The Steal
by Brian Morrison
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: The sorry tale of the theft of a priceless Degas painting from the Burrell Collection in Glasgow. There are four main players in this drama – two thieves and two security guards. They share only a small scattering of brain cells between them. As you can imagine, mayhem ensues.
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A shrill two-toned alternating chime sounded from an alarm control panel on the wall. It lasted for six seconds and then there was complete silence. The Burrell museum was sealed from the outside world.
‘Do you fancy a wee Mars bar or a muffin?’ Two pockets on Fitlike’s utility belt were flipped open.
‘No,’ said Brodie, ‘I am watching my figure. I will have a tic-tac mint if you have any – but only one please.’
The security guards set off with a slow ambling gait. Fitlike’s was more like a waddle. Their tour through the museum’s rooms took the same route each night. It took them through the Hutton castle drawing room, which was a spectacular sight. The museum’s designer had recreated the room right down to the smallest detail; all original furnishings; no replicas. Sir William had bought everything; the chairs, the drapes, the massive tapestries, the ornate walnut table. Even the windows were the original frames from the castle. But now, instead of giving views towards the estate, the windows offered views of the other halls inside the museum; very effective and very cleverly done.
The two security men continued under Romanesque arches to the Islamic art exhibition room and then on to the ancient Egyptian room. The last room that they walked through was the armoury, which housed weapons and armour dating from the thirteenth to the seventeenth century. They passed by an English Bury chest which was richly adorned with heraldic decorations. Standing proudly next to the chest was a complete set of German field armour, its metal glowing in the beam from a well-placed mini-spotlight fixed to the ceiling.
Just as Fitlike and Brodie cleared the room, there was a faint and barely audible creaking noise. The lid of the Bury chest opened by two inches and a handful of fingers slipped out. Behind the fingers a set of dark eyes surveyed the room.
Isobel Mumford’s dark eyes surveyed the room. She was convinced that her younger brother, Grant, had hidden her iPod, but she didn’t know where. There was a sizable gap in years between the two siblings. Isobel was thirteen and Grant was only four and a half. But he had cleverly worked out just how to wind his big sister up. He knew instinctively which buttons to push and when to push them.
Isobel called for assistance. ‘Mum,’ she cried, ‘would you tell Grant to let me know where he has hidden my iPod, because if he doesn’t cough up soon, I’m going to lamp him one.’
Emma Mumford was attending to her supper time chores in the kitchen. She didn’t possess a particularly strong voice, but there were certain frequencies; certain vocal intonations that could slice through the combined sounds of a microwave oven hum, a cooker hood extraction fan and the sparking noise from a deep pan full of bubbling crinkle cut French fries. ‘Just leave him be, Isobel. I will deal with him when I come through,’ she said.
Their three bedroom semi, local authority house, was situated at the top end of the town. In fact, the street where they lived was on the north boundary of Saltcoats, with nothing but farmland and hills beyond. There were three hills in a line which looked down towards the town. On top of each of these mounds sat a copse of trees which local kids had named ‘The Three Sisters’. No one knew exactly why the three neat little clumps were of the female gender, but that was how they were known. The tall trees were an ideal location for the school kids to lose themselves during the summer months. Wood pigeons nested up there. Blackbirds, song thrushes and jackdaws too. There were also the tell-tale signs that a family of rooks had taken up residence there. This species always nested in groups; picking the tallest trees and employing the slightly strange behaviour of throwing their eggs at anything or anybody that they considered to be intruders. Egg collecting had for generations been a much favoured pastime of the local kids, especially the boys. Old cardboard shoe boxes, with a one inch deep bed of fine grade sawdust were in favour for use as egg collection displays. There was a healthy competition between rival egg collecting gangs.
Isobel Mumford’s collection was one of the best. Her box was stored in a secret location in the garden shed, well away from the clutches of her younger brother. She, along with her two closest friends, Jamie Graham and Alex Cairns were expert climbers. The school had just broken up that week for the summer and the friends had not visited the Three Sisters yet, but that would come. The competition for the most impressive egg collection had been ongoing since springtime. Isobel was marginally out in front. Her agility was superb. She could reach branches that the boys found inaccessible. Whilst waiting for the chips to finish, Isobel visited her secret lair. The garden shed was a basic local authority issue; twelve foot by nine foot with a felt roof and a small square window to allow daylight in. The interior was packed with the usual household junk and garden tools. There were also four bicycles of varied size. They were packed in so tightly that they gave the appearance of being meshed together in an untidy lump of twisted metal, spokes, saddles and tyres. Seeing the bikes again brought back memories of her father and his long absence from the family home. Later, she broached the subject with her mother over a plateful of fish fingers, chips and beans.
‘What about it?’ Emma said rather nervously.
‘I just wanted to know why he went away for so log, that’s all. Wee Alex’s dad went with him, didn’t he? Was it Norway or some place like that?’
‘Yes,’ said Emma, ‘Norway or Sweden. The both of them were in some sort of a club; a cycling club.’
‘Whereabouts is it?’
‘It’s a big country to the north of Scotland with lots of mountains and lakes.’
‘No, I meant “where is the club?” Is it in Saltcoats?’
Emma was becoming more uneasy. She didn’t want to back herself into a corner and give out information that Raymond would contradict if asked about at a future date. Isobel would need to be told the truth at some point. There was no cycling tour. Her father and Bill Cairns had served nine months in Barlinnie for breach of the peace, burglary and a host of other misdemeanours. ‘Tell you what,’ she said through a mouthful of fish, ‘your dad and I will tell you everything you need to know about his little trip tomorrow.’ Emma decided that the next day was as good a time as any to break the news to her daughter.
Isobel said, ‘OK then.’ She glanced around the room briefly. ‘So, where is dad tonight?’
An unwanted thought crept into Emma Mumford’s mind. It was one of those “What if?” thoughts. What if Raymond had lied to her in the morning? What if Bill Cairns and Raymond had been up to their old tricks again? What if, God forbid, another cycling holiday was on the cards?
The English Bury chest lid eased up a further three inches and Raymond Mumford moved his face closer to the opening. Faint footsteps were barely audible as the security guards moved closer to the doorway.
Then silence.
He waited for a good two minutes before speaking to Bill Cairns. ‘Are you OK, mate?’ he said quietly.
‘I’m just fine,’ came the reply, but there was a hollow sound to Bill Cairns’ voice; a tinny reverberation that gave his voice a haunting and distant tone, like the spectre of a long time dead great aunt calling from the afterlife. ‘There might be one wee problem, though,’ the tinny voice said.
‘What problem?’ said Mumford.
‘I think I have managed to get my head a tiny bit stuck.’
‘Christ,’ said Mumford. He eased himself out of the Bury chest. It only had the capacity to hide one person.
The hollow voice spoke again, ‘I managed to get the helmet on OK, but I think it has locked itself shut.’
A full set of German field armour does have a locking helmet. The particular specimen in the armoury room at the Burrell museum standing next to the Bury chest was not a complete suit. In order to give the illusion that the armour was actually being worn by a person, the back had been removed and a boxed metal framework, bolted to the floor filled the void inside. Bill Cairns had noticed the cavity at the rear of the suit. This was the spark of his brilliant plan, and it almost worked. Bill had positioned himself into the neat space between the suit of armour and the wall. The armour plating for the arms and hands was hollow. He would have had the simple task of sliding his arms inside. His legs were hidden from view by the frontal plates of the leg armour. The only tricky task was to unlock the helmet, slip it on and take up position.
He was now clear of the suit itself, his arms were free, but the helmet lock refused to budge.
‘What exactly do you mean, “A tiny bit stuck”?’ Raymond Mumford hissed.
‘It was so simple to lock the helmet on,’ said the hollow voice, ‘but it has jammed itself solid.’
Mumford repeated his last comment, ‘Jammed itself solid? Jammed solid? That isn’t what I would call, “A tiny bit stuck”.’
Cairns’ shoulders slumped. Mumford guessed that he would have one of his ‘hang-dog’ expressions on his face. It was only a guess, though, because Bill Cairns’ features were well hidden behind the six slots across the front of the highly polished helmet.
Both men struggled for a full three minutes to free the catch before finally giving up.
‘It’s no use,’ said Mumford, nursing some raw looking fingertips. There was now a slight trace of panic in his voice. ‘We will just need to carry on and get the job done.’
‘What about this, though?’ Cairns howled, whilst pointing both forefingers at the offending headgear – stating the fucking obvious.
‘Forget about it right now,’ said Mumford, dismissively, ‘I’ve got a tin opener at home.’
Cairns wasn’t in the mood for any of his friend’s smart cracks. He berated Mumford with a volley of abuse, but his foul mouthed rant was lost in the hollow echo inside the helmet.
Mumford grasped Cairns firmly by his upper arms and peered through the slots in the helmet. He could just faintly make out the glow from a pair of sad eyes in the darkness. ‘Listen, Bill,’ he said in a more gentle tone, ‘I will lead the way. You will just need to trust me. The job is simple enough. Five minutes, tops. We steal the painting, cut through the glazing at the oriental exhibition with the glass cutter and disappear into the woods. We can’t waste any more time arguing, though. Just follow me. I will be your eyes. Those two security clowns will be back in their office any second now. They will spy us on the CCTV cameras. That is why we need to keep moving. Do you understand?’
The silver helmet nodded.
By the time that Brodie and Fitlike had reached the central security office, Fitlike had devoured two Mars bars, a muffin and a packet of Opal fruits. Brodie was still sucking on the single Tic-Tac mint that Fitlike had given him. The utility belt was almost empty of food, but there was a plentiful stock of sweets, cakes and fizzy drinks in the office. Their conversation on the way around the exhibition rooms had covered a wide range of topics. The world had been put to rights. Football league set up problems had been solved. The Greek economy had been sorted. And a solution to the ongoing problems in Syria had been addressed, with a master plan to end the hostilities due by the second tea break around about nine o’clock.
In addition to the boxes of Bounty bars, Teacakes and assorted bags of boiled sweets, gums and flavoured toffees, the office housed other, more functional, equipment. There was a single desk which was littered with a collection of newspapers and girlie magazines. Two tilting and rotating office chairs sat at a leg’s length away from the edge of the desk. Mounted on the wall above was a bank of twelve CCTV security monitors. Each monitor was served by six cameras throughout the museum, and somewhere on the desk below the pile of newspapers, an electronic mimic panel indicated which cameras were beaming which live pictures. It wasn’t exactly NASA design, but small neon lamps blinked into life on the mimic as each particular camera became live. It was all designed to give 24 hour video coverage of every corner of the museum.
Nothing could replace the human element, though. Two pairs of eyes were far more valuable to the security of the building than a possible seventy two live camera shots. In normal circumstances that would be the case, but the Burrell Museum’s guards on this particular shift were Stevie Fitlike and Calum Brodie. As they both entered the central security office, at least three of the twelve monitors were showing images of Mumford and Cairns walking through various rooms en route to the Impressionists’ exhibition. The images didn’t register with Fitlike and Brodie. First stop for Fitlike was the confectionary store in the corner of the office. He had a few pockets on his utility belt to replenish. He hadn’t eaten in at least three minutes.
Brodie slumped down onto his chair. His was at the left hand side of the desk, with the chair a few inches closer to the desk than Fitlike’s. It was all to do with the length of their legs. Brodie’s feet came to rest on an untidy pile of Zoom magazines; his shoes already slipped off, he had a couple of toenails peering through two holes in his grey woollen socks.
He aimed a comment at Fitlike’s arse, because that was the only view that he had of his colleague at that point. ‘Hey, Stevie,’ he said, ‘do you know any good Knock Knock jokes?’
‘I’ll need to think about that, pal. Give me a minute,’ said Fitlike as he separated the chocolate bars from the boiled sweets. ‘I take it that you are desperate to tell me one.’
‘Yes, I have a right cracker in mind. Do you want to hear it?’
‘Aye, OK.’
Brodie said, ‘This one is called the Irish Knock Knock joke.’
‘All right then, fire away.’
‘OK, here it is, but you start it.’
Fitlike straightened up and took up position in his chair. ‘You want me to start it? OK then. Knock Knock.’
‘Who’s there?’ said Brodie.
It took a few moments to register in Fitlike’s brain what was going on. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said, ‘that’s not how it works. How am I supposed to know who is there. This is your Knock Knock joke.’
‘I know.’
‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘So that’s the whole idea of the Knock Knock joke. You are supposed to start it.’
‘Ah but this is an Irish Knock Knock joke. Me asking you to start was a set up. You fell for it. Funny gag. isn’t it?’
‘Aye, absolutely hilarious,’ groaned Fitlike.
‘So, what is your favourite Knock Knock joke?’ said Brodie.
‘I can’t think of one right now,’ said Fitlike.
‘You must know one.’
‘My mind is a blank, Calum. You blew me away right then with your comical genius. It would be best if you took centre stage. You are obviously itching to tell me another. Go ahead then. You are on a roll.’
‘Well OK, seeing as you can’t think of any, here is another gag. Knock Knock.’
‘Who’s there?’ said Fitlike, casually picking up a racing section from a three day old newspaper.
There was a long moment before Brodie delivered the third line; the teaser; the set up. He said, ‘There is a guy with a silver crash helmet.’
Fitlike answered, ‘There is a guy with a silver crash helmet – who?’
‘No – I really mean it,’ said Brodie. ‘There is a guy with a silver crash helmet.’
‘Your jokes are shite, Calum. Has anybody ever told you that?’
‘No no, listen to me. I am serious. Monitor four.’
‘Eh?’
‘Monitor four. There are two guys in the Impressionists’ exhibition hall. One of them has a silver crash helmet on.’
Fitlike glanced up at the screens; found what he was looking for, then gasped with a mixture of disbelief and bewilderment. ‘Jesus Christ, you’re right. We’ve got ourselves a couple of intruders.’
Within a fraction of a second, the two chairs, which were on castors, hit the back wall of the security office. Fitlike and Brodie jumped into their shoes like a couple of fire fighters. Their pulses were racing. Training had been delivered at various periods throughout the year which dealt with the situation that they now found themselves in. This was the real thing, though. No role play; no simulation. They were the first line of defence and they knew it. The last action that the two would-be heroes performed before leaving the security office was to arm themselves with space beam torches and trigger the direct link alarm to Strathclyde Police. This was a silent alarm as far as the museum building was concerned. The idea was to keep the intruders “In the dark” and to give the local constabulary time to scramble a squad together.
As for Mumford and Cairns, it was Bill Cairns who found himself “In the dark”. He had been led along the museum’s corridors like an impaired sight victim. Mumford had been “his eyes”.
The plan for the removal of the Jockeys in the Rain painting was simple. A craft knife was to be employed to neatly slice the painting along all four sides flush to the frame. The painting would then be rolled up and secured with a couple of heavy rubber bands which Mumford had in his pocket.
With Bill Cairns being out of it, as far as finesse was concerned, Mumford carried out the task alone. The only assistance that Cairns provided was to help Mumford pull a padded seating bench over to the wall below the painting.
The actual removal of the painting from the frame turned out to be a very simple task. Meanwhile, in a lonely cemetery somewhere in Paris, Edgar Degas turned in his grave.
‘How easy was that?’ whispered Mumford to Cairns as he snapped a rubber band on to the rolled up painting. ‘Have you still got the suction cup and the glass cutter in your pocket?’
Bill Cairns nodded his head and the word “Yes” echoed around the internal of the helmet like a ping pong ball.
‘Good,’ said Mumford, ‘let’s make tracks then.’ But the appearance of Bill Cairns had changed. There seemed to be a strange glow coming from the German field armour helmet. It mesmerised Mumford for a few seconds. Something leapt into his consciousness; it was a phrase. “Like a rabbit in the headlights.”
Why would I think of that? he pondered. He looked at Cairns again and realised at once why the phrase came to him.
It was headlights.
The polished metal of Cairns’ helmet was reflecting two points of light.
But that’s impossible, thought Mumford. We are not in view of any roadway. Not in here.
Then realisation dawned on him at last. The reflected lights, which were closing in fast, were not from any vehicle. It was coming from two torches. The security guards were onto them.
Bill Cairns rapidly found out just how difficult it can be for impaired sight victims to move around a dimly lit museum’s corridors at speed. Mumford had a vice-like grip of his friend’s upper arm as the two Saltcoats men set off swiftly in the direction of the oriental exhibition.
‘The bastards have seen us,’ said Fitlike.
‘Wait a second,’ said an exhausted Calum Brodie - his heart pounding, due to a mixture of stress and lack of fitness, ‘I’ve got an idea.’
‘Shoot’ said Fitlike.
‘The lights . . . There is a mains supply switch in the next corridor. I don’t think they have got torches on them. We’ll have a better chance of catching them if we throw the switch.’
‘You’re right. Brilliant idea, Calum.’
In the grand scheme of things, killing the power did indeed sound like an excellent idea. It gave the security guards that extra edge in their pursuit of the robbers. With it being early July and still daylight outside, the museum wasn’t thrown into a complete blackout state. Apart from the time of the year, there was also the fact that much of the building’s exterior was comprised of glass.
Mumford and Cairns’ planned escape route was meant to terminate at the oriental exhibition. This room was chosen due to the large sloping floor to ceiling wall of glass which faced the woodland area. From there they could disappear into the undergrowth and loop around the estate to where they had dumped the car at the far end of the public parking area. In their confusion, though, partly due to Bill Cairns’ headgear, they had taken a wrong turning and found themselves in the museum’s Hutton rooms. The drawing room and dining room windows didn’t allow the daylight to filter through due to the fact that they were mock up rooms; rather like a film set. This gave Fitlike and Brodie the upper hand in the chase.
‘You’ll never get away with this,’ Fitlike screamed as they closed in on Mumford and Cairns in the Hutton dining room. ‘The polis are on their way. They will be here any second.’ Fitlike was beginning to regret the fact that he had removed his can of Mace spray from one of the pouch pockets in his utility belt and had replaced it with a packet of Jelly Babies.
Mumford stole a fleeting glance back towards the two security guards. He was becoming frustrated with the handicap of guiding Cairns through the rooms. Something would need to be done to hamper the guards’ progress. He suddenly remembered scenes from an old Laurel and Hardy film.
Create mayhem, was the thought that entered his mind. It was an easy option, given the objects that were at his disposal. Even in the dim light of the mock up dining room, Mumford could see well enough to haul the heavy solid chairs down to the floor. Everything that came to his hand was treated in the same fashion. He attempted to overturn the heavy Gothic 16th century oak table, but the weight was far more than he had estimated. The 17th century Coif tapestries were easier to handle. They, along with the overturned chairs, made the route behind them treacherous. Another two full suits of armour were heaved to the ground. The body parts separated on impact with the floor. Disassembled heads, arms and legs bounced in various directions. To Fitlike and Cairns it was beginning to resemble a medieval battlefield.
The path of devastation continued outside the Hutton rooms. Mumford’s plan of mass destruction was working. The Ancient civilisations of Greece and Rome were under renewed attack. Egyptian stone sculptures from the Archaic Period to the Ptolemaic Period lay on the tiled floor in a thousand of pieces. Vases, figurines and jewellery that once had been the pride of place in an ancient Roman villa were totally destroyed. In the Chinese hall, earthenware figures, bronze ritual vessels and carved jade were left strewn across the floor. A million dollar rubbish heap was quickly becoming established.
All that the two hapless security guards could do was to follow the trail. Mumford and Cairns had at last reached the sloping wall of glass at the oriental exhibition. They only had around two minutes to spare. Cairns set about the task of attaching the suction cup to the glass. A diamond tipped cutter was then employed to draw a rough shape that would be large enough for them to crawl through. Mumford stood back and acted as lookout. Both men were now exhausted. Bill Cairns felt that his head may explode at any second. His physical exertions had almost turned the armoured helmet into a pressure cooker.
He called to Mumford, ‘Bloody hell, man. This thing is triple glazed. We are never going to get this cut in time.’
Mumford could just about make out an incoherent mumble coming from the helmet. He had no idea what had just been said, so he made a stab at an answer. It was the wrong one. ‘That’s great news, Bill. You’re doing fine. We will be out of here any second.’
‘No we fucking will not,’ said Cairns.
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Mumford. ‘You would do the same for me.’
It seemed to be the shortest two minutes in Raymond Mumford’s life. For the second time in this eventful night, he detected two points of light reflecting on the shiny surface of the armoured helmet. The security guards had entered the hall. Their delaying tactics had all been used up. The chase was over. Mumford knew this for sure. There was nothing left to throw.
Unless . . .
Fitlike and Brodie came to a halt just inside the hall. They too were exhausted. It had been a tiresome journey through the rubble that had once been Sir William Burrell’s prized possessions. There would be a few bruises to nurse in the morning. Standing there before them were the two perpetrators of the crime. The guy in the sheepskin jacket was passive looking. He had taken up a position in the middle of the room. Over at the sloping window, the guy with the silver crash helmet was working away at a hole in the glass.
Fitlike called over towards Mumford. He had to shout as the alarm klaxon was still ringing out. ‘I told you it was no use, pal. The polis will be here any second. Tell your friend over there to stop what he is doing and lay on the floor with his hands behind his back. You will then do the same. Understand?’
‘Aye, OK,’ said Mumford. He called over to Cairns. ‘Hey - Raffles!’
Bill Cairns turned to look at him. Through the slots in his visor, he could see enough to tell him that it was pointless to go on with their attempt at escaping.
Just as Bill Cairns turned, Calum Brodie noticed a sudden flurry of activity in the centre of the room. He then recognised a certain figure. He had seen it before earlier in the evening. He had seen it at the desk when he was watching Alice talking to the little boy and his grandmother. It was the Chinese Iohan Buddha, only this was no small ornamental replica. This was the really McCoy – and it was airborne.
Raymond Mumford knew that he was in the last chance saloon. He had meant to cause havoc earlier, and he had certainly succeeded in doing so. There was one slim chance to get out of the situation that he and Cairns were in. It depended largely on his judgment of weight. The Iohan Buddha statue was sitting at chest height on a plinth to his right. In one movement he grasped the figure firmly and launched it towards Bill Cairns. The heavy figure spun through three hundred and sixty degrees twice, before smashing into the sloping glass above Bill Cairns’ head.
The wall of glass shattered from end to end and fell like a torrential rain shower on to Bill Cairns. The German field armour helmet, which had once been employed to fend off medieval spear heads and arrows, was called into action once again. It saved Bill Cairns’ life.
Fitlike and Brodie could only look on in horror as the two Saltcoats men became animated once more. Within moments they were through the open void that had once been the glass wall of the oriental exhibition. The sun was sinking low behind the trees in the woodland area. Its rays were catching the topmost branches, giving them the appearance of being on fire. Somewhere in the distance the faint sound of a police siren could just be heard.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: The sorry tale of the theft of a priceless Degas painting from the Burrell Collection in Glasgow. There are four main players in this drama – two thieves and two security guards. They share only a small scattering of brain cells between them. As you can imagine, mayhem ensues.
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A shrill two-toned alternating chime sounded from an alarm control panel on the wall. It lasted for six seconds and then there was complete silence. The Burrell museum was sealed from the outside world.
‘Do you fancy a wee Mars bar or a muffin?’ Two pockets on Fitlike’s utility belt were flipped open.
‘No,’ said Brodie, ‘I am watching my figure. I will have a tic-tac mint if you have any – but only one please.’
The security guards set off with a slow ambling gait. Fitlike’s was more like a waddle. Their tour through the museum’s rooms took the same route each night. It took them through the Hutton castle drawing room, which was a spectacular sight. The museum’s designer had recreated the room right down to the smallest detail; all original furnishings; no replicas. Sir William had bought everything; the chairs, the drapes, the massive tapestries, the ornate walnut table. Even the windows were the original frames from the castle. But now, instead of giving views towards the estate, the windows offered views of the other halls inside the museum; very effective and very cleverly done.
The two security men continued under Romanesque arches to the Islamic art exhibition room and then on to the ancient Egyptian room. The last room that they walked through was the armoury, which housed weapons and armour dating from the thirteenth to the seventeenth century. They passed by an English Bury chest which was richly adorned with heraldic decorations. Standing proudly next to the chest was a complete set of German field armour, its metal glowing in the beam from a well-placed mini-spotlight fixed to the ceiling.
Just as Fitlike and Brodie cleared the room, there was a faint and barely audible creaking noise. The lid of the Bury chest opened by two inches and a handful of fingers slipped out. Behind the fingers a set of dark eyes surveyed the room.
Isobel Mumford’s dark eyes surveyed the room. She was convinced that her younger brother, Grant, had hidden her iPod, but she didn’t know where. There was a sizable gap in years between the two siblings. Isobel was thirteen and Grant was only four and a half. But he had cleverly worked out just how to wind his big sister up. He knew instinctively which buttons to push and when to push them.
Isobel called for assistance. ‘Mum,’ she cried, ‘would you tell Grant to let me know where he has hidden my iPod, because if he doesn’t cough up soon, I’m going to lamp him one.’
Emma Mumford was attending to her supper time chores in the kitchen. She didn’t possess a particularly strong voice, but there were certain frequencies; certain vocal intonations that could slice through the combined sounds of a microwave oven hum, a cooker hood extraction fan and the sparking noise from a deep pan full of bubbling crinkle cut French fries. ‘Just leave him be, Isobel. I will deal with him when I come through,’ she said.
Their three bedroom semi, local authority house, was situated at the top end of the town. In fact, the street where they lived was on the north boundary of Saltcoats, with nothing but farmland and hills beyond. There were three hills in a line which looked down towards the town. On top of each of these mounds sat a copse of trees which local kids had named ‘The Three Sisters’. No one knew exactly why the three neat little clumps were of the female gender, but that was how they were known. The tall trees were an ideal location for the school kids to lose themselves during the summer months. Wood pigeons nested up there. Blackbirds, song thrushes and jackdaws too. There were also the tell-tale signs that a family of rooks had taken up residence there. This species always nested in groups; picking the tallest trees and employing the slightly strange behaviour of throwing their eggs at anything or anybody that they considered to be intruders. Egg collecting had for generations been a much favoured pastime of the local kids, especially the boys. Old cardboard shoe boxes, with a one inch deep bed of fine grade sawdust were in favour for use as egg collection displays. There was a healthy competition between rival egg collecting gangs.
Isobel Mumford’s collection was one of the best. Her box was stored in a secret location in the garden shed, well away from the clutches of her younger brother. She, along with her two closest friends, Jamie Graham and Alex Cairns were expert climbers. The school had just broken up that week for the summer and the friends had not visited the Three Sisters yet, but that would come. The competition for the most impressive egg collection had been ongoing since springtime. Isobel was marginally out in front. Her agility was superb. She could reach branches that the boys found inaccessible. Whilst waiting for the chips to finish, Isobel visited her secret lair. The garden shed was a basic local authority issue; twelve foot by nine foot with a felt roof and a small square window to allow daylight in. The interior was packed with the usual household junk and garden tools. There were also four bicycles of varied size. They were packed in so tightly that they gave the appearance of being meshed together in an untidy lump of twisted metal, spokes, saddles and tyres. Seeing the bikes again brought back memories of her father and his long absence from the family home. Later, she broached the subject with her mother over a plateful of fish fingers, chips and beans.
‘What about it?’ Emma said rather nervously.
‘I just wanted to know why he went away for so log, that’s all. Wee Alex’s dad went with him, didn’t he? Was it Norway or some place like that?’
‘Yes,’ said Emma, ‘Norway or Sweden. The both of them were in some sort of a club; a cycling club.’
‘Whereabouts is it?’
‘It’s a big country to the north of Scotland with lots of mountains and lakes.’
‘No, I meant “where is the club?” Is it in Saltcoats?’
Emma was becoming more uneasy. She didn’t want to back herself into a corner and give out information that Raymond would contradict if asked about at a future date. Isobel would need to be told the truth at some point. There was no cycling tour. Her father and Bill Cairns had served nine months in Barlinnie for breach of the peace, burglary and a host of other misdemeanours. ‘Tell you what,’ she said through a mouthful of fish, ‘your dad and I will tell you everything you need to know about his little trip tomorrow.’ Emma decided that the next day was as good a time as any to break the news to her daughter.
Isobel said, ‘OK then.’ She glanced around the room briefly. ‘So, where is dad tonight?’
An unwanted thought crept into Emma Mumford’s mind. It was one of those “What if?” thoughts. What if Raymond had lied to her in the morning? What if Bill Cairns and Raymond had been up to their old tricks again? What if, God forbid, another cycling holiday was on the cards?
The English Bury chest lid eased up a further three inches and Raymond Mumford moved his face closer to the opening. Faint footsteps were barely audible as the security guards moved closer to the doorway.
Then silence.
He waited for a good two minutes before speaking to Bill Cairns. ‘Are you OK, mate?’ he said quietly.
‘I’m just fine,’ came the reply, but there was a hollow sound to Bill Cairns’ voice; a tinny reverberation that gave his voice a haunting and distant tone, like the spectre of a long time dead great aunt calling from the afterlife. ‘There might be one wee problem, though,’ the tinny voice said.
‘What problem?’ said Mumford.
‘I think I have managed to get my head a tiny bit stuck.’
‘Christ,’ said Mumford. He eased himself out of the Bury chest. It only had the capacity to hide one person.
The hollow voice spoke again, ‘I managed to get the helmet on OK, but I think it has locked itself shut.’
A full set of German field armour does have a locking helmet. The particular specimen in the armoury room at the Burrell museum standing next to the Bury chest was not a complete suit. In order to give the illusion that the armour was actually being worn by a person, the back had been removed and a boxed metal framework, bolted to the floor filled the void inside. Bill Cairns had noticed the cavity at the rear of the suit. This was the spark of his brilliant plan, and it almost worked. Bill had positioned himself into the neat space between the suit of armour and the wall. The armour plating for the arms and hands was hollow. He would have had the simple task of sliding his arms inside. His legs were hidden from view by the frontal plates of the leg armour. The only tricky task was to unlock the helmet, slip it on and take up position.
He was now clear of the suit itself, his arms were free, but the helmet lock refused to budge.
‘What exactly do you mean, “A tiny bit stuck”?’ Raymond Mumford hissed.
‘It was so simple to lock the helmet on,’ said the hollow voice, ‘but it has jammed itself solid.’
Mumford repeated his last comment, ‘Jammed itself solid? Jammed solid? That isn’t what I would call, “A tiny bit stuck”.’
Cairns’ shoulders slumped. Mumford guessed that he would have one of his ‘hang-dog’ expressions on his face. It was only a guess, though, because Bill Cairns’ features were well hidden behind the six slots across the front of the highly polished helmet.
Both men struggled for a full three minutes to free the catch before finally giving up.
‘It’s no use,’ said Mumford, nursing some raw looking fingertips. There was now a slight trace of panic in his voice. ‘We will just need to carry on and get the job done.’
‘What about this, though?’ Cairns howled, whilst pointing both forefingers at the offending headgear – stating the fucking obvious.
‘Forget about it right now,’ said Mumford, dismissively, ‘I’ve got a tin opener at home.’
Cairns wasn’t in the mood for any of his friend’s smart cracks. He berated Mumford with a volley of abuse, but his foul mouthed rant was lost in the hollow echo inside the helmet.
Mumford grasped Cairns firmly by his upper arms and peered through the slots in the helmet. He could just faintly make out the glow from a pair of sad eyes in the darkness. ‘Listen, Bill,’ he said in a more gentle tone, ‘I will lead the way. You will just need to trust me. The job is simple enough. Five minutes, tops. We steal the painting, cut through the glazing at the oriental exhibition with the glass cutter and disappear into the woods. We can’t waste any more time arguing, though. Just follow me. I will be your eyes. Those two security clowns will be back in their office any second now. They will spy us on the CCTV cameras. That is why we need to keep moving. Do you understand?’
The silver helmet nodded.
By the time that Brodie and Fitlike had reached the central security office, Fitlike had devoured two Mars bars, a muffin and a packet of Opal fruits. Brodie was still sucking on the single Tic-Tac mint that Fitlike had given him. The utility belt was almost empty of food, but there was a plentiful stock of sweets, cakes and fizzy drinks in the office. Their conversation on the way around the exhibition rooms had covered a wide range of topics. The world had been put to rights. Football league set up problems had been solved. The Greek economy had been sorted. And a solution to the ongoing problems in Syria had been addressed, with a master plan to end the hostilities due by the second tea break around about nine o’clock.
In addition to the boxes of Bounty bars, Teacakes and assorted bags of boiled sweets, gums and flavoured toffees, the office housed other, more functional, equipment. There was a single desk which was littered with a collection of newspapers and girlie magazines. Two tilting and rotating office chairs sat at a leg’s length away from the edge of the desk. Mounted on the wall above was a bank of twelve CCTV security monitors. Each monitor was served by six cameras throughout the museum, and somewhere on the desk below the pile of newspapers, an electronic mimic panel indicated which cameras were beaming which live pictures. It wasn’t exactly NASA design, but small neon lamps blinked into life on the mimic as each particular camera became live. It was all designed to give 24 hour video coverage of every corner of the museum.
Nothing could replace the human element, though. Two pairs of eyes were far more valuable to the security of the building than a possible seventy two live camera shots. In normal circumstances that would be the case, but the Burrell Museum’s guards on this particular shift were Stevie Fitlike and Calum Brodie. As they both entered the central security office, at least three of the twelve monitors were showing images of Mumford and Cairns walking through various rooms en route to the Impressionists’ exhibition. The images didn’t register with Fitlike and Brodie. First stop for Fitlike was the confectionary store in the corner of the office. He had a few pockets on his utility belt to replenish. He hadn’t eaten in at least three minutes.
Brodie slumped down onto his chair. His was at the left hand side of the desk, with the chair a few inches closer to the desk than Fitlike’s. It was all to do with the length of their legs. Brodie’s feet came to rest on an untidy pile of Zoom magazines; his shoes already slipped off, he had a couple of toenails peering through two holes in his grey woollen socks.
He aimed a comment at Fitlike’s arse, because that was the only view that he had of his colleague at that point. ‘Hey, Stevie,’ he said, ‘do you know any good Knock Knock jokes?’
‘I’ll need to think about that, pal. Give me a minute,’ said Fitlike as he separated the chocolate bars from the boiled sweets. ‘I take it that you are desperate to tell me one.’
‘Yes, I have a right cracker in mind. Do you want to hear it?’
‘Aye, OK.’
Brodie said, ‘This one is called the Irish Knock Knock joke.’
‘All right then, fire away.’
‘OK, here it is, but you start it.’
Fitlike straightened up and took up position in his chair. ‘You want me to start it? OK then. Knock Knock.’
‘Who’s there?’ said Brodie.
It took a few moments to register in Fitlike’s brain what was going on. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said, ‘that’s not how it works. How am I supposed to know who is there. This is your Knock Knock joke.’
‘I know.’
‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘So that’s the whole idea of the Knock Knock joke. You are supposed to start it.’
‘Ah but this is an Irish Knock Knock joke. Me asking you to start was a set up. You fell for it. Funny gag. isn’t it?’
‘Aye, absolutely hilarious,’ groaned Fitlike.
‘So, what is your favourite Knock Knock joke?’ said Brodie.
‘I can’t think of one right now,’ said Fitlike.
‘You must know one.’
‘My mind is a blank, Calum. You blew me away right then with your comical genius. It would be best if you took centre stage. You are obviously itching to tell me another. Go ahead then. You are on a roll.’
‘Well OK, seeing as you can’t think of any, here is another gag. Knock Knock.’
‘Who’s there?’ said Fitlike, casually picking up a racing section from a three day old newspaper.
There was a long moment before Brodie delivered the third line; the teaser; the set up. He said, ‘There is a guy with a silver crash helmet.’
Fitlike answered, ‘There is a guy with a silver crash helmet – who?’
‘No – I really mean it,’ said Brodie. ‘There is a guy with a silver crash helmet.’
‘Your jokes are shite, Calum. Has anybody ever told you that?’
‘No no, listen to me. I am serious. Monitor four.’
‘Eh?’
‘Monitor four. There are two guys in the Impressionists’ exhibition hall. One of them has a silver crash helmet on.’
Fitlike glanced up at the screens; found what he was looking for, then gasped with a mixture of disbelief and bewilderment. ‘Jesus Christ, you’re right. We’ve got ourselves a couple of intruders.’
Within a fraction of a second, the two chairs, which were on castors, hit the back wall of the security office. Fitlike and Brodie jumped into their shoes like a couple of fire fighters. Their pulses were racing. Training had been delivered at various periods throughout the year which dealt with the situation that they now found themselves in. This was the real thing, though. No role play; no simulation. They were the first line of defence and they knew it. The last action that the two would-be heroes performed before leaving the security office was to arm themselves with space beam torches and trigger the direct link alarm to Strathclyde Police. This was a silent alarm as far as the museum building was concerned. The idea was to keep the intruders “In the dark” and to give the local constabulary time to scramble a squad together.
As for Mumford and Cairns, it was Bill Cairns who found himself “In the dark”. He had been led along the museum’s corridors like an impaired sight victim. Mumford had been “his eyes”.
The plan for the removal of the Jockeys in the Rain painting was simple. A craft knife was to be employed to neatly slice the painting along all four sides flush to the frame. The painting would then be rolled up and secured with a couple of heavy rubber bands which Mumford had in his pocket.
With Bill Cairns being out of it, as far as finesse was concerned, Mumford carried out the task alone. The only assistance that Cairns provided was to help Mumford pull a padded seating bench over to the wall below the painting.
The actual removal of the painting from the frame turned out to be a very simple task. Meanwhile, in a lonely cemetery somewhere in Paris, Edgar Degas turned in his grave.
‘How easy was that?’ whispered Mumford to Cairns as he snapped a rubber band on to the rolled up painting. ‘Have you still got the suction cup and the glass cutter in your pocket?’
Bill Cairns nodded his head and the word “Yes” echoed around the internal of the helmet like a ping pong ball.
‘Good,’ said Mumford, ‘let’s make tracks then.’ But the appearance of Bill Cairns had changed. There seemed to be a strange glow coming from the German field armour helmet. It mesmerised Mumford for a few seconds. Something leapt into his consciousness; it was a phrase. “Like a rabbit in the headlights.”
Why would I think of that? he pondered. He looked at Cairns again and realised at once why the phrase came to him.
It was headlights.
The polished metal of Cairns’ helmet was reflecting two points of light.
But that’s impossible, thought Mumford. We are not in view of any roadway. Not in here.
Then realisation dawned on him at last. The reflected lights, which were closing in fast, were not from any vehicle. It was coming from two torches. The security guards were onto them.
Bill Cairns rapidly found out just how difficult it can be for impaired sight victims to move around a dimly lit museum’s corridors at speed. Mumford had a vice-like grip of his friend’s upper arm as the two Saltcoats men set off swiftly in the direction of the oriental exhibition.
‘The bastards have seen us,’ said Fitlike.
‘Wait a second,’ said an exhausted Calum Brodie - his heart pounding, due to a mixture of stress and lack of fitness, ‘I’ve got an idea.’
‘Shoot’ said Fitlike.
‘The lights . . . There is a mains supply switch in the next corridor. I don’t think they have got torches on them. We’ll have a better chance of catching them if we throw the switch.’
‘You’re right. Brilliant idea, Calum.’
In the grand scheme of things, killing the power did indeed sound like an excellent idea. It gave the security guards that extra edge in their pursuit of the robbers. With it being early July and still daylight outside, the museum wasn’t thrown into a complete blackout state. Apart from the time of the year, there was also the fact that much of the building’s exterior was comprised of glass.
Mumford and Cairns’ planned escape route was meant to terminate at the oriental exhibition. This room was chosen due to the large sloping floor to ceiling wall of glass which faced the woodland area. From there they could disappear into the undergrowth and loop around the estate to where they had dumped the car at the far end of the public parking area. In their confusion, though, partly due to Bill Cairns’ headgear, they had taken a wrong turning and found themselves in the museum’s Hutton rooms. The drawing room and dining room windows didn’t allow the daylight to filter through due to the fact that they were mock up rooms; rather like a film set. This gave Fitlike and Brodie the upper hand in the chase.
‘You’ll never get away with this,’ Fitlike screamed as they closed in on Mumford and Cairns in the Hutton dining room. ‘The polis are on their way. They will be here any second.’ Fitlike was beginning to regret the fact that he had removed his can of Mace spray from one of the pouch pockets in his utility belt and had replaced it with a packet of Jelly Babies.
Mumford stole a fleeting glance back towards the two security guards. He was becoming frustrated with the handicap of guiding Cairns through the rooms. Something would need to be done to hamper the guards’ progress. He suddenly remembered scenes from an old Laurel and Hardy film.
Create mayhem, was the thought that entered his mind. It was an easy option, given the objects that were at his disposal. Even in the dim light of the mock up dining room, Mumford could see well enough to haul the heavy solid chairs down to the floor. Everything that came to his hand was treated in the same fashion. He attempted to overturn the heavy Gothic 16th century oak table, but the weight was far more than he had estimated. The 17th century Coif tapestries were easier to handle. They, along with the overturned chairs, made the route behind them treacherous. Another two full suits of armour were heaved to the ground. The body parts separated on impact with the floor. Disassembled heads, arms and legs bounced in various directions. To Fitlike and Cairns it was beginning to resemble a medieval battlefield.
The path of devastation continued outside the Hutton rooms. Mumford’s plan of mass destruction was working. The Ancient civilisations of Greece and Rome were under renewed attack. Egyptian stone sculptures from the Archaic Period to the Ptolemaic Period lay on the tiled floor in a thousand of pieces. Vases, figurines and jewellery that once had been the pride of place in an ancient Roman villa were totally destroyed. In the Chinese hall, earthenware figures, bronze ritual vessels and carved jade were left strewn across the floor. A million dollar rubbish heap was quickly becoming established.
All that the two hapless security guards could do was to follow the trail. Mumford and Cairns had at last reached the sloping wall of glass at the oriental exhibition. They only had around two minutes to spare. Cairns set about the task of attaching the suction cup to the glass. A diamond tipped cutter was then employed to draw a rough shape that would be large enough for them to crawl through. Mumford stood back and acted as lookout. Both men were now exhausted. Bill Cairns felt that his head may explode at any second. His physical exertions had almost turned the armoured helmet into a pressure cooker.
He called to Mumford, ‘Bloody hell, man. This thing is triple glazed. We are never going to get this cut in time.’
Mumford could just about make out an incoherent mumble coming from the helmet. He had no idea what had just been said, so he made a stab at an answer. It was the wrong one. ‘That’s great news, Bill. You’re doing fine. We will be out of here any second.’
‘No we fucking will not,’ said Cairns.
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Mumford. ‘You would do the same for me.’
It seemed to be the shortest two minutes in Raymond Mumford’s life. For the second time in this eventful night, he detected two points of light reflecting on the shiny surface of the armoured helmet. The security guards had entered the hall. Their delaying tactics had all been used up. The chase was over. Mumford knew this for sure. There was nothing left to throw.
Unless . . .
Fitlike and Brodie came to a halt just inside the hall. They too were exhausted. It had been a tiresome journey through the rubble that had once been Sir William Burrell’s prized possessions. There would be a few bruises to nurse in the morning. Standing there before them were the two perpetrators of the crime. The guy in the sheepskin jacket was passive looking. He had taken up a position in the middle of the room. Over at the sloping window, the guy with the silver crash helmet was working away at a hole in the glass.
Fitlike called over towards Mumford. He had to shout as the alarm klaxon was still ringing out. ‘I told you it was no use, pal. The polis will be here any second. Tell your friend over there to stop what he is doing and lay on the floor with his hands behind his back. You will then do the same. Understand?’
‘Aye, OK,’ said Mumford. He called over to Cairns. ‘Hey - Raffles!’
Bill Cairns turned to look at him. Through the slots in his visor, he could see enough to tell him that it was pointless to go on with their attempt at escaping.
Just as Bill Cairns turned, Calum Brodie noticed a sudden flurry of activity in the centre of the room. He then recognised a certain figure. He had seen it before earlier in the evening. He had seen it at the desk when he was watching Alice talking to the little boy and his grandmother. It was the Chinese Iohan Buddha, only this was no small ornamental replica. This was the really McCoy – and it was airborne.
Raymond Mumford knew that he was in the last chance saloon. He had meant to cause havoc earlier, and he had certainly succeeded in doing so. There was one slim chance to get out of the situation that he and Cairns were in. It depended largely on his judgment of weight. The Iohan Buddha statue was sitting at chest height on a plinth to his right. In one movement he grasped the figure firmly and launched it towards Bill Cairns. The heavy figure spun through three hundred and sixty degrees twice, before smashing into the sloping glass above Bill Cairns’ head.
The wall of glass shattered from end to end and fell like a torrential rain shower on to Bill Cairns. The German field armour helmet, which had once been employed to fend off medieval spear heads and arrows, was called into action once again. It saved Bill Cairns’ life.
Fitlike and Brodie could only look on in horror as the two Saltcoats men became animated once more. Within moments they were through the open void that had once been the glass wall of the oriental exhibition. The sun was sinking low behind the trees in the woodland area. Its rays were catching the topmost branches, giving them the appearance of being on fire. Somewhere in the distance the faint sound of a police siren could just be heard.
About the Author
Born in Saltcoats, Brian Morrison has a day job at the Hunterston Power Station. But in his other life he is well known as a caricaturist and comedy sketch writer. More recently, he has become a novelist and a writer of children's stories. His dark comedy, Blister, is available on Amazon.