Scrap 84

SCRAP 84
Beanpole Brett likes nothing better than a big bundle of notes in his pocket. He is particularly pleased with his latest ‘commission’ as he has been planning to carry out the job on his own account anyway. The extra bunce from Ken Chapman makes the task all the sweeter.
Ginger Jarvis has been behaving in an increasingly bizarre fashion since Brett started applying more and more pressure. On many occasions he has arrived home from work in his camper van to find that his wife has deadlocked the doors so he has to bed down in the van. His suspicions have increased as each time seems to coincide with Brett’s car having been parked in a street nearby.
As the nights have grown colder Jarvis has taken to drinking a little nip of brandy before getting into his sleeping bag and these nips have steadily increased to cupfuls of the potent liquid. He tells himself he needs it to keep out the cold and help him drop off to sleep, but people have begun noticing that he turns up for work more often the worse for wear and one or two have suggested he should cut down on his intake.
At three fifteen Saturday morning Jarvis arrives home from his market deliveries tired and dirty and ready to fall into bed, only to find that once again he is locked out of his own home. Furious, he gets into the back of the van, slams the door and reaches for a new bottle of brandy. Taking a long drink from the bottle, his rage subsides as the alcohol takes over, numbing his brain. He pulls on the sleeping bag and slumps across the narrow bed. Taking so much brandy on an empty stomach has done the trick: he is sound asleep as his head hits the pillow.
Someone has been hiding round the corner, watching. Nobody notices as a thin man approaches the camper van, a length of vacuum cleaner hose in one hand and a roll of gaffer tape in the other. Nobody sees as he attaches the hose to the exhaust pipe, opens the driver’s door and fixes the other end inside the van. Taping over cracks around the doors and checking he hasn’t missed any, he then takes the keys from the sleeping Jarvis, switches on the engine and silently makes his escape.
Frank arrives home at five thirty, washes his face and hands in cold water and gets into bed. He has had a good night, with a nice little bonus for the extra 60 crates of oranges he managed to stack onto the lorry. He sleeps the sleep of an innocent, dreaming happily of better days.
Scotty has not had such a good night and it is almost seven by the time he rolls up outside the house. Dawn is already up, making a pot of tea. He slumps down in his armchair and she brings him a mug. ‘Thought you’d be home hours ago,’ she says, taking her tea and settling at the kitchen table. ‘So did I,’ moans Scotty, ‘but every stand I went to I had to queue to get unloaded. Reckon I was the last one back at the yard. How long has Frank been back?’ Dawn shrugs, ‘I don’t know; I was asleep.’
The kitchen begins to fill with sleepy-eyed children, who each take a mug of tea and sit at the table, waiting to hear if dad has any plans for today. It’s too bright a morning to waste the day in bed and the tea has woken him up a little. ‘Tell you what,’ he says, ‘I’ll have a bath and get into some clean clothes then we’ll think of something.’ Dawn calls up the stairs after him ‘Don’t forget I’m going shopping with my mother and the girls,’ she says. How could I? Thinks Scotty, taking the wage packet from his trouser pocket and placing it on the windowsill. There won’t be much left by the time Dawn has taken her share. Good job Frank has kept hold of the extra he earned from his own pallet of oranges. What would he do without his pal Frank?