‘The Instructor’ sizes me up: big, sallow face incongruous behind a pair of bright blue eyes that are grotesquely enlarged by the thick lenses of a pair of heavy framed spectacles. Twin TV screens broadcasting the All-Seeing Eye. Double vision. Myopic as hell. But wide open for all that. Unblinking.

The two men who let me in lean against the wall behind him, in deep shadow either side of the locked door; more felt than seen.

The TV eyes flicker, crackle of atmospheric interference, dip down at the clipboard he’s holding then come up again, blaze at me like the full beams of an oncoming artic. My foot involuntarily stamps down on a non-existent brake.

He takes a deep draw on his cigarette, holds it for a second then exhales, filling the space between us with bluegrey exhaust fug.

“Whitechapel High Road to Ladbroke Grove”, he barks. “Via Piccadilly.”

I shuffle in the uncomfortable, squeaky plastic chair. I’m gagging for a fag myself but daren’t light up without permission. I take a sip of weak coffee instead from the chipped Coronation mug. Piping hot, it scalds the roof of my mouth. I swallow fast, focus on the pain to help my recall.

“Southeast Leman Street. Right onto East Smithfield. Merge Tower Hill. Lower Thames Street, right Northumberland Avenue. Third exit Trafalgar Square, left Piccadilly. Right Half Moon Street, left Park Lane. Slide left Cumberland Gate, keep left Bayswater Road, continue on Notting Hill Gate, right Ladbroke Grove.”

The unblinking TV eyes give nothing away.

“Alright, another one. Kensington Gore to Brockley Rise.”

Ha. Trick question.

“Brockley? South of the river. No chance guv’nor.”

He nods at this. Takes another drag, glances down at the clipboard. Then the TV eyes fix me with that baleful glare again. Tunnel vision.

“You’re at the corner of Ladbroke Grove and Elgin Crescent. Where’s the nearest police station?”

I pretend to rack my brain as the throbbing in my mouth subsides. After just long enough:

“Notting Hill. On Ladbroke Road.”

The TV eyes bob up and down.

“Squad car response time?”

The muscles in my legs clench.

“Pfffff, two minutes? If they can get through the traffic.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I…”

The twin beans blaze in my face again, dazzling me with a sudden intense light from Christ knows where.

“You seem pretty sure.”

“I…” – am trying not to squirm, but the squeaky chair gives away an uneasy shift.

“You’re not the filth, are you?” He spits the word with real venom, flecks of saliva landing on my face.

“What do you think boys? Can you smell bacon?”

His big, fleshy nose – all pothole acne scars and intersecting varicose veins – lifts, double-barrelled nostrils sniffing like a bloodhound. The two goons by the door shuffle a few paces forward, stare at me, dead-eyed.

Remember the training. He knows nothing. They know nothing. I return the stares. Fight down the fear. Breathe. Relax. Remember the legend.

“Old Bill? Come off it. With my family? I’d already be dead.”

The TV eyes crackle with static again. Flicker side to side. After what seems like an eternity, the full beams dim again. The goons step back. The channel changes.

“Something else then: Arsenal or Spurs?”

“You having a laugh? West Ham till I die.”

He chuckles at this – whether in approval, pity or contempt, I can’t tell. (I hope the latter.) His big, hunched shoulders relax a little.

“Where’s the pick-up?”

“Duke of Wellington pub, corner of Culford and Balls Pond Road.”

“How do you recognise him?”

“Navy trenchcoat, red tie, ginger hair, beard. Brown attaché case.”

“What does he say?”

“Morning sunshine! Lovely day for it. Highbury please, and don’t spare the horses.”

“You say?”

“Right-o guv. I’m your man.”

“Then?”

“Drop him at Highbury & Islington. Minus case.”

“What do you absolutely not do?”

“Stop. Look at the case. Touch the case. Attempt to open the case.”

“If you are stopped?”

“Geezer left it in the back. City gent. Pin-stripe suit & bowler. I’m taking it to lost property.”

“Then?”

“Proceed to Albert Street, Camden Town.”

“Where you…?”

“Pick up a young woman, red & white striped dress, blonde hair, blue holdall, dark glasses.”

The TV eyes move closer, filling my field of vision, his big saggy face just inches from mine. Smell of stale sweat, Players’ No. 6, hair oil. I can breathe in his excitement. His uncertainty. His fear.

“What does she say?”

“Morning sunshine! Lovely day for it. Paddington please, and don’t spare the horses.”

“You say?”

“Right-o luv. I’m your man.”

“Then?”

“Drop her corner of Westway and Harrow Road, outside Paddington Green cop shop.”

“Then?”

“Go the fuck home, have a beer, forget this whole thing ever happened.”

Another flicker of interference crackles through the TV eyes. At last, they blink. Soften.

“Exactly that.” He pauses. “You might want to avoid watching the news for a few days. You know – on television.” Interference fills the screens. A static snowstorm, blocking out scenes of carnage.

A pudgy hand slowly comes up, removes the specs. Suddenly the eyes are small, weak – watery piss-holes in yellow snow. Relief courses through me. His other hand holds out a fat brown envelope. I take it, slip it into my pocket. Put down the still half-full mug of coffee, stand and walk over to the door, which one of the goons unlocks and opens for me.

The sunlight outside is blinding. I squint, raise my hand to shield my eyes. See the two unmarked vans parked just along the street. Wave to DS Walker in the front seat of the nearest van, give him the thumbs up. He immediately jumps out, bangs on the side, shouting “Go! Go! Go!”

Four big men with bulging armpits decant from the back of each van. DI Stevens leads the charge, DS Gibbs immediately behind him with the sledgehammer. The door goes in at the first hit.

I imagine The Instructor’s fat face smacking into the floor. Blood gushing out of those nostrils. Specs sliding off his broken nose, lenses shattering on the bare concrete. Frames crushed beneath DI Stevens’ size 9.

End of broadcast for you, sunshine. But I have it all on tape.

— to be continued —

Terry Holland grew up in Essex (UK) before studying in London and Berlin. He has dabbled in the theatre, music, journalism, translation and the occult and currently lives in the Netherlands, where you can still score the occasional bit of decent weed. He writes flash fiction and prose poetry, has written the odd short story but will never, ever write a novel. You might find his words in the likes of Bath Flash Fiction Anthology, Stukah! magazine, Stereo Stories, Daily Drunk, Voidspace, Ellipsis Zine, Pure Slush, Seaside Gothic, Loft Books, punk noir, sage cigarettes and Alien Buddha Press. He tweets his Wordle scores @terry_geezer.