Early Riser

Early Riser

3 a.m. I’m awake in the middle of the night.

Let me see. ‘He wakes like a troll under a bridge disturbed by a water rat.’ Hmm maybe.

I like to play with words. Simile, allegory, metaphor. I have no idea what those words mean, but still, I like to make stuff up.

Off to earn a living then. It’s a mug’s game but somebody’s got to do it.

When I go to work, I’m ‘going equipped.’

My brother Charles, he went ‘equipped.’ Ma and Pa judged him the clever bugger because he went to some London university. Can’t remember which one. He ended up being a social worker. Spouted crap from dawn till dusk. It was all in his head. Dead now of course. Bleed on the brain.

Jemmy, hammer, hacksaw, screwdriver. Ready for action.

It’s a lonely life. I’m like a lighthouse keeper, making people aware of the rocks. Or the loss of them. Ha ha.

A bit of jewellery. A bit of tomfoolery. I don’t like Cockney slang because I’m not a Cockney. In fact, I was born in the Black Country. Up with Enoch and Eli. Or the Aynuk’s and Ayli’s, depending on your roots. But I had to tear up my roots and move south. To be honest, there was nobody worth robbing in Dudley.

 

Here it is. Blue Gardens. An old detached pile. Scruffy, like it needs a haircut and a shave. I’m always cautious. That’s why I’m very rarely caught. I’ve walked past this house about seven times recently and got all the info. There’s no CCTV, and no dogs. But there is a top of the range Mercedes in the drive, rarely used by the look of it, and the brass fittings around the front door are worth a fortune. There is money here.

The walls are high all around but the gates are wide open. Perfect. For me. Private but accessible.

I did have my eye on a small front window, but there’s a light on by the door. It’s far too close. There are no other lights on. I’ll try a window round the side. Easy peasy. It’s got an old-style latch in a loose wooden window frame. Screwdriver job.

We all “go equipped” I suppose. I went “equipped” to the naughty boys’ home. A full apprenticeship in house-breaking, taking and driving away, fraud and distraction theft. But no violence. Never.

I’m more of a chess player than wrestler. I like to think I do a good job. I know some people wouldn’t agree, but there is a skill to getting in and out of somewhere while creating the minimum of fuss and upset.

In some ways I’m like Robin Hood. I rob from the wealthy. The difference is I keep the stuff. Maybe Robin Hood did as well. I bet he did.

I have morals. If someone has only got a crap telly and a bottle of tomato sauce then I won’t steal their telly. But if someone has a house full of sixty-inch flat-screens then I might lift one. Of course, I gave up nicking tellies years ago. Too big and no profit. What I go for is small and valuable. Diamonds, gold, rubies, emeralds. I love them all.

I rarely come into contact with the owners. But when I do I try to keep them, and me, calm. My customers are generally whingers not scrappers, and they know they can claim on the insurance. If they get feisty, I give them a flash of the claw hammer – not that I’d ever use it – and they chill out like a penguin who’s slipped on the ice.

There was one bloke who came at me with a walking stick. He was just too old to see the consequences. I could have sued him! He could have ended up in prison! But as it was he fell over a little coffee table. I said. ‘You alright mate?’ and he said. ‘Yeah, I’m alright. Now push off.’ So I did.

The gap in this window frame is shocking. The draft must be unbearable. Window open, I drop inside. All is quiet. Gently, gently catch the sparkly monkey. People’s preciousesss’s are always in the bedroom. It’s a right pain in the arse. They would be better off leaving them on the kitchen table. I would feel less like I was intruding.

I’ve watched hundreds of people sleeping. There’s something magical about it, and it makes me feel kind of privileged. I’ve seen walruses snoring, children with faces like angels, restless dreaming women, men stinking of whiskey, naked bodies with the covers thrown back.

I try to make sure there are no dogs, but this one time I crept in to a particularly pink bedroom and there was a Doberman Pinscher on the bed! He sat up, but before he was fully awake I stuck a bag of bacon pieces under his nose. He was as happy as a bear in a honey factory, while I helped myself to his mistresses’ stuff.

‘Help!’

What’s that? Someone shouting.

‘Help? Is anybody there?’

I need to get out quick.

‘I’m hurt! I’m in here!’

I flick on my torch and edge slowly into the living room. There’s a middle aged, middle-class looking woman on the floor.

‘Oh,’ she says, ‘thank God…there was a spider on the light…I had a broom, I climbed on a chair…I fell.’

She begins to cry.

‘Where are you hurt?’ I ask.

‘My leg…my leg.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll go for help.’ I really need to get out of here.

‘No, no, don’t leave.’

‘Okay love, don’t worry, I’ll phone for an ambulance.’

‘No, no, just talk to me.’

‘But you’re hurt.’

‘Please. Just sit.’

‘Okay…err…’

She gives me a lovely smile. ‘What’s your name?’

I should give a false one but I just say, ‘Tay.’

‘Strange name, is it Scottish?’

‘No, it’s my nickname. My dad’s idea of a joke. He used to sit in his chair hold out his cup and say. ‘Tay! Bring me a cup of tay boy.’

‘Sounds a bit cruel.’

‘He was. Knocked me about a bit. But he was funny as well. Used to take me to the Wolves.’

‘The Wolves?’

‘Wolverhampton Wanderers. Football.’

‘Oh I see.’

Something weird is going on. We’ve only just met but I find her strangely fascinating. She is beautiful. Deep, rich, brunette hair and sparkling hazel eyes. Full lips and a gorgeous figure. But also, with the exchange of a few meagre words, I know she is funny, and intelligent, and understanding.

‘And you?’ I say, ‘what’s your name?’

She gives me that smile again. ‘Gloria.’

 

The hours fly by. We talk of philosophy, and hearts and souls, and books, and cabbages and kings.

But I continue to be worried about her leg. When she drifts off to sleep I sneak out to the hall and phone the emergency services.

And there you have it. Like an overloaded boat taking one more passenger because she “needs to see her sick mother,” my compassion means I’m going to sink myself. I’m going to stick around to wait for the authorities, and I will say, ‘hello plod, I am your local burglar, please take me down the nick.’

 

They come surprisingly quickly. I answer the door and I’m almost blinded by the blue flashing light.

‘You reported an emergency?’ says a really young-looking ambulance man, or paramedic as they like to call themselves these days.

‘Yes, its a lady called Gloria, she’s on the floor, she’s hurt her leg.’

I show them in. Gloria is nowhere to be seen.

‘She was here,’ I say, ‘let me look for her.’

I check all the rooms. They are dusty, and aged, and empty.

The ambulance man looks ratty. He really does. His eyes have narrowed and his nose is twitching slightly. I’m sure under that downy top-lip there are sharp yellow teeth.

‘Do you live here sir?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I say.

‘What you doing here then?’

‘I’m a friend.’

‘Of who?’

‘Of Gloria.’

‘Is that the woman with the leg who’s not here?’

‘Yes.’

He looks at his mate. ‘Fin, can you phone HQ something’s not right about this.’

Enough! I on my toes and jumping through my open window. But where the hell is Gloria?

 

Me. Tay Lather, 5’6” piglet. I should be wiry, agile, quick in and out. But no, the pizzas from Mussolini’s Kitchen have done their worst. Plus, even though I am a somewhat isolated soul, I do like a couple of pints in the Carbunkle with Figgs Newton. We talk about sport and cars, and all that guff. Of course I would never talk to him about my business. Figgs is a gobby bleeder.

I’ve been married three times. The triumph of hope over experience over experience. My idea of heaven is sitting in my old armchair with a tot of Irish, a Cuban cigar, and a good film on the telly.

I had a budgie once. Can’t remember his name. Possibly Peter. Or Finkelstein. A right character. Used to sit on my head. And shit on my head!

Sometimes I get a call from my daughter Aileen. I usually answer it. But I can never think of much to say.

There are times I feel like a ship battered by fifty-foot waves. Or Tonia, Ruth and Lavinda, to give the waves their proper titles. They were all different, and all the same. Give me attention! Ha ha.

Same for all of us I suppose. Its a good job I’ve got a steady income to provide for them. I know I don’t have to, but I do. I’m one of the good guys. I even go to see Tonia once a month. She was always my favourite.

 

I watched ‘Oceans’ something the other day. A load of blokes doing a bank job or something, I didn’t watch it all. It was full of glamour and flash cars and expensive suits. Teamwork. Everybody working together. I was in a team once. They made me a teacher back at the naughty boys home I’d been to. Strange. Now you might think teachers are on their own a lot, and that’s true, but in the staff room we had loads of banter. It was mint.

Then the black dog got me. It went three D. Depression. Drinking. Divorce.

I miss the guys. But not the kids!

Do I get lonely? Sort of. Would I want another woman in my life? Not sure. She would have to be one hell of a character! A bit like Gloria?

3 a.m. again. I’m not waking up because I’m already awake. Gloria. Where did you go? There is something special about her. I need to know what happened. I’m like a mole chasing a worm. I’m in the dark but enjoying the pursuit, and I really shouldn’t go back to her house.

 

Blue Gardens. It’s a moonlit 4am and once again the light by the door is on.  Was it left on by the services? A relative? Gloria herself?

I’m excited. I’m almost praying she is inside. Should I knock? Or go in through the window? Old habits die hard.

The catch wasn’t even done up. Like a spider, I straddle the frame. All is dark except a light from the living room. Someone is singing ‘Ce Sera Sera.’ I creep to the door and there she is. By the glow of a roaring log fire, Gloria is waltzing around the room. She is wearing the same green retro high-collared dress and jewelled shoes. She glows with life.

‘There you are!’ she says.

I’m a bit shocked. I thought I was hidden.

She continues dancing. ‘Come in, Mr Burglar!

So she did know why I was there last time. Funny, we never spoke of it. Suddenly it dawns on me that this might be a trap. Is plod waiting behind the heavy damask curtains? Does Gloria have a husband with a golf club raised over his head ready to strike the intruder? Even as I think this, the thought of her having a husband makes my heart sink.

I enter the room and thankfully she stops twirling. I was getting really dizzy.

‘Well?’ she says, ‘where have you been? Scotland? Arabia? The moon?’

‘I…’

‘Never mind. You’re here now.’

I can hardly remember the night we spent together. Just talking and laughing, no hanky panky of course, she is a proper lady. I can honestly say that I’ve never felt as close to another human being. In our short time together I feel she knows me better than any of my wives. Or anybody else for that matter.

 

Over the next week I become a regular at Gloria’s house. My previous sense of contentment with my home comforts has disappeared. Now I can’t wait to get over to Blue Gardens to see her. She insists I always come at midnight. Never in the day. It suits me, a few hours of chat before my 3am work schedule begins.

I have been like a hibernating tortoise that she had taken out of the newspaper wrapping and put on the spring lawn. She has brought me back to life!

Like most men, I began to hope for more. Once, I reached out to touch her hand, but she drew it back swiftly, like my hand was a poisonous viper about to bite. I was hurt of course, but at least I understood the boundaries of our relationship. Yes, it was becoming clear to us both, that we did have, a relationship.

‘Well,’ I said at 3am, ‘off to work then.’

‘Robbery?’ she says coolly.

‘Burglary. Yes.’

‘Don’t you feel guilty about upsetting your victims?’

I smile uneasily. ‘They, the “victims” as you call them, get the insurance, and they usually add a few grand to the claim for their trouble.’

‘But what if they haven’t got insurance?’

‘They usually have.’

‘I haven’t, and you were going to rob me.’

I have no answer for this.

She touches the end of her nose. It’s something she does before becoming serious. I always notice it, and it makes me adore her all the more.

‘I think,’ she says, ‘you should give up on crime.’

I’m stunned. ‘Crime? I’m not a bank robber! And I’ve never been violent and I never will! This is my business and without it I wouldn’t have a clue what to do.’

‘You could stay here with me.’

I feel oddly confused. Live here? I feel a great affection for her…no, I feel love for her, but to give up my life?

I say, dully, ‘but, what would I do?’

‘You would be my companion. Just us. Forever.’

I laugh. ‘Forever is a long time.’

She looks darkly. ‘It is the longest time.’

I need to think. ‘Well I don’t know, but tonight I need to climb in through the cellar window of The Oaks on Waffle Street, so I must go.’

As I leave I feel disturbed, almost angry, but I’m not sure why.

 

I stay away from Gloria for three nights to have a good think.

When I finally return to Blue Gardens, via the window of course, she is in the living room waltzing and singing. She stops dead.

‘So you’ve come? Am I to be grateful that you have blessed me with your presence?’

‘I’m sorry, I…’

‘Oh don’t bother!’

There is a long squirmy silence during which I repeatedly clench my fists and move to leave, but don’t.

She resumes waltzing and then smiles wickedly.

‘I have decided you will never leave this house again.’

‘Gloria, I’ve told you, I need to work.’

‘No, you will need for anything. You will stay here with me.’

‘Gloria, I love you. But I am a person who likes to be out and about, doing stuff in the community.’

‘Like robbing people? You are like…a weasel stealing a squirrel’s winter nuts.’

‘You’re mocking me.’

‘I am Lionel.’

‘Lionel? That’s your dead husband’s name.’

‘Yes the swine who murdered me!’

‘What?’

‘I am dead. You do know that don’t you?’

‘You’re dead?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Disappearing? Never going out? The same bloody dress? It screams ghost!’

‘You were murdered?’

‘Strangled. That’s why I always wear the high neck collar! Give me strength! Lionel! You are so slow!’

‘Tay. Not Lionel.’ I say. I’m already backing away. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. I don’t understand any of it.’

‘You will!’ she says, and grabs the poker from the fire. She strikes and catches me a glancing blow on the head. I’m stunned but I stagger away. She chases me to the door and strikes me again across the back. It hurts. Then I’m out of the door and staggering down the street.

3am . Work or back to Gloria’s? I carry my bag full of tools to the door, then drop it. It won’t be necessary. I don’t need it to walk in the front door of Blue Gardens. I’m like a slug slowly sliding towards a spilled salt cellar. Or maybe like an AA man lying down on the tarmac in the fast-lane of a smart motorway? Or maybe like new green shoots. The tops of daffodils soon to grow and open in a banquet of colour?

Words. Words. Lovely words.

 

 

©valleyman 2020