Bandit at Twelve O'clock

Bandit at Twelve O'clock

Helen read the letter, written on a single sheet of notepaper, three times and reached for the phone to call her friend Angie who was as bemused by it as Helen.

It read.

Go at eight, to your garden gate. Look for a note, if it's not there—wait.

Angie ran to Helen’s with her hair still wet. They made coffee and tried to work out what the note meant, and, who it was from.

The letter came addressed to Miss Helen Roberts, by first class post, that morning. There was nothing else in the envelope but the piece of paper with the verse.

The first thing to decide was did it mean eight o'clock in the morning or eight in the evening? And, more importantly, was she going to follow
the instructions—or not?

They applied logic and decided that, as it came first, it meant eight that night. It was a prank from one of the guys in the office, it had to be. Yes, she would do as instructed, but not alone, Angie would be with her.

They decided to tell, Angie's husband Ted about it, just in case there was something fishy going on. Ted agreed that it was probably a practical joke, but said that he’d be with them.

As they had no idea what, or who, to expect at the garden gate at eight o'clock they filled their time by getting ready for whatever it was they were getting ready for. If something was about to happen they were going to look fabulous for it.

By seven fifty they were waiting at the gate, looking up and down the street and peering at every car as it passed.

They were so busy looking at the cars and people passing that they didn't see the dog running down the pavement.

A black and white border collie ran to them. It drew level and dropped a newspaper at their feet.

Helen bent to pick it up and gave the dog a stroke. He sat on the pavement, wagging his tail and looking very pleased with himself.

They heard a high pitched whistle in the distance and the dog pricked his ears, turned tail and ran hell for leather the way he’d come.

Galvanised into action, Ted followed the dog up the street and into Whitefield Road. As he turned the corner he heard a car door slamming at the far end of the road. He’d lost the mystery person or persons. He raised his hand in what could have been a wave, but was more likely a fist of frustration and watched the exhaust fumes from the disappearing car dissipate.

Back inside the girls unfolded the newspaper.

Inside was a battered red rose—and another letter.

Dear Helen, don’t worry. It's just a bit of fun, now come on, hurry.Be at the talking box by nine. If it rings well that's a sign to pick it up. I won't shout, Boo! But I'll give you, your next clue. PS ...it took me ages to train our Blue. Appreciate the work, please ...would you.

By the time Ted came in panting, the girls were having a great time. This was turning into an adventure. Ted was worried, he wasn't sure that it was, just innocent fun. He tried to talk them out of having any involvement. He said that they should go to the police. He said that they should lock the door.

The said, ‘Get lost, this is the most fun we’ve had for ages.'

‘Be at the talking box by nine’ said Angie. ‘Well obviously that’s the telephone box, but which one?’

They decided it meant the box on the village green. That was the only real telephone box in the village. They had awhile to wait. Who could it be? Even Ted was throwing in the odd suggestion, ‘pervert, serial killer, mad axe-man’

At eight fifty five all three of them were squashed into the small telephone box. Ted, at six foot two and thirteen stone made things difficult and it was decided that he should keep watch for anything suspicious outside the box.

At exactly nine o'clock the phone rang. Helen scooped it up on the first ring. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘Who is this, please?’

‘Who am I? I thought you'd ask. I'm your friend and this my task. To get your attention, make you smile and keep you guessing for a little while. Your next clue is at the 'Golden Hen.' Please be there on the stoke of ten.’

The Phone went dead. In true movie style, Helen hit the 'cut off' a couple of times while
shouting down the receiver ‘Hello! Hello!’ She turned to Angie ‘He's gone’

They had more information to work with. They knew that is was a man, a man with a very heavy Scottish accent. But neither of them knew any Scottish men.’ There’s that old fella who works in the market, you know the one? Him on the curtain stall,’ said Angie. Helen pulled a face.

Ted was scornful and gave his opinion, several times, that the accent probably wasn't real. It proved, he said, the axe murdering, psycho, pervert theory.

‘Off we go to the Golden Hen, then,’ said Helen. 'But what if he's got no teeth and bad breath?'

When they got there the Karaoke was in full swing, Tim went to the bar and got in some drinks. ‘I Wonder if his next clue is going to be him doing a Karaoke serenade,’ Angie joked. They all laughed and spent a few minutes picking songs that were appropriate.

They settled back in their seats to watch everybody who walked past them. As ten o'clock approached, the excitement between them was palpable. Even Ted was caught up in the mystery, although he would never have admitted it.

‘Oh, God,’ Helen said, ‘what if he’s an absolute minger?’

'That'll make two of you, then.' said Angie and Helen thumped her on the arm.

At ten o'clock, the three at the corner table were far too engrossed in their people watching to pay attention to what the Karaoke host was saying. It was only after three attempts that the compare managed to get their attention. Helen blushed when she heard him call out her name. Before she had time to think, she’d stood up and shouted out, ‘That's me,’ while waving her arms above her head.

The man called her up onto the stage and she clutched frantically at Angie's hand to go with her. The host positioned them in front of the microphone.

‘Now Ladies and Gentlemen, we've got something a little bit different going on, tonight. It seems we’re all caught up in a 'Treasure Hunt.' It says here, on this letter, which was handed in earlier, that Miss Helen Robert's will be coming up to sing for us at ten o'clock, it also says in brackets, (probably with Mrs Angie Hill).

I have the next clue to read out to you girls; but you don't get it until after you've sung
for us. It says here you've done it before, so while the next lad’s doing his bit, you'd better pick a song. No song, no clue.’

They had to be good sports, it was part of the game. They sang Hanky Panky after refusing to do White Christmas, which Ted had tried to get them to sing for a laugh. It was June! Ted picked Hanky Panky for them after much negotiation and arguing. He said it was the song that had been playing in the club when he and Angie had met.

Angie was touched by her husband's sudden romantic streak. It was unlike him.

Helen took the upper harmonies and Angie sang the melody with both of them doing the actions. They got a huge round of applause but were more interested in the next clue. They’d earned it. The karaoke host cleared his throat and read it into the microphone.

My, how my nightingale does sing. Was it Madonna—or was it Bing? See, I know you well, my dear. And I've often heard you singing—here. Now what shall we do at eleven p.m? Go for a bite to the chippy, then. Ask for a letter, tell them it's you. And they'll give you a pie and the very last clue.

They stayed in the Golden Hen until ten fifty, the Chip shop was only next door. They’d had several more drinks and were all enjoying themselves.

Helen was terrified. Who was he? He’d been in the pub—often, he said. Who could it be?

She expected to have to do a song and dance routine in the chippy to get the next clue, but the Lady serving gave it up with a smile. They took it outside to read under the streetlight and Helen felt her hands shaking as she opened the envelope.

Here we are then my good friend. One clue away from the journeys end. In the Grapes at twelve, I'd like to meet. I think you'll like me, honest, I'm sweet. By the one armed bandit at twelve o'clock. Prepare to meet the clueing jock.

‘Oh crikey,' said Helen, who is he? What if I don't like him? What if he’s weird?' By this time, she was alternating between excitement and nerves. They had to drag her into the Grapes, telling her that she couldn't back out now. She had to see it through.

At five to twelve she was trembling by the bandit. A barman appeared beside her with a drink. A sparkler fizzled in the tall glass, ice clinking against the side. ‘A Taboo and lemonade for the lady,’ he said. Helen wasn't surprised that her secret admirer knew what her favourite drink was. She sipped at it nervously, wishing at that moment that it was vodka... straight.

The clock chimed the first bong of midnight. As the chimes rang through the pub, the sea of people in front of them separated. A border collie walked down the isle that they'd made. He dragged a huge bouquet of flowers behind him. As Helen bent down to pick up the flowers and stroke the dog, the pub burst into a round of applause. The whole Village seemed to be in on the secret.

The only people who didn't know what was happening were Helen and Angie. Angie could never have kept it a secret from her best friend. Everybody in the village wanted Helen to find happiness again; it had been five years since her husband, Joe, had been killed by a drunk driver. They all hoped that this man was the one for her. The general consensus was that he was perfect.

It was a typical close-knit community of well meaning and kindly, interfering neighbours.

As Helen looked at her flowers, a hand tapped her on the shoulder, she turned, green eyes, warm smile. It was Rick, the quiet man from the accounts department. They'd smiled in passing once or twice but didn't come into contact much, as they worked at opposite ends of the building.

Helen smiled, shyly.

Rick asked her to dance without the merest hint of a Scottish accent, and, taking her by the hand, he led her onto the dance floor, pausing to shake hands with, Jed. ‘Thanks forgetting her here mate.’

Helen stepped into the circle of his arms and felt strangely comfortable, if only her
heart would beat a little less madly.

'You're not Scottish,' she whispered.

'I resent that remark, I so am. My great, great, great, great granddad was from Galway.'

'That's in Ireland,' she giggled.

‘By the way,’ Rick grinned. ‘I hope you like
dogs, Blue and I come as a package.'

Helen knew in that moment that she liked the package.