The Lanzarote Bore.

Author's note
This is a story of revenge. It is set in a northern English village, rather like the one in which I live. I am aware that some of the speech may be unfamiliar to some readers, but believe me, if you read it out aloud, with an accent like Daphne's (from 'Frasier') you should be able to get it.

The Lanzarote Bore

The Duke of Wellington was a hubbub of witty conversation at early doors, most nights of the week. The low ceilings and polished brasses gave the pub a comfortable atmosphere. The landlord, a warm host, was slightly effeminate and had a penchant for dramatic shirts. He ensured that no early-doors customer was left to his own reverie for too long. Patrick had run The Duke of Wellington for five years, and in that time, his conversational skills had earned the pub a good name amongst some of the village's livelier wags. High stools around the bar were occupied by a varied selection of chatty drinkers.

Ken and Bernard arrived at six fifteen. The three, casually dressed, men who were already sitting at the bar turned and cheerily acknowledged them.

"What's new?" Bernard enquired as Ken ordered the drinks.

"Gary, here, has just been regaling us with details of his latest acquisition." replied Geoff.

"Oh yeah, what's this then? Got yourself a new money clip, have ya?" Ken chipped-in over his shoulder. Patrick finished topping up the two pints of Timothy Taylor's bitter. His customers liked a half-inch head, no more and no less.

"Ooo, that's a sight for sore eyes, Patrick. We've been on a roof in Bramhall all day." Bernard almost drooled as he admired the caramel coloured ale, foaming enough so that a trickle ran down the outsides of the glasses and onto the bar towels.

"No. It's a bit special-ler than that, lads. Did you not come through the car park?" Gary often used bad grammar for effect. What effect, no one was quite sure.

"A roof in Bramhall? My sister lives down there. You didn't know I was related to aristocracy, did ya?" Bix called over, from the end of the bar.

"What'ya talking about Bix?" Gary turned to confront the tall, truck driver.

"Bernard just said that he 'n' Ken have been on a roof in Bramhall, that's all. It's a bit salubrious, that is." Bix's whingy voice grated on Gary.

"O stop yer witterin', woman!" Gary dismissed him. Bix tossed his head and gave an affable shrug,

"I was only saying.." he mumbled, and took a deep pull on his pint.

"Well don't. I was telling them about my new car."

"I was only being conversational." Bix wiped froth from his top lip.

"Come on then Gary, what is it? It must be good." Ken said, as he turned from the bar, passing a pint to Bernard with one hand, and gulping a big draft from his own, which was in the other.

"It's a Beemer 316 ci convertible. Beauty it is. It's outside d'ya want to have a look?" Gary began to get off his stool, while reaching into his back pocket for the keys.

"I'll look later. Let me have a bit of unwind, first, won't yer?" Ken drank again. Half his pint was gone already.

"Aye, alright then. Patrick, give me a pint of bitter, when your ready." Gary called over to the landlord, who was serving a non-regular.

"I'll have one too." Geoff added, waving a folded five pound note.

"Oh that's very kind, Geoff. I'll get the next ones." Gary was quick to seize the opportunity.

"D'ya know, it's no wonder you can drive a Beemer when I'm in a Ford. You drink for free, you do." grumbled Geoff.

"Ah, stop yer whining. I bought you a malt, last night, didn't I? Anyway, you wouldn't be able to drive a powerful car like that. I'm an advanced driver, don't forget." bragged Gary.

"I think a BNW is a vulgar ststement of wealth. You wouldn't see John Ffolk in anything more flash than a Landrover, but he's used to money." Patrick confided to Geoff.

"Are you calling me noovo rich, Patrick? Well, I suppose I am. I didn't have anything handed to me on a plate. I didn't pass any fancy exams. I've grafted for my money, and proud of it, I say, proud of it."

"We all graft, Gary. You've made money because you're tight as a gnat's proverbial. And you don't pay your oppos enough to keep body and soul together." said Ken.

"I pay the going rate. I resent that accusation."

"Now, now gentlemen, lets not be having any unpleasantness." Patrick soothed.

The chatter continued for an hour or so and then, one by one, the drinkers made their excuses and left. Gary gave each departee a lingering tour of his BMW. He left it in the car park that night, as he'd had too much Timothy Taylors to risk driving.

Ken and Bernard were working on the roof in Bramhall the next day. The sun was hot. The air was still. They worked in companionable silence for most of the day. They passed tiles and tools to each other as if communicating by telepathy. They had worked together for more than twenty years and were, probably, closer to each other than they were to their wives. The House was an impressive mock-tudor affair, with a big double drive to the front, and expansive mature gardens to the rear. From where they worked they had a good view of the blond dolly sun-bathing in the garden next door. She stretched out on the lounger and sipped, periodically, from a tall glass on the white cast iron table next to her. Ken turned to Bernard, raised an eyebrow, then pursed his mouth to intimate his opinion of the view. Bernard grinned and winked his agreement.

Later that day a BMW convertible purred over the gravel drive, up to the house that they were working on. They both stopped and thought the same thing. Surely Gary hadn't popped round to see them. The car had the top up, so it was not until the young man stepped out, that they could see that it was not Gary but the son of the people who's roof they were working on. He seemed no older than twenty. It was a bit much for him to be driving a car like that. The insurance must have been horrendous. The two workmen decided to climb down to ground level, for a break. They sat on a patch of grass drinking tea from a flask and eating sandwiches, which their wives had lovingly cut from, Mother's Pride, medium-sliced, white bread. Beside them, the silver car, twinkled in the sunlight. Presently, the young man came out of the house again. He glanced at the two roofers and stopped,

"Brought you own tea I see." he said as he noticed their flask on the grass beside them. "I bet mother is always too busy to make you a cup then?" he added, disloyally. There was, clearly, some friction between this young man and his mother.

"We always bring our our own refreshments. We like Earl Grey, you see, and not many customers have it." replied Ken, good-humouredly.

"We've been admiring the car. What do you think of it?" asked Bernard. The young man strolled over to the car and stood, patting the bonnet.

"It's killer! I love it!" he enthused. "Thinking of investing in one, yourselves, then?"

"It's a bit out of our league, son, but a businessman-friend of ours has just got one."

"Yeah, he was crowing about it last night." added Bernard. "They are beauties though. You should have the top down on a day like today."

"I would if wasn't for the coppers. As soon as they see a man, my age, driving a car like this, they pull me over. I have to carry all my documents to prove it's mine. So if I keep the roof up they don't see how young I am and I get left alone." He kicked at some gravel. It was hard not to feel a pang of compassion for the wealthy young buck. Ken and Bernard were not envious men, by nature.

"I tell you what, I bet you don't get the chance to drive it too fast, very often. The traffic round here's murder." Ken seemed to be developing a theme and , for once, Bernard was not sure what was on his friend's mind.

"I take it out in the countryside sometimes to burn some rubber, but again, you have to be careful. They have speed cameras all over nowadays. Even where you least expect them." the young man said as he opened the car door to get in.

"Yeah. It's just money-grabbing, if you ask me. Nothing to do with road safety. Don't you think, Ken?" "Aye, yer right there, Bernard."

That evening they were in The Duke of Wellington with Gary, Bix and Geoff again. Ken was uncharacteristically quiet. He chatted briefly with Patrick, the landlord, then seemed to sit back on his stool and study the group of men as they bantered and laughed.

"Cat got yer tongue, Ken?" asked Geoff.

"I'm fine. I like listening, that's all."

"How was Bramhall today, lads? any sun-bathing lovelies?" Bix had remembered that they were working in the affluent suburb.

"Ooh, I should say so." Bernard put down his pint and leaned forward, ready to give full description of the trophy-wife they had seen in the next garden. Ken stopped him.

"We work too hard to have time for that sort of thing, don't we Bernard?" he nudged his mate in the arm. Bemused, but knowing better than to undermine his pal, Bernard nodded.

"Aye, it was hard work alright. The sun was merciless today lads. Tell you what, though Gar..." Ken had nudged him again. This time more forcefully. Bernard turned to him and hissed,

"What's up wi' you? I was only going to tell him about the Beemer."

"Don't. It's confidential. Our customers expect a descreet service." Ken winked mysteriously. Bernard, none the wiser, conceded, shrugged and returned to enjoying his Timothy Taylors.

"Meryl and I are thinking of going to Lanzarote this year, Geoff. What about you?" Gary changed the subject. Geoff had never been abroad, and Gary knew it. The gentle chap took no offence from the question, though,

"I should think it will be Blackpool again for us. It's becoming quite trendy now you know. Their planning to turn it into the Los Angeles of England. You know. Opening high-class casinos an' all."

"Ha. The Los Angeles of England." Gary repeated, laughing a loud, manly laugh. Other drinkers in the pub turned to look at him.

"You mean Las Vegas you bumpkin. It's Las Vegas that has all the casinos." Gary guffawed some more.

"Yeah, alright." Geoff bowed his head. He blushed. He was hoping everyone in the pub had not heard. It was obvious that they had. At least none of them was sniggering. Ken noticed that, in fact, they were looking rather irritated.

"Meryl's been whingin' that I don't take 'er out often enough. Than's all she seems to do these days, whinge and moan." said Gary. His companions looked uncomfortably at one another.

"My Anne said that Meryl seems to be having a lot of accidents lately, Gary. Bruised shoulder and ribs last week. How'd that happen then?" Geoff looked steadily at the big man.

"She's clumsy. Who wants another drink? My round." Gary distracted the attention and pulled a wad of notes from his pocket.

As Ken and Bernard walked home, Bernard brought up the subject of the shaming of Geoff and the bruising of Meryl,

"Do yer think he beats her?" he asked Ken.

"I know he does. The man's a bully."

"Wasn't it a bit over the top, the way Gary went on about Las Vegas?" he asked Ken.

"Yeah. It's about time, we knocked that git down a peg or two."

"You've got a plan, haven't you, Ken?"

"I certainly have."

***********

Some weeks later the usual crew were having their early evening drink and chat at The Duke of Wellington but there was one conspicuous absentee.

"Where's Gary tonight?" Bix asked each man as they joined him at the bar.

"He doesn't have to send his apologies, you know, Bix. Maybe he's taking Meryl out for a change." Patrick pointed out. Bernard glanced at Ken, who continued to gaze at his own reflection in the mirrors behind the bar.

"He's not gone off to Lanzarote, has he?" suggested Geoff, and he coloured slightly again, as he remembered the humiliation he had suffered when Gary had first brought up the subject of his holiday. They had heard little else from Gary since then. It was "Lanzarote this," and "Lanzarote that."

"No, That's not till the end of the month." said Patrick, who had a good memory for his customers' plans.

Eventually, Bernard could stand it no longer, "Ken knows something, but I can't get him to tell me." he blurted out.

"I don't. What'y'er talking about Bernard. Shut up, will yer?" Ken rarely spoke harshly to Bernard, but it was no use. The other men had all eyes fixed on Ken.

"Tell us, will you. What's happened?" Bix urged him.

"Well, you've got to keep it absolutely between us four. D'ya hear? I could get in real trouble." Ken whispered.

"Five. Us five. Don't forget me." it was Patrick. He was not going to miss out on anything in his own pub.

"Yeah alright then." Ken looked around him and the men huddled together, Patrick leaning as far over the bar as he could.

"Well, I got the idea a few weeks back. You remember that house in Bramhall, that Bernard and me was working on?" They all nodded, "Well, the son of the house has this Beemer, just like Gary's. I was up to my back teeth, with Gary bragging and lording it over us all, 'specilly when he shows us up and embarrasses poor Geoff that time. So I thought up a way to get even. Only I'm a bit worried that I've gone too far. You mustn't tell a soul, right?" The men nodded again, more emphatically.

"You can trust us Ken. We can't wait to hear what you've done. Get on with it." Bix spoke for all of them.

"This lad with the Beemer; he gets frustrated about being pulled by the cops all the time, because he's so young, you see." they all muttered their understanding. "So I asked him if he was game for a little sport. A chance to have some fun, break some speed limits, and make monkeys of the cops at the same time. He jumped at it."

"What did you do?" Bernard asked.

"Stop interrupting and I'll tell you." There was a couple, at a table, in the corner. They were deep in conversation and not paying any attention to the five men huddled round the bar. Ken's glass was empty. "Another pint please, Patrick." Everyone moaned. They would have to wait now, till Patrick had poured it. Impatiently they jiggled change in their pockets, fidgeted with beer mats and chewed toothpicks. At last the foaming ale was placed, on the bar, in front of Ken. They all huddled around him again and he continued,

"Right. I knew Gary had a dentist appointment at Old Hockerley's, in Glossop, at three o'clock, last Wednesday."

"Yeah, I remember him going on about the cost of private dentistry last week." confirmed Bernard.

"Well, that was my chance. I knew where he would be driving, and at what time. So I arranged for my friend with the identical Beemer to wait down the side road off the bypass. He waited and pulled out behind Gary a few moments after he had passed. Those cars have electric rooves, you know. You just press a button on the dash and the roof peels back. So my friend puts the roof back. He's wearing a cap just like Gary's and nothing else, apart from a pair of boxers, but no one would see those."

"Oh my God." chimed Patrick, "I've got it."

"Shut up will yer! I haven't. What happened then, Ken?" Bernard urged him to carry on.

"Well, Gary tootles along, all innocent like, noticing nothing. He doesn't know that just a few hundred yards behind him, is his Nemesis."

"His what?" queried Bix,

"His downfall. Shhh." Geoff explained.

"When my friend gets to the lines on the road for the speed camera he's doing a tonne. At least, one hundred miles an hour. Then, as the camera flashes at him, he takes both hands off the steering wheel, and holding them right above his head, as if he's on a fair-ground ride, he makes two V signs back at the camera. So the camera has a shot of a naked man in a Beemer in Gary's cap flicking V signs, back over his head."

"Yeah, but wait a minute, what about the number plates?" Bix was catching up.

"Well, that took a bit of planning. I've got a mate who works in a car spares shop and he makes up plates for trailers and caravans. You're not usually able to get them unless you've got the registration documents, but this mate knows I'm no car thief, so he asked no questions."

"That's amazing. What a fantastic scam. So Gary's probably been arrested. Hey hang on a minute. Do you really think he deserved that? It's a bit serious." said Patrick.

"The thing is, We weren't sure that there was any film in the camera. So I've been watching his postie every morning. Well, this morning, at about seven o'clock, there were some , much more dramatic visitors at Gary's. The police. I actually saw them taking him in. He is not going to be able to get out of it. He's got no alibi and the dentist appointment proves he was there at that time. Let's hope he turns on the charm and talks his way out of it."

The men were silent, the full implications were slowly sinking in. Gary did not have any charm. He was an ignorant, arrogant, egomaniac. They imagined Gary's screams and protestations as the police showed him the photograph and read him his rights.

"He won't get sent down or anything, will he, Ken?" Geoff asked with a dark look on his face.

"Well, no, of course not." Ken tried to convince himself as well as the others. "It'll be a hefty fine and maybe, even a disqualification, but just think of all the crap you've taken from him, Geoff. Don't feel sorry for him, for God's sake."

**********

Gary was apopleptic. The desk sergeant spoke calmly to him,

"Just empty your pockets, please, Sir. This will all be over in a moment. The duty solicitor's on his way. I'm afraid the solicitor you nominated only does conveyencing. He doesn't deal with criminal law."

"Criminal law? I'm an advanced driver with thirty years experience. I'm not a criminal. You can't keep me here. Let me out." screamed Gary. He was a big man and the sergeant and the constable were taken by surprise. He lunged forward and, bringing his left fist round with an almighty swing, he floored the sergeant, knocking him unconscious. Violence had been Gary's answer to frustration, all his life. His long-suffering wife, Meryl, could confirm that. As the constable tried to restrain him he swung again. This time, he missed the policeman, who snapped out his night-stick and pinned Gary against the interview-room wall.

"Well, Sir, you're certainly a criminal now, aren't you?" the policeman growled in his ear, as he snapped on the cuffs.

****The End****