Showering me with his love and care, as Jim cradled me in his arms, urging me to believe him, together, he promised me that we would beat it. My doctor urged me to have a proper biopsy. A minor operation, in August, a Manchester hospital gave me a sideward. As he entered the room to examine me, a junior doctor explained that he needed to do a quick check up to see if I was strong enough for a full anaesthetic. Passing me fit, the doctor made a note in his file, returning his attention to me. He declared that I needed to sign a consent form. As I found my pen, casual about it, he announced
“Of course, you know we might need to amputate.”
“Amputate!” the pen fell from my grasp. “What do you mean?”
“I thought you knew, if the lump is cancer,” he told me “We have to amputate.”
“We thought this was just a simple biopsy!” exclaimed Jim.
Shaken, as the doctor ran from the room, not gone long, he scurried back with the consultant. As he retrieved the consent form from the file, taking my pen and using big block capitals, the surgeon mercifully scrawled across it ‘no amputation under any circumstances.’
Next day, when I opened my eyes, stealing a quick peep and relieved, my arm still there, swathed in thick bandages. That evening just finished his shift and still wearing his blue uniform, Jim called for a kiss. He caught me in a perky mood. As I closed the heavy manual resting in my lap, living for the future, I had just completed an accounting technology course.
Next day, waiting until late in the afternoon before getting to me and wearing a grave expression, the consultant told me
“We’ve identified the tumour, I’m afraid that it’s malignant and rare. I’m sorry, prepare yourself, unless it stops growing we’ll have to amputate.”
Admitting it could be serious, as he eyed my souvenir battle wound, the doctor asked me how had I won the fading scar. Saving time, the truth took much longer, an old excuse, I put it down to a childhood riding accident. He arranged for me to attend hospital where I had an x-ray and ultra-sound scan. The results doubtful, I had to return to the hospital for a needle-biopsy. No anaesthetic, using a special needle and the doctor stuck it in the tumour, painfully snipping off a sliver of tissue. The lab report claimed it might prove malignant. A rare one, when a specialist examined the lump, turning to his assistant, he whispered
“Its cancerous.”
Showering me with his love and care, as Jim cradled me in his arms, urging me to believe him, together, he promised me that we would beat it. My doctor urged me to have a proper biopsy. A minor operation, in August, a Manchester hospital gave me a sideward. As he entered the room to examine me, a junior doctor explained that he needed to do a quick check up to see if I was strong enough for a full anaesthetic. Passing me fit, the doctor made a note in his file, returning his attention to me. He declared that I needed to sign a consent form. As I found my pen, casual about it, he announced
“Of course, you know we might need to amputate.”
“Amputate!” the pen fell from my grasp. “What do you mean?”
“I thought you knew, if the lump is cancer,” he told me “We have to amputate.”
“We thought this was just a simple biopsy!” exclaimed Jim.
Shaken, as the doctor ran from the room, not gone long, he scurried back with the consultant. As he retrieved the consent form from the file, taking my pen and using big block capitals, the surgeon mercifully scrawled across it ‘no amputation under any circumstances.’
Next day, when I opened my eyes, stealing a quick peep and relieved, my arm still there, swathed in thick bandages. That evening just finished his shift and still wearing his blue uniform, Jim called for a kiss. He caught me in a perky mood. As I closed the heavy manual resting in my lap, living for the future, I had just completed an accounting technology course.
Next day, waiting until late in the afternoon before getting to me and wearing a grave expression, the consultant told me
“We’ve identified the tumour, I’m afraid that it’s malignant and rare. I’m sorry, prepare yourself, unless it stops growing we’ll have to amputate.”
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When Jim arrived to take me home, as he held onto me, between sobs, I gave him the awful news. Filling me with all the belief and willpower I needed to fight the cancer, heartfelt, Jim promised me
“I’ll never let it happen.”
The consultant advised me to quit my job. However, resolving not to fall at the first hurdle and ignoring his counsel, when Jim went out to work, I didn’t want to stay home alone dwelling upon the pain. As it got worse, the lump grew larger. My doctor gave me analgesics, Jim more effective, each night his love fought the pain. He would doze off massaging my arm and joining me on all my trips to the hospital as we convened once more. The consultant annoyed me, obstinately sticking to his policy of wait and see. He alleged that sometimes tumours stopped growing of their own accord, but as more time passed, the lump larger and more painful, our patience worn thin, we refused to believe him.
“Can’t you cut it out surgically?” queried Jim.
“Too dangerous” insisted the surgeon. “Its much too close to the radial nerve, it carries signals from the brain to the hand, if damaged, the arm would be rendered useless.”
It was useless now. Ruling out chemo, he guaranteed that I would need such a massive dose that it would kill too many healthy cells. If left alone, the tumour must spread to my shoulder, attack vital organs and kill me. In the event, he gave me morphine-based DF-118 to help kill the pain. As he watched my attempts to flex the limb, it hardly budged and very depressed, I had lost too much and didn’t intend to lose my arm. Unmoved, the surgeon repeated
“Wait and see is my policy.”
Meanwhile, in view of their gross negligence, Jim believed that we should sue the Prison Service. As he arranged it, we visited a lawyer in the city. I told Steve Jones at Pannone and Partners about my efforts to win attention from the MO at Liverpool prison and how he had always ignored me. The brief quizzed
“Did you suffer any injuries to the arm while you were in prison?”
At once, I recalled the violence that the screws had inflicted upon me when they grabbed and twisted my arms in their manic effort to snap my mugshot. Deciding to take the case, a few weeks passed before we held a second meeting. Steve told us that he had received a letter from a governor at Liverpool Prison. A cover up of course, it claimed that the log, which the screws had used to record the photo incident was missing, and Charlton, the guilty S/O on duty at the time, claimed he couldn’t remember the event – even though he had arranged it!
“I expected as much,” declared Steve, “In my experience, I’ve found prisons are good at losing things.
“I’ll never let it happen.”
The consultant advised me to quit my job. However, resolving not to fall at the first hurdle and ignoring his counsel, when Jim went out to work, I didn’t want to stay home alone dwelling upon the pain. As it got worse, the lump grew larger. My doctor gave me analgesics, Jim more effective, each night his love fought the pain. He would doze off massaging my arm and joining me on all my trips to the hospital as we convened once more. The consultant annoyed me, obstinately sticking to his policy of wait and see. He alleged that sometimes tumours stopped growing of their own accord, but as more time passed, the lump larger and more painful, our patience worn thin, we refused to believe him.
“Can’t you cut it out surgically?” queried Jim.
“Too dangerous” insisted the surgeon. “Its much too close to the radial nerve, it carries signals from the brain to the hand, if damaged, the arm would be rendered useless.”
It was useless now. Ruling out chemo, he guaranteed that I would need such a massive dose that it would kill too many healthy cells. If left alone, the tumour must spread to my shoulder, attack vital organs and kill me. In the event, he gave me morphine-based DF-118 to help kill the pain. As he watched my attempts to flex the limb, it hardly budged and very depressed, I had lost too much and didn’t intend to lose my arm. Unmoved, the surgeon repeated
“Wait and see is my policy.”
Meanwhile, in view of their gross negligence, Jim believed that we should sue the Prison Service. As he arranged it, we visited a lawyer in the city. I told Steve Jones at Pannone and Partners about my efforts to win attention from the MO at Liverpool prison and how he had always ignored me. The brief quizzed
“Did you suffer any injuries to the arm while you were in prison?”
At once, I recalled the violence that the screws had inflicted upon me when they grabbed and twisted my arms in their manic effort to snap my mugshot. Deciding to take the case, a few weeks passed before we held a second meeting. Steve told us that he had received a letter from a governor at Liverpool Prison. A cover up of course, it claimed that the log, which the screws had used to record the photo incident was missing, and Charlton, the guilty S/O on duty at the time, claimed he couldn’t remember the event – even though he had arranged it!
“I expected as much,” declared Steve, “In my experience, I’ve found prisons are good at losing things.
- 135 -
I wanted to inform him that they weren’t alone. The DVLA had proved good at it too. Inept or what? No trust of government agencies. They had destroyed my life, as I knew it. Steve refused to leave it there, taking it much further and seeking a second opinion he advised
“I’m contacting one of the UK’s leading specialists in soft tissue tumours.”
Now 1992 and back at the office, the recession biting hard, as Roy devoted more of his energy to his declining consultancy work, compelled to quit his post as Honorary Treasurer of the local Citizen’s Advice Bureau, he asked me if I would like to be the new CAB treasurer. Accepting the rôle at once and taking on the position for the whole of Inner Salford, soon afterwards made a director, I felt very privileged. A charity, they paid me no money that would have spoilt it. Desperately deprived, riddled with crime and every abuse, still some good souls knocking about Ordsall, but they needed all the help they could get. As I refused to remain on the margin, it felt good to put something into the community and feel part of society.
Meanwhile, as the pain in my arm grew worse, the consultant gave me another morphine-based drug. Eight Tylex capsules every day and extremely potent, its effects made me feel sick and drowsy.
In August, Roy made me redundant. I couldn’t complain, as more people joined me, thanks to Maggie Thatcher’s false booms and more businesses fell bankrupt. Promising Roy that I could manage on half pay until things improved, he couldn’t afford me at any price. Spurning the dole and feverish to get a new job, I did well. It took me just two months to gain my first interview.
Graham Hill required a new Company Accountant. A timber merchant, he had a branch in Bolton, but his head office in Sale was only five miles from me. When we met, Graham told me that forced to sack his last accountant, he claimed that she had left the accounts in a terrible mess and around £20,000 was missing. His auditor reckoned that she had cooked the books. Accordingly, Graham unveiled that he had hired a private detective. I winced when he unveiled that the gumshoe had discovered that the suspect had since died from cancer and hoping for once history didn’t repeat itself, I thought it best not to mention my arm.
Next day, after Graham’s finicky auditor gave me a grilling the job mine, I got to work on 9th November and found the computer inputs abysmal. It would take me ages to sort out. A scary task, I felt it might prove more efficient to desert the computer and perform a manual rewrite. As I ploughed through endless peaks of paper, taking it home with me, spending long weekends at it,
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“I’m contacting one of the UK’s leading specialists in soft tissue tumours.”
Now 1992 and back at the office, the recession biting hard, as Roy devoted more of his energy to his declining consultancy work, compelled to quit his post as Honorary Treasurer of the local Citizen’s Advice Bureau, he asked me if I would like to be the new CAB treasurer. Accepting the rôle at once and taking on the position for the whole of Inner Salford, soon afterwards made a director, I felt very privileged. A charity, they paid me no money that would have spoilt it. Desperately deprived, riddled with crime and every abuse, still some good souls knocking about Ordsall, but they needed all the help they could get. As I refused to remain on the margin, it felt good to put something into the community and feel part of society.
Meanwhile, as the pain in my arm grew worse, the consultant gave me another morphine-based drug. Eight Tylex capsules every day and extremely potent, its effects made me feel sick and drowsy.
In August, Roy made me redundant. I couldn’t complain, as more people joined me, thanks to Maggie Thatcher’s false booms and more businesses fell bankrupt. Promising Roy that I could manage on half pay until things improved, he couldn’t afford me at any price. Spurning the dole and feverish to get a new job, I did well. It took me just two months to gain my first interview.
Graham Hill required a new Company Accountant. A timber merchant, he had a branch in Bolton, but his head office in Sale was only five miles from me. When we met, Graham told me that forced to sack his last accountant, he claimed that she had left the accounts in a terrible mess and around £20,000 was missing. His auditor reckoned that she had cooked the books. Accordingly, Graham unveiled that he had hired a private detective. I winced when he unveiled that the gumshoe had discovered that the suspect had since died from cancer and hoping for once history didn’t repeat itself, I thought it best not to mention my arm.
Next day, after Graham’s finicky auditor gave me a grilling the job mine, I got to work on 9th November and found the computer inputs abysmal. It would take me ages to sort out. A scary task, I felt it might prove more efficient to desert the computer and perform a manual rewrite. As I ploughed through endless peaks of paper, taking it home with me, spending long weekends at it,
- 136 -
finally, I had a set of books worthy of the name. As another year ended, compelled to refuse Graham’s invitation, pleased by my efforts, he had wished Jim and me to share a table with him and his family at the annual company dinner. It clashed with a turning out to be worthless hospital date. I spent the whole festive season revising the accounts. In January 1993, Graham’s auditor bragged that I would never have the job done. Beating the deadline, I had the computer ready for the next tax year.
In February, as Jim joined me, Steve had fixed an appointment for me with a specialist at the Priory Private Hospital in Birmingham. Gasping at the tumour’s dimensions as he probed it with his fingers, Mr Grimer observed
“It feels bony – how painful is it?”
“Bad!” I admitted clenching my jaw.
“I’m appalled, how far can you bend it?” quizzed the surgeon.
“It won’t move at all now,” I told him.
Aghast, he warned me that the tumour was about to spread into my shoulder. If we let it do that, it would attack vital organs and might kill me. Timid, I had to ask him
“You’re not thinking amputation are you?”
“Good grief no – we can save the arm, there’s a risk to the radial nerve, but I have a good team here. At worst, you’ll suffer a dropped wrist and we can easily fix that. What’s this nonsense about amputation?”
“The surgeon in Manchester says the lump might stop growing,” Jim told him.
“I don’t see that,” replied the consultant ”Though we must act fast!”
A worrit and I had to appease Graham and reassure him that his business wouldn’t miss me for a few days. As a failsafe, to smooth his furrowed brow, I gave his wife, Margaret, a crash course in pay calculation. It was sufficient to keep the staff happy while I was absent. My new systems working well I would soon catch up on my return.
As Jim took time off to join me, strolling into Birmingham Royal Orthopaedic Hospital together and first thing next morning, I prepared myself for surgery. We praised Steve for fixing it. A few hours later, in the recovery room, as my eyelids flickered, holding my hand, between sniffles, Jim reassured me
“It’s gone.”
“He’s not left your side since you came out of theatre” cried nurse McTighe, like me, she loved romantics.
- 137 -
In February, as Jim joined me, Steve had fixed an appointment for me with a specialist at the Priory Private Hospital in Birmingham. Gasping at the tumour’s dimensions as he probed it with his fingers, Mr Grimer observed
“It feels bony – how painful is it?”
“Bad!” I admitted clenching my jaw.
“I’m appalled, how far can you bend it?” quizzed the surgeon.
“It won’t move at all now,” I told him.
Aghast, he warned me that the tumour was about to spread into my shoulder. If we let it do that, it would attack vital organs and might kill me. Timid, I had to ask him
“You’re not thinking amputation are you?”
“Good grief no – we can save the arm, there’s a risk to the radial nerve, but I have a good team here. At worst, you’ll suffer a dropped wrist and we can easily fix that. What’s this nonsense about amputation?”
“The surgeon in Manchester says the lump might stop growing,” Jim told him.
“I don’t see that,” replied the consultant ”Though we must act fast!”
A worrit and I had to appease Graham and reassure him that his business wouldn’t miss me for a few days. As a failsafe, to smooth his furrowed brow, I gave his wife, Margaret, a crash course in pay calculation. It was sufficient to keep the staff happy while I was absent. My new systems working well I would soon catch up on my return.
As Jim took time off to join me, strolling into Birmingham Royal Orthopaedic Hospital together and first thing next morning, I prepared myself for surgery. We praised Steve for fixing it. A few hours later, in the recovery room, as my eyelids flickered, holding my hand, between sniffles, Jim reassured me
“It’s gone.”
“He’s not left your side since you came out of theatre” cried nurse McTighe, like me, she loved romantics.
- 137 -
As I stole a peek, my right arm wrapped tight in cling film. Maureen told us it did away with scars and stitches. Stripped near to the bone, the limb looked like a bloody joint of meat. The tumour no more, a lot of muscle missing, but I had been there before. In Israel, like their surgeons had once told me, exercise would soon restore deficient tissue. Experiencing no pain, two long rubber tubes trailed from my arm and using a clever little gadget, click and via a needle stuck in my wrist, one tube let 3mg of morphine trickle directly into my bloodstream. The second tube drained excess fluid from the wound directly into a sealed plastic pot hiding under the bed.
Next morning, in the pink dressed in my silk pyjamas, I felt buoyant. Shortly, Mr Grimer entered the room. Smiling, he asked me to try and flex my arm. It had been stuck fast for two years. Diffident and fearing more pain I felt none, my arm still didn’t yet feel like it belonged to me, but to my astonishment, able to bend the limb like anyone else, it felt wonderful. I had great fun learning how to use it again. Tearful, I told them
“Thank you – this is the best birthday present I’ve ever had…”
When they realised that it was my birthday, the brilliant nurses made colourful decorations for my room. Clubbing together, they even bought us a bottle of wine to celebrate. Graham sent me a lovely bunch of flowers and a nice get-well card signed by all the staff. Cutting short my sick leave, I returned to work early, eager to resume my duties. All was fine until a couple of months later.
Upon leaving the flat, I took a lift down to the compound. 10th May had begun like any other day. As usual, climbing into my car at nine to reach my desk by 9-30, Jim’s security mate opened the gate and exiting the car park, I made for the road. Standing alone on a vacant street corner, as he spotted my car, a tall man signalled me to stop. Slim, maybe 30, dressed in a black reefer. As a rule, wise to drive on in these dodgy parts, he looked nothing like a mugger and thinking that he wanted directions, stopping the car, I was wrong. He warned me
“I know who you are, I know all about the arson, the Mossad” sure of himself, he added, “In fact, I know everything!”
“Who are you?” I probed petrified.
“We need to talk,” he told me “We’ll do it later with another man.”
Convincing me of his ID, as he reeled off more and more details raked from my past, he just had to be a spook. The book not out then, how else did he know so much about me? He said that we must meet later. Nonplussed, I agreed to eight that same evening. Apart from anything else, I admit the incident gave me a buzz. It preyed on my mind all day at the office. Upon my return to the flat, eager to tell him about my encounter, I waited for Jim to finish work. Vexed, he quizzed
Next morning, in the pink dressed in my silk pyjamas, I felt buoyant. Shortly, Mr Grimer entered the room. Smiling, he asked me to try and flex my arm. It had been stuck fast for two years. Diffident and fearing more pain I felt none, my arm still didn’t yet feel like it belonged to me, but to my astonishment, able to bend the limb like anyone else, it felt wonderful. I had great fun learning how to use it again. Tearful, I told them
“Thank you – this is the best birthday present I’ve ever had…”
When they realised that it was my birthday, the brilliant nurses made colourful decorations for my room. Clubbing together, they even bought us a bottle of wine to celebrate. Graham sent me a lovely bunch of flowers and a nice get-well card signed by all the staff. Cutting short my sick leave, I returned to work early, eager to resume my duties. All was fine until a couple of months later.
Upon leaving the flat, I took a lift down to the compound. 10th May had begun like any other day. As usual, climbing into my car at nine to reach my desk by 9-30, Jim’s security mate opened the gate and exiting the car park, I made for the road. Standing alone on a vacant street corner, as he spotted my car, a tall man signalled me to stop. Slim, maybe 30, dressed in a black reefer. As a rule, wise to drive on in these dodgy parts, he looked nothing like a mugger and thinking that he wanted directions, stopping the car, I was wrong. He warned me
“I know who you are, I know all about the arson, the Mossad” sure of himself, he added, “In fact, I know everything!”
“Who are you?” I probed petrified.
“We need to talk,” he told me “We’ll do it later with another man.”
Convincing me of his ID, as he reeled off more and more details raked from my past, he just had to be a spook. The book not out then, how else did he know so much about me? He said that we must meet later. Nonplussed, I agreed to eight that same evening. Apart from anything else, I admit the incident gave me a buzz. It preyed on my mind all day at the office. Upon my return to the flat, eager to tell him about my encounter, I waited for Jim to finish work. Vexed, he quizzed
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“Why didn’t you phone me?”
“I couldn’t talk about it in the office…I believe he’s a spook.”
As we fell silent, Jim knew that I had a past with secret services. He also knew that I had promised him never to go back to it. However, shortly before eight that evening as Jim joined me in the car park, climbing into the Rover together I drove us to Regent Road. Turning into Sainsbury’s supermarket, as directed, I found a space in the far corner of the compound. Engine cut, radio off and as we watched the traffic lights changing colour, nothing happening now, few cars on the road, it would wake up later when the cop car chases started. It was nothing around here to witness cops crying in the back of their vans as toddlers heaved bricks at their vehicles.
As two men popped out from the building behind us, heading straight for our car, I warned Jim that the bloke sporting frizzy brown hair was the same guy I had met that morning. Wearing a black overcoat over a pinstripe navy suit, his dapper friend resembled a lawyer. As they clambered onto the backseat of our car, like spectres, returning to haunt me, greeting us like old friends. No especial accent, though a Michael Palin lookalike and just as cheerful, frizzy hair began
“Hi, I’m Naylor, I’m with the Secret Intelligence Service.”
Aged maybe 40, shrewd face, his hair grey speckled black. Snooty like he loved himself, he could double as Edward Fox. As the second man introduced himself, he declared
“My name is Pelham, I represent Her Majesty’s Security Service.
Smooth and superior, the rich timbre of his voice betraying Oxbridge, as my heart quickened, a long time since I had had a briefing and all ears, like the old days and not about to stop him now. Pelham began
“I feel sure that you keep abreast of the news, you must know that Asil Nadir, the ehhh, the Turkish-Cypriot tycoon, fled Britain last week. He’s now a fugitive from British justice, we mean to secure his earliest arrest.”
As he outlined the purpose behind our blind date, regularly pausing to impress, Pelham found himself very significant. Until now, I had not really noticed his gold-rimmed pince-nez, his pale blue eyes piercing and the way that he parted his hair looked as if it might hide a patch. So far, he had told me only that which I knew, wanting more, the media had gone berserk.
Once the 36th richest man in Britain and a friend of royalty, Nadir 24/7 in the papers, on the radio and twice nightly on television, I had not followed it. A fat cat and frankly, I didn’t care, but in your face, everyone knew that Nadir used to be the chairman of Polly Peck International, then valued at more than two billion pounds
“I couldn’t talk about it in the office…I believe he’s a spook.”
As we fell silent, Jim knew that I had a past with secret services. He also knew that I had promised him never to go back to it. However, shortly before eight that evening as Jim joined me in the car park, climbing into the Rover together I drove us to Regent Road. Turning into Sainsbury’s supermarket, as directed, I found a space in the far corner of the compound. Engine cut, radio off and as we watched the traffic lights changing colour, nothing happening now, few cars on the road, it would wake up later when the cop car chases started. It was nothing around here to witness cops crying in the back of their vans as toddlers heaved bricks at their vehicles.
As two men popped out from the building behind us, heading straight for our car, I warned Jim that the bloke sporting frizzy brown hair was the same guy I had met that morning. Wearing a black overcoat over a pinstripe navy suit, his dapper friend resembled a lawyer. As they clambered onto the backseat of our car, like spectres, returning to haunt me, greeting us like old friends. No especial accent, though a Michael Palin lookalike and just as cheerful, frizzy hair began
“Hi, I’m Naylor, I’m with the Secret Intelligence Service.”
Aged maybe 40, shrewd face, his hair grey speckled black. Snooty like he loved himself, he could double as Edward Fox. As the second man introduced himself, he declared
“My name is Pelham, I represent Her Majesty’s Security Service.
Smooth and superior, the rich timbre of his voice betraying Oxbridge, as my heart quickened, a long time since I had had a briefing and all ears, like the old days and not about to stop him now. Pelham began
“I feel sure that you keep abreast of the news, you must know that Asil Nadir, the ehhh, the Turkish-Cypriot tycoon, fled Britain last week. He’s now a fugitive from British justice, we mean to secure his earliest arrest.”
As he outlined the purpose behind our blind date, regularly pausing to impress, Pelham found himself very significant. Until now, I had not really noticed his gold-rimmed pince-nez, his pale blue eyes piercing and the way that he parted his hair looked as if it might hide a patch. So far, he had told me only that which I knew, wanting more, the media had gone berserk.
Once the 36th richest man in Britain and a friend of royalty, Nadir 24/7 in the papers, on the radio and twice nightly on television, I had not followed it. A fat cat and frankly, I didn’t care, but in your face, everyone knew that Nadir used to be the chairman of Polly Peck International, then valued at more than two billion pounds
- 139 -
sterling. According to the Serious Fraud Office, a naughty boy, they alleged that Nadir was a fraudster and had stolen millions.
“We can’t just extradite Nadir” interposed Naylor “He’s in the TRNC we’ll not let that get in our way.”
They explained to us that TRNC meant Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. After a coup by Greek officers, Turkish troops had invaded the island in 1974 and divided ever since, Britain refused to recognise its sovereignty.
As we fell suddenly silent, Naylor had spied some bloke walking through the car park. He made me look and feel nervous too, but it was nothing, just a guy taking a shortcut. A joint op and as they sparred for my attention, Pelham vowed
“We mean to trap Nadir and force him to face trial in the UK. To that end, I want you to meet his banker, Elizabeth Forsyth. The SFO intend to deal with her when she returns to the UK.”
“Unlike Nadir” Naylor cut in “We know for certain that Mrs Forsyth will return from Cyprus. She has close family ties in this country.”
“Forsyth will be found guilty at her trial” decreed Pelham. Orwell’s Big Brother lives, he added “Its important to our strategy that she’s imprisoned.”
Pelham claimed that my background fitted their scheme perfectly, outlining his case, he told me that I understood business, knew about prison, most important of all, I was a ready-made spy with no links to MI5 or MI6, ideal for their ‘deniable operation’. I could scarcely believe their effrontery. They had ruined my life, now they wanted me to help them.
They wanted me to play a mole and meet Mrs Forsyth in prison. I was to be her companion and tell her that I used to work for the Mossad. They assured me that would impress her and if Nadir checked me out, with the help of MI6, the Turkish Secret Service must find proof. They explained that I would receive instructions to snare the tycoon and land him in gaol. Entangled in the web, no escape now, they were frantic for my assistance and I could sell it to the Sunday papers. Next evening, once more, back in the car park, this time, as they defined my rôle in the plot here was the catch. Pelham began
“To appear convincing you must commit a real crime together you’ll have to go to prison not for very long six months each should do it.”
Oh, that’s all right then. As Jim stared at me, he knew my plans; we were in this thing together. As MI5 drove us to crime, with Jim’s help, Pelham wanted me to raid Graham Hill’s company bank account. How we did it, was up to me. I had to pinch a cool
“We can’t just extradite Nadir” interposed Naylor “He’s in the TRNC we’ll not let that get in our way.”
They explained to us that TRNC meant Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. After a coup by Greek officers, Turkish troops had invaded the island in 1974 and divided ever since, Britain refused to recognise its sovereignty.
As we fell suddenly silent, Naylor had spied some bloke walking through the car park. He made me look and feel nervous too, but it was nothing, just a guy taking a shortcut. A joint op and as they sparred for my attention, Pelham vowed
“We mean to trap Nadir and force him to face trial in the UK. To that end, I want you to meet his banker, Elizabeth Forsyth. The SFO intend to deal with her when she returns to the UK.”
“Unlike Nadir” Naylor cut in “We know for certain that Mrs Forsyth will return from Cyprus. She has close family ties in this country.”
“Forsyth will be found guilty at her trial” decreed Pelham. Orwell’s Big Brother lives, he added “Its important to our strategy that she’s imprisoned.”
Pelham claimed that my background fitted their scheme perfectly, outlining his case, he told me that I understood business, knew about prison, most important of all, I was a ready-made spy with no links to MI5 or MI6, ideal for their ‘deniable operation’. I could scarcely believe their effrontery. They had ruined my life, now they wanted me to help them.
They wanted me to play a mole and meet Mrs Forsyth in prison. I was to be her companion and tell her that I used to work for the Mossad. They assured me that would impress her and if Nadir checked me out, with the help of MI6, the Turkish Secret Service must find proof. They explained that I would receive instructions to snare the tycoon and land him in gaol. Entangled in the web, no escape now, they were frantic for my assistance and I could sell it to the Sunday papers. Next evening, once more, back in the car park, this time, as they defined my rôle in the plot here was the catch. Pelham began
“To appear convincing you must commit a real crime together you’ll have to go to prison not for very long six months each should do it.”
Oh, that’s all right then. As Jim stared at me, he knew my plans; we were in this thing together. As MI5 drove us to crime, with Jim’s help, Pelham wanted me to raid Graham Hill’s company bank account. How we did it, was up to me. I had to pinch a cool
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£30,000. Graham a millionaire and might not miss it; we would still repay it. The deed scheduled to take one year, while MI6 monitored the banker, MI5 would control the SFO, Pelham to play Puppet-master, about to pull many strings in his position he held the power to abuse the system.
Jim would go to an open prison. He would hack that now that I had told him my secret strategy. I had to do time in a women’s gaol. As Pelham painted the scene, he acknowledged that Mrs Forsyth’s background was impeccable. Once she was in prison, rubbing shoulders with far less salubrious characters, she would feel well lost. As he urged me to give her my support and sympathy, he said that she must lead me to my real objective, Asil Nadir. Before then, another important matter to sort, Pelham knew all about me and disclosed
“We know that you need an operation we’ll pay for your surgery” they had to “We’ll destroy your criminal records and reward you handsomely.”
They intended to avoid any link between us, it meant no Official Secrets Act to sign and gag me. It left the onus on them to leave no clues. Pelham accepted my silence as tacit approval. He didn’t know that I had caught sight of the end of my rainbow. Go to the papers – not my thing, anyway, far too early to expose the plot now, nothing I could prove had yet happened. The injustice, which I had suffered, still unresolved it pained me like my arm once did. The assignment heaven sent, I possessed a hidden agenda.
We had to construct our own ID so that we would be able to say how we got it when the cops arrested us – Pelham told us not to trust them. Naylor said they had big mouths. Getting started at once, as I took down the details from a real driving licence, filling out a form, I claimed that the original permit lost and my address had changed. Submitting it to the DVLA at Swansea and touché, I hoodwinked them like they had swindled Malcolm and me back in 1987.
Using the address of an empty house and before the licence went there, Jim told a Royal Mail sorting clerk to hold it for us to collect. Spinning a yarn, he claimed that his old uncle was bonkers and ripped up the mail. We collected the duplicate licence on 25th May. In the name, Philip Graham Morris and posing as him, Jim visited the city centre. Using the duplicate as proof of his ID and Jim opened a deposit account with Yorkshire Building Society.
Meanwhile as I rummaged through stacks of dusty boxes piled up in the office attic, singling out old invoices and finding what I needed, soon back at my desk. Altering the date on a couple of documents and entering them into the computer as new bills, my fiddle created outstanding balances. Part of my job to pay them, I scribbled the title of a regular timber supplier on the stub, but
Jim would go to an open prison. He would hack that now that I had told him my secret strategy. I had to do time in a women’s gaol. As Pelham painted the scene, he acknowledged that Mrs Forsyth’s background was impeccable. Once she was in prison, rubbing shoulders with far less salubrious characters, she would feel well lost. As he urged me to give her my support and sympathy, he said that she must lead me to my real objective, Asil Nadir. Before then, another important matter to sort, Pelham knew all about me and disclosed
“We know that you need an operation we’ll pay for your surgery” they had to “We’ll destroy your criminal records and reward you handsomely.”
They intended to avoid any link between us, it meant no Official Secrets Act to sign and gag me. It left the onus on them to leave no clues. Pelham accepted my silence as tacit approval. He didn’t know that I had caught sight of the end of my rainbow. Go to the papers – not my thing, anyway, far too early to expose the plot now, nothing I could prove had yet happened. The injustice, which I had suffered, still unresolved it pained me like my arm once did. The assignment heaven sent, I possessed a hidden agenda.
We had to construct our own ID so that we would be able to say how we got it when the cops arrested us – Pelham told us not to trust them. Naylor said they had big mouths. Getting started at once, as I took down the details from a real driving licence, filling out a form, I claimed that the original permit lost and my address had changed. Submitting it to the DVLA at Swansea and touché, I hoodwinked them like they had swindled Malcolm and me back in 1987.
Using the address of an empty house and before the licence went there, Jim told a Royal Mail sorting clerk to hold it for us to collect. Spinning a yarn, he claimed that his old uncle was bonkers and ripped up the mail. We collected the duplicate licence on 25th May. In the name, Philip Graham Morris and posing as him, Jim visited the city centre. Using the duplicate as proof of his ID and Jim opened a deposit account with Yorkshire Building Society.
Meanwhile as I rummaged through stacks of dusty boxes piled up in the office attic, singling out old invoices and finding what I needed, soon back at my desk. Altering the date on a couple of documents and entering them into the computer as new bills, my fiddle created outstanding balances. Part of my job to pay them, I scribbled the title of a regular timber supplier on the stub, but
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made the cheque payable to PG Morris. I knew about forging and easily faked Graham’s signature.
On 14th June, upon receiving more instructions, addressing a simple note to ‘Mr Brown,’ Pelham’s pseudonym at Brown & Company, a pretend law practice in Lever Street Manchester, but in reality an MI5 post box, I revealed that I had just paid £3,350 into the deposit account. By November, Morris now £19,877 richer and unaware of it, Graham invited me to attend a party to mark the opening of his new branch in Oldham. I didn’t possess the brass.
In the interim, Pelham agreed that since we had about done looting Graham, at last, we could begin my gender assignment. Nowadays a hospital consultant, fixing a date with the same doctor responsible for prescribing my œstrogen some twenty years earlier and greeting as dear friends, after all these years, he still reminded me of Rowan Atkinson. I felt very sad when he told me that he had problems with his ticker. Brushing them aside, he told me
“I’m recommending surgery, it’s a shame you’ve waited so long.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your heart” I told him.
Such radical surgery then still deemed cosmetic, if only people knew the truth. I still had to endure religious fruitcakes going on about it being against what it says in the book. Like Lawrence said, nothing’s written. Imagine, who would believe it, courtesy of the British Secret Services, I would have my release.
On 30th March 1994, as I left home in my car, becoming a habit and once more Naylor met me on the same street corner. Producing a bulky envelope from under his reefer, as he handed it to me, on my way to the office I dropped into a filling station. Peeping into the envelope, it contained bundles of banknotes. The money meant to pay for my surgery and losing no time arranging it, on 12th April, I sent another note to Pelham. It advised him of my hospital appointment and gave him details of the final cheque paid to Morris, it came to £6,858 the full total £26,735.
On 29th April, as Jim joined me, at the end of a long road, we journeyed to the Nuffield Hospital in Chester. After we had paid for my surgery in cash, allowing him to stay with me in my room, the nurses provided Jim with a camp bed and blankets. Due to take place next day, apart from all else, the operation offered us a welcome break.
Next morning, as the surgeon burst into the room, she exclaimed.
“You’ll need to use these!”
The nurses had warned me about Christine Evans. Quirky, but all told a brilliant lady, she thrust three objects in my face. Meant to
On 14th June, upon receiving more instructions, addressing a simple note to ‘Mr Brown,’ Pelham’s pseudonym at Brown & Company, a pretend law practice in Lever Street Manchester, but in reality an MI5 post box, I revealed that I had just paid £3,350 into the deposit account. By November, Morris now £19,877 richer and unaware of it, Graham invited me to attend a party to mark the opening of his new branch in Oldham. I didn’t possess the brass.
In the interim, Pelham agreed that since we had about done looting Graham, at last, we could begin my gender assignment. Nowadays a hospital consultant, fixing a date with the same doctor responsible for prescribing my œstrogen some twenty years earlier and greeting as dear friends, after all these years, he still reminded me of Rowan Atkinson. I felt very sad when he told me that he had problems with his ticker. Brushing them aside, he told me
“I’m recommending surgery, it’s a shame you’ve waited so long.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your heart” I told him.
Such radical surgery then still deemed cosmetic, if only people knew the truth. I still had to endure religious fruitcakes going on about it being against what it says in the book. Like Lawrence said, nothing’s written. Imagine, who would believe it, courtesy of the British Secret Services, I would have my release.
On 30th March 1994, as I left home in my car, becoming a habit and once more Naylor met me on the same street corner. Producing a bulky envelope from under his reefer, as he handed it to me, on my way to the office I dropped into a filling station. Peeping into the envelope, it contained bundles of banknotes. The money meant to pay for my surgery and losing no time arranging it, on 12th April, I sent another note to Pelham. It advised him of my hospital appointment and gave him details of the final cheque paid to Morris, it came to £6,858 the full total £26,735.
On 29th April, as Jim joined me, at the end of a long road, we journeyed to the Nuffield Hospital in Chester. After we had paid for my surgery in cash, allowing him to stay with me in my room, the nurses provided Jim with a camp bed and blankets. Due to take place next day, apart from all else, the operation offered us a welcome break.
Next morning, as the surgeon burst into the room, she exclaimed.
“You’ll need to use these!”
The nurses had warned me about Christine Evans. Quirky, but all told a brilliant lady, she thrust three objects in my face. Meant to
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dilate the vagina, they put me in mind of vibrators. I felt shy and tongue-tied, until no preamble, she asked Jim
“What size are you?” Jim’s face glowed bright red. Too modest, I answered for him “I’ll need a big one!” I cried giggling.
Raising a fever, Christine told me to stop using the dilator when I was ready for intercourse. Showing us examples of her work, she let me see pictures of post-op vaginas. Promising me like results, she pointed to a photograph of the perfect pussy. Overjoyed, I gasped
“You can do that for me – I can’t wait!”
Next morning, the nurses prepared me for surgery. I lost count of the injections. Wheeling me into my Theatre of Dreams and very soon I would be as God really intended.
“Lady it’s all over” pronounced Jim.
Blinking open my eyes, tenderly, Jim kissed me. A surge of joy filling my soul and at once rolling back the blankets, eager to view the result, well-disappointed, thick bandages swathed my sex. Later that day, when she asked me how I was, admonishing me, Christine insisted
“You must keep the bandages on for a few days, be patient and rest – you’ve just undergone major surgery!”
Unable to visit the loo, a catheter drew my urine and morphine took care of any pain. I felt great, and as we watched them on the telly, Jim gave me a surprise. Signed by Sir Alex Ferguson and all the Manchester United players, they had sent me a lovely card and their best wishes. In that area, many of the nurses supported Merseyside clubs. We had loads of fun winding one another up. Frequently popping into my room for a girly chat, one nurse confessed
“I thought you would look like a man, most patients having this operation do, it gives us a problem relating to them as women, but you’re no different from us.”
Her remarks obviously made me feel good, but I felt only compassion for my sisters. It went deeper than looks they don’t much matter. It’s about how we feel inside us I explained. As I related to her some of the pain that I had endured while trapped in the wrong body, only then did she begin to realise the reality.
Three days more and as Christine bustled into my room again, I had heard this woman was the best. Without ceremony, directing me to lie on my back she lifted up my nightie and exposed the bandages. My face bright red, not feeling my most elegant as I spread my legs, everyone peered between them. Armed with a pair of shears as one nurse cut away the bandages, in effect, about to be born again, my childhood flashed before me. More like them
“What size are you?” Jim’s face glowed bright red. Too modest, I answered for him “I’ll need a big one!” I cried giggling.
Raising a fever, Christine told me to stop using the dilator when I was ready for intercourse. Showing us examples of her work, she let me see pictures of post-op vaginas. Promising me like results, she pointed to a photograph of the perfect pussy. Overjoyed, I gasped
“You can do that for me – I can’t wait!”
Next morning, the nurses prepared me for surgery. I lost count of the injections. Wheeling me into my Theatre of Dreams and very soon I would be as God really intended.
“Lady it’s all over” pronounced Jim.
Blinking open my eyes, tenderly, Jim kissed me. A surge of joy filling my soul and at once rolling back the blankets, eager to view the result, well-disappointed, thick bandages swathed my sex. Later that day, when she asked me how I was, admonishing me, Christine insisted
“You must keep the bandages on for a few days, be patient and rest – you’ve just undergone major surgery!”
Unable to visit the loo, a catheter drew my urine and morphine took care of any pain. I felt great, and as we watched them on the telly, Jim gave me a surprise. Signed by Sir Alex Ferguson and all the Manchester United players, they had sent me a lovely card and their best wishes. In that area, many of the nurses supported Merseyside clubs. We had loads of fun winding one another up. Frequently popping into my room for a girly chat, one nurse confessed
“I thought you would look like a man, most patients having this operation do, it gives us a problem relating to them as women, but you’re no different from us.”
Her remarks obviously made me feel good, but I felt only compassion for my sisters. It went deeper than looks they don’t much matter. It’s about how we feel inside us I explained. As I related to her some of the pain that I had endured while trapped in the wrong body, only then did she begin to realise the reality.
Three days more and as Christine bustled into my room again, I had heard this woman was the best. Without ceremony, directing me to lie on my back she lifted up my nightie and exposed the bandages. My face bright red, not feeling my most elegant as I spread my legs, everyone peered between them. Armed with a pair of shears as one nurse cut away the bandages, in effect, about to be born again, my childhood flashed before me. More like them
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everyday, I wished Mum and Dad could be here; I reckon they were in spirit. As silence fell, Jim clasped my hand and a quick glance, grinning like a cat, Christine told me
“I think you’ll be very pleased, my dear.”
As he squeezed my hand, tears welling in his eyes, Jim whispered
“You’re a woman.”
As Christine prompted me to look, whirlpools of sadness flit before me. Very shy and wide-eyed, I met my femininity. My heart singing joy, breaking the spell, an artist and petulant, Christine demanded
“Well, what do you think?”
“I’m released, free…” lost for words ”Thank you…I’m so happy!”
Lump in my throat, overcome, unable to talk. As Jim held me in his arms, like a mum, appearing blissful, as Christine paused and watched us. Then in a rush, she left us alone.
“I think you’ll be very pleased, my dear.”
As he squeezed my hand, tears welling in his eyes, Jim whispered
“You’re a woman.”
As Christine prompted me to look, whirlpools of sadness flit before me. Very shy and wide-eyed, I met my femininity. My heart singing joy, breaking the spell, an artist and petulant, Christine demanded
“Well, what do you think?”
“I’m released, free…” lost for words ”Thank you…I’m so happy!”
Lump in my throat, overcome, unable to talk. As Jim held me in his arms, like a mum, appearing blissful, as Christine paused and watched us. Then in a rush, she left us alone.
Next morning, overjoyed by my smooth girly outline and I spent simply ages in front of the mirror. A beautiful day in every sense and my hand resting in his, Jim led me outside. As we lingered in a nearby copse, like a butterfly fluttering above me, I had shed my mantle the dream had come true. Captivated by birdsong and gazing at pretty flowers, as Jim pulled me to him, kissing we tasted heaven.
Our peace soon ending, two days on subdued, we had to return to Manchester. As Christine supplied me with a medical note, it ordered me to refrain from work for at least one month. Before leaving the office, playing my part, I had told Graham to expect me back behind my desk inside a week. As I posted the note to him, well aware that he would feel well affronted, I wasn’t wrong. He sacked me.
Six days later, on 25th May, exactly one year to the day since the assignment began and still going to plan, as cops bawled that they would bash down the door unless we opened it. An unpleasant, if foreseen experience, as Jim let them in, a posse of uniforms charged past him. At once, as they started turning over our flat, flashing a warrant, the detective didn’t know that it was our cue to run part two.
“I’m sergeant Griffiths, you’re under arrest for conspiracy in regard to the theft of money from Graham Hill – what did you spend it on?”
“We’ve not spent it!” retorted Jim. “It’s in the bank the rest’s here in the flat.”
Not ready for that it struck him dumb and softening his attitude, only a lull and his turn to startle me. Griffiths queried
Our peace soon ending, two days on subdued, we had to return to Manchester. As Christine supplied me with a medical note, it ordered me to refrain from work for at least one month. Before leaving the office, playing my part, I had told Graham to expect me back behind my desk inside a week. As I posted the note to him, well aware that he would feel well affronted, I wasn’t wrong. He sacked me.
Six days later, on 25th May, exactly one year to the day since the assignment began and still going to plan, as cops bawled that they would bash down the door unless we opened it. An unpleasant, if foreseen experience, as Jim let them in, a posse of uniforms charged past him. At once, as they started turning over our flat, flashing a warrant, the detective didn’t know that it was our cue to run part two.
“I’m sergeant Griffiths, you’re under arrest for conspiracy in regard to the theft of money from Graham Hill – what did you spend it on?”
“We’ve not spent it!” retorted Jim. “It’s in the bank the rest’s here in the flat.”
Not ready for that it struck him dumb and softening his attitude, only a lull and his turn to startle me. Griffiths queried
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“Are you Israeli?”
“I wish to speak with a lawyer,” I told him.
We left it there for now. Wishing to impress them, as Jim removed the back off a storage heater and stretching his arm inside it, he retrieved the Morris driving licence and handed it to Griffiths. As a female cop trailed me into the bedroom, I recovered thousands of pounds from a cavity inside the wardrobe. Leaving them to ransack the flat, as more cops led Jim away to a van. In view of my infirmity, a gentleman, Griffiths let me ride in his car.
Once at Altrincham police station, after due process, we met our eccentric brief. We found his streetwise manner vulgar. No more an MI5 assignment, it felt like a gangster movie. Dressed to grill in his sharp black suit, Arthur began
“You’ve got the filth hopping – what’s this shit about you being an Israeli?”
“Conclusions! You know coppers, they jump to them all the time,” I told him.
It transpired that Graham had shown Griffiths an anonymous note that he had received in the post a few weeks earlier. MI5 behind it, its handwritten message informed Graham that I had once served in the Israeli Army. When he showed me the note, putting on an act and initially denying it, I had implored Graham to keep it to himself. As he chucked a packet of Gauloises at me, Arthur turned my notice to bail. Advising him that I had broken it twice before, sneering, he summed it up
“That means you’ve no fucking chance!”
Unfazed by his response, Pelham had pledged that we would not go to prison until he said so. I found myself wondering about Arthur. Missing his vocation, he could double for Al Pacino. After another night in police cells, next afternoon, a uniform led me to Griffiths. At the table in the interview room, he began
“I’m investigating five cheques drawn against Graham Hill’s business account and made payable to PG Morris.”
“Jim and I put them in the PG Morris account” I expanded.
Griffiths found me extremely helpful. Indeed, before my arrest, I had taken care to incriminate myself. After training Graham’s wife, Margaret, how to operate the computer, I instructed her how to pay the timber suppliers and before leaving the office, no need for Poirot, I had left behind me a set of clues for the cops to find. Unable to take credit for it now, exposing the real conspiracy then would have laid bare the assignment.
Under orders to tell no one, as vulnerable MI5 agents, it would be suicide for us to grass them up now. Pelham would simply deny all and abandon us to our fate. As question time ended, a nice chap,
“I wish to speak with a lawyer,” I told him.
We left it there for now. Wishing to impress them, as Jim removed the back off a storage heater and stretching his arm inside it, he retrieved the Morris driving licence and handed it to Griffiths. As a female cop trailed me into the bedroom, I recovered thousands of pounds from a cavity inside the wardrobe. Leaving them to ransack the flat, as more cops led Jim away to a van. In view of my infirmity, a gentleman, Griffiths let me ride in his car.
Once at Altrincham police station, after due process, we met our eccentric brief. We found his streetwise manner vulgar. No more an MI5 assignment, it felt like a gangster movie. Dressed to grill in his sharp black suit, Arthur began
“You’ve got the filth hopping – what’s this shit about you being an Israeli?”
“Conclusions! You know coppers, they jump to them all the time,” I told him.
It transpired that Graham had shown Griffiths an anonymous note that he had received in the post a few weeks earlier. MI5 behind it, its handwritten message informed Graham that I had once served in the Israeli Army. When he showed me the note, putting on an act and initially denying it, I had implored Graham to keep it to himself. As he chucked a packet of Gauloises at me, Arthur turned my notice to bail. Advising him that I had broken it twice before, sneering, he summed it up
“That means you’ve no fucking chance!”
Unfazed by his response, Pelham had pledged that we would not go to prison until he said so. I found myself wondering about Arthur. Missing his vocation, he could double for Al Pacino. After another night in police cells, next afternoon, a uniform led me to Griffiths. At the table in the interview room, he began
“I’m investigating five cheques drawn against Graham Hill’s business account and made payable to PG Morris.”
“Jim and I put them in the PG Morris account” I expanded.
Griffiths found me extremely helpful. Indeed, before my arrest, I had taken care to incriminate myself. After training Graham’s wife, Margaret, how to operate the computer, I instructed her how to pay the timber suppliers and before leaving the office, no need for Poirot, I had left behind me a set of clues for the cops to find. Unable to take credit for it now, exposing the real conspiracy then would have laid bare the assignment.
Under orders to tell no one, as vulnerable MI5 agents, it would be suicide for us to grass them up now. Pelham would simply deny all and abandon us to our fate. As question time ended, a nice chap,
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Griffiths had found us very accommodating. Making us as cosy as he could, we still had to spend another night in the cells.
Next day, as separate police vans duly ferried us to Trafford Magistrates’ Court. My bail record truly appalling, the first time when the bench at Warrington granted me bail in relation to the false arson indictment, one week later, I found myself in prison fitted up for the tax disc. The second time, when the bench at Garstang granted me bail, a few weeks later, breaking it again, I laid low as a fugitive at Lavister Avenue for six months. Third time, lucky? I don’t think so. As the bench lost no time granting us bail, outside the court, scratching his head and inimitable, Arthur quipped
“How the fuck did you pull that off!”
Pelham had kept his word. As we departed from the court, the cops had seized every sou. I explained to Arthur that we had no money to get home. Ruining his hard image, he gave us a tenner for a taxi. Back in the flat as Jim trailed me into the bedroom. Christine had ordered us to wait one month before making love. His eyes burning with desire, Jim cried
“Your month’s up, I need you now!”
Throwing off our clothes, as Jim’s gaze lingered over my naked torso, teasing him I as writhed about on the bed. Unable to take more and driving me crazy, as his fingers explored new depths. Probing deeper and blissfully wet, I ached for it. Turned on, Jim breathed
“I’ve waited a long time for this.”
Now I knew what I had been missing. An incredible thrill to feel him inside me, as joyful tears traced my cheeks he exploded. Leaving me panting, Jim declared
“You’re all woman!”
“And you’re all man!” I told him giggling, “Lets do it again…”
Our bail conditions forced us to report to the cops every day. We could no longer afford to run our petrol thirsty Rover and even buses pricey, an unseen hardship, still weak after my operation, the long trudge to the police station at Salford Crescent to sign the bail book was for me too much. I always felt near collapse upon my return to the flat.
As Jim explained my situation to Arthur, he readily suggested that we should get a note from our doctor. It would give him just cause to request the court to amend our bail. A lovely woman my doctor well used to her patients getting into trouble with the law and a few days later, allowing us some leniency, the court soon sorted our conditions. Thoughtful, in her note, the doctor explained to the bench that I needed Jim for physical support. In the event, the
Next day, as separate police vans duly ferried us to Trafford Magistrates’ Court. My bail record truly appalling, the first time when the bench at Warrington granted me bail in relation to the false arson indictment, one week later, I found myself in prison fitted up for the tax disc. The second time, when the bench at Garstang granted me bail, a few weeks later, breaking it again, I laid low as a fugitive at Lavister Avenue for six months. Third time, lucky? I don’t think so. As the bench lost no time granting us bail, outside the court, scratching his head and inimitable, Arthur quipped
“How the fuck did you pull that off!”
Pelham had kept his word. As we departed from the court, the cops had seized every sou. I explained to Arthur that we had no money to get home. Ruining his hard image, he gave us a tenner for a taxi. Back in the flat as Jim trailed me into the bedroom. Christine had ordered us to wait one month before making love. His eyes burning with desire, Jim cried
“Your month’s up, I need you now!”
Throwing off our clothes, as Jim’s gaze lingered over my naked torso, teasing him I as writhed about on the bed. Unable to take more and driving me crazy, as his fingers explored new depths. Probing deeper and blissfully wet, I ached for it. Turned on, Jim breathed
“I’ve waited a long time for this.”
Now I knew what I had been missing. An incredible thrill to feel him inside me, as joyful tears traced my cheeks he exploded. Leaving me panting, Jim declared
“You’re all woman!”
“And you’re all man!” I told him giggling, “Lets do it again…”
Our bail conditions forced us to report to the cops every day. We could no longer afford to run our petrol thirsty Rover and even buses pricey, an unseen hardship, still weak after my operation, the long trudge to the police station at Salford Crescent to sign the bail book was for me too much. I always felt near collapse upon my return to the flat.
As Jim explained my situation to Arthur, he readily suggested that we should get a note from our doctor. It would give him just cause to request the court to amend our bail. A lovely woman my doctor well used to her patients getting into trouble with the law and a few days later, allowing us some leniency, the court soon sorted our conditions. Thoughtful, in her note, the doctor explained to the bench that I needed Jim for physical support. In the event, the
- 146 -
magistrates cut our burden to reporting just once every Sunday at noon.
Needing money to live on and central to the assignment, hiding our association with MI5, it compelled us to draw Social Security benefit. As Jim signed on the dole, I had to claim sick pay. We received more assistance to pay the rent and council tax. Horrible having to beg, unexpectedly, in August, I experienced more pain in my arm. A tiny lump had started to grow back on the muscle. It meant a return to Birmingham. A smidgen of the tumour had escaped excision. One more operation later, Mr Grimer promised me that it was all gone now.
Back at the flat, we found a brief note from Pelham. It informed us that Nadir’s banker had at last returned from Northern Cyprus. September and blundering, Pelham had forecast that she would return well before now. As Elizabeth Forsyth flew into a blaze of publicity, very witty, The Guardian dubbed her, ‘Britain’s Most Wanted Granny!’
There’s many a slip and it left Pelham’s plot in rather a pickle. Mrs Forsyth’s tardiness meant that unless MI5 held up our sentencing, as it stood, we would be in and out of prison before the banker’s case even went to court. No quick fix to hand, unless Pelham found an urgent remedy, the assignment must abort. Arthur had promised us that we would go to gaol in January, not good news for Pelham; it compelled him to adopt desperate measures. Needing to knock back our gaoling, here we go again, the only answer, Pelham ordered us to break bail. As a bonus, it promised us a respite. He agreed to let us stay in Nice on the rider that upon our return, we lived in Kent. We would see about that, I still had my secret agenda to consider. Landing in the southeast made it easy for him to hide his plot when the cops caught us. Pelham projected that Special Branch should nab us. Issuing more instructions, he directed us to hang onto our real ID, while at the same time we developed a new and false one. It meant that we had to commit yet more crimes on behalf of MI5.
Usually, the British Secret Services obtained false passports for their spooks by exploiting loopholes in the system. UK law compelled the public to report births within weeks of the event. However, in parts of South America, it was acceptable to register births at any time, even years later. Easy to arrange, all it required was a tall story and bogus British parents claiming that their child was born in the designated country. Not so fussy abroad, faced by the purported evidence, they recorded the birth immediately and issued a new certificate. Once back in Britain, exchanging it for a UK document, MI5 supplied referees to vouch for the bogus applicants and then applied for a new British passport.
Not privileged officers and different rules applied to us. Humble agents and so deemed a risk, upon arresting us, the police would
Needing money to live on and central to the assignment, hiding our association with MI5, it compelled us to draw Social Security benefit. As Jim signed on the dole, I had to claim sick pay. We received more assistance to pay the rent and council tax. Horrible having to beg, unexpectedly, in August, I experienced more pain in my arm. A tiny lump had started to grow back on the muscle. It meant a return to Birmingham. A smidgen of the tumour had escaped excision. One more operation later, Mr Grimer promised me that it was all gone now.
Back at the flat, we found a brief note from Pelham. It informed us that Nadir’s banker had at last returned from Northern Cyprus. September and blundering, Pelham had forecast that she would return well before now. As Elizabeth Forsyth flew into a blaze of publicity, very witty, The Guardian dubbed her, ‘Britain’s Most Wanted Granny!’
There’s many a slip and it left Pelham’s plot in rather a pickle. Mrs Forsyth’s tardiness meant that unless MI5 held up our sentencing, as it stood, we would be in and out of prison before the banker’s case even went to court. No quick fix to hand, unless Pelham found an urgent remedy, the assignment must abort. Arthur had promised us that we would go to gaol in January, not good news for Pelham; it compelled him to adopt desperate measures. Needing to knock back our gaoling, here we go again, the only answer, Pelham ordered us to break bail. As a bonus, it promised us a respite. He agreed to let us stay in Nice on the rider that upon our return, we lived in Kent. We would see about that, I still had my secret agenda to consider. Landing in the southeast made it easy for him to hide his plot when the cops caught us. Pelham projected that Special Branch should nab us. Issuing more instructions, he directed us to hang onto our real ID, while at the same time we developed a new and false one. It meant that we had to commit yet more crimes on behalf of MI5.
Usually, the British Secret Services obtained false passports for their spooks by exploiting loopholes in the system. UK law compelled the public to report births within weeks of the event. However, in parts of South America, it was acceptable to register births at any time, even years later. Easy to arrange, all it required was a tall story and bogus British parents claiming that their child was born in the designated country. Not so fussy abroad, faced by the purported evidence, they recorded the birth immediately and issued a new certificate. Once back in Britain, exchanging it for a UK document, MI5 supplied referees to vouch for the bogus applicants and then applied for a new British passport.
Not privileged officers and different rules applied to us. Humble agents and so deemed a risk, upon arresting us, the police would
- 147 -
still ask questions. Frightened of linking us to them, MI5 decreed that we must obtain our own false passports then we could explain how we got them.
One thing leads to another and as Pelham faced another snag. While we relied on benefit and free medical treatment, impossible for MI5 to provide us with money, nosey cops would want to know where it came from. No option, Pelham had to make our new ID authentic by planting us in the system. It meant that we needed new National Insurance and NHS numbers. Proper Papers issued through official channels. Fake stuff pushed by geezers in pubs useless, we needed insider help. As Pelham arranged it, MI5 fixed it for us.
New Brits have their UK NI numbers issued at birth. Each coded NI number comprised of three letters and six digits. Unique and non-transferable once issued, the rules are inflexible, the numbers are for life, but when it comes to MI5 and MI6, new numbers for new spies no problem. Apart from them, only the likes of supergrasses, police witnesses, and reformed terrorists received new numbers.
No other way around it, anyone attempting to fake or adopt NI numbers linked to another Brit alive or dead was looking at an early arrest. Whenever a doctor issued a death certificate, it closed the deceased’s NI file. However, always open to MI5 and Pelham held the key to all the files. Mortality and morality none of it bothered him, he directed us to thieve birth certificates belonging to dead babies. Wrong and illegal, but who would suspect MI5? Precisely why Pelham did it and why no law had closed the gaping loophole. Once we had obtained them, passing all the details to Pelham, he would hack into relevant government computer files and eradicate all trace of death. It was then a doddle for us to receive valid NI and NHS numbers. We still had to unearth appropriate birth certificates that meant a visit to Manchester’s Central Library in St Peter’s Square.
A decidedly unpleasant task searching for infants that had died not long after their birth, it set me off thinking about Kathy. As we searched the obituary columns in back-copies of the Manchester Evening News, all held on microfilm and soon finding apt entries, we jotted down the details and departed from the library. Next on the list, we entered the Central Registry Office. As we filled out separate application forms, paying a nominal fee, shortly, a clerk called out to me
“Miss Ruth Alison Peacock!”
Thanking the clerk, as I collected the birth certificate, she called out to Jim
“Mr Philip Charles Hart!”
- 148 -
One thing leads to another and as Pelham faced another snag. While we relied on benefit and free medical treatment, impossible for MI5 to provide us with money, nosey cops would want to know where it came from. No option, Pelham had to make our new ID authentic by planting us in the system. It meant that we needed new National Insurance and NHS numbers. Proper Papers issued through official channels. Fake stuff pushed by geezers in pubs useless, we needed insider help. As Pelham arranged it, MI5 fixed it for us.
New Brits have their UK NI numbers issued at birth. Each coded NI number comprised of three letters and six digits. Unique and non-transferable once issued, the rules are inflexible, the numbers are for life, but when it comes to MI5 and MI6, new numbers for new spies no problem. Apart from them, only the likes of supergrasses, police witnesses, and reformed terrorists received new numbers.
No other way around it, anyone attempting to fake or adopt NI numbers linked to another Brit alive or dead was looking at an early arrest. Whenever a doctor issued a death certificate, it closed the deceased’s NI file. However, always open to MI5 and Pelham held the key to all the files. Mortality and morality none of it bothered him, he directed us to thieve birth certificates belonging to dead babies. Wrong and illegal, but who would suspect MI5? Precisely why Pelham did it and why no law had closed the gaping loophole. Once we had obtained them, passing all the details to Pelham, he would hack into relevant government computer files and eradicate all trace of death. It was then a doddle for us to receive valid NI and NHS numbers. We still had to unearth appropriate birth certificates that meant a visit to Manchester’s Central Library in St Peter’s Square.
A decidedly unpleasant task searching for infants that had died not long after their birth, it set me off thinking about Kathy. As we searched the obituary columns in back-copies of the Manchester Evening News, all held on microfilm and soon finding apt entries, we jotted down the details and departed from the library. Next on the list, we entered the Central Registry Office. As we filled out separate application forms, paying a nominal fee, shortly, a clerk called out to me
“Miss Ruth Alison Peacock!”
Thanking the clerk, as I collected the birth certificate, she called out to Jim
“Mr Philip Charles Hart!”
- 148 -
As Jim took possession of the second birth certificate, still more to do, we took the first certificate meant for me to a lawyer and paid him five pounds for a deed to change my name to Olivia Jayne Hart. Twosomes attract so much less notice.
We still needed a safe house and posing as Mr and Mrs Hart, on our way back to the flat, no time to lose, we popped into a Housing Association and claimed to be homeless. A clerk took our false names and fixed an appointment for us for the next day.
In the morning at the interview, I had to act dumb and let Jim do most of the talking. A young woman, as she bid us into her office, claiming that we wished to settle down, as Jim expanded, he explained to her that we had always worked for gypsy showmen travelling the country on the fairground circuit. Chipping into his commentary, plaintive, I told her
“I want a baby...”
“You can’t do it in a caravan,” declared Jim.
“No quite” she responded, blushing, “Where do you live now?”
Claiming that our mates let us doss down on the floor of their flat. Jim told her that the landlord kipped in a separate flat and if he spotted post for us arriving at the premises, he would turf us out.
“You know what I mean, luv?” quizzed Jim, picking his nose in character.
“Eh, but how do I contact you?” she pondered, distracted, trying not to see what Jim was doing.
We had thought about that too. Jim agreed to telephone her office every day. Keeping his pledge, our diligence soon paid dividends. In no time, she showed us a property in Openshaw, a rundown area two miles from the city.
Going through the motions as we viewed a two-bed house in Old Lane, not choosey, expressing our glee, we signed a form and took the keys. Another snag, there remained the question of rent. It meant a trip to the Social Security. Pelham had told us that it would take several weeks for him to fix our new NI numbers. Compelled to push on and for now managing without them, we couldn’t wait too long, Social Security staff would hunt for our numbers and if they failed to show, the police would turn up and arrest us again. Bearing that in mind, the next day, returning to the safe house, nervous, we shared a quick smoke on the stairs.
Ten minutes later, we entered the local Jobcentre and presenting ourselves at the desk as the Hart’s, we signed on the dole. The worst bit came next, when we dropped into the Social Security office. A surly woman behind a desk pointed us to the waiting room and armed only with invention, fake papers and a double act, as we waited to go on stage, shortly a tinny voice beckoned us
We still needed a safe house and posing as Mr and Mrs Hart, on our way back to the flat, no time to lose, we popped into a Housing Association and claimed to be homeless. A clerk took our false names and fixed an appointment for us for the next day.
In the morning at the interview, I had to act dumb and let Jim do most of the talking. A young woman, as she bid us into her office, claiming that we wished to settle down, as Jim expanded, he explained to her that we had always worked for gypsy showmen travelling the country on the fairground circuit. Chipping into his commentary, plaintive, I told her
“I want a baby...”
“You can’t do it in a caravan,” declared Jim.
“No quite” she responded, blushing, “Where do you live now?”
Claiming that our mates let us doss down on the floor of their flat. Jim told her that the landlord kipped in a separate flat and if he spotted post for us arriving at the premises, he would turf us out.
“You know what I mean, luv?” quizzed Jim, picking his nose in character.
“Eh, but how do I contact you?” she pondered, distracted, trying not to see what Jim was doing.
We had thought about that too. Jim agreed to telephone her office every day. Keeping his pledge, our diligence soon paid dividends. In no time, she showed us a property in Openshaw, a rundown area two miles from the city.
Going through the motions as we viewed a two-bed house in Old Lane, not choosey, expressing our glee, we signed a form and took the keys. Another snag, there remained the question of rent. It meant a trip to the Social Security. Pelham had told us that it would take several weeks for him to fix our new NI numbers. Compelled to push on and for now managing without them, we couldn’t wait too long, Social Security staff would hunt for our numbers and if they failed to show, the police would turn up and arrest us again. Bearing that in mind, the next day, returning to the safe house, nervous, we shared a quick smoke on the stairs.
Ten minutes later, we entered the local Jobcentre and presenting ourselves at the desk as the Hart’s, we signed on the dole. The worst bit came next, when we dropped into the Social Security office. A surly woman behind a desk pointed us to the waiting room and armed only with invention, fake papers and a double act, as we waited to go on stage, shortly a tinny voice beckoned us
- 149 -
“Mr and Mrs Hart go to room two!”
On cue, as we entered the room together, the steel-clad door banged to behind us. As I tried the handle, locked and no escape, it unnerved us. Dour, the setting bore echoes of prison. As we perched on a hard bench opposite a perspex screen, a young woman showed up and once she had seated herself behind a desk on the other side of the screen, looking at our claim, the clerk enquired
“You’re the Hart’s and this is your first claim for benefit?”
“Yeah that’s right,” I agreed, querying, “Why’s the door locked?”
“I’ll open it when we’ve done” she told us “Right now, I need to see some ID.”
Jim claimed that the birth certificates were in my bag, arguing with him, I said that they were in his pocket, pursuing our silly squabble for a full two minutes more, then I opened up and what do you know – there they were in my bag all the time. As Jim laughed, petulant, I shoved them through a narrow slot in the bottom of the screen. Less than amused by my tantrum as she gave the documents a quick glance, more than doubtful, the clerk queried
“Have you anything else? Can you tell me your National Insurance numbers?”
“Its all we’ve got, luv” responded Jim, unperturbed.
“Who did you last work for?” she persisted.
“Dunno, luv, could be anyone. Me memory’s crap” replied Jim
“How did you tow your caravan?” she quizzed, not giving up “You must drive, where’s your licence?”
“I ‘itched ‘van to a spare wagon,” responded Jim adding, “It weren’t ours like, it were the gaffer’s.”
“Hmmm the certificates will have to do,” she conceded, adding “We’ll give you temporary numbers until we find your files” and sounding very much like a threat, she told us, “We’ll carry out a full investigation. It doesn’t take long.”
Next day, before we could apply for the passports, we needed to find someone willing to countersign our applications and declare that they had known us for at least two years. We couldn’t just invent a name and sign the forms ourselves, the Passport Office claimed that they always checked out the signatory’s ID. Needing to find a career professional, Jim phoned Ian, my old boss when I started work in accountancy. Using the pretext that he was a former client, as Jim explained our problem, at once, Ian agreed to help. A gap of twenty years and about to present myself to him as a woman, it tickled me.
On cue, as we entered the room together, the steel-clad door banged to behind us. As I tried the handle, locked and no escape, it unnerved us. Dour, the setting bore echoes of prison. As we perched on a hard bench opposite a perspex screen, a young woman showed up and once she had seated herself behind a desk on the other side of the screen, looking at our claim, the clerk enquired
“You’re the Hart’s and this is your first claim for benefit?”
“Yeah that’s right,” I agreed, querying, “Why’s the door locked?”
“I’ll open it when we’ve done” she told us “Right now, I need to see some ID.”
Jim claimed that the birth certificates were in my bag, arguing with him, I said that they were in his pocket, pursuing our silly squabble for a full two minutes more, then I opened up and what do you know – there they were in my bag all the time. As Jim laughed, petulant, I shoved them through a narrow slot in the bottom of the screen. Less than amused by my tantrum as she gave the documents a quick glance, more than doubtful, the clerk queried
“Have you anything else? Can you tell me your National Insurance numbers?”
“Its all we’ve got, luv” responded Jim, unperturbed.
“Who did you last work for?” she persisted.
“Dunno, luv, could be anyone. Me memory’s crap” replied Jim
“How did you tow your caravan?” she quizzed, not giving up “You must drive, where’s your licence?”
“I ‘itched ‘van to a spare wagon,” responded Jim adding, “It weren’t ours like, it were the gaffer’s.”
“Hmmm the certificates will have to do,” she conceded, adding “We’ll give you temporary numbers until we find your files” and sounding very much like a threat, she told us, “We’ll carry out a full investigation. It doesn’t take long.”
Next day, before we could apply for the passports, we needed to find someone willing to countersign our applications and declare that they had known us for at least two years. We couldn’t just invent a name and sign the forms ourselves, the Passport Office claimed that they always checked out the signatory’s ID. Needing to find a career professional, Jim phoned Ian, my old boss when I started work in accountancy. Using the pretext that he was a former client, as Jim explained our problem, at once, Ian agreed to help. A gap of twenty years and about to present myself to him as a woman, it tickled me.
- 150 -
Next morning, we caught a bus. It dropped us opposite a park near the practice and as I sneaked behind a tree, slipping a long black wig over my blond hair, I had worn the hairpiece once before when about to have my passport photo taken. Shortly, reappearing like a squirrel from behind the tree, I asked Jim
“How do I look?”
As Jim nodded his approval, leaving the park together, we crossed the road and entered the practice. A plump middle-aged woman sat behind a desk where I once worked. Asking us to wait in the next room, she told us
“He’ll be with you in a moment.”
My experience had resurrected teenage ghosts. As we waited, it felt creepy, like visiting the grave of a long lost companion. Breaking my reverie, Ian entered the room. Greyer and his build maybe more substantial, otherwise his features barely altered. As Jim dredged up memories rented from me, a fibber, Ian exclaimed
”Ah yes, I remember you now – didn’t you have a small store?”
“That’s right,” agreed Jim, warming to his rôle, he queried, “Where’s Jack?”
”You remember Jack!” exclaimed Ian, looking amazed.
“Does he still smoke a pipe?” asked Jim, enjoying himself.
“Jack retired years ago. He still does a bit for me – it keeps him active. I’ll tell him you asked about him. He’ll probably remember you better than I do…”
Above suspicion and Ian signed our forms. About to leave, smiling, I couldn’t resist and had to tell him
“Its weird, this feels just like déjà vu.”
Leaving the practice together, we found a nearby Post Office and once inside, we bought a couple of postal orders to cover the process fee. Slipping them into separate envelopes, along with our forms and false birth certificates, we posted everything to the nearest Passport Office, in our case, Liverpool.
While waiting for the passports and NI numbers to turn up, Jim made another date for us as the Hart’s. Two days more, taking another bus, this time to seedy Bradford, immediately next door to Openshaw. A sunny day and striding along Grey Mare Lane together, as we approached Dr Nathoo’s practice. Looking more like an IDF observation post, all steel shutters, grilles and razor wire prevented burglars getting in through the roof.
Inside the surgery, we asked to see the Practice Manager. As she produced two NHS registration forms, filling them in we handed them back to her. At once, she complained
“How do I look?”
As Jim nodded his approval, leaving the park together, we crossed the road and entered the practice. A plump middle-aged woman sat behind a desk where I once worked. Asking us to wait in the next room, she told us
“He’ll be with you in a moment.”
My experience had resurrected teenage ghosts. As we waited, it felt creepy, like visiting the grave of a long lost companion. Breaking my reverie, Ian entered the room. Greyer and his build maybe more substantial, otherwise his features barely altered. As Jim dredged up memories rented from me, a fibber, Ian exclaimed
”Ah yes, I remember you now – didn’t you have a small store?”
“That’s right,” agreed Jim, warming to his rôle, he queried, “Where’s Jack?”
”You remember Jack!” exclaimed Ian, looking amazed.
“Does he still smoke a pipe?” asked Jim, enjoying himself.
“Jack retired years ago. He still does a bit for me – it keeps him active. I’ll tell him you asked about him. He’ll probably remember you better than I do…”
Above suspicion and Ian signed our forms. About to leave, smiling, I couldn’t resist and had to tell him
“Its weird, this feels just like déjà vu.”
Leaving the practice together, we found a nearby Post Office and once inside, we bought a couple of postal orders to cover the process fee. Slipping them into separate envelopes, along with our forms and false birth certificates, we posted everything to the nearest Passport Office, in our case, Liverpool.
While waiting for the passports and NI numbers to turn up, Jim made another date for us as the Hart’s. Two days more, taking another bus, this time to seedy Bradford, immediately next door to Openshaw. A sunny day and striding along Grey Mare Lane together, as we approached Dr Nathoo’s practice. Looking more like an IDF observation post, all steel shutters, grilles and razor wire prevented burglars getting in through the roof.
Inside the surgery, we asked to see the Practice Manager. As she produced two NHS registration forms, filling them in we handed them back to her. At once, she complained
- 151 -
“You’ve not filled in your NHS numbers.”
“We can’t remember them,” I told her. “We’ve been living in Holland.”
“It doesn’t matter they’ll be in the NHS computer” she assured us.
We returned to Dr Nathoo’s practice seven days later. A nice chap, when we met him in his surgery, I claimed that we used to live in Amsterdam and alleged that an imaginary late uncle had provided work and shelter for us on his farm by the river Amstel. He didn’t often meet many interesting folk in these parts and intrigued, the doctor enquired
“You’re Dutch?”
“No, Brits, its my accent,” I explained “We’ve lived most of our life in Holland on de boerderij, eh, sorry, the farm, we’ve had to let it go.”
“Now you wish to start afresh in Manchester” finished the doctor.
“It’s where we were born,” maintained Jim, “We could think of nowhere else.”
Armed with a prescription for œstrogen, we left the surgery and popped into the nearest pharmacist. All done, we trudged the short distance to Openshaw, stowing the tablets in the safe house. I would need them in France.
Back in Ordsall and no rest for the wicked, we still had to clear out all our things from the flat. Not the end to it, on the day that we had accepted the keys to the safe house, giving us time to settle in, the letting officer promised to visit us to see how we were getting on. She must expect to find some furniture in the place. Switching stuff from the flat to the house solved both problems at once, but threw up more snags.
Needing transport, we had sold our car and subject to binding bail conditions, we still had to get past our nosey neighbours. One slip now and we would land in prison too early. Studying a newspaper, we found an ad offering cheap motors for sale.
Next day, taking a bus into Stockport, we bought a Volkswagen Passat estate car for £250. Not pestering him, reducing to the minimum contact between us, for funds, Pelham had told us to use the benefit, which we received from the Social Security as the Hart’s.
Pulling apart our furniture and bit-by-bit, we smuggled it into the car. We had to dump everything else in bin liners. We could take no more than our clothes to France. Squeezing what we could into three cases and working around the clock, we found it very upsetting to break up our humble home. Completing the move, we sold the car and ripped off we only got £30 for it. Using the cash, we bought a cooker and a bed from a second hand shop.
“We can’t remember them,” I told her. “We’ve been living in Holland.”
“It doesn’t matter they’ll be in the NHS computer” she assured us.
We returned to Dr Nathoo’s practice seven days later. A nice chap, when we met him in his surgery, I claimed that we used to live in Amsterdam and alleged that an imaginary late uncle had provided work and shelter for us on his farm by the river Amstel. He didn’t often meet many interesting folk in these parts and intrigued, the doctor enquired
“You’re Dutch?”
“No, Brits, its my accent,” I explained “We’ve lived most of our life in Holland on de boerderij, eh, sorry, the farm, we’ve had to let it go.”
“Now you wish to start afresh in Manchester” finished the doctor.
“It’s where we were born,” maintained Jim, “We could think of nowhere else.”
Armed with a prescription for œstrogen, we left the surgery and popped into the nearest pharmacist. All done, we trudged the short distance to Openshaw, stowing the tablets in the safe house. I would need them in France.
Back in Ordsall and no rest for the wicked, we still had to clear out all our things from the flat. Not the end to it, on the day that we had accepted the keys to the safe house, giving us time to settle in, the letting officer promised to visit us to see how we were getting on. She must expect to find some furniture in the place. Switching stuff from the flat to the house solved both problems at once, but threw up more snags.
Needing transport, we had sold our car and subject to binding bail conditions, we still had to get past our nosey neighbours. One slip now and we would land in prison too early. Studying a newspaper, we found an ad offering cheap motors for sale.
Next day, taking a bus into Stockport, we bought a Volkswagen Passat estate car for £250. Not pestering him, reducing to the minimum contact between us, for funds, Pelham had told us to use the benefit, which we received from the Social Security as the Hart’s.
Pulling apart our furniture and bit-by-bit, we smuggled it into the car. We had to dump everything else in bin liners. We could take no more than our clothes to France. Squeezing what we could into three cases and working around the clock, we found it very upsetting to break up our humble home. Completing the move, we sold the car and ripped off we only got £30 for it. Using the cash, we bought a cooker and a bed from a second hand shop.
- 152 -
In November, paying it another visit, we had received post at the safe house. As Jim ripped open an official-looking ‘On Her Majesty’s Service’ brown envelope, addressed to Philip Charles Hart it was sent to him direct from National Insurance Central Records Office in Newcastle upon Tyne. Inside it, as he pulled it out, the same size as a credit card, Jim found an official NI Numbercard. Embossed upon it sat Jim’s new NI number as Mr Hart. Taking an extra week to arrive, my card identical in every way to Jim’s except a different number and of course, it related to me as Mrs Hart. Soon afterwards, our false British passports also arrived. It left only the NHS cards.
Our concern now was to ensure that our parallel lives never crossed. We needed to hang onto the benefit that we received, as the Hart’s to meet the costs of the undercover assignment. Our regular benefit just about kept us alive. The Social Security almost upset the cart when they sent the Hart’s a letter stating that we were entitled to a loan. Refusing it unrealistic, meant to be poverty-stricken, we didn’t need to draw any undue attention. In the event, we accepted £300, not our money and no thieves; we would repay it by deductions from our fortnightly giro.
Now December and it seemed that the letting officer had forgotten about calling to the safe house, it meant that we could lose the furniture. I couldn’t bear to be present when Jim sold everything to a clearance merchant.
We could do no more save await our summons to appear in court. Meanwhile, after visiting the doctor for a check up, making my way back to the flat, I spotted Naylor striding towards me. Greeting like old mates, as I watched, he produced another bulky parcel from under his coat. Handing it to me, cheerful and Naylor insisted
“Send us a postcard!”
Smartly turning on his heel, Naylor was soon lost from sight. Eager to open my present, I shoved the parcel under my arm and once back in the flat, as I opened it up, new French franc banknotes spilled out. Our spending money, it meant that France was only around the corner.
© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Our concern now was to ensure that our parallel lives never crossed. We needed to hang onto the benefit that we received, as the Hart’s to meet the costs of the undercover assignment. Our regular benefit just about kept us alive. The Social Security almost upset the cart when they sent the Hart’s a letter stating that we were entitled to a loan. Refusing it unrealistic, meant to be poverty-stricken, we didn’t need to draw any undue attention. In the event, we accepted £300, not our money and no thieves; we would repay it by deductions from our fortnightly giro.
Now December and it seemed that the letting officer had forgotten about calling to the safe house, it meant that we could lose the furniture. I couldn’t bear to be present when Jim sold everything to a clearance merchant.
We could do no more save await our summons to appear in court. Meanwhile, after visiting the doctor for a check up, making my way back to the flat, I spotted Naylor striding towards me. Greeting like old mates, as I watched, he produced another bulky parcel from under his coat. Handing it to me, cheerful and Naylor insisted
“Send us a postcard!”
Smartly turning on his heel, Naylor was soon lost from sight. Eager to open my present, I shoved the parcel under my arm and once back in the flat, as I opened it up, new French franc banknotes spilled out. Our spending money, it meant that France was only around the corner.
© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
