George and Spider Part Two - The Rob cont'd

George was feeling cold and a little odd. It occurred to him that perhaps it was his failure to eat dinner that was the cause of his physical weakness and sudden sense of being disengaged from the world. There was something about the arrangement of the rhododendron branches with their mottled red bark which seemed thoroughly familiar to him. Perhaps he'd climbed upon those branches as a child, or seen them in his dreams.
'Have we been here before Spider?'
'Here?'
'Here - under this big shrub?'
Spider shook his head and said, 'No, we've not been in this bit and that's a fact.'
George rubbed his hand up and down the red branches. 'I think I made a den in here once,' he said vaguely.
Spider didn't respond. He had dressed down now into a tight fitting black top and dark blue jeans with a great many zipped pockets containing various tolls and compartments. He tapped them one by one,feeling for all the little screw drivers, crow bars and blades which he took to work with him. Then he took a very deep breath and linked the tip of his thumb and forefinger together in a circle and showed this divers sign to George who did the same. They held this pose for a few seconds while they listened for sounds; people, dogs, cars, police helicopters, anything which might inhibit their mission. All was quiet.
Spider put on a pair of fine black gloves. 'I'm off then,' he whispered.
George stepped forward towards the rear garden fence of Laughing Water and offered his friend a leg-up. Spider placed his plimsolled foot lightly into the waiting clenched hands and then shimmied up like an eager young jockey, clearing the top of the fence and floating silently back to earth as if he were quite weightless. He travelled the length of the garden in little spurts, pausing in the shadows, rather like one of his namesakes. Despite the cloud cover, the night carried a sort of brownish purple light and was not the deep shade of black desired universally by burglars everywhere.
The occupants of Laughing Water were at the tired end of middle age, comfortably well off and flabby. In fact they had rather more ready cash than they knew what to
do with. They spent it on holidays, eating out and various other indulgent but ultimately unsatisfying treats. On this night they'd gone out to see their nephew play cello at a concert in town. Kelly, who worked for a local cleaning agency, had heard the lady of the house showing off about it on the telephone. The details of this event were also written clearly on a large calendar in the kitchen.
George and Spider would feel no pinch of guilt whatsoever regarding what was to follow. The house would not be trashed, the contents would be insured and indulgent life would continue for the occupants. It was unlikely that they would even notice until the following morning, a Saturday. Perhaps Mrs would notice a few absent articles of jewellery. She'd search the house, initially in denial. Then it would hit them, someone's been in! At first they'd be shocked of course, horrified. The police would come and take details. By afternoon they'd be feeling angry and violated. Friends would offer support and share stories. After dark the husband would be on edge. Keen to take responsibility he would likely take some lame excuse for a weapon to bed with him and place it under the pillow, a hammer or a pair of scissors, a knife might be too risky; he might kill his wife in his sleep! By Sunday morning they'd be eating croissants from Waitrose and reading the Sunday Times. A new bolt would be purchased for the back door and all would be well again at Laughing Water.
Before leaving for the concert the couple had switched a few indiscriminate lights on, however these failed miserably to give the impression of an occupied home. Spider had a gift for knowing whether or not a property was empty. He crossed the patio and stopped at the external wall to consult with his inner-consciousness, or his 'gut'. The house was empty, there was no energy within, he sensed it, he knew. Rather out of breath now, he pressed himself up against the wall, feeling the cold, rough bricks against his cheek, he took a two minute breather. It was at times like this that he cursed himself for being a born smoker, it was difficult to breathe silently with lungs so inefficient, and it seemed that the more he tried to breath quietly the more out of breath he became. He stepped back and glanced up at the upstairs windows. A small pane had been left ajar, just like Kelly had told them. Quickly he checked the downstairs windows, just in case there was an easier rout in, they were all locked.
The ground floor extension offered an easy way up. He placed his slender foot upon the window sill, his plimsolls gripped well onto the PVC and made a slight squeak as he pulled himself up onto the gently sloping roof of the kitchen. Here he had to be very careful not to break any tiles. If there was one thing Spider hated, it was damaging property, he was never into breaking and entering, only entering. On four lightly placed limbs he crawled across the roof to the bathroom window and crouched for a while, listening to the sounds of his own pipes and his heart pumping and pounding. He was excited now. For Spider, nothing could beat the thrill of entering private property, glimpsing other people's lives without any of the discomfort of having to be sociable.
He reached into his deepest pocket and pulled out a long, thin piece of metal. Then very slowly he stood up on his toes and using the tool he unhooked the little window and opened it wider. The larger window beneath was locked but the little silver key lay on the inner shelf. Spider climber up onto the outer sill, placing one foot in front of the other on the narrow ledge and reached down to get it. Then he unlocked the larger window and slid his body gently into the building. He put the key back in its place and pulled the large window closed. He had a little rule which he called the three R's; Replace, respect and remember. It basically meant put everything back as you go, don't break anything and remember the way out. That way he could escape quickly if disturbed, or worse case scenario, he could at least hide for a while, knowing that the place had not been obviously ransacked.
The upstairs of the house was in darkness. Spider removed a small, bright torch from one of his pockets and entered the master suite. It was one of those pristine, made to measure bedrooms where every possession is imprisoned fastidiously behind identical beige cupboard doors. All except for a step machine and a large leather jewellery case on top of the dressing table. Spider's eyes lit up.
Meanwhile George was still crouched down inside the rhododendron bush. For him the passage of time had been considerably slower. He was feeling odd and slightly unwell, pins and needles fizzed in his legs and he tried to get up to relieve them, he was struck by a familiar but unwelcome sensation. It was something which he always hoped had gone for good, but it returned again and again, arriving unannounced, like a persistent, childhood friend.
He dropped back onto his knees and shut his eyes tight. The thing had come. He'd experienced glimmers of it all evening but typically he's refused to acknowledge it. Now it had arrived in a solid, less deniable form. Resigned now, George waited for just seconds until he heard the voice, the voice which sang the phrase, the phrase which could never be translated into waking life but he knew it meant he was entering temporary oblivion. It was a male voice, sort of serious but floaty, George likened it to The Beach Boys. The words hinted at being English but the singer had his own dialect, a little like Brian Wilson singing backwards from the inside of a half empty can of condensed milk. George couldn't translate the words directly but he knew, he understood, like a sleeper who understands his dreams but cannot find the words to express them. George was helpless now, the doors of the world had closed behind him.
A tawny owl perched high on the branch of an ash tree peered down through the branches beneath and observed the outline of a young man slumped, writhing now and then. It lifted its huge wings and floated silently away into the purple sky.
Spider was now totally consumed in the take. The jewellery case was full of little drawers and compartments. He fondled the contents, feeling for weight of metal and looking for clarity and size of stones. A large black cat had jumped up onto the dressing table and was walking backwards and forwards, rubbing its soft fur across Spider's face and purring loudly. It is a fact that cats adore burglars.
Spider had no intention of taking more than his fair share. He reckoned about ten percent of the total jewellery was reasonable and he placed the chosen items into a special pouch on the front of his top, something which he'd fashioned himself, specifically for his professional work. The items chinked together satisfyingly. He flashed the torch around the thick cream carpet, checking for muddy prints or bits of dead leaf. Mess was for a lower class of criminal. He zipped up the pouch and said goodbye to the cat which was now prostrate on the bed, licking its fur. Then he swept silently across the landing, like an apparition, hardly disturbing the air. Once in the bathroom, he tore off a single sheet of toilet paper. It was quilted and printed with little springs of lavender, a folly among bogroll. This was all the reassurance Spider needed that the occupants of Laughing Water were taking more than their fair share from life. He wiped a small streak of mud from the window sill and exited via the large window, locking it behind him and placing the little key back on the inner sill and leaving the small window as it was.
As he landed back on terra firma he broke the tension in his face with a smile. To enter a strangers house unseen, see the mundane details of their domestic life and leave with a souvenir or two was surely a beautiful thing, if you get away with it. Now all he had to do was get back to George. He waited by the house for a few minutes to make sure that the coast was clear but the desire to smoke soon overwhelmed him. He zig-zagged across the lawn and popped gracelessly over the fence, causing a scraping sound consistent with that of a large cat.
'I need a fag,' he whispered, panting hard.
George weakly handed him his clothes and trainers and helped him into them. 'What d'you get?'
'Stuff - bits,' Spider said, then he spat on the ground.
'Swallowed a fly?'
'Cat hair.'
'What was you doing with the cat?'
'A spot of fornication. Are you alright mate, have you been sleeping?'
George looked away and said, 'I'm alright, just knackered, and starving.'
'You can get something on the way home,' Spider said, removing a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his bomber jacket. Just as he removed one George whipped it from his hand.
'No, not here! Wait until we get to the road.'
'What? I'm dying here George, I get get my breath!'
'No! You'll make a small red dot in these bushes - and foxes don't smoke.'
Spider wiped a dew drop from the tip of his nose and said, 'Would if they could.'
Feeling weak with fatigue now, George began to tremble with laughter. The image of foxes smoking came rather too readily into his mind and the laughter which followed released something which needed to leave his body. His shoulders shook and his eyes watered. 'Come one,' he said, pulling himself together, 'I want to get home to my bed.'
'Keep your eyes open for golf balls,' said Spider as they began walking back.
By the time they reached The Comet's Tail George's legs felt like lead weights. Kelly had drawn the horrid red curtains making the place look every bit as sinister from the outside as it was inside. Last orders were long called but she had left a pint and a half behind the bar.
'You back lads!' she snapped as she wiped down the taps with a filthy bar towel. She spun around and fetched the two drink, spilling them slightly as she placed them on the bar. 'Get everything you wanted did you?'
'Yeah,' said George, 'only it's not a case of want. And don't worry, you'll get yours.'
She stared at George, frowning hard she said, 'You've got dirt on your face George.'
'It was wet, muddy.'
She leaned forwards and began to swipe at his face with the bar towel. George stepped back, for the towel was damp and smelled strongly of a beer induced acid reflux. 'How much do you think I'll get then?' she said.
George shrugged. 'Dunno - have to see what Dad says.'
Kelly continued with her work in silence, emptying the drip trays, occasionally glancing up at George and Spider who drank silently. Jamie Dog, the glass-washer, was clanking the trays of glasses as he loaded the dishwasher. A couple of punters were gathered around the dartboard, arguing loudly about what remained of Niki Lauda's ears after the accident and whether he was still alive. George and Spider smoked two cigarettes then left quietly.
Out on the street Spider emptied the contents of his zipped pouch and passed them in a clenched hand to George.
'Weighty,' said George, 'you did good.'
'Yeah, nice job that. Shame there were no golf balls.'
'You don't even play.'
'Might take it up. Sky's cleared now, might see some shooting stars.'
'Remember to look where you're going mate. Pop into the shop or something during the week yeah?'
'Yeah okay. See you later mate.'
The two men went their separate ways. Spider to his dingy maisonette, to call the name of his lost snake Jim'll, but he'd be calling in vain, for Jim'll had incurred an injury and was comatose among the pipes. George headed home to his girlfriend Maxene, who was sleeping in the flat above his father's jewellery shop.