My Neighbours Are Stealing My Mail Read online

  My Neighbours Are Stealing My Mail

  By

  Ian Edwards

  &

  Paul Waller

  Text copyright ©2019 Ian Edwards & Paul Waller

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to everyone who have bought our books and provided such a positive response. We hope you enjoy this as much.

  We would like to thank Fareeha Durrani for her enthusiasm and invaluable assistance in the development of this novel.

  A big thank you to Mike Mason for a fantastic cover.

  Also available by Ian Edwards and Paul Waller;

  Fat Kid Stuck in a Flume (Alan and Frankie Book 1)

  Buying Llamas off the Internet (Alan and Frankie Book 2)

  Massive In Lapland (Alan and Frankie Book 3)

  Also available by Ian Edwards;

  I Sociopath

  www.edwardswaller.co.uk

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49 – One Week Later.

  Prologue

  Alan leaned back in his chair and sighed. He had told Sue he didn’t want a fuss on his last day as a Civil Servant. He just wanted to avoid doing any work and then walk out the door, never looking back. Sadly, it seemed his last wish had been ignored. He felt, rather than saw, a gradual increase in people hovering in silent uncertainly around his desk. He sighed again and pushed back from his desk.

  ‘If you think I’m buying you all cakes, you’re very much mistaken. Most of you need a few weeks on the Slim Fast.’

  ‘Alan!’ Sue shouted in mock horror.

  ‘Well, I’m trying to pretend to work here, and I can’t do that with all these clowns staring at me.’

  Nervous laughter gave way to silence as Alan’s manager, Graham appeared from behind the cubicle partition.

  ‘Yes, well, Alan,’ Graham began, ‘As you know, this is your last day in the Civil Service…’

  ‘And he’s still not done a decent day’s work!’ Someone shouted from the back of the crowd.

  ‘Thank you,’ Alan grinned. ‘I genuinely appreciate that.’

  Graham faked a laugh that made Alan’s teeth itch. ‘Yes, quite,’ Graham said. ‘Anyway. As I said, this is Alan’s last day and it wouldn’t be right if we didn’t say a few words.’

  ‘I really wish you wouldn’t,’ Alan grimaced.

  ‘Now Alan, don’t be like that. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye…’

  ‘That’s probably because I’m about six inches taller than you…’

  Graham unconsciously straightened his back as he bristled. ‘Very good, Alan. Very good. I shall miss our little jokes.’

  ‘To be fair mate,’ Alan said. ‘I never said you were little.’

  Graham forced another laugh. ‘Anyway, you’ve been with us for a few years and during that time you proved yourself to be a very capable and diligent member of staff who was always willing to help others.’

  Alan laughed out loud. ‘Sorry mate, have you got your leaving speeches mixed up?’

  ‘IF YOU’D LET ME FINISH!’ Graham shouted. Alan smirked at the sudden awkward silence that descended on the open plan office.

  ‘Please do,’ Alan said, finally. ‘I wouldn’t want to miss this.’

  ‘No, Alan, I think I’ve said enough,’ Graham hissed. ‘So we got you a card and a gift. To remember us by.’ Graham handed Alan the card and wrapped present and begun a half-hearted round of applause.

  ‘Cheers guys,’ Alan said, taking the proffered items, as the clapping quickly subsided. He opened the card and glanced briefly at the platitudes contained within. He placed it on his desk and tore open the wrapping paper containing his leaving present, a book. “A History of Music Hall And Variety.”

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Alan exclaimed. ‘I thought you were going to get me some stupid Trade Deals for Dummies nonsense. But this…’ he flicked through the pages, ‘…this is inspired. Thank you.’

  ‘It was Sue’s idea,’ Graham said.

  ‘Well, I didn’t think it would be yours…’

  Graham bristled again, before someone shouted “SPEECH!”

  Alan winked at Graham. Now he would have some real fun. ‘Thank you so much for the kind words, and this…’ he held the book aloft, ‘…pressie. You might be surprised to hear I’ve actually started taking an interest in the history of comedy, and Music Hall in particular, in the last year or so. So thanks. I really appreciate it. I’d like to say I’ve enjoyed my time here, but I wouldn’t want to lie to you. I respect you far too much for that. Some of you that is.’ He winked again at Graham who was turning a deep shade of purple.

  ‘No, I’d rather just pass on my thanks to you guys for providing me with literally minutes of unintentional humour in the last few years. Who can forget Nigel meeting the Minister with his flies undone, explaining how he hoped for an open and frank exchange of views. Or when old Terry O’Brien got drunk at a banquet and asked the Japanese Ambassador if he was related to the bloke who played Monkey in the old eighties TV series. Classic moments. Perhaps not so much for Terry, bless him. Dismissed. The only bloke daft enough to get sacked from the Civil Service.

  ‘I’d also like to thank my team for helping me skive and shred many, many, many important documents that I couldn’t be arsed to deal with.’ He smiled at Graham. ‘Only kidding…Or am I..? Finally I’d like to say how nice it is to see Graham’s wife grow her moustache for Movember. It’s OK mate, it’s over. She can shave it off any time she likes now.’

  Alan smirked as he placed the card and book in his day sack. ‘Oh yeah, and if any of you fancy a beer to celebrate my last day, feel free to pop into The Oak. I won’t be there, because I’ve got better things to do, but it’s an option for you. Bye.’ He stood and walked through the mass of people surrounding his desk and walked down the corridor.

  ‘ALAN!’ Graham shouted. ‘You cannot leave until it’s home time.’

  Alan stopped, turned and laughed. ‘Mate, it is home time.’ Turning around he added. ‘You can all watch me leave if you like, I couldn’t care less.’

  ‘Well, you’re a free man now,’ Frankie said, appearing at Alan’s shoulder. ‘How does it
feel?’

  ‘I’ve never felt more alive,’ Alan replied.

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Frankie grunted and disappeared.

  Chapter 1

  ‘This is hell,’ James said to himself.

  Wedged into the corner of a tube carriage, he looked around at his fellow passengers, most of whom were as uncomfortable as he was with the enforced stop between stations. A few people seemed visibly agitated by the unscheduled delay, sighing loudly and making a show of checking their watches and shaking their heads. Others appeared unconcerned, distracted by whatever played through earphones or flickered on their phone screens.

  James pulled at his tie and unfastened his top button. He glanced over at the pregnant lady who was sitting comfortably in a seat he had occupied four stops earlier. She had stood in front of him, giving him a look that appeared to hold him responsible for her condition and asked very nicely if he would be prepared to give up his seat. James was happy to do so, he was a gentleman after all. It did, however, irk him that he was standing in a corner slowly baking to death, while she was relaxing in his seat, looking through her phone, sipping from a water bottle without having the decency to look even slightly guilty.

  The train lurched forward, causing James to brush against the woman standing next to him. He smiled apologetically, receiving a frosty glare in response.

  ‘I…’ James began to apologise, when the train ground to a halt again. Not bad, he thought, we must have gone at least six feet.

  ‘This is your driver speaking.’ The PA system crackled into life. ‘I apologise for the continued delays to your journey today. This is a result of congestion caused by sheep on the line. I will let you know if I have any further news,’ the driver paused, before adding, ‘If anyone can be bothered to tell me that is. After all, I’m only the poor bloke stuck down here in the dark eight hours a day breathing in dead skin cells.’

  The sound of tutting and deep sighing resonated around the carriage while James stared at the underground map trying to work out where sheep could have got on the line.

  ‘I think they must have got on at Shepherd’s Bush,’ He said to the woman standing next to him.

  ‘I’m sorry...’ the woman replied cautiously.

  ‘The sheep,’ he attempted to explain. ‘They must have got on at Shepherd’s Bush.’

  ‘Probably,’ she replied and attempted to turn her back on him.

  James glanced down at his watch, concerned that he was going to be late.

  I can’t be late, he thought. Not today of all days. Not the day of the verdict.

  *

  James bounded up the steps and out of the station. One more check of the watch. He knew he would just about make it without having to run. However, Amy would kill him if he missed the verdict so he set off on a light jog.

  The Central Criminal Court - more commonly known as the Old Bailey – had witnessed many strange and incredible things in its history, but a sweaty, panting, slightly overweight music teacher in his late thirties tearing up its steps and launching himself through the doors was a first.

  James came to a juddering halt as he joined the back of the queue waiting to be checked through security. He checked his watch again and sighed, wiping sweat from his brow.

  Thankfully the queue moved quickly and, stuffing his phone, wallet and keys back into his pockets - security deciding that his supermarket loyalty card didn’t pose a threat - James headed towards the court. Slipping in, hoping that no one would notice that he was late, he took his seat and waited for the day’s events to begin.

  *

  Alan put his bowl of cereal on the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. Not having a day job to go to he intended to mull around in his pyjamas all day. In the background the radio repeated the big story of the morning; severe delays on the underground as a result of sheep on the line. ‘Must have got on the line at Shepherd’s Bush,’ he said.

  His phone buzzed on the table beside him. Alan read the message;

  HAVE YOU HEARD FROM JAMES YET?

  Rosie

  He thumbed out a reply;

  NO. HE SAID HE’D LET ME KNOW AFTER THE VERDICT. I’LL LET YOU KNOW WHEN I HEAR.

  He paused for a second and added;

  WE’VE RUN OUT OF MILK

  Satisfied he could survive the day drinking only black coffee, he pressed send and went back to his cereal.

  *

  James listened nervously as the judge summed up the evidence. He resisted the urge to nod every time the Judge referred to a possible not guilty verdict, but was sure that everyone, like him, would see this was the only possible outcome.

  *

  Harry Hodges dipped his cloth into a bowl of warm soapy water and began to wipe the face of his ventriloquist doll “Old Man Ernie.”

  ‘Let’s get you nice and clean,’ Harry said as he slid the cloth through the creases in Old Man Ernie’s face. ‘Let’s get rid of all this egg,’ he said, rinsing the cloth out in the bowl. A few evenings earlier, Old Man Ernie had been on the receiving end of an egg thrown from the audience. The egg wasn’t aimed at Old Man Ernie, or indeed Harry, but at another act entirely. Unfortunately the hooligan’s aim had been so poor that it hit Harry, or rather Ernie, both of whom were waiting patiently at the side of the stage. As he stood in the bar afterwards one of the other comedians had renamed them Harry Hodges and Old Man Omelette.

  Harry took a dry towel and gently dried off Old Man Ernie’s face.

  ‘Nearly there,’ he said and looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘I wonder if they’ve reached a verdict.’ He said to Ernie. ‘Today’s the day.’

  Reaching for his phone. He sent a quick text message and continued cleaning his wooden puppet.

  *

  James sat on one of the uncomfortable wooden benches outside the court. He watched as the barristers, court clerks and members of the public streamed past him. Some lost in conversation, though none appeared overly concerned by the outcome of the trial. Lost in thought, he slowly turned his mobile phone over and over in his hand.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said to no one in particular, ‘I should let people know what happened.’

  *

  Alan roared with laughter as the scene played out in front of him. ‘He’s behind you,’ he shouted at the TV.

  The Dr Who theme blared out from his phone, cutting short his entertainment.

  ‘Mate, what’s happening?’ He asked, seeing James’s name on the screen.

  ‘The trials finished. The verdict’s in,’ James told him. ‘They found….’

  ‘This is brilliant,’ Alan interrupted. ‘There’s a streaker.’

  ‘What? Where? What are you talking about?’ James asked.

  ‘Houses of Parliament. I’m watching Prime Minister’s question time,’ he explained. ‘There’s a streaker…’ Alan laughed as the naked person weaved in and out of the back benches, pursued by two police officers, like a modern day version of the Keystone Cops.

  ‘What’s she protesting about?’ James asked.

  Alan shrugged. ‘No Idea. But it’s a he, not a she. This is brilliant, he’s just popped out from behind the speaker’s chair.’

  ‘Literally,’ James added.

  ‘Ooowwww,’ Alan winced. ‘He’s just been caught by the Cabinet.’

  ‘That’ll brings tears to his eyes,’ James said. ‘Anyway, the verdict.’

  ‘Sorry mate,’ Alan apologised, turning the volume down. ‘What happened?’

  James sighed. ‘Guilty. She got three years.’

  *

  Rosie stood in the hospital entrance watching a woman lead a small boy up the ramp towards her. The woman appeared flustered. Not least because the child had a saucepan on his head.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the woman asked. ‘Are you a nurse?’

  ‘No,’ Rosie said, shaking her head and looking down at the boy. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘A Doctor, then?’

  ‘No, I’m a radiographer.’

  ‘But you’re wea
ring a white coat,’ the woman pointed out, as though this won the argument.

  Rosie sighed. ‘If you go through here, the A&E reception is just down on the right,’ she pointed through the doors.

  The woman thanked Rosie and knocked on the saucepan, causing the child to look up at her. ‘Come on Benjy, let’s see if they can get this off your head…Again…’ she sighed, setting off to the A&E Department.

  Rosie shook her head and sat down on a bench outside hospital entrance. She took her phone from her pocket and read Alan’s message.

  HEARD FROM JAMES – GUILTY. SHE GOT 3 YRS.

  Rosie winced and was about to send a reply, when a further message from Alan flashed up on the screen.

  CAN YOU GET SOME WOTSITS? RUN OUT.

  THANKS

  For the second time in as many minutes, Rosie shook her head, put her phone back in her pocket and went back to work.

  *

  James didn’t want to go straight home after the trial. The house would be empty without Amy, so he decided to cheer himself up by browsing the second hand record shops in Soho. The slightly grubby backstreets behind Oxford Street were home to several slightly less grubby record shops that managed to defy the odds and return minimal profits while their big name counterparts struggled against the rising tide of downloads. Walking down a side alley, James reached his destination: “Arty’s Crazy World of Music.”

  Positioned between a church and a second hand book shop, from the outside, Arty’s drab appearance offered no clues of the treasure inside. As far as James was concerned it was the best kept secret in London and he had no desire to share it with anyone. This was his happy place.

  James pushed open the door and stepped in. A thin weedy man with a goatee leaned against a counter flicking through the pages of a magazine.

  ‘James, buddy. How’s things?’ He said, looking up from his magazine.

  ‘Hey Arty,’ James replied. ‘Not too bad.’ He pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘I was just passing, thought I’d pop in, see what you’ve got.’

  ‘What have I got?’ Arty repeated, losing interest in his magazine. ‘What have I got? Only the biggest collection of second hand vinyl, CD’s, mini-discs and cassettes in the country. As you well know.’