Peter - Chapter Twenty Three

Peter - Chapter Twenty Three
Lipton dragged the idle son of God from his pit well before dawn broke. His transit was safe mechanically but missing bulbs, a couple of borderline tyres and numerous dents recording its journey, there was no denying, it was a pull. Dogs in the back, Christ in the passenger seat, the shaman ripped out of the quarry into rural lanes at a speed ensuring the son of God could find no way back to dreams, down to Clun, beyond to Andys gaff where Harry already had their lunch packed and flasks of tea for those of temperance. The shamans aim was to have left the M5 at Bridgewater before the light of day revealed to any passing filth this outlaw van, evidence of an outlaw lifestyle. The police were always looking out for deviance from the norm. Once pulled the nosy questions would begin and their plans could be scuppered by such lowlife jobs worths. By heck! Thought Lipton, do I hate coppers. """
Christ: "Fucking bang on, mate! A gang of black clad bastards of three categories.1: The stupid idealist that actually thinks his job is to stop bad people and make a better place. These first group are used to make tea, type the paper work, or, when the lone mad gunman is hold up and the team leader requires a brave volunteer to be the hero, all wait to see his hand shoot upwards. 'Good man. We will be right behind you, shooting the cunt as you fall from the only shot he gets off.' They don't last long. Most soon accept their colleagues despise them and see the black and white muddying to grey. If they're not used up in the scenario just described. 2: The devious coward. Born into modest families. Smart enough to realise they aren't smart enough to escape through upward mobility. By scorning their own they join up to serve their betters. The type only can socialise with other coppers. They would arrest their own mother. They escape their class to earn a middle class wage though can never mix in these economic circles, nor the working class they grew up with. They make sure property owners are safe from the lower class from whence they came. 3: The nasty fuckers. Bullied in school, unable to fight one on one, they join to find power. As coppers they find their victim. Do not approach alone. Call for back up. Five on one they attack. Joining the force is the easiest way to murder someone. Around a thousand people die in police custody each year. All three types serve from first time buyers upwards. Those below they hate. Alongside minorities of all varieties."
Lipton: "For fucks sake, christ! That was a private reflection. Not a prayer. However, despite the intrusive telepathic gate crashing we basically agree."
Christ: "How the fuck am I to know you weren't praying?"
Lipton: "You sat next to me. I'd have opened my mouth if I wanted you to hear!"
Christ: "alright, alright, calm down! We both hate the police. Where's the beef?'
Lipton: "Beef! That's hip hop talk. Tell you what, mind. That Puff Daddy has my support. I've no issue with homosexuals bringing up kids and admire his bravado in standing proud with the name. A gay dad and proud of it. But he hates that Sting who ripped him off. Who can blame him. Similar thing happened to me with the tantric fucker. Here's a tail. Back in the punk days our band 'Urban Disorder' were based in Sheffield. Phet Phil, our bass player had been obliged to take a months sabbatical following a period of research work in chemistry. We had a gig in Newcastle and could do with the cash so we drove up without kit hoping to get the bassist from the local support band to fill in. A knobhead lad we called Prick often came to these gigs and we got talking after our sound check. 'Alright there, Prick! How's you, like?"
Sting: "Actually it's Sting they call me, others have made similar mistakes."
Lipton: "No mate! Everyone I've met calls you Prick, that Prick, a prick. Not once heard you called Sting, though."
Sting: "Sting! Have you heard my band? The Police?"
I felt sorry for the misguided fella. Nobody likes the police. Calling your band the police obviously meant they'd get nowhere. Taking pity on the young twat I asked if he played bass.
Sting: "Why aye, like. Bass is Stings forte."
Lipton: " Our bassist is away, like. If I give you a tenner would you fill in for him? Just do a Sid, G and E, mostly. Piece of piss!"
This may be the only chance to stand and play to more than a few mates. He was a prick but still, knowing his band stood no chance named that way I took pity, he'd get a right buzz. Help us out too.
Lipton: "G E, all through but we finish on a gentle number. Wind it down like. It's our homage to the pubs we drink in around Barnsley town centre. A thank you for some great drunken nights. So I wrote out the chords for him. Then some words as we all sang on this one.
'You can shoot some pool
Have a game of doms
In the Pubs round Barnsley
Have a chat wit' lads
Or a round of darts
And sup some fucking ale'
The gig went fine. Waved him off as in all the thrill of stage pride he'd forgot the tenner. We watched the prick wobbling off down the lane singing our Barnsley Pub anthem.
I was right like. Never heard of the prick again. Years passed then I'm sat round Glue bags squat, off me face on Ket, watching some festival or other and who comes on? It was Prick! Older like but clearly the same cunt. Then he starts strumming. Those chords sounded familiar, I thought. Then the words were identical. Virtually. He'd changed it a bit but unmistakeable my creative property. Turned out the prick was also a cunt! I don't know but the police project must have not worked out so he went solo. With the millions made off Barnsley he records another. The Gay Fathers best mate Fatty thins had been shot down in some hip hop beef drive by killing by two Four Packs! A song about his best pals death! And that prick rips him off. His version had Puff Dads music but a lyric about stalking lasses. Made millions while Puff made nowt. Next single Prick brought out after the stalking song described his time as a teacher.
How'd it go now, 'Young schoolgirl, the subject of teachers fantasy,
He wants her, so badly, starts feeling right pervy,
At bus stop, she's hiding, his car boots warm an dry,
In a ditch in some layby, the accusations fly,
Then the lasses lines come in asking the pervert to keep his distance,
Don't stand so, don't stand so, don't stand so close to me, (she pleads)
Next morning, head master, calls pervert teacher in,
'Some times it's not so easy, you know how these slags get?'
Headmaster, nods smiling, this teacher knows the score
'Five tenners, slipped my way, half hour upstairs wit' slag?
Poor lass now, gets pimped out, as teachers pet,
Head master, wants so badly, to join his paedo mate,
'Don't stand so, don't stand so, don't stand so close to me
Fucking horrible! That fucking Prick! First he robbed my Barnsley Boozer song. Makes millions from it. There's no way I can afford lawyers he can so I let it pass. Next thing Puffter Dad, gays are an oppressed minority just like us travellers. Skint like me no doubt. Now, since Notorious BIG, his civil partners death, Puffters a single parent, bringing up his kids alone. Prick makes further fortunes as Daddy starves to raise them kids. Not only is this Prick super rich he's now putting out these songs about stalking lasses, using his position as a teacher to molest his pupils despite their pleas to the educational prick to not stand up close. It's fucking wrong, Jesus! If that single dad, living in poverty, each day racists and homophobic bastards persecuting the man, You know what? Once this Bunsens done I might just get over the big apple. Walk those ghetto streets. Talk to the street people. Mingle amongst the beggars, junkies, the whores, the homeless. A snippet of a rumour, a tip off hear, a whisper there. Like an underworld Sherlock Holmes I'll follow that trail. Track down my brother in victimhood. By pooling both our giros to buy the finest lawyer in that price bracket. Then, together we shall bring that prick down! Take the money that is rightfully ours. Any funds made from the stalking anthem and any of his further work shamelessly promoting his perversions and sexual deviancy is for the judge to use in donations to charities that work with the victims of stalking pricks and paedophile schoolteachers. The single parent can use his half of the many million dollars that Prick stole from us to rebuild his broken life. A new transit for myself and once I track down the band members of 'Urban Disorder' we reform, like the sex pistols and velvet underground. Now, those Barnsley pubs are boarded up, derelict. Lipton Urban Regeneration ltd, my building firm will renovate them all. A booming Anarcho Punk scene will form as each pub and venue will be crammed each night. Those words I wrote, so many years ago, will paint the new Barnsley. A place where any man, woman or child can shoot some pool, have a game of doms, in those pubs in Barnsley, they can have a laugh, or a game of darts, and sup some fucking ale."
These final words Lipton sang loudly waking the sleeping heep behind the vans seats. Harry looked grumpy. Andy looked invigorated.
Andy: "That's a plan of genius mate. I can see all young teenagers taking a long hard look at their Apple Macs, cars, university courses, city jobs, and think, 'fuck this' I'm moving to Barnsley to become an Anarcho punk squatter. Instead of information technology I'll get a guitar and write songs of protest against that female prime minister my old man used to moan about. Songs about those towns where mining saw men going miles under ground going on strike. A sort of historical critique on the problems faced by my fathers generation. Or maybe I'll carry on with contemporary technological interests. Listening to enjoyable music.' Lipton, it's admirable to see a man with such enthusiasm and faith in an idea of interest to a tiny minority of fifty year olds whose nostalgia might just sustain half an hours pub talk before moving on to other things, but, call me a pessimist, yet consider my thought that this Barnsley Anarcho Punk revival may not blossom quite as you imagine. No, a revival that inspires a scene thirty times the size it was back then. It may not capture the public imagination to sustain even one pub."
Lipton sat quietly. Driving as he returned to reality.
Lipton: "Sting is a prick though. You can't deny that!"
All four agreed on this. All struggled not to laugh at the shamans punk delusions.
Lipton: "All I was explaining was the wisdom of our early start. We left the M5 before the cover of rush hour traffic was over leaving my van an open target for the police. I did t even say it out loud, for fucks sake! That fucking messiah hears our internal chatter through his telepathic prayer radar. It's an intrusion. I might have been enjoying any private discourse. You don't listen to any Christian prayer this talent of yours is there for, just as a peeping Tom of the mind tool."
Christ: "That's easy for you to say. Sunday mornings as I wake to hangovers of a magnitude only those with access to unlimited free alcohol can even conceive of, hundreds of thousands of voices from churches the world over, stream in to my mind, begging for everything you can think of. As many again just to report their love for me despite having never met me, hoping I keep a tally ready to licence their seat upstairs. Fuck me! Don't talk to my about fucking prayers, mate! Really! On that subject I can say in certainty, you haven't a clue what I endure."
Jesus looked miserable. The van fell silent for some time. All reflected on this. None of them gave the son of gods position much thought. He seemed so at ease with it all. Nothing appeared to trouble him yet he shouldered a burden they couldn't imagine. This cross he carried without complaint. Rarely was Christ treated with the care and sympathy all of the others of their crew offered each other. The love and support that was the groups glue seldom stretched his way. Maybe they assumed he could endure things the rest could not. Andy broke the silence eventually.
Andy: "Sorry, brother. We all take you for granted. I've been something of a knobhead, Christ. I just never considered how anyone could handle the hand you were dealt. I'm not good at this shite but from this moment on I aim to be a brother just as I try to be with that Anarcho punk pensioner at the wheel."
Harry nodded and rubbed christs shoulder. Lipton nodded support of Andys oath.
Christ: "Ok! I appreciate that. But we are stepping close to the wanker line. Truly, lads, lass, thank you! I'm made up you had the balls to say that, Andy. Few would have the empathy, fewer still the open bravery to say. Quick, before I blush, hug or cry. For fucks sake! let's crack some beers!"
The tension melted in to warmth as the sun left the horizon. They were in it together. No need for further words. Christ pulled open his rucksack lifting out two four packs of special brew so cold only some magical refrigerator trickery could deliver. A small thing. Yet a miracle. Some might not even notice. But all quietly realised there was only one person on the planet able to do that. All found their minds slipping back over these last weeks. Ice cold beer in a hot van was one he gave like that, just one so they noticed. So subtle. Free of arrogance. These small things were of a steady flow Christ never mentioned but these were the things that mattered most. He'd kept spirits high, brought back the sparkle when things got low, with such grace, only know, on reflecting back did they fully notice that without him this community would long ago have drifted apart. Jesus was a very special man.
Christ: "Lipton! Everyone says that you're a sound guy. But these long sermons you come out with..." The shaman punched the messiahs shoulder, an acknowledgement of affection, and accepting christs apology for the one bad habit that annoyed people. Long, seemingly endless moral talks, most rough variants of gospel stories where the scribes had written their versions. Jesus had a thing about crap biographers. Oh, there was the free love ideology he and Mary mags had begun. There was also the Jesus sleeze.

Driving through Bridgewater then on down to Minehead they began to discuss tactics. Lipton looked to the son of God, as he had spotted the water craft they sought.
Christ: "After Minehead the road winds about for a few miles before reaching Porlock. Porlock weir is a further mile. One road in and out. Probably best not to be seen there. It's the type of place only locals and known faces go. Us lot together would be the days topic of discussion in the pub there. I'm thinking this. Drop me and Harry off in Porlock then you lads take a drive up on to exmoor. Park up and well ring you once we've had a look around. Harry, were a tourist couple having an idle wander. Take some snaps or each other on the jetty. Take others of the boats and how they are secured. Are you lads happy trusting that to us?"
Andy: "Do you know your boats, J?"
Christ: "Fairly well. Never used to be a boat man, what with the old messianic aquaplaneing mode. But it's a cool inland talent. I'm ok on still waters. Lakes and ponds I find as good a surface for an evening stroll as Hampstead Heath, still, ocean walking you'll need Poseidon or those two arch mermaids otherwise it's like crossing a bouncy castle with a gallon of ale in your belly. No, my seamanship began when I had to do runner from the holy land. Joseph and me sailed over here together. He showed me the basics. I'd sleep for a while then let him get his head down. That was no more than a few planks of eucalyptus too! The boats and yachts I've mastered since then could form a history book on the water craft technology throughout the history of humankind. But as for these modern yachts of the super rich, it's a synch. I'm just going to choose the shiniest fucker there."
Lipton: "Sound! Are you up for a drive onto the moor Andy? Down a few cans, crash out in the back if you want."
Andy: "Yep! Once you've done your reccy, walk back to Porlock and we'll drive back down, pick you up, go find some where to wait for the quiet hours then go chor the yacht. What about your van?"
Lipton: "Once I've cast you off it may be prudent to torch the cunt. I know some hidden spots to hide this evidence. I loved this van, but all things come to pass, I guess."
Andy: "Are you ok with that, Harry?" The Druid looked none too happy at the thought of leaving his new girlfriend with the Palestinian. At the time he'd given little thought to how this crusty mystic had amassed a small harem of slappers. Many of them fit as fuck. The guy had old school views regarding gender. Well, not exactly old school. He respected the slappers in a way no one else had. Yet this respect seemed to not stretch to respectable women.

Harry felt the sun warm her cheek and sea air brought memories of childhood holidays. Fond recollections led on till a boy near her age came to visit with his parents. The adults all knew each other and with the common trick of placing stranger children to go off and play as though age alone brought shared ground. The boy wore shorts and a grin that never wavered.
Rupert: "Rupert bear, everyone come and join in all of my games."
Harry felt a revulsion that reminded her of poking a rotting road kill badger once. This sensation the boy inspired in her never left. It grew. One day her instincts would find out their accuracy as the boy would one day kill her sister. Her pace picked up and the hippy messiah began to fall back. Trying to skin up while walking slowed his path. Harry didn't fancy chatting or listening to any bragging or stories today. Hawthorn flowers speckled the hedge row. Stars of life pulled up by the spring sun. What did they do that first time she met Rupert?
Harry: "Have you seen our lake yet? Daddy just had it restocked and I can show you the fish if you like?"
Rupert: "Marvellous idea! Wizard wheeze! I love fish. Not eels, though. They're more like snakes or worms. Is it as big as fathers lake? Windermere it's called. Up north yet daddy says by sticking to main roads all the way, it's easy to get there never having to talk to any north country folk. He says they're not to be trusted. Most can't talk yet but have a basic grunting that their kin can understand. They're for going under ground to collect the coal to power fathers factories. So we have to be polite as they only live a few years and the coal means our lives can blossom. I suppose we are much like lilies, roses maybe. Bright and glorious. North country folk must be the nettles I suppose. Or brambles maybe. Where's this pond Harriett! I must see how good it is!"
Harry led the boy through the lawns. He had both hands in the pockets of his shorts that kept moving about like he had something hidden there. His grin stayed exact yet Harry saw his eyes glare. To her it looked so pure, how could this make anyone angry.
Rupert: "Very small I see, yet it's poverty of scape compared to ours has been masked by careful garden work. One could easily overlook how poor it is through the clever distraction. Very smart! I'll inform father that, as he guessed, it's inferior to ours, befitting status, I guess. Look! Let's try that little bridge" and he ran off to the half built carpentry structure her father had commissioned. A local carpenter had begun the work but had fallen ill. It was due to be complete once the artisan was well again.
Harry: "Rupert! Stop! It's not ready yet. The carpenter has been poorly."
Rupert had reached the top of the arc where the decking stopped, his eyes had not looked down and she watched him drop through. Harriet wasn't sure about God at all but nature and chance appeared to work perfectly well at redressing anomalies without trying.
Struggling back laughter she trotted toward the bridge under which Rupert thrashed about. Looking back, she reflected that here was the sole time she'd seen Ruperts grin drop. He gulped and screamed. A clump of frogspawn the size of a small marrow floated over as he surfaced open mouthed. These crystal like eyes filled his mouth and silenced him. Grabbing a branch Harry offered it out to the boy who grasped on and pulled himself to the side.
Rupert: "Once father learns of this horrid trick you set up he will show you and your rubbish pond people who you are and punish you and reward my bravery! Seldom can you have seen a boy face danger so fearlessly." His projection of frog spawn vomit was impressive. Though he failed in his attempt to cover Harry. Next the boy took off his socks and sandles and t shirt. Harry tried to stop him. "I'll get a towel!"
Rupert: "You will but I'm soaking! First your cardigan is much nearer, slipping down his shorts to reveal the subject of his pocket work. Harriet studied this thin stork with a biological curiosity. Ugly. Like ETs finger, yet stood to attention, like a candle. Composure returned and she bowed looking at the water. The white worms reflection seemed to roll over revealing it's other side a deep green, it flicked into an s shape and shot away into the lilies. An eel! She jumped up and ran home to tell daddy. His eyes lit up and he smiled at his daughters naturalist nature.
Harry: "Oh, er...Rupert ran up the half bridge before I could stop him and fell in."
Daddy: "Brilliant! Is he ok?"
Harry: "Just wet. He swallowed frog spawn!"
They embraced in collusive laughter. "Pompous Toad!"
Harry would forever call Rupert a toad. The obnoxious family soon left, calling out legal warnings. Harry thought of Ruperts ghost worm, now coiled up in its lair. Then she saw again in her mind how it's reflection had fallen just by an eel.

Christ: "Biblical bifter?" Jesus offered a fat crude joint that glowed orange yet tapered to a soggy roach. Harriet shook. The son of God was quite unlike the paintings she had seen of him. He was dark, smaller, usually had food particles in his beard and wine stains invariably paired red blotches that faded in size to his knees that had odd dots. He had a concerning look in his eyes. That explored her from head to toe, lingering on personal areas.
Christ: "We've never talked too much, me and you, have we. Great opportunity to get to know you better. It's been so hectic. What with the slappers and the party. Did you talk much with those girls? I'm sure you lasses have a chat. A dozen one night and all were satisfied. Resurrection man, they called me. Can't keep it down!"
Harry couldn't believe that not twenty minutes back this creep had been playing the reliable brother to Andy. Reassuring him she was in safe hands. Ground rules must be set immediately. She opened her mouth but before she could speak he was off.
Christ: "Me and the Mrs had an open relationship you know. Mary Mags always came home, mind. No matter how many Roman soldiers she had been through in her days work, she still yearned for the best. And once shed cooked dinner, split the cash from our enterprise, half of the work is sourcing clients, I'd always sought her out. I mean shed fucked many thousand men in her whoring yet she said I was easily the best. Four thousand seven hundred and forty two Roman felations she claimed. Never did I get jealous. Yes, and I'm known for spreading the love. Know what I mean?"
Harry: "Look mate, it's like this! Even if I hadn't just met the first guy in two decades I can believe in, even if you weren't like a hippy Benny Hill, there are no circumstances at all under which I would ever consider sex with you. Understand that? Now, we can move on both accepting that avenue is null and void."
Christ: "Harriet! There is no way I would ever betray you. How could you think me so low? It would be our secret! I respect Andy way too much to ever tell him about us, I am a man of honour! Look, that barn looks...."
Harry: "How may I simplify this? No! Never! Speak of this again and I'll fuck off and this recce is over!"
The messiah bowed his head. She must be a lesbian, he thought. Others he'd met sadly struck down with frigidity. He liked Benny Hill too! What was wrong with the comic genius!
Christ: "I respect your choice. I can but guess the strength of character you have in repressing your lust. My respect for both you and Andy is of such depth that I won't ever mention our moment. How we felt drawn yet both resisted our hunger. Temptation? Of course. You are a beautiful woman and, yes, I confess, for a second there, I nearly gave in to this. So, in short, I appreciate your approach, but must decline."
Harry couldn't be arsed putting the pervert traight. But she'd be telling Andy. And any other female they might meet. The holy ones sexual predation was Savillian! Christ made Benny Hill look like a castrated Richard Madeley. Today could be a long one.

Six feet apart they walked on into the village. Clothes on a line, drying made visible the wind of the sea. One lady jabbed a trowel under weeds by her front step. She bid good day but didn't look up from her work. Their cover of a couple on holiday now changed to two lost hippies. She wasn't stepping within three yards of the man without him in her sights. A stretch of rocks and sand led to the timber jetty. Christ might be a lecgerous twat but he'd known where to find the craft they required. Six of differing form concluded in a beastly red monster. Merely by the detail of stainless lining cut flawlessly. Red panels shimmered over and it's black belly in the water rocked gently. Their appeared a top pilot cabin on another viewing cab. Under this must be a sizeable living area the equal of a large apartment. She had been familiar with the early days of the trend where the fashion of status stepped from property port folio to yacht. This was no Monaco Abramovich immense vanity project of limitless budget construction. More a yacht taken to the zenith of craftsmanship within conventional rules of dimension and proportion. Christ meanwhile scanned how it had been secured. The isolation in this hidden village had developed a slack attitude to security. Few locals bothered to lock cars nor houses. None of the craft were overly secure. Maybe this casual trust reflected an ease of manly confidence the owners hoped to project. Roped to two iron blocks bolted to the jetty. Two further cables looped via a stainless sleeve must be the locks. Trying to look passive in attention Christ headed to the jetty end to stair cross the estuary toward the visible evidence of Wales. Looking at his clothing he realised he could disturb Harry's deft touch. Lesbians often rejected male assistance anyway.
Harry, despite herself, had become seduced by the form and workmanship. Her trance burst as an elderly though fit looking man popped his head from lower decks into view. Pulling back locks into a ponytail her face could hide she found the slip of voice take place without thought, her accent returned from the middle class conventional anonymous southern estuary english to the way she grew up talking. Class recognises its own.
Harry: "What a splendid boat? I'm sorry, it's beauty of line quite took away my consideration for an occupants privacy. Beautiful!" She slowly turned hoping to hear the call.
Davidson: "She's a sexy beast! You have an eye for beauty, you're welcome to look her over. Always pleasant to share ones fortune with those who have eyes to see."
Harry: "That is gracious of you. The colour caught me first yet once under the spell, this crimson surface of wonder proved to be but a part of its many finer aspects."
She walked toward the gentleman and engaged in light chatter. He offered her a tour but having gathered all the information she required she politely explained she had little time.
Harry: "Are you staying here?"
Davidson: "For a while, up in the hotel there. And yourself? Passing through?"
Harry: "Well, I'm trying to shake off that tramp fellow who locked onto me earlier. I'm staying at Porlock. Do you know where is best to dine locally?"
Davidson: "Indeed I do. You would be welcome to join me and my good lady wife for dinner. The hotel chef is a master with seafood. If I'm not being presumptuous I could easily book another seat at our table?"
Harry: "If that's not intruding I would be honoured. What time should I be there? I ought to ask how long we'd be seated there, also. I'll be booking a taxi for my short journey hotelwards after what I'm thinking will be a divine evening. Jennifer Miller, by the way."
Davidson: "Bartholomew Davidson OBE. We are booked in for eight o'clock. I'd tell your driver to be here for ten, ten thirty?. Do we have a date?"
Harry: "Indeed we do sir. I look forward to meeting your good wife. If she has half your taste and manners she must be a fine lady."
Davidson: "Goodo! Splendid! I must go check over the engine, though, now. Good luck losing the loser!"
Both looked across to the loser who now sat down, dangling his sandled feet into the water. Uninterested in their chatter. Still grumbling inside over his rebuttal. I mean he'd had a harem of slappers, all under twenty five, all fit is a butchers dog. How could this, well let's be honest, middle aged lady fail to see her opportunity to play in the top flight for once! Forgive them, Christ thought, for they not what they're missing. He began to fondle his cock through a small hole in his pocket till he heard the frigid slag call him over.
Harry: "JD JC! Lets skiddadle, eh? Join the men?"
This last dig Christ chose to overlook. But he hauled his holy frame up and began to stroll back with her, off the jetty, across the sand, onward up the lane toward Porlock.
Jesus: "How does it look? Belting boat he's about to lose!"
Harry: "He invited me for dinner this evening with his wife. You'll have a good two hours, I reckon. I can keep them talking while you lot liberate his yacht. Andy must give me a bell on the mobile once you're ready, I'll slip off to the lady's room and come join you. Looks fairly easy for a man of Liptons talents. No one here expects crime like that. Most of the boats weren't even locked up. Let's get back to Andy and Lipton and work this out."
Jesus couldn't leave things hanging. His reasoning had found its own truth. Subliminal come ons from Harry, some even she may have not been able to restrain had forced him to save her making the first move. But, despite her lust, he had calmed them both out of respect to Andy.
Christ: "Very well! About earlier. I'm sorry if I upset you. You no doubt feel hurt yet I just can't do that to a mate, no no, don't thank me let me finish. That's the final word either of us will say to anyone about what happened between us!"
With that the messiah walked off leaving Harry to hold her tongue at the lying perverts twisted version. But he'd said last words and all things being thought over, perhaps taking this insult was for the common good. At least for now. Ten yards she kept between the two as they strolled back to the village. Here Harry rang the lads and they waited in silence.

Lipton and Andy had rolled into the village in less than fifteen minutes. They picked up the two scouts in the transit. Andy could sense it straight away, even Lipton felt something had happened as Harry pushed in close to her man. She mentioned little of it for the missions sake but called the son of God a lecherous wanker. Andy thought this over a while. Indeed, Jesus was not of the day. Respect for women, even in none Druid society had improved. Christ still hadn't hurdled the feminist 1970-1989s. It was good to have her back in his arms. He'd let her tell him in her own good time if she had been upset by the holy tramp.
Liptons Transit struggled back up Porlock hill. They stopped halfway to let the engine cool down.
Lipton: "So! How does it look?"
Harry was beginning to open her mouth to explain when the humble lamb of god pitched in.
Christ: "I was down there with Harry close behind when I spotted our target. Her cover helped me with the real work. We will need no more than wire cutters and a bolt cropper. Harry can fill you in on other details. She knows more about her work!"
Christ turned his head away as though suggesting he had been the injured party in this private squabble. Harry lowered and shook her head before speaking.
Harry: "It's quite a yacht. I've arranged to go for dinner with the owner and his wife between eight and ten tonight. That should give you time."
Andy: "We've been out down the coast. Sourced a small tug. We're thinking of a plan."
Lipton: "Darkness is good. Harry, fucking good work on the dinner party! That's made things so much the better. We were thinking that if between us, you Harry goes distraction mission, I'll Nick the tug boat. Christ and yer man can free the yacht. We have two hundred yards of nautical roping sourced by the tug. We've stashed it nearby. I reckon we ought not spark up the big bastard in the bay. Even if Harry has the owners other yachtsmen may be a prowling. Instead, like. We tow it off silently with a long tow rope and the quiet tugboat. Once out mid waters, then we'll have time and quiet to get the bastard hot wired. How can we get you back, Harry? That plan has us lads all out at sea and you doing the lobster and champagne back on dry land. Hot dry land too, now your dining partners have charitably donated their pride and joy."
All thought this over. None offered an idea till Andy spoke up.
Andy: "Once we are out away from the village. You and the pious gent can get to work on starting the fucker. Harry, if you can get away from your new freinds. Run down to the lower beach. Don't return to the jetty. If you go like fuckery I bet you can reach that beach before your nose powdering session becomes suspiciously long. I'll meet you in the tug boat. We can circle out and meet up. Even if they come out looking for you we should be out of reach. They will know you were in on this you know? None of us lot, bar Jesus has been seen by them. Maybe you'll have to remove those fucking dreadlocks, err.. Change your look a little. Are you happy, love?" Lipton realised that his ease with the outlaw life could be a bad influence. He wanted no one who couldn't feel fully justified and righteous robbing these rich bastards.
Harry nodded. She felt quite euphoric. No one there could do this but her. These people had too much money any away. For the first time since meeting these shamans and Druids she felt she was crucial to their plans. The betrayal of her class was noticed by all. She was one of them now. It marked a point where she felt accepted completely. Her accent, birth, all had given her a sense of paranoia. No one had called her posh. The reverse was the case. All had welcomed her. Yet this was inside her. She knew class prejudice. It ran deep on both desires. She hadn't felt this excited in years. Fuck the rich cunts, she thought. But Liptons experience was worth heeding. She didn't need dreadlocks to show which side she was on.

The jetty looked quiet in darkness. Strolling down the mile of lane with the Christ chap had taken place in silence. It was better no chances were taken. Passing some holidaying couple could pin them to the job. So both stepped carefully, ears wired for any sound. Andy walked by the various yachts and boats. None appeared occupied. He thought of Harry, looking back to the hill side hotel he could see its lights and thought of this brave strange lass in there. It was she who had the toughest job. They had been drawn to each other in animal fashion. They knew it was right as the sex had been so intuitive, so natural, but they hadn't talked much. He knew the animal side of her but the rest was a mystery. She had some bottle, though. Fuck me! Chatting to those posh wankers whilst her boyfriend robbed their boat. He felt proud, yet still worried over her. Returning to where he was he looked at his colleague, Christ had been unusually quiet. No stories of feeding the flock. None of his usual upbeat banter that both got the team through stormy weather and irritated them all in the sunshine. He'd said fuck all, really. Just skinning up joint after joint. There would, however, come a time to have it out with the cunt. Something had upset Harry. Now wasn't it though.
Andy: "Can you swim? Mate?"
Christ: "I've got that one covered. Can you crack the locks, Andy? There's those three cable tie locks and the two you'll need the bolt droppers for." That was all he said then leaped aboard the expensive looking craft, slinking in silence to the very tip of the boat. Andy had carried the ropes down the miles walk, time to allow his partner to take some weight, he thought and threw the mass over to the creepy cunt of God. Without a comment Jesus began tieing an accomplished seamans knot to the fore most stainless steel fixture. The buzz of Liptons stolen tug could be heard now. Quiet and soporific, out of eyesight still. Christ heaved the coil over his back, nodded to the Druid, then dived in to the water with barely a sound. Andy watched the guy swimming out for maybe ten yards into the estuary. No mean feat with that to carry. Andy shook his head, trying to focus. His eyes played out something his brain struggled to accommodate. From swimming Christ stepped on submerged invisible steps, up to full height, out of sight, he must now assume, he began strolling off toward the centre of the estuary as though he trod Tarmac under saddled feet. He'd seen Al kind of weird shit as a Druid but never a man walking on water. Weird fuckery, Andy ruminated. Godcraft. Then, after shaking his head, Andy rubbed his arms together and got to it.
Stillness confirmed through scanning with ear and eye, he snapped through all the fixings with swift efficient ease. He glanced to the hotel lights, scanned around again for any nosy tourists or locals, jumped aboard, laid flat down below safety railing, and then got himself comfortable. Earlier on as the sun was setting, Lipton had driven all of their gear and bedding down to the tug moored the far side of Minehead. They'd loaded up together. Once the van was empty, Lipton threw him the keys.
Andy: "Are you sure about this?" Lipton nodded. The vehicle needed a new gearbox, engine and tyres. He had pocketed nearly two grand selling the lilac MDMA pills at the party. Fingerprinted to fuck. He had no choice, really.
Lipton: "Get your Lady to the party, drop off JC then up Porlock hill, just after the last houses take the first left, it's a tiny little unmarked track, don't miss it. Do it for me, Andy. Down there."
Seeing Lipton slip away into the darkness Andy frowned. He'd be leaving Harry with that cunt again. But he'd no option. Dropping them off at the top of the Porlock Weir lane ,he followed Liptons instructions. The track curled off into privacy covered by the rising hillside. Once calm he pulled over. Outdoors the night was silent. Opening the rear doors Andy found the two gallons of petrol and doused the transit. Liptons bike unhooked from its rack felt good as he circled the dripping condemned vehicle. Making certain he was alone whilst familiarising himself with the bicycle. A single match struck, flicked at a good three metres safety space, it still blew him over as the flames lit up the valley, Andy wasted no time enjoying the sight but set off to get back to Harry as swiftly as possible.



Andy looked upwards to the stars as he lay on his back. He barely noticed as the yacht slowly left its mooring. He leaned up to scan the shore as it moved away but no one saw them. Two hundred yards of rope, more they'd guessed on finding the coil. The measurement of significance was the fifteen minutes of Liptons steady pulling before the tug was close. Lipton threw a rope to Andy and soon the two craft bumped together. Christ sat drying himself down. Lipton looked at his two mates in suspicion. Christ only got wet to look like he'd been working too. The shaman was the common link. All felt the tension. Best get it sorted out now.
Lipton: "Is there something up with you lads?"
Andy and Christ mumbled that there was nothing wrong.
Lipton: "Because in all our missions, never has such a successful night felt so joyless. Both of you, listen closely, for fifteen odd years, me and Skree, Peter you lot call him, fifteen years we've been at this sort of shit and every minute has been a laugh. Very few have been lucky enough to share in our shamanic missions. Our lives are beacons of passionate fire in a culture gone dull and grey. So we need this sorted, quick. This isn't some fucking infantile prank. Skree and myself have to trust beyond any doubt. Our lives depend on this. If your not on the same side then someone will have to fuck off home. Jesus, life and soul of two millennia of parties me you told me. Where's your fucking spirit, lad. I'm disappointed in you too, Andy. I thought this would be a right craic! But there you are, quiet, miserable, you have to tell me, mate. I'm sat between you. I'm both your mates. Why do this to me?"
Andy : "Nowt I can say, I'm not a jealous type of man. Harry come back today, though and she wouldn't tell me why she was upset. Are you man enough to tell me?" He asked the humble hippy. Christ sat sheepishly making patterns in a patch of sand with a stick he'd found. The shaman knew the ways of the prophet.
Lipton: "You tried it on with Harry, didn't you? I fucking know you, Christ! You're a fucking sound lad but we aren't like you. In our world that is one serious no no. You don't hit on your mates bird, never! No matter how fit she might be!"
Jesus: "Mary Magdalene and me. We were married. You know how many clients she serviced each day? Did I get all moody?"
Lipton: "It's you being moody now that's the issue, Christ, in our culture we don't pimp out our partners. Come on, J mate, do the right thing, just apologise, let Andy have a free shot, then put this behind us because this is supposed to be fucking adventure. Andy, are you ok with that? Smack the perverted cunt once, hard as you feel, but let it fucking go then? Yeh?"

Christ began to say something but the shaman had had enough of the fucker. Grabbing Christ by the ear he dragged him away from the Druid. Andy could hear Lipton telling the holy one the score, slapping him once in a while as he brought the palasteinian up to date with modern culture. After some time andy saw Jesus nod in acceptance. Lipton pulled the slender fella back to his sandled feet and walked him over to andy, already flexing his knuckles.
Lipton: "Jesus grew up in times of different rules. He now accepts he has been a knob head and agrees to take a good head punch, only one mind, then the matter is over. You are both close friends. Once the holy mouth is bust, this ends, You are both spoiling the party. Ok?"
The two stood before Lipton both reluctantly nodding in acceptance. Standing a few feet apart, Andy readied himself. Christ had become used to pain. Yet the straight right came with such force he was knocked clean unconscious for the foreseeable few hours. Together the shaman and Druid dragged his body into a cupboard below deck. Carefully they lay him down, covered his frail frame with blankets. Then burst out laughing.
Lipton: "Nice punch, mate. Let's get a fucking beer!"/
Andy: "I never know what to make of the cunt, Lipton. Tonight he walked out straight across that water to help us all. He shagged well over a dozen slappers and they were top notch. Don't tell Harry but Shaz had an hour with me up on that hill before she met Jesus or me Harry. One hour was fucking plenty! Shaz is slapper royalty. So why he's sniffing round my new girl. And a women of older years despite retained beauty. Fucks sakes, Lipton, We've only just begun!"
Lipton: "You'll get to like him. He's like that sometimes. But he is a fucking hero, you know. Look, trust me Andy, he's alright. We must get onside with this. Bar Peter he is the only man I know for certain who would die helping me. I've high hopes for you but that quality, that loyalty transcends even hitting on your bird. Sometimes he can help you out. I mean if any bird of mine slept with a cunt like that I'd know something that later down the line could hurt. Harry is no slag. If nowt else he's demonstrated that for you. Further still, cunt he maybe, yet cut him some slack. After all, he's helping us do the cunt that killed Harry's sister! Any of us could be killed on this, him too. And I know he comes back but it hurts just as much the dying part. I've seen it. That's got to count. Any road, you'd best go get in that tug boat and get your lass. Work quickly. If we can get you both on board and set off before the previous owners become aware their boats gone, we stand far best chance. Let's get to it!"
With that Lipton moved down below to work out how to fire up this rich mans carriage. Andy lept into the tug, untied its ropes, and set off towards the spot he knew Harry would be. So adept were the hands of Lipton in theft of rich folks status symbols that Andy could hear the motor started before he was more than fifteen yards from having cast off.

Davidson: "So how did a lady like yourself wind up with that dissolute tramp earlier?" They had worked through three courses by now. Harry knew all their children's names, occupations, interests and past sexual partners. Her hair remained in locks though she had fashioned a scarf to cover their organic mass. As the night had developed her disdain had grown from a mild dislike to a hatred hard to hold back. She removed the scarf to test the disgust. To leave an imprint. They spoke in endless rounds of competitive status projection. From what they drove, to where they lived. Where they holidayed. Who they knew. Where their children were schooled. The food was very good. Her mobile buzzed against her thigh.
Harry: "Excuse me! The ladies room calls." Mrs Davidson began to rise to come watch her urinate as is the protocol of her class but Harry dismissed her assistance. I can wipe my fanny by myself, thank you, she thought.
Harry: "Look, I must phone hubby! Here is my card if you do get bored. I'll come down to your yacht as soon as he's told me off, silly chap. But I'd love to try the sorbets!"
Davidson: "Delightful, Harriet! You take your time. We are in no rush and the desserts do look tempting!"
She left the arrogant tosser and his pathetically insipid wife with a smile. Once outside in open clean air she ran across road, rock, pebble and sand towards Andy who caught her and herald her tight. She had never before felt so alive. Andy said nothing on the matter yet somehow she knew he had twatted the pious cunt. As the tug buzzed sleepily towards the vast red monster yacht she felt a joy beyond any she had felt. Andy had heard a voice as he waited for her, alone in stolen tug, on strange beach. Subtle. Caught on the wind. Perhaps his imagination. But God spoke to him. 'Thank you Andy, my boy is an arrogant twat at times, pagan though you be, by punching the lad you have pleased your master. Should you change over. Great deals lately. And thanks once more. 'Twas a punch of grace,' with the approval of the knocked out cads own father, Andy felt proud. Nevertheless, this God was the architect of his people's demise. 'God! Go fuck yourself! And don't knock here again, ok?"

The group were well gone by the time the Davidsons grew concerned about their guest. The steel works of South Wales lit up the coast a few miles to their right as the luxury yacht took them away. Davidson couldn't find the girl anywhere. After an hour they decided to stroll back to their fine yacht. The starlight was romantic and their guest had smelt a little, firewood they thought. Approaching the jetty they saw a small boat chugging into the shore. Unmanned. Curious. Another's problem. Local stuff, no doubt. The romance of the night seemed to vanish as the empty space where their dream yacht had stood. Slaps rained down on Davidson as his wife realised her husband had been duped. "Where did you meet that bitch! Call the police,"
Davidsons phone had no reception. He walked towards town for half a mile before bars came up. Once through the rural police answer phone asked him to leave his number. He sat down in the lane and began to cry. A thought brought a fragment of respite. He pulled the bank card from his pocket. Jeremy Dyson wasn't a common name for a girl.







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