HOUDINI CONNECTIONS

INTRUDERS
EXCERPT FROM A TRUE STORY
by Jim Stewart

TOPIC = a team of potentially violent men -
mainly ex-army, who work in 'forestry'
well known in their local area for
rough, tough and occasionally violent horseplay.

A link to the full text of this
real-life adventure can be found
at the end of this page.

EXCERPT - the story so far:
In his cellar / workshop in a remote house on the outskirts of Oban, ex-navy man ‘Callum’ has promised to show me, step-by-step, how he can almost totally immobilise himself while encased in a heavy-duty diving suit and mask.

In preparation to watch this elaborate process I (as a self-indulgence) had chosen to wear one of Callum's old wetsuits - with his old 'deep sea' dive suit over it for the duration. Amused by this idea, Callum had suggested that I should add weighted dive boots and waist belt - just for fun while he was busy. These, he told me, he had modified to be locked-on - and challenged me to stay in them for the whole time while he was enjoying his self-imposed encasement.

He'd asked me to act as ‘final strap closer’ to make his predicament inescapable for a four hour session. So, as insurance that I would let him out as agreed, keys essential for my release from the double suits and weights were locked away until after I had released Callum.

The following episode began only after he was inescapably secured. We'd agreed that I was to leave him alone gagged, sightless and unable to move in the cellar.
Laboriously I climbed the stairs to the living room where I would spend the four hours .
The heavy suits and weighted boots made stair-climbing a difficult process.
As I finally arrived, the ringing phone had just switched to ‘leave a message’.

The voice on the telephone was rattling the answering machine, it was so loud - and forceful. The stream of abuse consisted mainly of fucking and blinding and cunting and sodding. But as I listened more closely, the message was simply that the caller wanted Callum to pick up the telephone.

Breaks in the flow as the voice waited for Callum to come on line after each insistent demand, were punctuated by additional background cussing and swearing. This was in the days before mobile phones and the call was obviously from a public telephone box.
Breathless from my efforts on the stairs, sweating in my inescapable gear, I held what I could of my breath - fearful that they might hear me - forgetting it was only on the answering machine.

After some argumentative background exchanges a different voice took over the phone.
The air in the phone box must have been blue from the swearing - and there were more than two people crammed into it, apparently. But the firm voice was obviously used to being obeyed.
The off-stage bickering died down and a voice I recognised said firmly that Callum should pick up the telephone immediately - whatever he was in the middle of.

“Donger” Bellman was an ex-Scots Guards sergeant instructor with a reputation for making people do as they were told - or else. And the drift of his demands now, were that he knew Callum had a visitor - but a group of Cal’s ‘mates’ were assembled in their regular local pub and were determined that, come hell or high water, Cal’s visitor “fra Londin” should be allowed to sample the delights of Oban social life right now.

Bellman’s final demand that Cal pick up the phone receiving no reply - he barked “Well fuck you - we’re on the way up to get you, like it or not!” before the phone was slammed down.

*****

Ten minutes at the most, I estimated! Trapped as I was, virtually unable to move, I mentally thought back to when Callum began preparing for his lengthy session in the basement. He was a careful man. I remembered him closing curtains carefully and locking the various entrances to the house although the house was on a remote country road outside the town. Ten minutes! How well locked? How secure? Could I get to the front door and check? - but a couple of times as I heard a car I froze - but it drove past.

Then wheels screeched to a halt on the gravel outside the front door. Not a car - a truck! A jeep? Boots. Serious boots! A pause before the old-fashioned door knocker was rat-a-tatted briskly. Only a short wait before it was hammered more determinedly. Various comments laced with choice epithets were ‘Shushed’ by Bellman who was obviously listening for sounds of movement inside. I dare not shift my feet in case the lead-weighted boots might be heard. Sweat rolled down my spine and I dare not move in case they heard it. Mercifully I had not reach the hallway before the truck pulled in. Mercifully, because the letter box now rattled and they were obviously peering in.

With all my attention focussed on this, a sudden rattle at the side door nearly made my heart stop. Now, simultaneous hammering on the front and side doors produced a really threatening two-prong attack. When it stopped the silence was almost deafening. I realised I was holding my breath - until I was forced to breathe - terrified I might be heard?

Muted discussion outside. I couldn’t quite hear and was tempted to move closer - but dare not. I did catch the words “gone out t’ eat.” My relief was short-lived before Bellman ordered somebody to see if the car was “at Hame”. Boots scrunched away down the path at the side of the house, two pairs and there were still two voices outside the front door. Spare keys were discussed and plant-pots moved. Was there a key? I had bolted the inside of the front door. If there was a key and it failed to open the door - they would know there was somebody inside. What then?

Below the living room window I heard the garage doors being tested - determinedly - and then hammering. “Buchanan, we know you’re fucking in there!” insisted an unfamiliar voice. Were they kicking the doors in their frustration? Did they intend to force them open? Was the door at the back of the garage that led to the stairs locked? I tried to remember - but then realised that if there car was in the garage - we must also be here.

“I know they’re fucking in there!” insisted another voice which might have been Wee Hughie. Cal had told me, after meeting him in the supermarket, that this was something of a piss artist and he regularly got fighting drunk. During lake-side weekends, this short but obviously physically capable ex-squaddie had needed to be subdued on more than one occasion - restrained during much merry laughter Cal had told me in a way that made me think he had taken an active part in the restraining. Obviously, these were opportunities that made it all worth while for the ex-navy hard-man. This bunch of ex-servicemen missed having an excuse to do things they had been trained to do, and enjoyed doing well. I had heard about local raids on other members of the Rugby team or other teams on their way home from nights out. Cal had talked of commando-style escapades, elaborately planned assaults, even occasionally nicking property - and then leaving it to be found in some unsuspecting victim’s premises - just for devilment. Skills like breaking and entering had been part of their professional training - conditioning. Shinning up drainpipes; tales of organised abductions and kidnappings carried out just to prove they could do it. When Cal had told me about their training - and later about civilian escapades which exercised the same skills, all had excited my imagination. But now I was not excited - I was almost literally shitting myself.

Concerted banging on garage and front doors simultaneously was immediately picked-up by whoever was still outside the side door. The surround-sound hammering almost freaked me out. Boots from down below were suddenly running back up the path. “Stand aside, I’ll pick the fucking lock!” rasped a voice.

“No! They could have gone fr’a meal at the Royal,” suggested the voice of reason. This again was Bellman. “Naw!!” said another voice - and it then became louder intending to be heard inside. “I think they’re in there - fucking. Couple of Fucking perverts - queer bastards!” yelled the voice. This provoked howls of raucous laughter - and was aimed to provoke rather than insult if we happened to be inside.

“Is that right?” asked another voice loudly, “Think yon Englishman’s a poof?” bawled the voice for the benefit of anybody who might be inside - then called even louder, “Callum, do youse have yer’sell an ass to fuck the neet? Yer know what they says about sailors!”
“A bit of the other - is that the expression you’s navy poofs call it?” yelled another.

More howls of laugher - but somehow I realised that this crowd would not be voicing such opinions if they seriously thought there was any real possibility one of their number their might be just that.
The laughter subsided and they were obviously at a loss to know what to do next.
“Aw fuck, this is a waste o’good drinking time!” decided Wee Hughie.
”A’think they’re definitely doon at the Royal having a meal,” advised Bellman.
“What, a meal and wine?” asked a voice before shouting just in case anybody inside could hear. “Only poofs drink wine!”
The others laughed but the party was breaking up.

“Tell yer what!” decided another voice. “Why don’t we go doon there and embarrass the fuck out of them in The Royal.”
“Naw! I’m barred fra’the Royal” said Wee Hughie.
“So am I,” said another voice.
“Do we put a note through the door ... “ asked someone.
“Or crap through it,” suggested someone else.
“No we don’t!” decided Bellman. “Come away lads. I’ll phone him in the morning and make damn sure we get them doon there tomorrow, even if we have to drag them.”
Various voices expressed an enthusiasm for doing just that.

 

I was just beginning to relax slightly as I heard doors open on what I now decided was a four-by-four. Boots scraped as they reassembled by the vehicle. But then ...

"I tell you what, lads,” suggested a voice that sounded more Irish than Scots.
“Why not us sit it out here - and jump the buggers when they’s gettin’ out’o the car. There’s kit in the back’o my van - rope - blanket? Maybe even Interrogation hoods from that last ... “
”Interra-fucking-gation hoods! You’re a right fucking kinky cunt, Rixey?
”Donger made em up for that weekend exercise when we ... "
Wha’d’ya say, Dong? Grab the fuckers and ... ” began Wee Hughie, enthusiastically.
”There’s rope here - and a great sack,” cut in another willing helper, obviously rummaging in the van.
”Right, then!” determined the Irish voice. “Let's do it! Jump the two of ‘em - scare the shit out of the poncy English feller. Drag ‘em away - ride ‘em around and then take ‘em to my place for a drink. That’d be a laff” he decided.

A chorus of general agreement died when a lone voice warned “The Big Feller’ud know it was us - and all hell’ud break lose and ... "
“He'd no like it," added another voice of caution.
"Ay, an' you know what he's like. It could turn nasty.”
“Yon English feller’s a lawyer. He’d sue the fucking pants off yers, Rixey ” suggested a third.
“Fuck that - just a friendly welcome to Oban,” argued the Irishman. “Let’s do it. I’d enjoy giving fuckin' Buchanan a taste of his own medicine after what he done ter me when ... ”
“Fuck no, he’d fucking kill yus - all of us!”

The enthusiasm seemed to drain away as others considered the possible repercussions.
"Aw, fuck - let’s away and get us a drink,” said Wee Hughie ... and this suggestions suddenly seemed like a better idea to several of the group ... and doors began to open and slam ... and another slid.
There had been more than four of them!

END OF EXCERPT

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