Cargo

It was just approaching night in the proper sense of the word when he heard the noise. A thump, like a bass hiccup from the back. This had happened a lot lately, the straps that held down the cargo were at least a decade old and the buckles kept coming loose. Spotting a lay by, he swerved left and came to a halt on the crunching tarmac. He opened the door and climbed out, fishing a packet of cigarettes off of the windscreen as he did so. The twilight air was cold, he would say crisp but the all pervading stench of petrol and exhaust prevented him from describing it so. He stood there, lighting the cigarette, cupping his hand about the flame, the ridges of his palms lighting up in dancing shadows. When it lit, he put the lighter back in his pocket and went around to the back of the lorry, unclipped the doors at the base and top, heaved off the latch and swung them open. Yep, the crates had slid all to the left of the trailer and were pressing up against the canvas, he thought they had probably shifted at the A17-M74 junction past Larkhall, the turn was sharp and spiralled downwards. It had happened before. He climbed up and in, flicking on the thin overhead lights.

The packaging on one of the crates had caught on the one of the metal bars that ran up the walls. 

This too, had happened before, but not to this extent, at least half of the plastic wrapping had peeled away and the cargo was spilt across the floor. He stepped closer, took out his torch and directed the beam at the floor.

Money.

Banknotes, stacked in cubes that must have weighed at least a kilogram each.

He knelt down, flicked through the notes, all of them 200 euro bills, the circle of stars bright in the torchlight. He put down the packet, carefully, and shined the torch around the trailer, eight separate crates, he went over to the next nearest and crouched down, took out his keys and slit open the wrapping. More bills. He ran his fingernail down the side of the stack, listening to the sound, watching the embossed 200s whip past like the pages of a flip book. At a guess, he thought there must be about 10,000 notes a crate. So about 80,000 notes.

200 times 80,000. 16,000,000 euros in total. 

His head filled with a murky swarm of ideas like fireflies, shining with possibility, dancing, taunting.

He sat down slowly, the keys sitting in his lap, clingfilm still hanging from his door key. 

-

I have a house,

I have a house and I have a wife and I have a job.

I'm being stupid.

I should call the police.

No one hires an unsuspecting lorry driver to ship 16 million euros across the entirety of the UK. 

No one on the right side of the law anyway.

-

He got out his mobile, keyed in the three nines, all the while knowing that he wouldn't hit call.

He sat there, finger hovering over the keypad.

Then he flipped it shut, rose to his feet and put it back into his pocket. 

-

I could fit one, maybe two million into the duffel bag I have on the back seat.

But where would I take it?

I could drive to Edinburgh, dump the rest there, in a warehouse or a lorry park, get a cab to Rosyth, where that big ferry port is, get on a boat to Belgium with the money in the hold.

I'm headed south now though, I'll need to change back up north and rejoin the A71.

-

He picked his way around the spilt bills, booted feet tramping on the metal floor. Then he clambered down from the trailer and latched and locked the doors. He took one last draw on his cigarette then dropped it onto the tarmac, where it hissed in the wet.

The cab had coldened in the time he'd been gone and he had to wack the heating up nearly to maximum in order to produce any sort of noticeable difference between the interior and exterior temperatures. He rubbed the sleeves of his coat against his arms, shivering and reached for the map. He fished it out from underneath the newspaper on the passenger seat and flicked on the overhead lights. Picking up the remnants of a McDonald's, he swept it onto the passenger seat and spread the map out over the dashboard. There, change onto the B7078 just south of Blackwood, come round, follow it north onto Carlisle road and rejoin the A71 at the junction. So where was the duffel bag? He swung himself between the two front seats and checked in the backseat footwells. There it was, stuffed down, nearly under the driver's seat. He opened it, intending to pull the contents out and dump it in a foot well or in the locker at the back. 

But it was

his son's.

He was never sure why he'd kept his football kit, they hadn't kept his room, or his bed, or the posters on the walls. He could remember tearing it all out, putting it in bin bags in the car boot, this was before they'd had to sell the car, and giving it to a charity shop. An Oxfam. He hadn't wanted to, lord knows he hadn't wanted to, but the room was empty and empty rooms happened to be in high demand. They'd found a lodger. 

But Edith. After he died Edith had never been the same, she'd have moments where she'd stop whatever she was doing and stare, straight ahead, eyes unfocused as though she were staring into the distance. And she'd wake, in the night, screaming and crying for him to come back to her. When this happened he would always go downstairs to get a cup of tea for her, and by the time he'd come back she would already be asleep. 

If he were to leave, what would happen to Edith. Any doctor they'd seen had said she was variously in shock, denial, grief. If he left, it would, undoubtedly, get worse. 

Could he, take her with him?

But of course she was staying with her sister, in Welwyn Garden City. His tickets for the ferry to San Malo were for 6:00 am, and it was, what, 10ish now. It was 7 hours to Portsmouth on the best of days and this wasn't the best of days. He knew they would check to see if he got on the ferry, particularly with this much money. And if he didn't, they'd come looking, and when they did, he'd much rather be on a ferry to Belgium than just leaving Buckinghamshire. 

No.

He'd make this decision later.

After he'd filled up the duffel bag.

Got out, walked round to the back, unlock, unlatch, open. He almost seemed to be working automatically, not thinking too much about what he was doing. He filled the bag with notes from the crate that had split, counting them as he went, 5000, 10,000, 20, 25, 35, 40, 50. He got to 2 million eventually and zipped up the bag, slinging it over his left shoulder, his son's football kit under the other arm. Close, latch, lock. He drew the bolts home with metallic clinks. And went back round to the cab, staggering under the weight of two million euros. He put it down in the passenger seat footwell, where it didn't quite fit, hanging half over the seat itself. He slammed shut the door and began to drive again.

 What would he do, with the money, buy himself a house? A car? A new TV? A motorbike?

What the hell would he do with two million euros.

They used to play games like that sometimes, on long car journeys, they'd play eyespy and famous people and the game where you had to remember the previous items. It made him go to sleep. And then he would sleep and sleep and sleep. Sometimes when they arrived they'd just leave him in the car for a while, to sleep. They didn't drive at all after the accident. Which had a lot to do with why they sold the car. He liked to think another family had bought it, that they'd laughed and talked and eaten too many jelliebabies in it. But it probably just went to scrap. 

The junction was just a few minutes away, he could practically see it, the slip road off, back to Edinburgh, to Belgium, to god knows where. And the other road, the southern road, long, straight, back to Edith, back to the days when they wouldn't talk to each other, the days when she seemed like someone he hardly knew. He'd take the B7078, go back to Edinburgh, get on the-

No.

He wouldn't.

The sliproad came and went, disappearing into the distance behind him. He was going to back to his wife. Back to the bad days and the worse nights. Back to the coldness of their home, where they'd sidestep around each other. But he was going back to her.

Because he loved her.