The Self Preservation Society

By Alan McQueen

'What happens to all the used five, ten, twenty and fifty pound notes when they are tatty, torn and grubby?' This question started one of the most audacious robberies in UK history. The answer is that they are burned, sent away to the Royal mint and burned. Dave recruits seven unusual suspects; none with a criminal record, all in need of cash and all with a skill to help make his plan work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G2 Rights
• Release date: Aug 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781908461360

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For Carl

Thanks to Marie, Olivia and Elliott, for everything. A huge thank you to friends and family who have helped and supported me while I’ve been writing especially Ritchie, Clive, Phil, Ron, and Dave. Paul and Carole, John the Mozz. Ian and Steve, Lou and Jess and Sam and Jackie, plus the boys at Watford Town Cricket Club and everyone who supports the mighty Hornets. Cheers. Also a big thank you to you for buying this book.

Chapter One - Church

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The January rain pours down; stair-rods falling like wet spears from a black forbidding mass above. The air had been thick with drizzle all day but the heavens have now opened making the large churchyard miserable and drab. A suitable place to be laid to rest some might think.

A funeral procession makes its sombre way through the gravestones, a dark snake of umbrellas and darker coats. The group gathers a few yards from an open grave and wait in silence, the rain hammering on the canvas covers over their heads.

A Ford Galaxy with smoked windows, a grey people carrier in a grey setting on a very grey day, is parked on the gravel drive away from the gate but close to the path.

The door makes a ‘whoosh’ sound as it slides open and a man emerges under a black umbrella. He is about forty five years old, stocky, well built, immaculately dressed. Smart black brogues, dark trousers and a suitably somber black crombie-style coat. He stands beside the open door, the umbrella protecting him from the rain. He stands looking at the scene in front of him, assessing the situation, checking the group near the grave, looking at the door to the church. A voice from inside the car urges him on:

Go on Dave, get it over with.

He replies without moving.

Alright, alright Susie…..I’m going.

Dave steps across the gravel, the small stones crunching under his smart leather shoes.

He raises his umbrella and looks up at the spire on top of the church, forbidding and spooky. He continues his walk until he is outside the 18th century oak door.

He hesitates and reaches out a hand to grip the large iron ring in the centre of the door and turns it. The handle clanks and the door creaks open. He steps inside, shakes his umbrella, closes it and leans it against a cool concrete column.

His footsteps resound in the near silent interior, the flagstones causing his steps to echo in the candlelit church interior.

He walks down the main aisle, a few rogue raindrops splashing on the floor from his coat as he walks. He walks past the pews and glances from side to side at the prayer stools, bibles and service sheets all laid out for the funeral service.

He starts a breathless whistle as he walks then pauses his whistle and his step as he realizes he was whistling the theme to ‘The Exorcist’. He shakes his head and smiles to himself.

As he reaches the confessional booth, which stands against the far wall, he glances over his shoulder, almost furtively, then ducks inside the cubicle and pulls the curtain shut behind him.

He waits for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Dave can make out a shape behind the grille on the other side of the confessional. He shifts on the uncomfortable seat wondering if the Catholic Church makes the seats this uncomfortable on purpose, his mind wandering to the prospect of spikes being located under the padded cushion when the grille snaps back causing him to jump at the sudden noise. A velvet tone with a hint of Irish floats through the grille.

How can I be of help my son?

Dave leans really close to the grille.

Forgive me Father for I am about to sin.

How can I be of assistance in this matter?

Dave is almost touching the grille now.

Well, I need a really good demolitions man. An expert. Not someone who will blow us all to Thy Kingdom Come, if you get my drift.

Silence from Father Geraghty on the other side of the grille.

Well?

I’m long retired from that life since the Lord made himself known to me. I’ve led a blameless life for more than nine years.

Dave smiles to himself as he responds.

Yes, but the Devil shaped your past and I think you can help in this matter and your parishioners need never know.

A long pause. Silence in the old church.

"Father, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. I see this place needs a new roof. Your fund seems to be lacking in any impetus right now. Money is tight; the pews are getting emptier, am I right?!

No response. Dave carries on.

I think half a million quid might just come in handy. You could pay for the new roof and still have money for a new set of bibles.

How do I get this money?

Just a little robbery.

What about ‘Thou shalt not steal’?

What about ‘The Lord helps those who help themselves’?

Help themselves to what?

Used bank notes, lots of them. A minimum of half a million in used, untraceable, creased and crinkly lovely notes. And all for a mornings work.

And a lifetime of repentance.

But you can repent in leisure under a dry roof. It will keep this church going. How else will you repair this place?

I believe the Lord will provide.

Maybe he is trying to but you’re just not listening.

Father Geraghty has his head in his hands.

Dave waits for a moment before pressing on.

Listen Father, just a mornings work. A small explosive charge on a metal grille, a bit of graft, some packing of notes. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, I have been planning this for three years, it will work. No violence, no-one gets hurt and we all get very well in the readies department. It’s up to you.

Silence. Some movement but no reply.

Dave slips a piece of paper through the grille – a tug from Father Geraghty and it disappears.

Father Geraghty reads the paper:

£500k FOR A MORNINGS WORK

GEORGIAN SUITE, LANDMARK HOTEL,

MARYLEBONE. WEDNESDAY 18th JAN. 7.00PM

Dave breathes heavily through his nose.

Be there or be square, but no Old Bill there.

How did you come to choose me?

You have a great reputation for being very thorough and very careful. You have a need, for the Church, and all these elements make you my ideal man.

And what if I say no?

Then I’ll find someone else, someone not so good, and give them the chance to earn five hundred grand in a morning.

Earn is a bit stretching it.

True, but it’s all relative. If your house goes up by half a million quid, have you earned that?

You have a point. I must contemplate the consequences….and I have a poor man to bury, I must go.

Okay, but are you coming?

Ok, I’ll come and see what the deal is but I want to keep my…er…profession under wraps agreed?

Agreed. Do you need any funds to attend? I don’t want you out of pocket on this

A donation for the orphans fund would be seen as a generous gesture in God’s eyes.

Dave smiles to himself, he has his man.

What, no credit?

These are tough times my son.

Ok, how much?

A monkey would seem appropriate.

Dave almost explodes.

Jesus.

Very apt. God moves in mysterious ways.

And bloody expensive ones. He’s probably wearing an Armani robe.

Dave removes a large wad of notes from his coat pocket and counts out the correct amount."

Just drop it in the donation plate on your way out. I’ll pick it up shortly.

Dave stands and straightens his coat.

May God go with you my son.

At his prices: not bloody likely. I wanted a bit of help not eternal salvation.

Dave pulls back the curtain and steps outside the confessional booth. He strides over to the table and drops five hundred pounds onto the brass collection plate. With a quick glance at the other side of the confessional he walks purposefully down the aisle, his shoes ringing out on the stone as he heads for the door. He swoops his umbrella into his hand and leaves the old church.

Once the door closes with a clang, Father Geraghty steps out of the confessional. Clad in traditional priest’s garb from head to toe. The only addition being the funky round-rimmed sunglasses wrapped around his head making him look more like Van Morrison than a Priest.

He picks up the wad of notes and raises his head in a small silent prayer and walks to a small door leading to his private rooms.

Back in the car Susie is ready with a barrage of questions but keeps calm and asks only one.

How did it go?

Ok.

Is he on board?

He’s coming next Wednesday. Cost me a fortune though. Cheeky bugger.

Well that’s two of you then. Who’s next?

Cheryl. Cheryl Thomas.

Where are we meeting her? I’ve got to work tomorrow. It’s Monday remember.

I know. We are not meeting her. I am. She’s coming for an interview as IT Director for a start-up company. She’s in at eleven.

Where?

Dave looks at Susie as he starts the engine.

I’ve…er…borrowed an office for the day. I have put the new-co sign on the door and the name on the bell already. It’s an office that is set for renovation starting a week Monday.

Great stuff. Let’s get back. I need to celebrate a bit and iron some clothes.

Which comes first?

We’ll see.

The Galaxy rolls across the gravel as it heads slowly up the hill away from the church.

Behind them Father Geraghty walks solemnly to the grave, head bowed as he prepares to bury one of his oldest parishioners.

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Chapter Two - Cheryl

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Cheryl Thomas walks slowly down a rubbish strewn road, skips and dustbins lined up like a refuse guard of honour. The road, not much wider than an alley, runs behind a large industrial estate, burnt out cars and old machinery lie like rusting sculptures, Cheryl wonders if this is a comment on the value of material wealth in this run down area or just lazy fly tippers?

She looks around, up and down the deserted road, searching for a clue as to where her destination might be. She walks carefully, looking at the doors for numbers. Her hand is inside her bag, wrapped around a pepper spray she had been sent by a friend in New York, she has never used it but being cautious comes naturally to her. Her eyes catch sight of number 42, the door she has been looking for; she stops in front of the battered green door. She checks her appearance, smoothes her skirt, checks her stockings aren’t snagged, her jacket is buttoned correctly. Happy, she flicks her dark hair back, looking every inch the businesswoman. Her suit is designer but three years out of date, but only someone with an ‘eye’ would know. She removes an A4 sheet of printed paper from her ‘knock-off’ designer handbag and double-checks the time and address, then checks the company name on the buzzer. She reaches up and presses the buzzer next to the name that corresponds to the one on her sheet SMILE I.T. SOLUTIONS

A disjointed voice answers immediately.

Hello?

Cheryl responds.

Oh hi, I’m here for an interview, Cheryl Thomas, eleven o’clock.

Yes, hello, come on up. Fourth floor. It’s a walk up I’m afraid. The lift is part of the renovation.

The door is released and clicks as the catch is pressed from the office above.

Cheryl steps in.

She looks at the concrete staircase and pictures eight flights of stairs to get to the fourth floor; she looks down at her feet.

Great. Fucking heels.

She takes her time going up the stairs, not wanting to arrive puffed out, sweaty and smelly. Each floor is in as much disrepair as the last. She arrives on the fourth floor, blowing slightly. A door on the right has a hand written sign taped to it, again it reads SMILE I.T.SOLUTIONS. She knocks on the door and hears a voice on the other side call out.

Come in.

Cheryl twists the handle and enters. Inside is as bad as the outside. A large empty office space with just a desk sitting in the middle of the room.

Dave is sitting behind the desk wearing a smart suit and tie.

Stacks of papers adorn the desk giving the appearance of a heavy workload.

Dave stands and extends his hand.

Welcome Cheryl, Come and take a seat. Sorry about the mess, we’re having the whole building done up, bloody builders take their own sweet time. We’re not officially moved in yet. As you can see, lots to do.

Cheryl walks forward and shakes his hand with a firm grip, she looks him straight in the eyes and she sees a confident, friendly person. She relaxes.

Dave continues.

I’m David, we spoke on the phone.

He motions for Cheryl to sit. She does so, on the only other chair in the room.

She starts to rummage in her bag.

I’ve got an updated CV in here somewhere.

Dave waves his hand. He opens his own file.

Don’t worry; I’ve got the one you sent in with your application, I’ve got my own file here.

Dave glances at the file, tipped towards him so Cheryl can’t see inside.

Find us ok?

Yeah….err…yes, no problem. I came on the tube.

Yeah. It’s easy enough if it’s not raining. Would have been a schlep yesterday.

Yes.

So……computers.

Yes.

You’re a real expert then?

Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly. I’ve got some skills.

Dave smiles at her.

Tell you the truth, I just run the business, I don’t really know too much about them, just how to turn them on and how to pick up my email. Maybe a look at You-Tube and check cinema times.

Cheryl looks a bit puzzled.

Right.

Dave runs his finger down a piece of A4 paper inside his file.

Says here you’ve done some programming, web design, C.A.D…..what’s that?

Computer Aided Design.

Right, yeah….of course.

You know, helping customers design logos, that sort of thing.

Dave takes his time, seemingly looking at the file.

The thing that’s puzzling me is ...

A long pause as he keeps Cheryl on tenterhooks.

According to the file you haven’t worked for a year and a half.

Cheryl swallows, a bit caught off guard. This is one weird interview technique.

Yeah well, I left my last job when the contract ran out. They only needed me for six months to set up and co-ordinate a Local Area Network. So I left there after that. There wasn’t much around to interest me so I took a few courses, honed some specialty skills, did some research. You know, took a break and had a bit of me time.

Dave smiles at her like a cat looking at a mouse.

I’m still a little confused though because it says here on your application form – the bit that asks if you have ever been convicted of a criminal offence – you ticked no.

A pregnant pause. Silence in the empty room. Cheryl composes herself.

That’s right.

Oh, so you’re not the same Cheryl Thomas who was released from Holloway Prison on Christmas Eve, that’s just three weeks ago, after an eighteen month stretch for computer fraud?

Dave puts the file on the desk in front of him. He steeples his fingers and looks hard at Cheryl.

Cheryl sighs. Picks up her handbag.

Sorry to waste your time.

It’ll only be a waste of time if you leave.

"What? Are you going to consider me for the job even though