Getting Away With It

By Frank Burton

Jenna McIntyre is a criminology student, cigar enthusiast and secret bestselling author. She is also Frank's new best friend. Frank becomes a reluctant conspirator, as he indulges Jenna's claims about her involvement in the greatest extortion plot Britain has ever seen. Are these crimes really taking place? What is Frank's mysterious new friend not telling him? Getting Away With It is both a gripping crime thriller, and a very funny story about a complicated friendship. This is Part 2 in the Ragbag series. The books can be read in any order. This is a work of fiction. Honest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philistine Press
• Release date: Jul 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005122720

Book preview

Author’s Note

Getting Away With It is the second novel in the Ragbag series. Ragbag novels can be read in any order. Some of the characters featured in these books originally appeared in the Ragbag podcast, which ran for one hundred episodes between 2018 and 2021. This was a very good show, and you should definitely check it out, although familiarity with the podcast is not essential. In 2022, the podcast changed its name to Ragbag Presents. Ragbag Presents is an audio accompaniment to the Ragbag novels.

Getting Away With It is a work of fiction. Honest.

Chapter 1.

This story begins on September 14th, 1998. I was eighteen years old. It was the day I left home. It was the day I started university in Manchester. It was the day I met Jenna.

I’d followed a bunch of fellow freshers from my halls of residence down to the Student Union bar, where a whole crowd of newly-adulted men and women were clutching their beers, nervously bantering and frantically attempting to figure out what was cool in this new environment. I didn’t say anything, just attached myself to a group, hanging slightly back so I wouldn’t actually have to converse with anyone. Perhaps, I wondered, I could get through the next three years employing this strategy. No one would even know my name. They’d recognise me as ‘that guy’.

This was all going fine until we got to the bar. I crept out from my hiding place behind the huddle of bodies to buy myself a drink.

‘How’s it going?’ said a voice next to me.

I assumed she was talking to someone else.

‘Oi,’ said the voice. ‘You.’

‘Yeah?’ I said casually, turning my head slightly.

‘I said, how’s it going?’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Weird, but good.’

‘Weird but good, weird but good,’ she sang back at me. (I hadn’t realised, but the DJ was playing Ebenezer Goode by The Shaman.)

I smiled, and looked at her properly.

‘Dry ice,’ she said. ‘What’s the deal with that? What are they trying to achieve? It’s a bar, not an 80s music video. And what’s the deal with the music? When’s this from?’

‘1991,’ I said. ‘Maybe ‘92.’

‘So, this is supposed to make us feel nostalgic or something?’

‘I like it,’ I said.

‘What else do you like?’ she said.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know? Come on, man. Try harder than that. We’re going to be friends. You need to tell me some things about yourself. For a start, what are you drinking?’

‘You’re buying?’

‘Yes, I’m buying. You’ll buy the next round.’

‘I’ll have a Coke,’ I said.

‘No, you won’t.’

My new friend ordered two double vodkas with orange.

‘That’s the complete opposite of what I wanted,’ I said.

‘Hurry up,’ she said. ‘Table’s free.’

She grabbed both glasses and darted across the room to a small table by the window with a pair of tall stools.

I was seriously tempted to walk right out of the bar, and spend the rest of the night in my room. But she’d bought me a drink.

When I got to the table, she was lighting a cigar.

‘What’s that?’ I said.

‘What does it look like?’

I shrugged. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

‘Let’s get down to business. What’s your name?’

‘Frank,’ I said.

‘What kind of name is that? Are you eighty years old?’

‘I’m named after my dad.’

‘Fine. I’ll have to think of some kind of variation. Frankie, maybe. Franklin. Franco.’

‘I’d rather not be named after a dictator.’

‘Frankie it is. I’m Jenna. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Yeah,’ I said.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Stop looking like you don’t want to be here. Have an actual drink, it’ll loosen you up. Are you teetotal or something?’

‘My mum’s an alcoholic,’ I said. ‘She put me off.’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Jenna. ‘But you don’t live with your mother anymore. You have to do things on your own terms. And by the way, don’t drink Coca Cola. They’re evil.’

‘That sounds a lot like your terms rather than mine,’ I said.

‘I’m just giving you my opinion, Frankie. You should listen to me. I’m very intelligent.’

‘What are you studying?’

‘Doctorate in criminology.’

‘Doctor what?’

‘Doctorate.’

‘You’re doing a PhD? So, you’re not even a first year?’

‘I’m a first year PhD student,’ she said. ‘That’s kind of the same thing. I’m the same as you. I don’t know anyone else here. But I do know you and I are going to be friends.’

‘What makes you so sure of that?’

‘I have a sixth sense for these things. I have very few friends, because I rarely see someone I like the look of. I looked at you, and I felt something.’

‘Did you?’

‘Nothing sexual,’ she said, firmly. ‘Let’s get that out of the way right now. We’re not going to sleep together. It’ll ruin our friendship.’

‘Right.’

‘Will you cheer up, for God’s sake? Have a drink. Trust me, it’ll relax you.’

I took a large mouthful of vodka and orange.

‘That’s the spirit,’ she said.

I pulled a face.

‘You’ll get used to the taste,’ she said, knocking her glass back in one shot. ‘Hurry up. It’s your round.’

‘That cigar stinks,’ I said.

‘So does your attitude. It’s your round, slow coach.’

I finished my drink on the way to the bar. She was right. Even by the second mouthful, I was developing a taste for it. I ordered two more.

‘You don’t look old enough to be doing a PhD,’ I said.

‘I’m twenty four,’ she said. ‘That’s ancient compared to all the whippersnappers in here.’

‘Whippersnappers,’ I said. ‘That’s a good word.’

‘Oh, you like words, do you? Good. What else do you like? What are you studying?’

‘English lit,’ I said.

‘Of course you are,’ she said. She rested her cigar in the ashtray, placed both her elbows on the table, and crossed both sets of fingers, waggling them in the air.

‘What are you doing?’ I said.

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘What do you intend to do with your English lit degree?’

‘Maybe not all that much,’ I said. ‘I want to be a writer.’

Jenna uncrossed her fingers, and leapt off her seat in an exaggerated cheer. ‘I knew it! You’re a writer!’ She kissed me on the cheek. ‘Nice one, mate. I knew it, as soon as I saw you. You have a writerly vibe.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, you do. That’s a compliment, by the way.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’d better not drink too much,’ she said.

‘Too late,’ I said, waggling my glass. ‘I have a taste for this stuff now.’

‘As long as you remember this, right now. This conversation. You’ll write about this, one day. You’ll write about the day we met.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I can tell. I can tell we’re going to be friends. And I can tell that our friendship will have some kind of story to it. It’s impossible to know at this stage what that story might involve, but trust me, Frankie, this is an important day in your life. And not because this is the day you left home, or the day you started your degree. This is the day you met Jenna McIntyre. What’s your surname, Frankie?’

‘Burton,’ I said.

‘Today is an important day for me too. It’s the day I met the famous writer, Frankie Burton.’

‘I’m not famous,’ I said.

‘Yet,’ she said. ‘Yet.’

Chapter 2.

Jenna slept on the floor in my room that night. I wanted to be the gentleman and sleep there myself. She roared with laughter at my use of the term ‘gentleman’. She said that was a stupid word, and anyway, she enjoyed sleeping on the floor. As a matter of fact, human beings weren’t designed to sleep on a soft surface.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll be the comfortable one.’

We stayed up talking for a while. I ended up telling her a few stories about my childhood.

In the morning, we sat and had breakfast together in the communal kitchen, catching the eye of several of my fellow residents. It wasn’t until Jenna had gone home that I realised everyone had made the assumption that Jenna and I had slept together last night.

‘You’re a dark horse, eh?’ said one of the lads from my corridor. ‘You hardly said a word to anyone yesterday. You’ve got style. Who is she?’

‘Her name’s Jenna,’ I said. ‘She’s a PhD student.’

‘Woah. Hats off to you, man.’

‘We’re just friends,’ I said casually.

‘Just friends. Yeah, right.’ He shook me by the hand. ‘You done well for yourself there, mate. You’ll probably have a different one in there tonight.’

‘Maybe,’ I said.

I had to admit, I was enjoying being mistaken for a ladies man. The truth was, I was totally inexperienced, and I’d been expecting the stigma of my virginity to be written all over my face. Instead, everyone just assumed I’d got lucky with a twenty four year old, cigar-smoking postgraduate. There was no way I was going to correct the error.

Suddenly, I was popular. I’d never been popular before. That afternoon, a bunch of my new friends invited me down to the Student Union bar. The room looked totally different when it was half empty, with daylight streaming through the windows and no dry ice.

I ordered a double vodka and orange. Someone told me that was a girl’s drink.

Someone else said, ‘Exactly. That’s how he gets all the girls.’

This was fun.

Then Jenna walked in. I hardly recognised her. She had her hair tied up, and was wearing a business suit.

She walked right past me, strolled up to the bar, then smiled at me over her shoulder with a little wave.

I went over to join her.

‘Your friends all think we slept together, don’t they?’ she said.

‘Kind of.’

‘Let’s keep up the pretence, shall we? Put your arm around me.’

I slipped my hand awkwardly round her waist.

‘You can do better than that,’ she said, and kissed me on the lips. ‘This is fun, isn’t it?’

‘I thought there was nothing sexual between us,’ I whispered.

‘There isn’t,’ she said. ‘Trust me, I’m making you look cool.’

‘Why don’t you come over and join us?’ I said.

She shook her head. ‘I have no interest in fraternising with your teenage friends,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I’m not here to drink. I popped in for a take away coffee. But I’m glad I ran into you, Frankie. I want to show you something.’

‘What’s that?’ I said.

‘You’ll see.’

‘What are you all dressed up for? Are you working?’

‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Shhhh. No more questions.’

Jenna took her polystyrene cup, and led me out of the bar, arm in arm. I nodded at my new friends as we left, and they gave us a cheer. Jenna pretended to blush.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ she said. ‘We need to get off campus.’

‘What for?’

‘An experiment.’

We set off walking towards the centre of town.

‘Last night was fun,’ I said.

‘It was, wasn’t it?’

‘I’m glad I met you, Jenna.’

‘Likewise.’

Jenna seemed distracted. She kept turning her head to watch the passing cars.

‘Are you gonna tell me what this experiment involves, then?’

‘It’s related to my thesis,’ she said. ‘It’s all about what people perceive as being legal and illegal. Not the actual law itself, but the general public’s interpretation of it. Actually that isn’t what the thesis is ‘all about’ – it’s about lots of other things as well, but this is one component.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

‘It’s fascinating, actually.’

Jenna stopped walking, and faced the road, her head turning from right to left as though she intended to cross, but when a gap appeared in the traffic she remained standing there.

‘Do you watch TV?’ she said.

‘I’m a bit more into music, I suppose,’ I said.

‘But you’ve seen TV shows before, right? And films?’

‘A few.’

‘So, you’ll be familiar with how cop shows work.’

‘Maybe.’

‘And car chases. When the police are in pursuit of a criminal, but they don’t have a vehicle with them, you’ll often see them step in front of a moving car, and hold up their identification. Then the car will stop, and the driver will get out, and the cops will say something like, ‘Police! We’re commandeering this vehicle!’ And the driver will toss them the keys, and let them drive off with their car. This is the way it always happens. You never hear the driver say, ‘Actually, Officer, I’m kind of in a hurry here. Could you take someone else’s car, please?’ You never hear them question the officer’s credentials. They’re happy to see a flash of their badge, and that seems to be enough proof that they aren’t dealing with a fraudster. Also, you never hear them question the legality of the officer’s actions. You never hear them say, ‘Actually, I’m not entirely sure you have a legal right to commandeer my vehicle. This is my property.’ They just go along with it, every single time.’

‘I’ve only ever seen Americans do that,’ I said.

‘Funny you should say that,’ said Jenna. ‘As it happens, in this country the police do have the power to commandeer your vehicle in pursuit of a suspect, but it virtually never happens. It’s just not the done thing. You could say it’s not part of the culture. And therefore it would indeed look out of place on a British cop show. But because we’ve all been brought up on American film and TV, we get muddled up about which culture is which. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve sparked up a Cuban cigar, and someone has piped up, ‘You can’t have that. What about the embargo?’ And I have to explain it’s an American embargo. There’s no laws against smoking Cuban cigars in this country. Or anytime you see someone impersonating a judge. Order!’ Jenna bashed an imaginary gavel in the air. ‘You know what’s wrong with that impression?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘You weren’t wearing a wig?’

‘The gavel,’ she said. ‘English judges don’t use gavels. American judges do. I could go on for ages with these examples. You get the point.’

‘So, the experiment...’

‘For our experiment, let’s go back to that first example. You and I, Frankie, are going to commandeer someone’s vehicle.’

‘We’re going to what?’

A second later, Jenna stepped into the middle of the road, pulled something out of her pocket, and flashed it at an approaching car.

The driver slammed on his breaks. He opened his window and stuck his head out.

‘Can I help you?’ he said.

‘I’m sorry, sir, I have to commandeer this vehicle. I’m in pursuit of an armed suspect.’

The man immediately jumped out of his car, and gestured to the open driver’s door. ‘Be my guest,’ he said.

‘Come on.’ Jenna gestured to me to jump in the passenger seat. I obeyed her.

I nodded at the driver as I passed him.

‘Student intern,’ said Jenna, by way of an explanation. ‘Show him your NUS card.’

‘There’s no need for that,’ said the man. ‘On your way, officer. Here’s my card – just give me a call when the vehicle’s been of use to you.’ The man handed me his business card (he was a double glazing salesman, as it turned out), and we sped off round the corner and out of sight, leaving him standing looking aimless at the side of the road.

I was speechless for a while. Jenna was giggling hysterically.

‘Are you going to fasten your seatbelt?’ I said at last.

‘Is that what a cop on a high speed chase would do?’

‘I expect so, yes, given that high speed chases are actually quite dangerous.’

‘Is this an actual high speed chase?’

‘No, but...’

‘It’s very nice of you to be concerned about me, Frankie. I like the fact that you’re more concerned about my seatbelt than you are about the fact that we’ve just broken at least two laws.’

‘Not wearing a seatbelt’s illegal, as it happens.’

‘OK, let’s call it three laws: impersonating a police officer, stealing a car, and driving without due care and attention.’ She took her hands off the wheel and fastened her belt.

‘Woah!’ I said. ‘I thought you might pull over first.’

‘Pull over? This is a high speed chase.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

Jenna giggled some more.

‘Listen, mate,’ I said, ‘I’m not really comfortable with any of this.’

‘Don’t you find it fascinating?’ she said. ‘It happened just like I said it would. How old was that guy? Forties? Fifties? No doubt he’s seen a few things in his life. He’s not some gullible kid. But as soon as he sees a woman in a suit flashing a silver badge at him – which, by the way is a replica of an NYPD badge, and looks nothing like the identification for Greater Manchester police – as soon as he sees the badge, and hears the words ‘commandeer your vehicle,’ he knows what he has to do. He gets out of his car, and gives me the keys. He even bought my explanation that I was pursuing an armed robber accompanied by a work experience kid.’

‘Is that why you asked me to do this?’ I said. ‘To see if the driver would buy it?’

‘No, I invited you along because I like you,’ said Jenna. ‘I did it in spite of the fact that the experiment was less likely to work. Also, I thought you might enjoy it.’

I smiled. ‘Well,’ I said.

‘Come on,’ she chuckled. ‘Admit it. This is fun, Frankie. This is a lot more fun than sitting in that Student Union bar. I guarantee those kids will have run out of conversation already, and will have to resort to playing pool, or something.’

‘Stop calling them kids, Jenna. They’re men and women, who happen to be a little bit younger than you.’

‘I don’t mean it to be insulting, Frankie. I know you’re not like them. You’re more suited to hanging round with someone like me, who’s more on your wavelength.’

‘Where are we going?’ I said.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I didn’t really plan this far ahead. But you know what? We have a full tank of petrol. We could go anywhere we want. Where would you like to go?’

‘Scotland,’ I said, without hesitation. I surprised myself as much as I surprised Jenna.

‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You didn’t even have to think about that.’

‘Well, I’ve never been there,’ I said. ‘I used to go on holiday to Wales with my mum as a kid, before the drinking took over everything. Haven’t been anywhere for years. And I’ve never been to Scotland. Always wanted to go. Looks beautiful in the pictures. Also, I’ve always loved Trainspotting.’

‘The book or the film? Or the activity?’

‘The book,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to write that well. Not realism, anyway. I prefer just making things up. Things that couldn’t possibly exist.’

‘You’ll write about real life one day,’ said Jenna. ‘Like I said to you yesterday, you’ll write about this one day. You’ll write about how we met, and then you’ll definitely have to write about us stealing a car and driving it to Scotland.’

‘What? So, that’s where we’re going?’

‘I told you, we can go wherever we want. So, if you want to go to Scotland, we’ll go to Scotland.’

‘Thanks Jenna.’

‘No problem.’

Chapter 3.

A few hours later, Jenna and I were sitting on a patch of grass, watching the sun set over Hadrian’s Wall.

‘I can’t really believe I’m here,’ I said. ‘I know it’s not all that far away in the grand scheme of things, but ... I don’t know ...’

‘You’ve felt trapped for a long time,’ she said. ‘And now you’re free.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s what I was trying to say.’

‘Remember that,’ she said. ‘You’re free to do whatever you want.’

‘I’ll be honest,’ I said, ‘I appreciate you taking me on this trip, but as I said earlier, I don’t feel comfortable about breaking the law. If I carry on like this, I won’t be free for long.’

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I roped you into this. I should’ve checked with you first, but then if I’d checked with you first, you’d have said no. And we wouldn’t be here. Also, it’s not like we’re stealing the car permanently. We’ll give it back, no harm done.’

‘It’s still too much of a risk for me,’ I said. ‘Call me square, but that’s the way I feel.’

‘I understand,’ said Jenna. ‘I’ll tell you what. Next time I want to break the law – and trust me, there will be a next time – I’ll check with you first. I won’t make you an accomplice in something you’re not one hundred percent willing to involve yourself with.’

‘Why? What are you planning?’

‘Don’t know exactly, yet. This is all part of my studies, believe it or not. What I’ve become particularly fascinated by is ... Well, you know I told you that public perception of legality was just one small aspect of my thesis? The main focus is going to be on one specific crime. It probably isn’t something you’ll have heard of, unless you’re in the business of visiting conspiracy-based websites.’

‘Conspiracy? You mean like UFOs, and faking the moon landings and stuff?’

‘That’s the general area,’ she said, ‘but this particular story happens to be true. Have you heard of the Threestrop Group?’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Threestrop? Doesn’t mean anything. It’s a made up word. I think they just wanted to confuse the police. Anyway, in 1985 the Threestrop Group pulled off one of the most audacious criminal acts of all time.’

‘So why haven’t I heard of them?’

‘It went unreported in the press. Total media blackout. This may sound like part of some made up conspiracy theory, which is why you’ll only ever see the Threestrop Group mentioned on conspiracy sites instead of history books. In actual fact, the media blackout was simple common sense. The group’s trick was so simple, and so relatively easy for copycats to reproduce, again and again on grander and grander scales, that the only way to stop that from happening was to pretend it never happened at all.’

‘What happened exactly?’

‘They held the Eiffel Tower hostage.’

‘Of course they did.’

‘I realise how unlikely that sounds. But here’s how they did it. On the eighteenth of January 1985 the Parisian police received a phone call at midnight, informing them that the Eiffel Tower was about to be destroyed, unless a negotiation took place immediately. The caller claimed the Tower had been fitted with explosives at various key structural points. All it would take would be the touch of a button and the building would fall to the ground in an immensely violent and dramatic fashion. The police were assured this was not a joke. The Threestrop group had several men working on the inside. They had been employed within the Tower’s maintenance crew for a number of years. Tonight’s events had taken many years of planning. And now it was happening. Tonight was the night.

‘The police asked what the group’s demands were. They were told the Tower needed