George's Place

An ear-splitting ‘crack!’ filled the air as they hit the stone jetty. The tiny rowing boat split in two as if it were balsa wood. The black water swallowed both halves up with a reptilian slurp.

Max and Steve fell backwards with a splash and found themselves neck deep in the water of the large lake.

‘Shit. That’s the spliff gone out,’ said Max. ‘Never mind the spliff,’ panicked Steve, ‘what about the boat? If we get caught, they’re going to kill us!’.

The two friends waded and swam to the side of the lake and hoisted themselves on to the tennis court sized, neatly manicured lawn by the water’s edge.

As they lay on their backs on the dew-soaked grass, Max and Steve realised that they were completely soaked through. They lay there breathing heavily. Drenched, shocked and shivering.

Suddenly, Max was seized by paroxysms of laughter. Steve looked at him in confusion and then started laughing too. He just couldn’t help it.

‘Do you reckon they heard that up at the house?’ asked Steve. ‘Nah, not a chance’ replied Max confidently. ‘Everybody will be inside this time of night’. ‘Except for idiots like us’ laughed Steve. Max let out an amused snort in response

The two friends lay there panting and laughing, gazing up at the full moon looking down on them through the fronds of the Monterey pine trees that surrounded them.

They both felt the powerful warmth of eight per cent alcohol Belgian beer and brandy chasers swirling around their bodies. They had also smoked a couple of fully loaded joints of hydroponic White Widow cannabis.  They’d decided it would be a good idea to go on a post-closing time adventure in the fifty-acre estate owned by George Harrison. Now here they were. Very naughty. Very naughty indeed.

The ex-Beatle’s property was surprisingly easy to get into. The perimeter walls next to the main road were only about seven feet tall and dated from Victorian times. Highly ornate with plenty of places to plant your hands and feet. All you had to do was to wait for a decent pause in the flow of traffic (which was easy after the pubs had closed). Then scramble over the wall as quickly as you could. There wasn’t even a drop on the other side because there was a small grassy bank above that sloped up about a foot and disappeared into a clump of small beech trees.

‘The lads are never going to believe this in the Tuns when we tell them about this tomorrow night,’ laughed Steve. ‘Nope’ agreed Max.

‘Shit. We’d better get out of here’, Max added, ‘We’re bloody soaked and I don’t want to catch my death. Neither do you’.

‘But let’s have another smoke first’ replied Steve.

‘OK. I’ll do the business’, said Max. ‘Good lad’, remarked Steve.

Max expertly crumbled the fragrant white widow bud into a large cigarette paper. He added some moist tobacco from his pouch. Finally, Max picked up the paper and rolled the joint swiftly and smoothly. He shoved one end in his mouth and lit the other with a windproof lighter. He took a few tokes and exhaled loudly, handing the joint to Steve.

The two friends lay there, propped up on their elbows, smoking and sniggering. They contemplated the magnificent lacquered wooden, Japanese-style bridge that arced across the lake.

Beyond the bridge, on the opposite side of the lake, a ten-foot-tall statue of Buddha stared benevolently down upon them, a satisfied smile on his face. Both Max and Steve felt an immense sense of peace and well-being wash over them.

They lay in a daze for about ten minutes. Until Max said ‘OK, we’d better make a move’.

Max and Steve got to their feet, swaying unsteadily. With an intoxicated effort, they bent down to pick up their jackets, both almost losing their balance.

The wind had become much stronger, and it was drying, but at the same time, freezing their soaked garments. A cloud had blown in front of the moon giving it a certain eerie, ominous quality. It made Steve experience an uneasy, queasy feeling in his stomach.

Suddenly, Steve was aware of a bright flash across his peripheral vision. ‘Shit Max. Did you see that?’ he asked. ‘See what?’ asked Max.

Both companions turned to look towards the main house. They saw what looked like three criss-crossing torch beams raking across the immense, immaculate lawn in their direction. Steve could swear he heard a dog barking.

The main house, with its imposing mock-gothic façade, glowered down through its massive arched windows and angry turrets. They could almost swear that the house could see them.

‘Damn, they must realise someone’s in the garden!’ exclaimed Max. ‘You think?’ retorted Steve sarcastically.

The torch beams suddenly veered off to the left, the way Max and Steve had entered the garden.

 ‘Crap. They’re heading towards the main road’, said Max, ‘we can’t go back out that way!’

 Steve’s stomach felt like it had shrunk to the size of a walnut as he offered ‘Someone told me that there’s a back gate off to the other side. That might be our only hope’

‘I guess so too.’ said Max ‘Come on, we’d better get a move on.’.

The surge of adrenaline from all this commotion charged both Max and Steve with an icy alertness. Almost cancelling out the effects of all that booze and weed.

Sensibly, they decided on the opposite direction to the security detail. Setting off slowly and deliberately, the two friends picked their way up a steep pathway paved with glistening granite rocks.

At the end of this path a tunnel loomed before them. As they stepped in, they noticed that it was dimly illuminated by ancient-looking, flickering electric candles. Max and Steve could vaguely make out that the walls and ceiling were covered in mock Egyptian hieroglyphs, Roman-style artwork and Freemason symbols.

Momentarily forgetting their plight, Steve remarked ‘Wow this is so trippy. Let’s stay here for a bit’. ‘Christ no.’ said Max ‘Are you off your head? They’ll find us’. There was an uneasy silence.

‘Killjoy’ said Steve.

They came to the end of the tunnel. Below them was a roughly five-foot drop down to another lawn which was dotted with three-foot tall concrete models of psilocybe semilanceata mushrooms. Better known as ‘magic’ mushrooms.

‘OK, let’s do this’ said Max. The pair dropped down, both bracing themselves for a heavy landing.

Max landed first, springing up from a crouch as he righted himself. Steve landed a second later but lost his balance. He toppled over to his right towards one of the concrete magic mushrooms. As he put out his right hand to steady himself, his ring finger hit the top of the mushroom. He felt a sickening crack as his finger bent back agonisingly into a rather unnatural position.

Steve let out a noisy howl. A gruff shout filled the air ‘Oi! Who the hell is that? Come here now!’. They could definitely hear a dog bark now. And a low snarling. ‘Run!’ said Max.

They ran as fast as they could. Momentarily, Steve noticed that the pain of his broken finger was now barely perceptible with the freezing fear pulsing around his system. They saw that the household security detail was far closer than they thought. Too close. They were barely thirty yards away. With dogs. Big dogs. And now they realised they’d been spotted, as a torch beam shone blindingly in their faces. ‘Oi. Come here now you little bastards!’ an angry, gravelly voice demanded.

Fortunately, the back gate loomed into view. Unfortunately, it was eight feet tall. Max reached it just ahead of Steve. With a lung-bursting jump, he managed to grab the top of the gate and lever himself over. Steve heard the crunch of gravel as Max hit the ground on the other side.

As Steve grabbed the top of the gate and pulled himself up, he heard a guttural growl. He then felt a tug and noticed a dead weight hanging from the right leg of his jeans. He kicked out furiously. And felt a rip as the weight subsided. Steve heard a pitiful yelp as the Doberman hit the gravel beneath him.

Steve commando rolled over the top of the gate and landed inelegantly on the concrete. On his hands and knees, he gradually looked up. He saw a pair of official-looking black boots and, beside them, a familiar looking pair of red Nike trainers. As his gaze came fully into focus, he noticed the yellow and blue Battenburg cake pattern on the Vauxhall squad car. There was no mistaking that.

Max’s hands were cuffed in front of him, and he was leaning against the car wearing a deflated, downcast expression. Next to him stood a balding, overweight police officer in the familiar black uniform. He had a wry, amused look on his face. The radio tucked under his chin emitted a harsh electronic crackle.

‘Well well well. What have we got here then?’ queried the officer. ‘You two are a sight for sore eyes and no mistake’.

‘You’re nicked me old beauties!’.