How long before they come?
I don’t really subscribe to conspiracy theories. I’m much more a proof of the pudding type of guy. Although, in my darkest moments, paranoia has been known to rear its ugly head. This usually happens when I find micro-transmitters hidden in the light sockets. My neighbour tells me it’s pretty normal stuff for our area and it is only the District Council looking for evidence of non-compliance with the green bag scheme. He’s a good guy my neighbour, although I’m not sure about his name. I thought Frank Zappa had cornered the whacko kid’s name market, but what kind of a handle is “M”?
Anyway, the neighbour and I were chatting over the fence the other day – I was taking a break from mowing the lawn, and he was reloading his magnum and he said something funny. “You know, I’m worried about you, Martyn”
“Why’s that, M?”
“You look like you have the world on your shoulders, mate.”
“I do?”
“Yes, you do, and I don’t mind telling you that concerns me.”
“Well, that’s really nice of you, M. As it happens, I do have some problems, but I hate to burden you with them buddy.”
“Hey fellah, I wouldn’t be a good neighbour if I didn’t extend a neighbourly hand of support. So what’s curdling your yoghurt, mate?”
“The Police, the law and our position in the legal framework.”
“Really?”
“Really.” I paused waiting for a response, but he stood there with that studious look I’ve come to know all too well. “Have you noticed that when we have issues around the neighbourhood, the Police never turn up?”
“They’re very busy guys, Martyn. The government has devoted an enormous increment to their ongoing resources, but what with the terrorist threat and organised crime, they are grossly over stretched.” He often talked like a White Paper. I put it down to him being a civil servant.
“Yeah, I get all that, but my concern is they’ve made a choice and we’re at the bottom of the pile. It’s not like the Rumney Police are hot on the trail of Osama bin Laden or anything and I’m pretty certain the Triads have failed to open a Saint Mellons branch.”
“What DO you know about the Triads, Martyn?” he asked as he angled his lapel button towards me.
“Nothing really. Mister Wong at the Silver Palace is a bit of shady looking character, but aside from that I’ve not really any evidence of their existence or otherwise.”
“It’s good that you don’t know anything about the Triads, Martyn. They’re not nice people. Is that W-O-N-G?”
“Yeah, but anyway, have you noticed that if something kicks off in London, or even if someone tries to nick something in Debenhams, there are wall to wall serge blue clad plonks, but if I ring up to complain about the kid driving down the street in a stolen car at ninety miles per hour I get a crime number.”
“What are you trying to say, Martyn?”
“Well, M, in a nutshell, it seems to me that big business and the rich get protection, but we ordinary folk have been thrown to the wolves. I’m not saying they want to do this, just that in the pecking order of resources, we’re the molluscs.”
“Well everybody has to make choices, big fellah.”
“I guess so. Anyway thanks, M”
“You’re welcome, Martyn. Sometimes it’s good to talk. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to take care of.”
I would have picked him up about having prepositions at the end of sentences, but he was still polishing the Magnum, so I went back to mowing the lawn. I have quite an extensive lawn around the front of the house – it’s a good two hours work every week to keep it in shape and I soon worked up quite a hunger. So, after a brief consultation with the kids, we decided upon a Chinese takeaway. I was quite looking forward to it, but my anticipation turned to disappointment when I arrived at the Silver Palace only to find the shutters up and a guy nailing a “For Sale” sign to front of the shop. Mister Wong had, it seems, upped sticks and disappeared. Funny that.
