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Vince-The Plan

Thieves

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This is the plan, the chickens coming to roost, Vince thought.

Wind buffeted the late night; it began to drizzle, the cold drops spattering onto Vince’s face. Under the lamppost, he cut a ghostly figure. “Hi, Vince.”

“You’re late!” Vince grumbled.

“I know. Got laid up at the factory.” Gordon sounded almost cheerful. “Couldn’t you have found a better venue?”

“Piss off, will you? There are eyes and ears everywhere; out here, we are on our own.”

“Yeah, I get it, bleedin cold though, eh?” “what’s the pitch, mate?”

“We move in tomorrow at dawn. The warehouse only has one alarm system. From outside, we cut the mains, then come in through the roof. From there, the battery backup is accessible. Once disabled, it’s all go.”

“Do we have a location on the goods?”

“Sure, that’s mapped and easily accessed at the far end of the warehouse.”

“Where did you get the layout details?” Gordon was now showing signs of concern.

“Does it matter?”

“Feck you, of course, it matters! My life’s on the line here.” Beads of sweat were now visible on Gordon’s face, even in the poor lamplight.

“Join the team, mate; we’re all in the same boat. Team being the word, each of us has a part.”

“Yeah, right, how come I haven’t met the others then?

“You don’t need to meet them. You drive the van in, pick up the stuff, I join you, and we head for delivery simple.”

“The others?”

“They head in other directions.”

“From there?”

“You and I do the delivery. I get the dough, give you your share, drop you off at your spot, and we split ways.”

“Where will you go, Vince?

“Look, Gordon, the less each team member knows, the better. But I will ditch the van, meet the others, pay them out, and we each take to our different routes. Listen to me now. My advice to you is this. Don’t go back to your place. Take a taxi cross country. From there, catch the ferry and finally take a plane overseas, Don’t come back, ever!”

“Looks like a frikken long way to take a trip. Why don’t I jump on a plane from the first?”

“Gordon, you thickhead, think for a second. A long way around is a long way to trace, and we can’t leave any trace!”

“Yeah, you’re right, that’s frikken smart mate, cool.”

“Wake up, will you. It will be tickets for the rest of us if just one gets caught. Poof, goes our lolly, and we sit in the cooler for a few years. The feds have had a fair deal of practice with this stuff. They know how to extract information from the likes of us.” Vince went on. “You think on that boyo, have it fixed in your face all the time, one goes, all go, right? Let’s move.”

“Cut, cut, well-done guys, great scene! Let’s get the cameras and stuff packed up. Hot food and pints at the pub then, move, move.”

The Director was satisfied with the scene; no re-shoot was necessary.

When I do not see the results of what I want coming about in my life, I give up, often on the brink of these being realized. They would have fallen into my lap if I had been patient.

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The Ferry Ride

Ferry

Feature Photo Google Image

The Ferry Ride.

Two Strangers, who had met only hours before, travel on a ferry—Russia 1885.

“Sergey,” Kristina whispered as the two of us stood under the solitary streetlight in the heavily falling rain. Why are you whispering? I thought. It was half eleven, and we were alone; who are we disturbing? I turned to face Kristina and, in doing so, stepped on a twig; ‘Whoosh, as the twig snapped, a great owl alighted from its post on top of the streetlight and fled to a safer perch. Kristina screamed and clutched onto me. Her warm, sweet breath caressing my face, her grip on my arm set my pulse beating. “Oh, I got such a fright,” she exclaimed. “What was that?” “It was an owl, sitting on top of the lamp. I saw it when we arrived.” I explained.

“I was going to ask you if the ferry will be in time to get us across the river. I shouldn’t like to arrive late for mass.” She stated appealingly. In response, I looked over the landing ramp across the inky black river. The moon was dancing among the clouds, shedding stages of its beams on the river, revealing white top waves whipped up by the wind. “I see a little lantern swaying above the river; that would be the ferry making its way across,” I responded slowly. “What’s that squeaking sound I can hear, Sergey? Her voice was shaky as she looked around nervously. “That’s the pulley cable swaying against the  anchor beam.”

“What? Could you explain that in laywoman’s terms, please?” There was a twist of humor in Kristina’s voice. “Of course, forgive me. Do you see that cable attached to the pole up there?” “Yesss, I think so.” “that cable goes over the river, and it is attached to a similar beam on the far bank. There is a three-wheel slide suspended on the cable. Linked to these is a rope dropping down onto the ferry. The ferryman pulls this rope, and the ferry board moves forward.

Despite the feel of cold rain on our faces and wind whistling in our ears, it seemed Kristina was gaining some zeal. “What is a ferry board?” “It’s the part that floats on the water, like a raft. “We are going to travel on a raft?” Kristina was shocked. “It’s alright, Kristina; It does have rails on the sides and a bench to sit on.” “Oh, if only I had known, I wouldn’t have asked you to take me to this Christmas Mass.

Water splashing against its side, the ferry loomed onto the ramp from the dark river, the little lantern swaying in the wind. Kristina didn’t need to comment on the elderly, wheezing, and bent over Ferry-man. Terror flashing on her face said it all.

His breath gathered, the Ferry-Man began, with well-spaced strides, pulling the rope. On shaky legs, trying to accustom myself to the rocking of the ferry, I offered to assist the man. His words were lost as he grunted into the howling wind and spray. I sat down, and Kristina gripped my arm. “I’m afraid.” she was shouting above the wind; I looked into her face, my eyes burning from the rain. “Oh Sergey, I’m going to be sick, hand over her mouth and leaning over the rail, a foul-smelling fountain spewed from her mouth. She clung to the rails while I held her around the waist. She continued retching for a few minutes with nothing emitting from her mouth. Face as white as a sheet, she looked at me: “Sergey, I need some water; all I can taste is bile.” “Kristina, we’ll dock in a few minutes. I’ll find water for you.”

Strains of an organ filled the night as gratefully I found a handpump. “Come, Kristina, drink,” she eagerly slurped the water from her hands. “Thank you, Sergeys. I feel better now.” As we entered the church, a warm, strong waft of teak wood and incense blew into my nostrils, a pleasant change from the bitter cold rainy night outside.

Settling into a tight space in the pew, a sudden boom from the organ and the choir with high-pitched voices jarred us as they began, “Asperges me Domine…” “What language is that, Kristina?” I leaned toward her. “It’s a Gregorian chant in Latin. A psalm of King David, “Cleanse me o’ Lord…” “Oh, interesting.” Once the service ended, people began celebrating and thoroughly enjoying their Christmas feast.

At the insistence of the Ferry-Man, we returned to the ferry. Clouds had cleared, the wind dropped, and a full moon proudly shone down on us from a cobalt sky. Kristina’s hand slid into mine as we sat, our bodies touching. Overwhelmed by a deep longing in me, I turned and kissed Kristina on her cheek. Her eyes glistening with tears as she whispered, “Thank you for coming with me, Sergey.” Edging slowly towards each other, we kissed on the lips. Deep and long.

If you feel this article has value, please send this link to others. Writings are meant for people, not for dormant files in our computers. Often, when we share them, it results in positive changes in the lives of individuals and communities.

All rights reserved sirpeterjamesdotcom©2020-01-20

If you are spiritually inclined see my other site; www.adcrucemchristi.com

Please feel free to send in questions (see ‘Contact’) and comments (hit the ‘Comments’ Button.)