THE JOURNAL OF ELLIOT CRIPPLESBY
I never really enjoyed visiting London as the whole size of the sprawling conurbation just seems wholly unnatural to me. I had found a place to stop for the night a few minutes walk from Kings Cross station, where my train had finished up - eventually.
This morning I decided to go for something to eat - a late breakfast, early lunch - before taking a taxi to my arranged rendezvous with Mr Vermies. Having feasted on a delicious toasted sandwich, one of those slightly greasy ciabattas dripping with mature Scottish cheddar at the splendidly basic Giuseppe’s El Snacko, I hailed a cab and set off towards the spot we had arranged to meet.
After roughly three minutes and twenty seconds I had stopped trying to engage in conversation with the driver, and instead I interspersed his nasal monologue with “Yes. Really? Ugh, hmm,” and ironic laughter at what I assumed to be appropriate moments. Before the half way stage of my journey, I began to notice a gradual increase in the presence of policemen and to my surprise and alarm, members of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.
Quite abruptly, the cabby stopped at a particularly seedy-looking street corner and refused to take me any further. When I asked him why, he simply told me that the presence of so many officers of the law was making him nervous and that I could walk the rest of the way in “less than two minutes,” if I took a short cut across a nearby estate. He was deaf to my repeated protestations, so eventually I paid him his fare and left the vehicle, stalking off towards the supposed short cut.
Forty-five minutes later and I came to the conclusion that the driver had been lying. I was by now, of course, hopelessly lost, so I decided to ask one of the natives for directions.
About a block away I spotted a scrawny tree which was apparently being guarded by a corporal of the aforementioned body of fighting men. I thought that I would be safer in these strange parts to ask a man in uniform than to trust my luck with an everyday Joe citizen, so I approached him smiling. My amiability was not returned however, and my questions were answered with a short and curt response.
“You want to get locked up?” he snarled. “Go on, bugger off!”
Apparently there had been a number of bomb scares in and around this part of the capital in the last few days and I was informed quite gruffly that any time wasted on me could better be spent in looking out for ‘terrorist scum’.
“What d’you think I am – bloody Tourist Information? Go on, get!” When I simply stared open-mouthed at the chap’s undisguised hostility he looked me up and down and added “Unless of course you’re one of them, deliberately trying to distract me...”
Honestly, this whole ‘War on Terror’ business has brought the very worst out in people. The reasoning behind first of all making a man live in fear and then giving him a gun and a uniform is one that has escaped me from the start.
Be that as it may, the thought of being detained by this obviously power-hungry, unpleasant young man made his advice seem sound, however rudely it had been delivered, so I moved on fairly quickly without making further issue, although I did take his number so I could report his inexcusable behaviour to the proper authorities at a more appropriate time - as if they’d listen. The days of reasonable tones and subjective argument have all-but died out, from what I see in life going on around me. Only those who shout the loudest get heard in modern times, or so it seems.
Anyway, a few moments later I spied a shaven headed youth of around nine or ten years, so I made my way over and addressed the question of my whereabouts to him, offering him a crisp Scottish pound note in return for information. He eyed the money up with an ever-narrowing stare, before suddenly snatching it from my hands without a word and legging it through a hole in the adjacent fence.
I found myself once more stunned by the downright anti-social behaviour of the folk around these parts before walking off, disgruntled, down an alleyway in search of a more cooperative person who could help me extricate myself from this dirty backwater and send me on my way towards Geeza and our meeting, which was drawing ever nearer.
After a further half an hour or so of hearty walking - striding purposefully, arms swinging and chest puffed out with as much enthusiasm as you would find in any high street fitness video - I noticed that I had finally left the run-down residential area behind me. The squat terraced houses and pathetically sparse and sickly looking trees had been replaced by huge, domineering skyscrapers, sneering down at me from their smooth and impersonal mirror-glass walls.
In a street that I was highly surprised to find deserted, I found myself at the foot of the London Stock Exchange, examining the emblem and motto of that venerable institution set above the door at the top of a short flight of steps. Somehow I had found my way into the financial district. That was miles out of the way!
Suddenly, amidst a roaring of powerful engines and a constricting cloud of black smoke I found myself face to face with several bikers, dressed in sharp, fashionable suits and sat astride a variety of motor cycles of all shapes and sizes. I appeared to be the focus of their attention for reasons which were about to me made painfully clear to me.
It all seems a bit of a blur now, sitting here writing this and it is highly possible, even probable, that I have missed out large chunks of activity, but here is how I remember it - and you have to remember that it all happened so fast...
I was being harassed by seven, maybe eight executive, stock market bikers dressed in expensive suits and sunglasses, wearing menacing faces. There they were, circling me, revving up their engines and laughing in a way which would have made the most malcontented, murderous gang from any one of a hundred Hollywood films stop what they were doing, put down their cheap cans of American lager or bourbon or whatever it is they drink, and nod approvingly.
After they had decided I had coughed and choked upon their ghastly fumes for long enough, they responded to a signal from their apparent leader and formed a crude circle around me, trapping me in a menacing henge of bikes. Despite an occasional ‘rev’ now and again, however, these henchmen melted into the background as the leader, a tall fellow, well over six feet tall with curly hair, waddled forwards. The movement made by his legs on either side of his motorbike reminded me for some reason of a duck emerging clumsily from his pond, not entirely comfortable out of the relative safety of the water. The air was still for a minute, and the sun glinted off a highly polished brass buckle on his left shoe. He smiled. And then spoke in a cultured voice.
“Good morning,” despite it being well into the afternoon by now. “You may or may not realize it, but you have something - certain items in your possession - which we are very, very interested in.”
I told him that I was only a visitor to London and he must have mistaken me for somebody else.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he replied and, with another smile, leant forwards. And there riding pillion, unseen up until now, was the youth who had absconded with my Scottish money! The nerve of it, I thought, and must have taken a step towards him, though as I said before, I cannot remember the exact run of play. However, I must have done something as the man in the driving seat raised his hand.
“Now, now, that is quite close enough thank you.” He turned momentarily to the boy. “Is this him?” My identity was confirmed with a monosyllabic grunt and a nod of the head.
“You see good sir,” I believe the villain saw himself as some sort of modern day ‘charming highwayman’, although if this was indeed the case then it’s desired effect had not even the merest hold upon me, because, scared as I don’t mind admitting I was - to the core - I saw none of the lovable rogue in him at all. “This lad here saw upon your person a large wodge of Scottish pounds. No, no, don’t try to deny it. It would not be in the boy’s interest to lie to me.” This last statement was a cutting response to my attempted protestations. He continued.
“No doubt you know as much as the next man about the highly turbulent fiscal climate we are living in. The Euro teeters almost daily on the very brink of collapse, China owns more Gr
eenbacks than the US Treasury and the markets bounce around like a jack-in-the-box on a bumpy road. You may or may not be aware that the Scottish pound shows every sign of replacing the dollar as the world’s leading currency.
“Rumours have been floating about for weeks, but believe me this is not mere idle conjecture – all the predictions can be substantiated easily enough given ten minutes or so on a computer linked to the financial data of the last dozen years. If you know what to look for,” he added, “a man can also see a correlation in the commodities market – which is always to be expected, of course.”
Of course. What? Did I look like some kind of out of uniform investment official? Did he assume that I, like all of his cronies, had even the slightest inkling of what he was talking about? Please don’t start talking about Sub-Prime interest payments and negative equity I pleaded in my head.
“Now I know there are always those who would advise caution with these kinds of speculations and admittedly it is a high risk venture, but just think of the rewards.” His eyes glazed over for a moment as he stared out at something only he could see. Then with a brief flick of his curly mop he was back. “Trust me; there is a lot of money to be made in buying Scottish. You are probably well informed of the sudden increase in the prices of such products as porridge, tartan materials, dried thistles and the like.” Then with a nod and a wink, “and between you and me, cabers are due to make a meteoric rise.
“However, I digress. I see that you are standing there a little bemused, wondering to yourself what exactly is the nub of my gist. And in a nutshell sir, it is this: I would like you to hand over your Scottish currency to me. All of it.
“Now perhaps ‘insist’ is too strong a word, but if you fail to do so willingly the consequences will be dire.”
What choice did I have? I reached for my wallet.
***