Robbed

The plan was simple.
1) Hire somebody to burgle my flat.
2) Report the burglary to the police.
3) Make claim with insurance company.
4) Pay burglar.
5) Get “stolen” property back.

A friend of a friend of a friend knew somebody I could use. His name was Paul. We met at a pub that was the marketplace of the petty criminal. Muggers, pickpockets, smugglers and shoplifters traded their wares with counterfeiters, dealers, fraudsters and vagabonds. I stood out a mile as either a victim or a tourist. I was a bit of both.

My first impression of Paul was that he was too fat to be a burglar. I could not imagine him climbing a drainpipe or squeezing through a bathroom window. Similarly, I strongly doubted his ability to make a run for it should he encounter the police, despite his fondness for dressing in sportswear from head to toe. Still, I was hardly going to ask him for a reference.

“Hi Paul. Pleased to meet you,” I said. “Can I get you anything from the bar?”

He didn’t feel the need to remove his headphones.

“Yeah. Pint,” he mumbled before taking the first sip from the pint he’d already bought for himself.

I convinced myself that I didn’t have to like him. He was doing a job for me and that was that. I returned from the bar with our drinks, turning down the chance to buy a gold chain from the barman.

“I understand you can help me out with something, Paul.” This was not a conversation that I was accustomed to initiating.

“Yeah. You want us to rob your flat,” he informed me.

“That’s right,” I answered. “I was looking to claim some money from my insurance people,” I continued. “I thought you could keep hold of the things you take from me until I get the cheque, as a security. Then I could pay you.” Paul’s expression had not altered. Had he heard me?

“What sort of figure would you be looking at?” I asked, trying to fill the silence.

It occurred to me that I would have to pay him enough to stop him selling on the things he took from that flat. I tried to figure out how much that would be but my nerves were interfering with my arithmetic.

“I reckon five hundred,” he said.

I had no protocol to follow. Was I supposed to haggle? I didn’t really want to pay more than two hundred. I figured two hundred pounds wouldn’t be enough to stop the cretin sat in front of me selling my possessions himself. I had to take the chance.

“Okay. Five hundred, once I get the cheque,” I said “And you return all the things you’ve taken.” I was trying to lay down the law, in my own bumbling way.

“Fair enough,” he said. He still hadn’t removed his headphones.

“If I give you the address and a list of things to take, that would be great. Anytime during next week would be fine. I usually get back from work at seven.” I cringed at my choice of words. It sounded like I was booking a plumber.

After jotting down the details I left the pub. My emotions were a cocktail of nerves, regret, exhilaration and relief.

Monday night there was no burglary. Tuesday night there was no burglary. Paul chose Wednesday.

I returned home to see that the front door was ajar. The frame was splintered around the Yale lock. He must have kicked the door in. I could hear the television, the Emmerdale theme. I pushed the door open and could see Paul sat on the sofa watching the screen.

“Paul,” I tried to whisper.

Paul didn’t hear me. He lifted a lager can to his mouth. He managed to burgle the fridge then.

“Paul,” I upped the volume a notch. “You need to finish the job, now.”

Paul craned his neck around. From the glazed look in his eyes and from his brainless smile, I could tell that he was drunk.

“Dude,” he slurred. “Chill. I'll neck this one and then we'll take your stuff. No problemo.”

I wasn't convinced. Straight away, I'd have to tell the police that I got home later then I did. I had a bad feeling. Why did I choose the UK's most inept burglar for this?

I soon discovered what he meant by “we’ll take your stuff”. Paul wasn't alone. I heard somebody rummaging frenziedly in the bedroom.

“Paul, who is in the bedroom?” I asked.

“Just chill,” he said. “We'll sort it.” He belched. The slob was useless.

As the bedroom came into my sight, I found myself looking straight into the eyes of a colossal madman. He was easily six foot six and had the build of a wrestling champion. His angular, shaven head was engulfed by muscles popping out of his neck and chest and shoulders and god-knows-where. Rolled-back tracksuit sleeves revealed forearms tattooed in their entirety. His expression was one of utter contempt. His right hand held one of my old flip-flops. This unnerved me further.

“Hi,” I gasped for air. “Are you helping Paul?” I sheepishly asked.

I entered the room and I could see it had been ransacked. The contents of my wardrobe, my drawers, the stuff beneath my bed - everything had been tossed around the room. I gave Paul a list of what to take, none of which was hidden away. It’s not as if I have a safe, or a treasure chest, or a stockpile of bank notes. What was he doing?

“Who is this, Paul?” he grunted in his monstrous baritone.

“It's my flat,” I answered. “I live here.” I gestured towards the framed photograph of my failed wedding.

He waited for Paul's answer and maintained his hostile glare. I wanted to cry like a baby. My heart accelerated. I broke wind silently.

“Just chill,” Paul said through a boozy haze.

This was horrible. They were in my home. They wouldn't go. I'd brought it upon myself. It was all going wrong.

I crept back towards Paul, fearing for my life. “Perhaps you should go now, please.”

The man stormed out of the bedroom and delivered a right hook to my jaw that sent me bounding across the room. This was burglary, alright. Smash and grab. Grab my hair. Smash my face into the living room wall. Grab the kitchen door. Smash it into my nose.

Paul was shaken into action.

“Daz! What are you doing?” he shrieked. “Leave the geezer alone. It's his gaff. He's sound. Just chill.”

A gargantuan hand with “LOVE” tattooed across the knuckles pounded my head. Every blow brought a flurry of sparks before my eyes. I hadn't been punched since I was a teenager. The sound of being struck was different. I didn't remember it hurting this much.

“Geezer, I'm really sorry,” Paul was trying to console me as I was being pummelled. “He's lost it.”
My head felt drained of blood. I felt like I was going to be sick. I felt like I was going to wet myself.

“Come on Daz! That's enough,” Paul continued. “Let's get the stuff and do one.”
The hammering ceased. I slumped onto the sofa, face-down. My balance had evaporated. The taste of blood seeped into my mouth from my nose. Sounds that I’d never made before found their way out of my mouth. Painful groans. Snivelling whimpers. I wished for the world to end. Somewhere in my stupor, they gathered their spoils. The contents of my list - plus anything else they fancied taking.

“Geezer, I'm really sorry about that,” Paul bent over to speak to me. His fat face was six inches from mine. “Daz is a bit sensitive. I don't know what you said to him.”

I had no reply. I had no wish to speak. I curled into a ball.

He left the flat whilst giving me a helpful reminder, “Ta-ra, mate. Just give us a shout when the cheque comes in. See ya.”

I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye. Goodbye laptop. Goodbye television. Goodbye credit cards. Farewell car.

By the time the police came to the flat, my face had swollen beyond recognition. It was so tender that it was agony to speak, anguish to breathe and hell to blink. They sent two female officers - one with acne, one with cold sores.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Acne asked.

The lure of insurance money made me persist with the lies.

“Well. I came home from work at around seven. I found a burglar in the house. He beat me up and made off with a load of my things.”

“How many of them were there?” Cold-Sores replied.

“Just one,” I said. “One burglar.”

Cold-Sores continued, “And what did he look like?”

What could I say? King Kong?

“It was dark. The lights were all off. He seemed average. Average height. Average build.” I was struggling. “Yeah. Average. I think.”

At least the flat looked like it had been burgled properly. There was nothing phony about the mess in the bedroom. The crusted blood had not been faked.

I reeled off a list of stolen items when they asked me. It was inflated by a few thousand pounds but that's what insurance is for, isn't it?
I made my mind up that Paul could keep what was taken. I didn't want to see him again. I'd just keep the insurance money. What if he came looking for me? I'd have to move away, Paul knew where I lived. I didn't want his lunatic friend having another go at killing me. I decided to go and stay with my parents for a while. I couldn't live at the flat any longer.

“We’ll arrange for Scene of Crime officers to visit and check for any forensics,” Acne said. “Fingerprints.”

I was almost sick. I never dreamed they'd investigate a burglary so thoroughly. Weren’t the police supposed to be useless these days? I'd have to attack the flat with a duster and polish to get rid of any traces that those boneheads had left behind. I'd have to try and get it done tonight. What about all the things in the bedroom that had been handled? Would they get dusted too? My filp-flop? Maybe I could pack it all and take it to my parents place. I could tell the police that I was too scared to leave anything in the flat.
The ladies left me with various pamphlets detailing how to not get burgled. They told me they were going to ask the neighbours if they'd seen anything.

I hadn't considered my neighbours. Fifteen minutes later, the police knocked at my door to update me. I had never seen any of my neighbours and was dumbstruck to learn that they saw a tall, well-built man and a fat accomplice fill my car with electrical goods and drive away. I needed to think how I could shape my story to fit this discovery. Maybe one of them was waiting outside. Maybe I had amnesia from being beat up and could remember everything now. Post Traumatic Stress, something like that. The words “conspiracy to defraud insurance companies” flashed before me.

Should I confess? I was up to my neck in trouble. Stupid neighbours. I was going straight to jail. Do not pass “Go”. Nosey busybodies.

A cackle came from Acne’s radio. She stepped away so I could not hear her exchange with the station. Cold-Sores tried to make small talk.
“I think you should get your injuries seen to by a doctor,” she said.

I was trying to listen in on Acne’s conversation.
“I think I’ll be okay. I just hope they won’t come back.” I realised my error in using the plural and panicked, “If there was more than one burglar.” That sounded so dubious.

Acne returned. “It would seem your car has been involved in an incident.”

“What kind of an incident?” I enquired. I pictured myself in a prison uniform, one with arrows on.
“A road traffic accident,” She answered. I added a ball and chain to the picture.

“Have there been any arrests?” I asked. Paul would not hesitate to tell them of my complicity in this bungled affair. He’d have witnesses from the pub. They’d stick together.

“I’m afraid not.” There would be fingerprints all over the car. It would only be a matter of time before the morons were brought into custody.
She added, “Both occupants of the vehicle were killed at the scene of the accident.”

Paul was way too drunk to drive. The other guy was too angry to be a passenger. Something occurred to me.

I began to sob. Cold-Sores put her hand on my shoulder to comfort me. Acne patted my back.

Why did I give Paul a hand-written list?