The Criminal Escapades of Geoffrey Larkin (6 page)

Geoff went to the window and gave the thumbs up to his accomplice standing in the street trying to look with interest at the books in the shop window.

He then went back to the rear room where the assistant and his potential customer were still inspecting the rare book on the counter. Geoff stood looking in the cabinets with his back to them, giving the impression of looking at a set of books through the protective glass but, in actual fact, unknown to them he was watching the reflection of the two men behind him.

He saw in the reflection the shop assistant look up in his direction and make a move towards him, but his attention was drawn back to his customer asking him a question about the book in front of them.

The minute that John Bolton was waiting outside the book shop seemed to go on forever, the finger on the large clock didn't seem to move at all, he'd walked up and down in front of the shop twice, so as not to be too obvious he stopped again in front of the window.

Eventually the large finger on the face of the clock above the jewellers clicked over. John Bolton walked into the bookshop, grabbed the largest hardback book he could see that was nearest the door, turned and walked straight out again.

The electronic tab on the book set the alarms ringing at the exit.

John Bolton was off like a shot running down the street followed, several seconds later, by two middle-aged shop assistants.

Geoff was passed by the remaining assistant, followed more slowly by his customer, as they both went to view the excitement at the front of the shop.

On their return a short while later the light in the room was turned off, it took the assistant several seconds to find the light switch for the florescent lights that controlled that section of the shop, and then to turn them on again. It took several more vital seconds before he realised that the book on the counter, although slightly similar, was just a leather-bound, reasonably modern novel from one of the nearby shelves, and not the rare first edition that was there before the disturbance.

The alarm was still ringing as Geoff walked out with a carrier bag with the shop's name printed on the side, just as the two panting assistants returned carrying the book that John Bolton had discarded as they got closer to him in the chase. Geoff turned, quickly losing himself amongst the milling lunchtime crowd on the busy main street.

It was much later that he met up with his nervous, red-faced companion John Bolton at the prearranged meeting place outside the railway station.

John told him how the two shop assistants had nearly caught him; he had only managed to give them the slip by dropping the book and running across the road in front of the moving traffic, to the annoyance of the drivers who made their feelings felt by blasting on their horns at the urchin who had risked his life amongst the fast moving traffic; by then the shop assistants had fortunately given up the chase.

Sitting on the train leaving the station Geoff inspected the worn, leather-bound book. John Bolton showed some mild curiosity. ‘I don't understand the risks we took just for that book,' he moaned.

‘You have to speculate to accumulate,
' replied Geoff, continuing to study the book while also trying to ease the pain on the heels of his feet as the cardboard had pushed up in his sock and the shoes were rubbing again.

‘Well, we've yet to make our way back to the school unseen and return Shelly's clothes to his locker,' John continued. His comments fell on deaf ears as his partner carried on looking at the beautiful, engraved lettering at the beginning of each page in the leather-bound book. The edges of the pages had started to go a light brown in colour but the print was still quite clear. The book had been written and first published by a Reverend Angus Mackay in 1886 in defence of the Mackay clan. Apparently he had been moved to research and had recorded the true facts of the clan's heritage, their history and events, which had been badly misrepresented in a previous history book by an earlier author, a Sir Robert Gordon of a nearby clan called Sutherland.

Their station arrived all too soon for Geoff who was engrossed in the old volume. ‘Come on, hurry up Geoff,' shouted John Bolton as he held open the carriage door.

The secret of getting in and out of this station was that it had to be done while railway staff were busy and their attention was taken up with the passengers leaving the train.

Unseen, the two lads slipped around the far corner of the main building. Reaching the fence, Geoff pulled the two bottom boards in the fencing. This usually allowed them to slip out into the car park at the side but, on this occasion, the boards remained firmly in place.

‘You're pulling the wrong boards!' exclaimed John, the tension sounding in his voice as he pushed the smaller frame of Geoff out of the way, proceeding to tug at several of the boards on either side of the ones Geoff had been trying. Still none of the boards moved.

During the short time that they had been away the railway maintenance staff had arrived and re-fixed the loose boards, in response to a report previously submitted by the station master of lads using the loose boards as a private entrance and exit to and from the station platform.

‘Hi!' the shout from the far end of the building galvanised the boys into action.

John Bolton was slightly bigger and stronger than Geoff. With a few steps back and two quicker steps forward along with a great leap John managed to reach the top of the fence, dragging himself up and over the top.

‘Coming over!' shouted Geoff as he threw the bag containing the book over the fence. He then tried the same movement as John Bolton twice, but could not reach the top of the fence, falling back again on each attempt.

A quick look over his shoulder showed two men walking briskly towards him
. They've no need to hurry,
he thought.
They can see I can't get over the fence and I'm trapped in this bloody cul-de-sac.
It was in sheer desperation that he grabbed one of the bottom pieces of the fence and tugged with all his might.

It must have been the fear of being caught which gave Geoff added strength plus a hefty kick from John on the other side of the fence, because the single board came away from its fixing on the frame with an almighty creak. The opening it left was small but he realised he had no alternative. Another glance over his shoulder showed the two men, on seeing that their quarry may be escaping, had now broken into a shambling run.

Quickly twisting his shoulders into a vertical position he forced himself into the narrow opening, but he became stuck by his chest and the P.E. instructor's thick sports coat. He could hear the approaching footsteps of the two men.
So near, yet so far,
he thought to himself.

Suddenly his wrists were grabbed from the other side of the fence.

It felt as if his shoulders were going to be pulled out of their sockets, as John Bolton heaved with all his might, his feet planted firmly against the bottom of the fence and leaning backwards.

He was pulling on Geoff's wrists for all he was worth, while Geoff was pushing from his side as best he could with his feet digging into the hard soil.

When the fence did finally release Geoff it was like a cork from a bottle and he ended up on top of John Bolton, attempting at the same time to swing his legs out of the way and clear of the opening.

He wasn't quite fast enough as one of the men reached through the small gap in the fence and grabbed one of his ankles. A quick downward kick with his free foot on the man's fingers brought a curse from the other side of the fence, and forced the grip to slacken slightly, but it still remained holding tightly onto Mr. Shelly's shoe.

Geoff could feel the panic rising; his heart was beating faster and faster as he was pulled back towards the gap in the fence.

‘You won't get away from me that easy you little sod!' This was followed by a triumphant laugh from the other side of the fence. Geoff was twisting his foot this way and that in a vain attempt to release himself from the clamp like grip. Suddenly he was free; his foot had slipped out of the oversized shoe leaving the man just holding on to Mr. Shelly's by now, scratched and very battered footwear.

‘We'll get you one of these days you little bastards!' the workman shouted in frustration, placing his face against the gap in the fence.

He was met with a torrent of filthy abuse from the two lads ending with, ‘Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!' from Geoff, shouted between their bouts of hysterical laughter, as they ran off alongside the fence towards the road. While Geoff was being forced to run with a lop-sided motion through wearing only one shoe.

‘Thanks for not leaving me back there, John,' said Geoff when he was sure they weren't being chased, and they had stopped to regain their breath.

‘Think nothing of it, that's what mates are for,' replied John, feeling very relieved and quite pleased with his achievement and the fact they had not been caught

They set off for the playing field with Geoff still walking with a funny up and down gait caused by the lack of one of Mr. Shelly's shoes.

‘What will we do about the missing shoe Geoff?' John queried, sounding quite concerned. Geoff had been pondering on that very same problem himself.

‘We'll put everything back in the locker as it was, they won't be able to pin anything on us if we're carful,' replied Geoff with a confidence he did not feel.

It was only when he came to change into his own clothes in the bushes near the playing field that he discovered all the buttons on the front of Mr. Shelly's sports coat were also missing. They'd been torn off in the process of being dragged through the narrow gap in the fence and the knees of the long grey trousers were also covered in mud from his scramble through the fence.

Mr. Shelly took great pride in his footwear, it was a habit carried on through his long time service in the Royal Air Force. The pair of highly polished and once shiny shoes was now down to just one, and this was so scratched and badly scuffed it did not have the faintest resemblance to the shoe that had started the journey earlier that day.

Well there's nothing I can do about that now,
Geoff thought to himself. He didn't bother to mention his discoveries to his companion, he couldn't see the point at this moment in time, his friend was of a nervous disposition and it was to no avail bothering him with this minor hiccup, and things had gone roughly to plan anyway.

It was now just before three o'clock. If they hurried they had sufficient time to replace the clothes and shoe in Shelly's locker then mix with the rest of the pupils in the playground during their afternoon break. They would be in time to make the last lesson.

Little did they realise the drama in the school that had, and was still being, played in the classrooms in their absence.

Derek Bolton had signed in both Geoff and his brother for the P.E. lesson. Shelly was the only teacher who allowed the boys to sign themselves into the class; it was his method of trying to give them responsibility. So if any boy wanted to skip a lesson, it was usually during P.E., getting a mate to forge their signature and cover for their absence.

Derek Bolton thought he was the only one in the class on the playing field who saw the shadowy figures of his brother and Geoff behind the bushes at the far end of the school grounds. He also thought it would be all over before the scheme had even got off the ground as he watched Mr. Shelly looking in their direction as his two mates climbed up the far embankment; he was helpless to intervene. He was as surprised as Mr. Shelly when Harry Sutton's voice popped up out of nowhere, to attract the teacher's attention, Derek watched relieved as the boys disappeared onto the road, just as Shelly turned around again.

It was the second lesson that could cause problems. Derek would have to shout out, ‘Here sir!' as the names of his brother and Geoff were called out. He could get away with Geoff's name, as there was a large gap between Bolton and Larkin, but his brother's name was straight after his own and the teacher might well recognise the similarity in the reply.

Even though Shelly had not missed the two boys from his class, both Dave Higgins and Wilf Norton had twigged that something was going on, especially as Geoff Larkin and John Bolton were both missing from class. They were looking intently at Derek as it came closer and closer to both his and his brother's name being called by the teacher.

What was in Derek's favour was that the teacher taking the history lesson that particular week was a young, temporary, student replacement and, as yet, he was not familiar with all the boys in the different classes. The student teacher's name was Mr. Lonsdale and he had, for some unknown reason, been nicknamed Hikky Lonsdale by the pupils. Perhaps this was from his habit of cracking several wooden rulers hard on the desk in order to get the boys' attention.

‘Bolton D,' shouted out Hikky.

‘Here, sir,' replied Derek Bolton.

‘Bolton J,' shouted out Hikky.

‘Here!' replied a gruffer sounding Derek Bolton.

‘Here, sir, if you please Bolton J,' Hikky shouted back.

‘Here, sir,' replied Derek Bolton, breathing a sigh of relief as he shouted, ‘Here sir!' when Larkin was called.

There was no reaction from the teacher who continued calling out the rest of the names that made up the class. The boring history lesson with Hikky Lonsdale took the class up to lunchtime without any further mishap. If any of the other pupils had heard Derek Bolton cover up for the absence of Geoff Larkin and his older brother, they kept it to themselves, with the exception of Dave Higgins and Wilfred Norton.

At the lunch break Derek Bolton was coming out of the urinals that were situated in a brick building in the corner of the school playground. There was only one exit and blocking this exit were Dave Higgins, Wilf Norton and two of his gang. They roughly pushed Derek back into the corner of the large, slate urinal. ‘Where's Larkin and your brother?' said Higgins quietly, pushing his face close up to Derek's.

Several weeks earlier, Dave Higgins had seen a film about the American Mafia and one of the gangsters had been called Whispering Joe Bianci. This deadly character spoke very, very softly to people. Apparently, he could not speak any louder as his throat and voice box had been permanently damaged in a previous knife fight. After watching this film Dave Higgins had started to imitate this gangster by speaking very low, so low in fact it was difficult to hear what he was saying.

‘Hey! What do you say?' said Derek, standing his ground.

For his bravery he took a knee in the groin from Dave Higgins and a punch thrown over his cousin's shoulder by Wilf Norton landed on the side of his head.

Derek, still doubled up from the knee in the groin, raised his arms and elbows to protect his head. One of his arms was pulled away and he took another blow on his forehead from Higgins plus a kick on the shin from Norton. The other two members of the gang were hovering and bobbing in the background waiting to throw a punch or a kick at the huddled figure in the corner of the urinal.

‘Hey! What's going on?' the shout came from the far doorway to the toilets.

‘Tell whoever it is to piss off or they'll get some of the same!' shouted Norton, not bothering to turn around as he sent another punch into the unprotected ribs of the cringing body in the corner.

‘Watch out Wilf, it's that bloody nutter Sutton,' the shout came from one of the gang standing on the fringe and waiting to get into the action.

Wilf Norton heard the shout and started to turn then blackness peppered with stars exploded in front of his eyes.

Dave Higgins was a little quicker and managed to swing a punch but it was smothered by the bulk of Harry Sutton who grabbed Higgins by the shoulders, upended him and forced his face into the trough of the urinal, holding him there for several minutes. The other two members of the gang, by this time, had scarpered as soon as the doorway was clear. They were now standing in the playground watching the entrance to the toilets.

It was only when they saw Harry Sutton and Derek Bolton leave that they felt it was safe to venture back into the building to assist their friends. They found Dave Higgins splashing water from a wash basin over Wilf Norton's swollen face as he slowly regained consciousness.

The lesson after lunch was woodwork with their form teacher, Mr. Ashness, Terry Ashness! The pupils hated this man and he in turn hated them. He thought all boys were stupid, insolent, rude and scruffy. He had fits of temper, smashing to pieces in front of the class some of the boys' poorer efforts at making wooden joints.

Where the other teachers used detention for punishment, Terry Ashness seemed to delight in using verbal abuse, coming so close to the lads that the froth he generated splattered the unfortunate victim all over his face and, even more so, if he had been in one of his vile rages. The boys had nicknamed him ‘Whiplash Ashness' after an old black and white western television series that was being re-run at the time called
Whiplash.

Ashness shouted out the names of the class until he came to Larkin. There was no reply. He shouted the name out again louder; ‘LARKIN!' Again there was no reply.

One of the lads, who had been in the toilets with Higgins and Norton, tittered. Ashness zoomed in to the work bench where the tittering had come from, there were four lads, two either side the bench. ‘Which one of you boys made that silly sound?' he shouted. No one answered.

‘Which one of you stupid boys made that silly sound?' he repeated much louder than the first time. The four boys looked sheepishly at one another but no one answered.

The rest of the class were silent. They had seen this so many times before; Ashness was building himself up into one of his rages. ‘If the boy who made that silly sound does not own up this instant, all four of you at this bench will receive detention. And miss your tea!' His voice had now reached a crescendo. There was no reply from the small group. Terry Ashness picked up a loose piece of wood from their work and smashed it onto the surface of the workbench with a loud crash, sending clouds of fine sawdust and wood shavings in all directions.

The boy who had done the tittering went into a long, forced outburst of coughing, which caused further tittering from the rear of the room. Ashness ignored this, turned and went into the small cubby hole he called his office, and came out with a hammer. He then carried on where he had left off. ‘Does anyone know where Larkin is?' There was a deathly silence.

‘I will repeat once more.' There was the sound of someone from the body of the room blowing a raspberry. The hammer in the teacher's hand came down with a crash, shattering one of the lad's carved wooden fruit bowls, breaking it in half. ‘Does
anyone
know the whereabouts of Geoffrey Larkin?' Ashness shouted, his face now turning purple with rage from the neck upwards.

‘Excuse me sir, but both him and my elder brother complained of a bad stomach after lunch so they went for a lie down on their bunks.' Terry Ashness, with his hammer still in his hand, walked up the aisle between the work benches and stopped in front of Derek Bolton. He could see the boy had been fighting, but that was nothing to do with him, these lads were always fighting with one another, settling scores as they crudely put it.

‘You think they've got a bad stomach, eh? Don't you know? Why didn't you say this before when I first asked? Well boy! Answer me. Has the cat got your tongue?'

There was a ‘Mee-Oww!' from the rear of the room, this brought a ripple of laughter from the rest of the pupils which was quickly stifled as Ashness turned and glared at the class.

‘Well Boy! Answer me!' continued the red faced Ashness. Derek Bolton was sweating; he did not have the nerve for this type of subversion.

‘I thought I'd get detention like the other lads, sir,' came back the meek reply.

‘Those other idiots deserved punishing. You are just a fool Bolton, you had better improve very quickly or else you could be next in line for detention and reporting to the principal. See me when this lesson ends, we'll both go and find Larkin and your brother!'

Terry Ashness went back to his bench and continued to complete the registrar without any further problems. He did not enjoy teaching but he wouldn't be able to get another job as well paid and as secure as this one if he resigned. He had served an apprenticeship in joinery but he was a very poor tradesman, quickly getting the sack from the building sites and joiners' shops that had employed him. It was his uncle, a member of the Local Education Committee and a school governor who had used his influence to acquire this position for his nephew.

Ashness also knew the nickname that the school inmates had given him; he didn't like that at all, it only added to the hatred he felt for these boys, resenting the fact that he couldn't lay in to them with the cane like his teacher used to do when he was at school.

He would have liked to have gone straight away to the lads' dormitory to check their story but he couldn't leave this class unattended with all these sharp tools. These lads were untrustworthy, a bunch of idiots, and he knew he wouldn't be able to get another teacher to stand in for him at such short notice as the school was already short staffed.

There were several minutes to go before the end of the class. Derek Bolton was watching the large clock fixed on the wall above Ashness's little office, it showed 2.45pm, not long to go before the sound of the bell that would end this dreaded lesson.

I wish that bastard Whiplash would move from that doorway,
he thought as Ashness continued to hover around the bench near the entrance to the workshop. Derek was hoping that he could slip out unnoticed with the rest of the boys when the class was dismissed, and not stay behind as instructed.

Where were Larkin and his brother? They were supposed to be back by now, had they been caught by the shop assistant and handed over to the police, or had they missed the train? Would they be caught with whatever they'd gone to get, when they tried to re-enter the school?' All these thoughts were flashing through Derek's mind and he was finding it difficult to concentrate. He had cut his piece of wood too short and made a mess of the joint he was supposed to be making; that would bring another telling off from Ashness. Oh what the hell, he was fed up messing about with bits of wood; anyway this was more of the thing that his brother enjoyed doing.

Whiplash had blown his whistle which was a signal to stop work, telling the class to put away their tools and whatever project they were working on, when the sudden appearance of the principal's secretary, Miss. Weatherhall, entering the workshop stopped the buzz of conversation amongst the boys.

Miss. Weatherhall never left her office and it had never been known for her to venture into the workshops. Derek Bolton's heart missed a beat as he saw her in deep conversation with Ashness. ‘This was it! They had definitely been caught. They had spilled the beans and he was going to be dragged up before the principal, Tattersall, and then given over to the police; he knew it!'

‘Carry on putting your tools and work away boys!' shouted Ashness as all the class had stopped and were curiously looking at Miss. Weatherhall. It was the first time that Whiplash had called the boys, ‘Boys' without either an insult or a name before or after it. The bell rang; it was three o'clock. ‘Class dismissed!' shouted Ashness.

‘Bolton, you stay behind.' The work shop quickly emptied of lads followed by Miss. Weatherhall, leaving Derek standing at his bench, supporting himself by his hands as his legs had suddenly gone very weak and felt as if they had turned to jelly. Ashness was sorting out some timber for the next class.

He's enjoying this,
thought Derek,
the bastard! He's making me sweat.
Ashness finished stacking his lengths of wood and turned to Bolton, still standing by his work bench.

‘Go and find Larkin, Bolton, tell him the principal wants to see him in his office. If he is too sick to go to the principal, go and tell the matron that he's ill. Have you got that Bolton? Oh! And tell your brother to come and see me. If he's too ill, tell the matron about him as well!'

As the teacher watched Derek Bolton scuttle off, he could not help but feel a little sympathy for the boy Larkin; there was probably nothing wrong with him or the older Bolton boy, they were just skiving a lesson. Still, the bad news the lad was about to hear was, by far, much worse than a few hours detention.

As Derek left the workshop, he did not know what to think, it was obviously very serious to bring Miss. Weatherhall out of her office. First he would try the playground, but he couldn't hurry as his ribs were really sore after the beating from Higgins and Norton. Still, it had been worth it to see Higgins having his nose rubbed in the urinals by Sutton; it was a good job for him the big lad had got involved when he did.