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 letter 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. The dealer would never know what they’d be receiving so nothing would be missing, giving us plenty of time to launder them.
The cheques were sent to a man I'd never met. I did sometimes wonder 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 sent by post, and cash collected by a local courier which I picked up from their office. There was no CCTV back then so this made the whole thing anonymous.
On a cold, bright, 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 his mate waiting in a van who dropped it off at the dealer. The cheques were posted, leaving about a week before the money would arrive. Perfect.
Not perfect. Two days later Peter was arrested. The dealer became suspicious at the way Peter’s mate dropped the bag off, and when the salesman we’d talked to was questioned, he gave them the license number of Peter’s hire car.
I now realised I'd overlooked something. All salesman must 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 no details, but made it seem like the order would be very lucrative, the salesman needed to show he'd had first contact. Peter hadn't parked outside of course, nowhere near, but he did drive passed a few minutes later. The salesman must’ve waited by the door and caught sight of us as we did. Given the size of the order we'd said was coming, the salesman was motivated to get something.
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. 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 my passport, so I decided to stop this from happening. I packed a bag and went to stay with a friend. 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 trip I made no further attempt to hide. I stayed in, mostly, and carried on with what was now my strange life, accepting 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 accepted 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, it 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 reached me before I made it to the toilet.
***
My solicitor confirmed I was about to be charged and asked if I needed him to stay; 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 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.
Suddenly, he grabbed me by the throat and hoisted me against the wall. 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 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 would have certain episodes when I was a kid; daydream-like experiences accompanied by a slight buzzing in my head; these might 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 it. Then a second tingling went through me, even stronger than the first, seemingly confirming it.
I wasn't struggling or resisting. I just looked at him, waiting for whatever was going to happen next.
Then I made a small noise from the back of my throat; I hadn’t been breathing and it seemed like a way of reminding him that I’d need to. It was the tiniest of sounds, but in the silence of the room (he’d stopped shouting by this point), 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 on the 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 the process I'd doubted it, and that had changed the whole experience. But 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 the 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 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 mentioned what had happened, showing him the marks on my neck. 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 circumstances of the experience, I could not then 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 understand. Something had changed in me. Something had opened.