tagNon-EroticNot Passing Go! Ch. 05

Not Passing Go! Ch. 05


Chapter 5: Back to School

I turned my back on school three months before I was due to leave the place for good at the age of 16 anyway.

I worked for cash in hand on a building site for the rest of that glorious summer, although every day I expected some truant officer or cozzer to turn up and haul me off, kicking and screaming back to the classroom. It never happened. I never had no bother.

Well, I was a big strong lad for me age and I earned good money and it was all mine, cash in my pocket. I paid no candle wax, no insurance stamps. I knew it couldn't last, and that there was no future in it.

So, as soon as I was 17, I joined the Army (they soon beat out of me not to call them the "daft and barmy"!) and realised that I felt perfectly at home there for the first time in my life. I made the military a career and they trained me in fun stuff like jumping out of planes and helicopters, climb mountains and castle walls, stand up straight with eyes forward and also, when necessary, to kill enemy soldiers or terrorists without giving it a second thought. I did that for 18 years, collecting three stripes and enough bullet holes in my body to strain a pot of boiled potatoes. That was before I was let go by the Army. Due to 'economies' they said. Whatever the reason, it still hurt. In fact it still hurts, six or seven long years on.

So, a quick recap, I was back in civvies for a while, add on a further five years behind bars at Her Majesty's Pleasure, and a few months on from then: and I find I am a family man, with a cute but dumb wife and twin girls, who are both cute and bright, but who am I exactly?

All right, I do have a tidy sum of readies in the bank, a Swiss account no less, so I'm quite comfortable, with a new home in an inlet on the sandy coast of a Caribbean isle, along with a mooring for my luxury yacht. Other than the missus and the twin girls as my core family, there's just me Mum, who so far refuses to leave her hospital job in East London. Oh, and there's my best mate Freddie, of course, I can't possibly leave him out of the family.

But, and there is always a but, I'm not a happy man. Some people owe me big time and I mean to collect, by fair or foul means as necessary. Who says my Army training was wasted on me?

Now I find that I'm going back to school as a temporary teacher at my twin girls' new private school, back home in deepest rural England. Why am I going back to school, I hear you ask? Hold on, I'll tell you.

Most of these last five years I served a long prison spell, what was due to betrayal by my three fellow bank-robbing ex-chums. They not only stitched me up proper like, but one of the buggers, and possibly all three, had a hand, or some other liquid-loaded appendage, in the production of those already-referred-to cute and bright twin girls that I now fiercely call my very own. I don't know who it was what done the deed and I really don't want to find out. As far as I am concerned the three robbers are collectively responsible for all of my misfortunes, namely, pinning the bank raid on me, stealing my share of the take, and putting my wife up the duff.

As for the twin girls? Who can possibly blame those innocents? I can't. Besides it doesn't take long in their company before you just love them to bits. Mickie and Tina are special little mites all right. And I consider them my own now.

As for their mother? Well, my wife Agnes is a beautiful woman. She's mostly Norwegian but a quarter Icelandic too, so she's a mixture of lava and ice. Since my release from prison and finally free of regular weekly meetings with my acne-ridden parole officer, I am now living in the family home with Agnes living in a tropical paradise. Well, Agnes has been an iceberg most of the time I've been home, and one that I mostly steer well clear of, as she hides away from me. I'm tough, and thick skinned as they come, but I'm not unsinkable like Titanic was supposed to be. I may look tough, but when I'm hurt I bleed.

Where do we stand as a couple, Agnes and me? I guess I am still mulling that one over. It's work in progress with not much more progress than a turtle on on a treacle treadmill.

We managed to catch up with one of the scum what served me up on a plate to the Metropolitan Bobbies, forcing me to do my five years' bird.

By 'we', I mean me and my mate Freddie the Forger. He used to be my Comms Corporal back in the day when we were sent to sort out bad guys in places foreign. That's when he had a full set of pins. Now he's on carbon fibre legs and faster than ever, but labelled as 'disabled'. He still calls me 'Staff' but I guess now he's my best mate, as he's moved in with us and is undoubtedly the twins' favourite uncle.

We had tracked down Motormouth Mikey down in Spain, him being the easiest to find. He sang like a canary on amphetamines before we left him scratching the scarlet-stained sand at the bottom of his Spanish cage. We did call an ambulance for Motormouth on our way to the airport, though, so, hey, maybe he's still singing falsetto in an earthly rather than a heavenly choir? I care little about him either way.

Anyway, Motormouth Mikey pointed us in the direction of one Martin "Wrongturn" Wheelwright. Marty was our former getaway driver, the one what drove past the agreed rendezvous point and kept on bloody well going, apparently, all the way through to Turkey. Freddie and I arrived there within hours of wishing Mikey god-speed, but the second canary had long flown the bleedin' coop, leaving the trail stone cold.

Freddie put his thinking cap on, while we returned to base but we had a few other things to do to clear our agenda. Firstly we had to move our base of operations to a new beachfront location, leaving behind a corner of Carib country which will be forever Russia and Ukraine, while clearing up the inconvenient loose ends of a Russian Mafia blood feud. Me, I've an ordered mind, I prefer ends left neat and tidy, with a bullet to the head and firmly two metres underground. I sleep sounder at night that way.

As soon as I was permanently comfortable at our new Caribbean base, Agnes was soon bending me ear about the twins going to a decent school, them being rising fives and knowing that we could afford the very best for them without making much of a dent in the old Swiss Franc account. That set a few light bulbs popping off in my head. I'd heard that Wrongturn had at least one kid or possibly more than one, but I couldn't exactly remember who he married, or any of his kids' names at all.

I put Freddie onto it, thinking that if I could afford a decent school for my twins, then so could Wrongturn afford to send his sprogs to one, no doubt using my share of the bank loot. It only took good old Freddie ten minutes to come up with the goods, he's a blooming whiz on the keyboard. Me? Even using the one finger at a time on the keyboard, I'm nothing but all thumbs.

Pauline Josephine Wheelwright, was the name what Freddie came up with. She was a promising pre-teen athlete, with both her high jumping and gymnastics outstanding. They were talking possible Olympics material. Freddie also found Josie Wheelwright nee Paxton, Wrongturn's Missus. My brain clicked and up popped Polly Paxton, Wrongturn's sister-in-law.

Oh yes, Polly's image instantly came to my mind!

Now Polly Paxton had the longest legs in school. If her pert arse weren't in the way she'd've had to have worn turtle necks to remain decent, long after they had gone out of fashion. Now, me and Polly were an item from between the time I left school and signed up to serve my Queen and Country, in places I would never be allowed to talk about without killing you.

Polly and me even got together a few times on leave, too, but only for a laugh, we both knew early on that we was never going to go anywhere together long term. That was way before I settled for the 'cute but dumb' Agnes, of course. Never even seen Polly since.

Back in the day though, I was more attracted to 'hot and horsey', and Polly certainly fit that bridle and saddle to a tee.

Blimey, Polly had a set of choppers that Princess Anne would have put a harness on and ridden hot and sweaty till sundown. Yeah, I used to do the same, too, many a time. Such memories! Mind you, all the while I was going out with her I had such a one-track mind, I don't think I could've remember what colour her eyes were.

I bet they couldn't have been as blue as a summer fjord like Agnes' are.


Slocombe Grange School for Girls has an impressive website, but publishing some of their little charge's artwork and captioning them with their names, wasn't the smartest move in the book. However, even though Freddie hacked the school records, there were no addresses for pupils on their hard drive. They probably keep them handwritten in old leather bound ledgers.

Their brochure, which we picked up from the PO Box number I had set up as a precaution, proved to be glossy and Agnes was beside herself with glee when I suggested we apply for places for the girls. Agnes tried everything in the book to get me into her bedroom that weekend, which was a first since my release. That's never gonna happen though, we still have big issues to settle, like why the twins weren't mine for example, even though I'd grown to love the little blighters since I got to know 'em.

Miss Ariadne Slocombe, headmistress, was the unmarried daughter of the late founder. I actually think she had more teeth that were bigger than I remember Polly Paxton ever had. Agnes was impressed with the interview she had with the headmistress, but I knew that Miss S was only interested in whether we had enough money to pay their Burser the over-inflated tuition and boarding fees. Well, we did and then some.

Actually, during the application interview, it was Freddie who was playing the role of Agnes' husband, both of them on Finnish passports. Odd, but he could turn a pig's ear into a Pope's hat if he wanted to, and he loves a challenge, him being the Harry Potter of the forger's community. I didn't even ask where he got hold of the Finnish passports. Honestly, we don't live in each others' pockets all the time, it just seems like it. Freddie happens to like being around us and the twins love having him around, even more than me being around.

Meanwhile, I was out on the lawns and grounds, as the minder playing frisbee with the twins, checking out the CCTV cameras and other security details. As far as anyone was concerned, I was only the driver and hired muscle, there to protect this little family. As we intended, the impression given was that the hubby with the tin pins clearly wasn't up to the job, especially as he was pretending to be particularly fragile today, using a Zimmer frame and all. Nobody knows Freddie like I do, he could arm-wrestle me under the table without breaking into a sweat if I was dumb enough to take him on. Sure I could outrun him over 5000 metres, but in a 100 metre dash he'd beat me hands down in his fastest set of legs.

We all took the school tour, though, with a couple of other new or prospective families who had kids in tow, guided by a nervous barely qualified young teacher. I was due back at the school for an interview for a temp position as sports master, but today, sporting a full beard and dark glasses (as well as being regarded as just the hired muscle that everyone with money ignores as invisible) I received barely a glance. I am sure the twins found the charades we were playing a hoot, but are smart enough not to let on until we are alone back in the car.

Agnes made it clear to me at the outset that she was sold on sending the twins to Slocombe Grange, to give them the best start in life. In the car driving up to the school she had spoken about renting a small mansion nearby so the twins could be day scholars rather than boarders. Yeah, I preferred to have the little buggers at home too.

'Small mansion' raised my hackles a touch, but I agreed, but then I usually do when Agnes wants something. I agree to everything except sex, I still haven't tackled her cuckoldry, and until I do....

Once she'd taken the school tour and poo-poo'ed what I thought were excessive school fees as largely being in line with what she had expected, she was convinced that this was 'the right school for our girls'.

The girls would've preferred to stay in the warm Caribbean than start an autumn term in cold, foggy Blighty if they were asked. However, the fact that their Old Man would be pretending to be a sports teacher at the school, added the extra promise of priceless entertainment value to their sharp little minds. Plus, by renting a house nearby, they'd still see my mate Freddie every night, who the girls naturally loved to bits, the feeling mutual.

The next day, I sailed through the teacher interview of course, thanks to Freddie's talented forger artistry and rich imagination. My forged certificates and letters of recommendation informed the School Panel that I was Brad Danstone, late of the State University of Idaho, with a master's degree in physical education and a gold modern pentathlon team medal for the good ol' USA from the 2000 Olympics to my name.

Only it wasn't my name, of course.

Mind you, I did not let on that I was well aware that the teacher I was temporarily replacing was not quite as 'indisposed', as the interview panel had put it.

Thanks to Freddie's hacking skills, the Physical Education teacher's computer started playing up soon after we found out Wheelwright's daughter was at the school and excelled in PE. So, the teacher's computer had to be collected by an 'engineer'.

That was me again in disguise and, after collecting his device, we were originally going to fill it with compromising pictures necessitating his suspension of any activity close to vulnerable children. However although we planned to fit him up, he wasn't as innocent as he should've been and had it coming anyway. Freddie found lots of dodgy images that he shouldn't have had on his computer anyway, so we just threatened to report him to the authorities unless he feigned illness and lied low for a couple of months.

So, the same day the girls started at the school, happened to be my second day on the job, with the gym, the playing fields and the indoor swimming pool, the extent of my new domain. I had a couple of young newly-qualified physical instruction assistants in my team, but I generally kept them fully occupied so they were never in my way.

Polly-Jo Wheelwright turns out to be a cute kid, I liked her straight away. Wrongturn's daughter was 12 going on 20, and she had the long legs of her aunt's family, as she had just put in a growth spurt over the summer holidays, judging by the records her previous teacher left, which showed the girl had been at the school since she was four.

I hardly knew Polly-Jo's father, Marty, even though he was one of my partners in crime. We moved in different circles as he was about ten years older than me and had become involved in petty crime early in his life, and he had some form, being banged up twice before. And I only knew her mother Josie slightly, through her younger sister, and hadn't even known about their marriage or their child. I only knew that they had both moved away to some smart place in Essex and only showed up on our Manor now and again; I had never tied them together, all the time I fooled around with sister Polly, without ever being in a serious relationship with her; mostly she was a friend I liked the company of a lot and, as puberty kicked in, we both found each other easy to experiment with safely without compromising our friendship.

It was Motormouth Mickie that wanted Marty Wheelwright in on our bank raid because he had the experience of "previous form", and I never objected because I at least knew who he was.

Polly-Jo's growth spurt had the effect of taking away a lot of her upper body strength and she was flat out and floppy halfway through her old gymnastic routine.

"Sorry, Mr Danstone, but I'm completely buggered," she gasped after our first extra training session. According to her previous instructor, she was a talented gymnast with Olympic potential, but on this showing, her reputation was lacking any substance aside from the logged statistics.

"We'll take it easy, Polly-Jo, we'll get you to take some short freestyle sessions in the pool, I think, to build up your upper body strength again. Yes, I think that should do it, to get you back on track, an extra hour in the pool just three nights a week."

"Oh, sir!"

The twins were nearby at the time. They are always together and always close to me. They chimed in that they wanted swimming lessons as well, even though I knew they swam like fishes anyway, having been out in the Caribbean for about nine months, and tanned all over and more like natives than Londoners.

"Oh, sir, can we have swimming lessons in the evenings with Polly-Jo?" Mickie, the noisy one of the pair wheedled, "You could always drop us off on your way home, 'Daddy-Dan'."

The twins had called me 'Daddy-Dan' at the school, as soon as they had started training with me. And Polly-Jo had naturally done the same.

"Gee kids, I know from the forms your parents filed that you're both competent swimmers, but I'll have to ask your Ma if you really want extra lessons, but if she says so, then it's Okay Doke with me."

Polly-Jo was a boarder, she wouldn't be collected by her family until half term, another seven weeks to go. I checked her mail. Nothing from Turkey, just local letters every other day. If I was going to work with her, and get to her Dad through her, I thought I might as well do the job properly and see that she got the training that she needed. Hey, I've nothing personal against her, in fact she seemed like a really nice kid, a bit mouthy, but then she needs a degree of gumption and fight in her in order to compete at a high level.

No, it was her Dad that I wanted to bury two metres down, if I got the chance, ideally without her knowing any of the gory details, especially when I tortured him for his bank details and to find out where his remaining partner went.

When Polly-Jo took her first swimming lesson, she turned out to be like a dolphin in the water. I didn't have a stopwatch with me on that first occasion but thought I would definitely bring it next time. With the leverage of her long frame and light, streamlined body, she glided through the water like a hot knife through butter, both freestyle and breastroke. Even the twins were impressed, and normally only Freddie on his carbon fibre running legs manages that.

I found her address and guardian's phone number in the hand-written school records, with no update details added in the last eight years. Her guardian turned out to be Polly Paxton, and she lived a couple of counties away, so the records said. Nothing at all listed for Wrongturn's real name. That was a bugger! So, she was still Paxton, which meant she never married or reverted to her own name after a divorce. Hey, I was just speculating, it's what I do. I still love my erring wife.

I got Freddie checking both address and blower number, but he soon found that there was no one at home. The address we had was a large property in a select gated estate, but research showed it was much used as an accommodation address by a large number of well-off underworld villains needing an English accommodation address for various purposes without ever being seen alive or dead there. The site was well protected as they had well-connected clients determined not to be found.

Freddie came up blank on the mobile phone, too, he couldn't even get a tap on it, so I had to wait until now, when the kids were being collected for the half term break. We were on red alert, but no sign of Wrongturn, even now, because Polly-Jo is being collected by her Aunt Polly. It must've been over a dozen years since I saw Polly last. So she is almost a year younger than me, 42 or so, but to be honest, she doesn't look like she'd changed one little bit in those twelve or so years. She still retained her maiden name, so I wondered if she had married and divorced in the intervening years; she never had any steady boyfriend that I could put a name to all the time we saw each other casually. Mind you, neither had I during that time.

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