I heard the prison gates clang. The first day of a five year sentence.
And all because of my harmless hobby: a nice little cyber-fraud on the side to teach me the basics and provide some pocket money. A bit of coding. Drawing in the mark. Assurances that persuade: you would not believe how untrusting people are nowadays. It’s shocking. Whatever happened to brotherhood, togetherness, a blind eye for pony. Just trying to make a living here, guys.
Twenty minutes later I was enjoying a surprisingly good Flat White and chef’s special for lunch: sea bass with new potatoes and a sharp, cold-smoked gravadlax. The police could forget about me now and I could enjoy that too.
Andy’s a good lad, top-scorer in the Finsbury Football League last year, but he’s 32 now and on his own, living with his mum. His job at the garden centre’s going nowhere. Women like him in that dreaded way: they want to mother him. Not exactly what his hormones have in mind. He was teased until he came up with a line to deploy when he saw the way the conversation was going:
“Woman? Nah. I can’t pull me bloody hamstring, never mind a bird.” He nicked this from the great Peter Crouch.[1]
Sympathetic disbelief and mutters.
“Dark ‘orse that one. That ‘e is.”
“Probably got a nareem at home. No vacancies.”
But no. There was no harem. Just loneliness and a brave fist of a life. He was most worried about his little nephews and cousins missing him.
I gave him a million, tucked away, accessible by the faceless offshore agents keen to be and be seen to be trustworthy. One of my specialists cut his hair like in my mugshot (thank you, gutter press), got the stubble just right and fiddled with women’s (mostly) non-invasive cosmetic stuff until he could definitely pass as me. I won’t bore you with the other techniques (top secret anyway, and I really would kill you if I told you; nothing personal, like) such as how to get past fingerprint checks but, well, money is the WD40 of real life.
I said that he could run a mistaken identity appeal if it got too hard. He nodded and I hope he goes for it. We had planted indicators that he wasn’t well: couple of appointments with a psychiatrist; mental breakdown in a shop with security cameras; road rage ending in tears, endless apologies; a hug; and a lift home.
As for that first day in prison: ain’t gonna happen to me, law-abiding resident of Norway and Dubai.
Best wishes
Walt
[1] https://talksport.com/football/1420186/peter-crouch-wife-abbey-clancy/
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