Bruce Grove: The Great Escape, #7

By Jack Freestone

Novella based upon the author's time spent living in Bruce Grove, London.

 

This is the sequel to Boomerang and prequel to No Rest for the Wandering Soul.

 

Book 7 of The Great Escape series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Freestone
• Release date: Jul 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201052966

Jack Freestone

Scorpio Snake.Surfer.Criminal defense barrister, in a previous life.IF YOU LIKE MY WORK PLEASE DO ME A FAVOUR AND PUT A RATING ON GOODREADS.https://dev-jackfreestoneblog.pantheonsite.io/If you like my work, you can buy me a beer and share your thoughts here! ? Plus get exclusive access to audio files, original poems, and first chapters of audio books.http://buymeacoffee.com/jackfreestPOr alternatively, PayPal, or Crypto donation:https://www.paypal.com/donate/?hosted_button_id=RFANJQHW2XKNSSend crypto to:0x3CADA9f951Be57E7450Cd54C8f2D2240243CD4E2Author of The Fake Celebrity in China, China Laid Bare, Cusala, Slice, The Point, The Control Sickness, No Rest for the Wandering Soul, Dark Days and Dangerous Nights, Bali Fungus, and short stories, such as Blind Escort, and The Great Awakening.

Book preview

Also, by Jack Freestone:

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The Fake Celebrity in China  

China Laid Bare

The Control Sickness

Bali Fungus

Cusala

The Point

Slice

Blind Escort

Whale Bay, Raglan, New Zealand

Mangawhai, New Zealand

Helping the Homeless in Worthing

Dark Days and Dangerous Nights

1

I was living at Papamoa Beach, considered a paradise by some. 

It was early morning, and I was sitting on top of a sand dune, squinting at the East coast sun rise, and watching the blue green waves. There was a large but messy north-easterly swell running, and I was considering whether to go for a surf. 

When I returned to New Zealand for a lengthy period of time, eventually I always had the same feeling, that I was almost at the end of the world, and all that was evolving and exciting, lay far beyond that blue horizon. 

I attended to my regular morning chore, which was emptying large plastic bottles of urine into the sand. Don’t get me wrong, I was not a bum or anything. But when you live in a camping ground, and you drink a lot of alcohol, and the nearest lavatory is one hundred meters from your cabin, you have three main choices: One, walk to the bathroom every twenty minutes or so to go for a piss; two, piss outside your cabin, in a well-lit and crowded camping ground, thus risking being arrested; or three, piss into large plastic bottles, and then empty them legally, the next day.

A dog came, and started barking at me. Animals usually liked me, so it was an uncommon and uncomfortable situation. It just would not let up.

Fuck off! I shouted at it, but it still did not relent.

Its owner was a plain looking middle-aged woman, standing a few meters away. A Kiwi.

He’s quite harmless, she said, and smiled.

You haven’t trained it properly! I yelled at her.

She laughed, and eventually managed to call the mutt away.

My mobile phone vibrated in my pocket. It was my girlfriend, calling from Germany. She had booked and paid for a hotel for me in London for a week. The agreement was that she would only come back to me, if I went to London to live. Then she could visit me once a month. 

My girlfriend was a Chinese international air-hostess, based in Munich.

Though I was not a big fan of London, I had grown tired of New Zealand, and considered that it could not be much worse. I had about ten thousand New Zealand dollars left. 

After the call, I made my way back to my aluminium shack, and on the walk, it occurred to me that the dog had probably gone nuts, due to the strong smell of my urine. To the dog, with its incredible sense of smell, it was probably like someone marking their territory with a nuclear bomb. I felt better about the dog and myself, after that realization.

The camping ground was just across from the beach. My abode was a square metal box, which I assumed had been used for workers’ accommodation in its heyday, perhaps in a forest or a quarry. It was adequate for my needs. It had a single bed, a small TV, a wardrobe, one small side window, and a glass ranch slider as a front door. It was only October, but being metal, when the sun shone it became a little too warm inside. I imagined it would be unbearable, like an oven, in summer.

I drank most days, and tried to write.

I decided I would go for a surf. I put my wetsuit and rubber booties on, waxed my board, and then wandered off to the beach. I always left my door key in a surf lock, which I fastened to my mountain bike, chained to the wooden support pillar on the small deck outside my door. I set off towards the ocean again. 

It was a lousy surf. It took me thirty minutes to get out back, and I took quite a pounding. Then when I took my first wave, I got pitched headfirst. Plus, there was a strong rip taking me down towards Mount Maunganui. I got a few re-form waves, then went in. 

On the walk back along the beach the tide was at its fullest, and the recent easterly storms had cut the sand into sheer cliffs, about six to eight feet high. It was difficult getting back along the beach. I had to time the waves and run when the water receded. About twenty meters from the path, I saw a young Māori girl, playing at the bottom of one of the sand cliffs. A big wave came and she shrieked, and scrambled and scratched her way up the steep slope. The wave quickly reached her, like a foamy white hand, its fingers wrapping around her waist and legs, dragging her down, and I thought I would have to save her, but she managed to hang on to some plants, and the water receded.

Don’t play here! I yelled at her. It’s very dangerous!

She looked at me with scared shocked eyes.

I know! she yelled back at me assertively, seeming embarrassed, and resenting my harsh tone.

I got back and changed. My hangover had gone. That was something at least.

2

I arrived at Heathrow very early in the morning, tired and jetlagged. I had not been to London for over a decade. I was pleased to have an express EU passport and flew through immigration, watching the huge queues of foreigners, with some glee. While I was waiting for my pack, I was quite surprised to hear most of the nearby ground staff speaking some Eastern European language, perhaps even Russian.

I took an Overground train to Stamford Hill. The hotel was near the station, but check-in was not until one pm, so I decided to try and find a nearby café to get some breakfast and coffee.

It was a Jewish area, and the men and boys walked about dressed in black, with their side hair in long twisted locks. I had no problem with Jews. 

I found a café and ordered an English breakfast with a cappuccino. The woman who served me, was blonde and beyond middle age. She also sounded Russian. I sat and read the papers.

I overheard a conversation