The Last Days at White Cloud Air

By D.A. Crossman

NEW ZEALAND 1998

 

Eight years after eluding the British police, ex drug dealer Mark Mitchell has a new identity and a quiet life in a backwater Canterbury town. But when his wife is brutally attacked, Mark's new life begins to seriously unravel.

 

Mark sets out for revenge, but he gets more than he bargained for when the hunt for his wfe's assailants leads to the discovery of a criminal conspiracy.

 

Set against the political background of the times, THE LAST DAYS AT WHITE CLOUD AIR is a tale of one man's resolve in a deadly game of blackmail, extortion, and murder. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.A. Crossman
• Release date: May 4, 1914
• ISBN: 9798223426745

Book preview

Prologue

Heathrow Airport, London

July 1990

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I stood in the line bearing my sign but there were no takers. I called Bryan.

Our man’s a no-show, I said.

Are you sure? asked Bryan.

Positive.

Okay, forget it; just be there for Mr Short – and call me later.

I changed my jacket, donned a cap, got myself some lunch, chain smoked, and waited once again.

You are from Mr Long? he said, reading the sign with an accent.

I’ll take you to your hotel, I said.

He sat in the back, staring out the window at the steady drizzle.

The rain in an English summer, ya? he remarked.

We went up to his room, opened the mini-bar and poured the drinks.

Tastes okay, he opined, licking a tab, but there’s only one way to actualise it.

You’re kidding, right?

I’ll just take half a tab, okay?

Two hours later, he was still buzzing. I took the cash, left him the stash, and called Bryan.

Yeah, I said, everything’s kosher. What about our no-show?

Fucked if I know. Come back to base and we’ll divvy up after the game.

We were all agreed: tonight was the night. We’d made a killing but we were pushing our luck. One of the neighbours was complaining about the odour emanating from the basement flat where the chemistry students, Dave, Paul, and Phil, cooked up the merchandise, and Bryan, who ran the taxi-cab operation from the ground floor, was receiving the unwelcome attention of the Inland Revenue. It was high time to shut up shop, share the spoils and go our separate ways.

I looked at my watch: two hours before the semi-final kicked off; plenty of time – if I hadn’t left the bloody lights on. I turned the key in the cab’s ignition. It was as dead as a doornail. I had to ring the AA boys to give me a jump-start.

When I finally got moving, it was raining cats and dogs and the traffic was murder. It was well late by the time I turned into our street – lucky for me. There were lights at the bottom of the hill: flashing blue lights. Outside our house the street was crawling with the fuzz.

I pulled over and switched off the lights. The rain kept coming; the wipers going flat-out against the windscreen. I peered down at the partially illuminated scene. It was like looking into a kaleidoscope.

When the paddy-wagon arrived with its headlights on, my view was momentarily enhanced. The boys shuffled out of the house and down the narrow garden path, their heads down and their hands cuffed together.

From the corner of my eye, I spy a distinctive looking bike turning out of the adjacent street. As it blazes past, I recognise the red and white Ducati and the luminous gold lightening flash on the rider’s helmet. Bryan had got away. I followed as best I could, but inevitably lost him in the traffic. He’d talked about heading down to the Costa-del-Crime, so I took a punt and headed back to the airport. I cruised the multi-storey car park, spotted the bike, and then discovered the man himself in the check-in queue for the continent.

Hello mate, I said. Fancy a drink?

I took his arm politely and we retired to the bar.

Fuckinell, Mark! he hissed at me over his pint. I thought you’d been collared.

Seems I got lucky. What the fuck happened?

The fuzz must have been staking us out. They broke the fucking doors down. Our Mr Big must have been tipped off – or turned grass. We gotta get out of here, boy. There’ll be warrants out, I’ll guarantee it.

So where are you going?

Far away from here and you should do the same.

What about the money?

Come on Mark, you’ve got ten grand and four hundred tabs. Use your initiative.

That doesn’t cover it and you know it.

So, I’ll send you the rest, all right?

What about the lads?

What about them?

They’ll need money for their defence.

Defence? What defence? There’s nothing we can do for them now; it’s every man for himself.

They’re still entitled to their share.

Nice talking to you Mark, but I’ve got a plane to catch.

When he got up from the table, I grabbed his wrist and held on tight.

Where’s the money? I said, getting to my feet.

Don’t you fuck with me sunshine! he hissed, raising his other fist.

My aim was good. The blow from my forehead hit him just above the bridge of his nose, knocking him off his feet and sending him clattering down onto the table behind us. I stood hard on his arm, collected the attaché case from his open palm and marched for the exit. Blood dripped into my eyes.

I drove north and pulled into the car park of a motorway café. I cleaned myself up as best I could and forced open the case. The cash was in bundles of centuries: a tidy eight hundred and fifty thousand pounds. There was also a number of documents including a Canadian and a New Zealand passport. Bryan had been well prepared. I transferred the ten large I’d collected from Mr Short to the attaché case and rang Jez.

Jez, it’s Mark.

What’s up, brother?

I need your help. Who’s the guy that does the passports? I need to get in touch.

What’s going down?

We’re busted Jez – I need to split – big time. You savvy?

Fuck man! Listen, this geezer is pricey, can you pay?

Yeah man, I got it.

I had to ditch the cab in a hurry so I drove to the nearest town, pocketed the colt 45 I kept taped under the driver’s seat, and headed on foot to the local railway station. I dialled the number.

Am I speaking to Andre?

Who wants to know?

My name’s Mark. Jez said you could help. I hear you’re pretty good with the paperwork.

Sorry my friend, but I don’t know you.

I’m a mate of Bryan’s. Bryan Connelly.

How is Bryan?

Indisposed. Look, I need to get out of the country; name your price.

I’m sorry –

I’ve got four hundred tabs of X. What’s that worth?

Okay Mark, maybe we should meet, only be careful, the locals aren’t friendly.

I took the slow train back to the city, disembarked at Kings Cross, and deposited the attaché case into a station locker. I bought two loaves of bread and concealed the silver foil parcel of X in the bottom of a plastic bag. I took the tube, and then walked briskly to the housing estate address where I was duly intercepted by the welcoming committee: four of them; young, black, males.

And who might you be? said the big dude with the tyre iron.

Never you mind, I said, fidgeting with the loaded gun in the pocket of my coat. I have business on the fifth.

What kind of business?

Wait for me here and it’s worth fifty tabs of X. Okay?

I opted for the stairs, climbed up to the fifth floor and knocked on the door of number fifty-one. A loud bark was immediately followed by a menacing snarl. 

Quiet, Simba, a voice commanded.

Satisfied I was kosher, Andre let me in.

He was a big man in every sense, from the rolls of fat that flopped out and over the waistband of his jeans to the thick bunches of dreadlocks that fell about his shoulders. No one, I considered, would ever suspect this man of possessing the fine skills required of a master forger.

I gave him the documents and kept my eyes on the Alsatian returning my gaze from the corner of the room. Everyone is afraid of something: I really don’t like dogs.

Strangely familiar, he said, looking over the paperwork. May I see the product?

Minus fifty, I said. For the local yokels.

Mimi! he called. You have a customer.

Andre’s wife, Mimi, set to work on my appearance starting with the messy cut on my forehead. When she was done, Andre took the pictures of the new me, clean-shaven and sporting a rather severe short-back-and-sides.

This will take some time, Andre said. Why don’t you come back in the morning?

I’ll wait. Do you mind? I asked, turning on the telly. I was in luck. They were showing a replay of the highlights.

They scored first through a lucky deflection. We equalised in style, had a perfectly good goal disallowed, and lost in the penalty shootout – fucking idiot ref!

I slept fitfully in the armchair for a couple of hours until the charming Mimi woke me with a cup of coffee.

All done, Andre said, handing over a large envelope.

Everything was shipshape: passports, birth certificates, credit cards, driver licences, and even a press pass. Business concluded, I took my leave and ran into the lads on the first-floor landing.

Here, I said, tossing the package to the big dude. Fifty tabs as promised.

Much obliged, he said, taking a step forward, but you’re good for a bonus; am I right?

He changed his mind when I pulled out the gun and fired a shot over his shoulder.

Anyone else fancy their chances? I enquired.

It was dawn by the time I collected the case, ditched the gun, and took the underground westbound to terminal one. First up on the departure board, a slow ride to the South Pacific: thirteen thousand miles and only first-class seats available.

Using my New Zealand passport in the name of Daniel James Christian, I paid for my ticket in cold hard cash. I strolled through passport control clutching my precious case, a nervous smile etched upon my face. A long dark flight. I dozed and dreamt in black-and-white. We stopped somewhere to refuel. I ordered more wine.

A day later, I arrived in Auckland, New Zealand’s largest city. I changed cash at the airport, took a cab to one of the hotels they were advertising on the flight, emptied the mini-bar, and crashed.

Once I’d slept off the jet lag, I hired a car and headed north.

According to his birth certificate, Daniel James Christian was born in Topoki Bay on the thirteenth of October, nineteen sixty-six, making him twenty-four, the same age – presumably – as myself. If I was to become Mr Christian, I needed to find out who he was, presuming of course, such a person had ever actually existed. It was a question I’d often asked myself about Mark John Mitchell. The name belonged to me, or so they told me at the orphanage, but I never knew who my parents were and the crumpled piece of paper they claimed was my birth certificate had not convinced me one way or the other. Identity was a blank cheque as far as I was concerned. I could become anyone I liked.

Once I was clear of the congestion of Auckland’s city streets, the near empty roads opened out in front of me. I drove through lush green rain forests and followed long stretches of winding coastal roads where the extensive, pristine beaches were sandy-brown and deserted.

Topoki Bay was a tiny picturesque settlement on the country’s north-west coast. There were two dozen or so houses, a pub, a gas station, and a motel. Beyond the cabbage trees that lined the coastal side of the main drag, the tide rolled gently into the bay.

I filled up at the gas station, got myself a meat pie and asked for directions. The church was on the edge of town, a small, solid looking greystone edifice with a sign out front declaring: He is the One. I got chatting to the affable, elderly vicar who made me a cup of tea and invited me to inspect the records of the parish. I discovered his weather-beaten gravestone on that sunny afternoon:

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HERE LIES DANIEL JAMES CHRISTIAN

1966-1977

BELOVED SON OF JAMES AND JANE CHRISTIAN

TRAGICALLY DROWNED AGED ELEVEN

MAY HE REST IN PEACE

And on the adjacent plot:

JAMES AND JANE

A TRAGIC ACCIDENT

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I laid down the native wild flowers the vicar had kindly donated and prayed for their collective souls.

After that, I took the tour. I drove all over, marvelling at the scenic beauty of the country and rejoicing in its relative lack of human population. Eventually, when I decided to set myself up, I chose the east coast city of Christchurch. The city was a neatly designed mixture of old Victorian buildings and modern twentieth century development, charmingly complimented with numerous parks, gardens, and waterways, and blessed with stunning panoramas. The climate was agreeably temperate and there was sunshine even in the winter.

I went to the bank and organised an offshore account and a safe-deposit box. The money meant that I could afford to be idle, but I soon became bored with a life of leisure. I decided I needed a job. Taking a step back in time, I got myself hired serving drinks behind the bar in a small hotel.

I’d taken my first job when I was sixteen. The room and board the pub provided was my ticket out of the orphanage. It was bloody hard work behind the bar, particularly on Friday and Saturday nights, but there was always a good drink-up after work with the rest of the gang; young blokes like myself and my mate, Jez. I worked there happily enough for a year or so and then, on one of those hectic Friday nights, my temper got the better of me. I got into a dust-up with one of the regulars – a right merchant he was – and the landlord sacked me on the spot.

Determined that Mark Mitchell’s short fuse wouldn’t jeopardise Danny Christian’s new position, I was on my best behaviour; diligent and empathic. The old couple that owned the place took a shine to me and when the bar manager moved on, they offered me his job. I moved out of the flat I’d been renting, took the room and board, and settled in.

After a while curiosity overcame me. I took a chance and rang Jez.

Mark, is that you?

How goes it Jez?

Wherever you are, stay there man. They’re looking for you – you know that – right?

How are the boys?

Word is they’re looking at a ten stretch.

And Bryan?

Him too.

See if you can get a message to the boys. Tell them I’ve got their share, okay?

Months passed. I began to feel secure in my new life and my new country. Christchurch was peaceful and pleasant and the natives were friendly. I’d managed to hook up with a dealer who supplied my marijuana habit, and outside of work I occupied myself by taking long walks in the countryside. When I felt lonely, I turned to the ladies of the night, but the solace was short-lived and I only succeeded in accentuating an overall sense of detachment. Then I met Jenny.

Jenny worked in the law office across the street and she met with her friends at the hotel