This is our second instalment from York Wordsmiths… the group meet for tea and cake, and more recently over Zoom, to set writing tasks and critique each others’ work. Each month we’ll be sharing a short story or poem by one of their writers.
Thursday Morning
By Moira Davis
It was just another Thursday morning but something astonishing was about to happen to Trevor Andrews as he walked to work.
He had seen it first yesterday morning. It was a black briefcase, perched on a wall. Trevor looked at it and decided somebody must be nearby, perhaps tying a shoelace or distracted by a text message, and had put it there for safety. The pavement was busy with commuters hurrying to catch the morning train. There was a cold drizzle falling and everything and everybody looked grey. Trevor walked on by, and thought no more about it.
Trevor reached the same spot on Thursday morning and looked at the wall. The briefcase had gone. He walked up to the wall, and looked over it. Sure enough, lying amongst the nettles and rubbish on the other side, was the black briefcase. He looked left and right, and then reached over the wall and grasped the handle.
There was a clatter of nailed boots behind him, and the clicking of guns.
‘Armed police! Stay where you are, turn around slowly and put your hands above your head!’
Trevor froze. He dropped the briefcase back behind the wall and turned around, hands held high. He was confronted by a SWAT team of six officers, dressed in black, wearing bullet-proof vests. One of them was pointing a taser at him and the rest had the standard Glock 17s.
‘This is a taser which I will use if you don’t co-operate!’
Trevor stood very still as his hands were cuffed behind his back. Commuters he knew by sight stood gawping at him.
‘Clear the area!’ commanded Taser. Trevor heard the usual warning, ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence…’ as he was pushed towards a black BMW parked at the kerb and shoved into the back seat.
What followed was a nightmare. He was given a coffee in a paper cup and sat in an interview room for hours while questions were fired at him. He repeated the seemingly irrelevant details of his private life, his work, his past, who he had a beer with in the pub. No, he didn’t have a mobile phone, new-fangled technology was not for him. Why did nobody believe him? Officers took turns at questioning him, some of them losing their tempers, others playing at being nice. Then he was left alone for what seemed like hours
‘OK, Mr Andrews, you’re free to go!’ He picked up his raincoat and hurried down the steps of the police station, watched by the duty officer at reception.
Trevor climbed the stairs to his attic bedsit. All was well. He opened the small door into the roof space. There was a blast of warm fragrance. Lights blazed, water dripped, and a jungle of cannabis plants reached up into the rafters, ready for harvesting. He checked the iPhone lying on a crate just inside. He never carried it. He sighed with relief. So, the money had been intercepted, but the exchange had been clumsy. If they didn’t text him until Thursday, how was he to know he was supposed to collect the briefcase on Wednesday morning?
About the author
Moira Davis has been writing since junior school, where there was Friday afternoon story-telling time. She moved to York, having spent many years in the Middle East. She joined the original Creative Writing Evening Class 12 years ago. Moira is now enjoying being a busy grandmother.
Add a comment