Late Autumn, 1989...
We visited a luxury car showroom posing as customers looking for a quote. I took the headed paper the quote came on and photocopied it while covering the text. This was before printers and computers were in everyone’s home, so I had to use one of those rub-on letter transfer kits to painstakingly create an official document authorising us to collect the dealer’s post from the local sorting office.
In the letter, the sorting office were told that an urgent document was needed before the post would normally arrive, and one of the salesman would be sent round to collect it. Any envelopes containing insurance cheques would be removed, and the pouch would be dropped off at the showroom by one of Peter’s associates. A dealer never knows what they’d be receiving on any given day so nothing would be missing, giving us plenty of time to turn them into cash.
The cheques would be sent to a man I'd never met. I wondered how he did this without leaving a trace, but he was being well paid and it was none of my business. I just made sure there was never any reason to meet. On the two occasions he’d been tested, arrangements were made by phone, cheques were sent to him by post, and the parcel of cash was collected by a local courier which I picked up from their offices. There was no CCTV watching everything back then so this made the whole thing anonymous.
On a cold, bright, late autumn morning, two smartly dressed men turned up at the main sorting office. One of them handed over a letter confirming he had permission to collect the post on behalf of his company. A business card was shown as proof of his identity, and without any awkward questions, the bag was handed over. The door was held open for a female member of staff on her way out for a smoke, exchanging a little banter as she went. Everything took place as if our visit had been perfectly innocent.
Back in Peter's car, five envelopes were removed; the bag handed to a mate waiting in a van who dropped it off at the dealer. The cheques were posted immediately, leaving about a week before the money would be ready. Perfect.
Not perfect. Two days later Peter was arrested. The dealer was suspicious at the way Peter’s mate dropped the bag off, and when the salesman we’d talked to was questioned, he was able to give them the license number of Peter’s hire car.
I realised I'd overlooked something. All salesman want to show that any potential customer is theirs, in case they come back when they’re not around; something I’d done countless times. Because we’d left him no details, but made it seem like the order would be very lucrative, the salesman would be desperate to show he'd had first contact. Peter hadn't parked outside, nowhere near, but he did drive passed a few minutes later. The salesman must’ve waited by the door (or been outside having a smoke) and saw us. Given the size of the order we'd implied was coming, the salesman was motivated to write the number down.
Even with this circumstantial piece of evidence, nothing linked Peter’s car with any crime, and nothing linked me with that car. But, when Peter was picked up, not realising the circumstantial nature of the evidence, he panicked and mentioned my name as being the other bloke in the car. A warrant was issued for my arrest.
Peter called me the moment he was bailed and apologised for dropping me in it. I was just pleased he'd let me know. What was done was done, and I was again facing the inevitability of an impending arrest. But this time I really wanted to avoid it, at least for a bit, as I’d just paid for a two-week holiday with my girlfriend, and was due to leave for Florida in three days time. I knew they’d take away my passport, so I decided to stop this from happening. I packed a bag and went to stay with a friend, going to the airport from there. I never mentioned any of this to my girlfriend, but I did feel rather nervous going through passport control, and was quite relieved when I wasn’t challenged.
After the holiday I made no further attempt to hide. I stayed in, mostly, and carried on with what was now my strange life, knowing that at some point I would be arrested again.
You’ve probably never done this, but knowing you’re going to be arrested is a strange way to live. There were times when it felt like I was an escaped prisoner on the run, even though I was at home. I wasn’t afraid of what was coming because I’d been able to accept that it was, but I could only live life from one day to the next as a result. It really forced me into the present, knowing each day could be my last, and eventually it took on such a sense of that, I felt like I had no future at all. I only existed here and now, and there were times when I imagined it felt the way a condemned man might feel waiting to be executed. There was only this moment, and it was precious because at any moment everything could change.
Three months went by. Finally, as Micky left for work one morning, two detectives were waiting outside. I’d just woken up and was on my way down for a pee. They pushed their way past him and got to me before I made it to the toilet.
***
My solicitor confirmed I was going to be charged and asked if I needed him to stay with me; he had an urgent case to get to otherwise. I knew it was just the next step in the process, so there seemed little reason to have him there.
I was brought before the custody sergeant and listened to the charge being read out. A detective I’d never met before took me into a small room directly behind him, already set up with camera and height board. After a couple of pictures, he asked me to sign a piece of paper that had not been filled out. Suddenly, as if I was more important than I was, I felt like I was being set up; everything became very real in a way it had not before.
I was told not to cause trouble when I said I wanted to read it. But I wasn't sure of myself at all. He then grabbed me by my shirt and pulled me next to him. What should have been a formality; standard procedure that didn’t even require a solicitor, had suddenly become something else. I felt alone, uncertain, like a child who’d been playing with the grownups and was now, unexpectedly, being treated like one.
I didn’t know what to do and just stood there staring at the paper. Even though I was looking right at it, appearing to read it, the stress of the situation stopped me understanding anything about it.
Without any warning, he grabbed me by the throat and hoisted me against the wall behind. Spit flew out his mouth as rage took over, and I could feel his nails digging into my neck. There was so much hatred coming from him; I’d never experienced anything like it.
A tingling sensation rippled through me from the top of my head right down to my feet. It took away all connection to what was happening. I was just there, observing, as if it wasn't happening to me.
Then I experienced a memory.
I used to have certain episodes when I was a kid; daydream-like experiences accompanied by a slight buzzing in my head; these would be called absence seizures today, and one of them left me feeling like I would know when I was going to die. I'd never forgotten it. It seemed like this was that moment. There was so much inevitability about what was taking place. Then a second tingling went through me, even stronger than the first, seemingly confirming it.
I wasn't struggling or resisting. I was just looking at him, waiting for whatever was going to happen next.
Then I made a small noise from the back of my throat; I wasn't able to breathe, and this noise felt like a way of reminding him that I’d soon need to. It was the tiniest of sounds, but in the silence of the room (he’d stopped shouting by this point), I knew it would be heard easily.
His face was so close to me, and then I saw something, barely perceptible, one of those micro-movements I suppose, but with it came the knowing that the noise had done its job. Wherever he'd been throughout all this. Whatever had triggered this rage, it no longer had a hold over him, and I watched him come to the realisation of what he was doing.
He let me go, stumbling back and reaching for the table; his face drained of colour. I sat down on the orange plastic chair and saw what had been really going on. How I’d created everything and why I needed to. Suddenly the real reason for being there flashed before my eyes, reminding me of a choice I’d made a long time ago.
By not trusting in the process, I'd doubted it, and doubting had changed everything. It had let in what my previous state of allowing and accepting would not allow. Then I saw more than this. I saw beyond this. From long before I ever was this. God, All That Is, moving me where I needed to go. To become who I AM.
This all took place within a few seconds, but the moment I understood that this experience was designed to wake me up, to remember who I was, and this man had been the instrument of that, I felt truly humbled by it. I looked up and our eyes met. And before anything else, I apologised. I had to; understanding and accepting everything in one go.
He stared at me for maybe ten seconds, then finally, quietly, asked if I would sign the paper now. I got up and did so without attempting to read any part of it. He picked it up, took me outside, and after covering my fingertips with ink, placed each onto the paper I’d just signed. He was calm and gentle, but never said another word.
When I next saw my solicitor I decided to mention what had happened, showing him the fingernail marks on my neck as I did. I had no intention of doing anything about it, but I thought he ought to know. I’m not sure he believed me.
Having taken responsibility for creating the experience, I could not now seek retribution as if wrong was all it had been. Yes, on one level he should never have touched me, but what had come from it felt right in a way I couldn’t yet really understand. Something had changed in me. Something had opened...