Roskov, Book 2, page 1
Ricky Roskov
Book 2
Copyright © Geoff Wolak
Written in April, 2021, from an idea first formed in 2006.
This book is a work of fiction based in fact, technically accurate in the detail of geographical locations.
Email the author: gwresearchb@aol.com
www.geoffwolakwriting.com
A new place to call home
With my parents finally sorting the new house mortgage, we now had a provisional move date, and I set out to visit the new house with my parents the second week of January.
The new house had sat empty for just a few months, the former elderly occupants apparently settled in their second home in Spain - yet they had been hospitalised in some accident just after they had put this place up for sale. Correspondence had been slow.
As we drove, the road from Leicester changed from semi-industrial to suburban, to half a mile of countryside before the village of Crockton began, an old grey stone church standing proud, a dated country pub seen, a small shop noted.
Turning off the main road, I found a damp and leafy tree-lined road, and the fourth house on the left would be ours, perhaps twenty houses on this road altogether. We turned in and onto the driveway, that driveway perhaps fifteen yards long, a front garden of grass with an old stone sundial, leafless rose bushes to one side.
The front of the garden offered a high hedge that seemed to go right around the house, so the privacy was good. Out the car, we met the keen agent, and she showed us inside this four-bed semi.
The house smelt of old wood, which was OK by me, but the interior was reasonably modern, not from the 1960s. The through-lounge was huge, space for a few bookshelves for myself and my father, the windows in good condition and already double-glazed.
The kitchen was large, which pleased mum, a small downstairs toilet at the rear, part of a conservatory that would probably need replacing.
The rear garden was larger than that of our current terraced house and it offered two squares of grass, a bird stand and a clothes line, a large shed sat off to one side.
Upstairs, the stairs not creaking, we found three large bedrooms and one small one, plus a good-sized bathroom. The bathroom was Victorian black and white in colour and design yet was modern, the bedrooms empty of furniture.
From the front bedroom windows I could now see the other houses, cars parked, a view of farmers’ fields and a stream, and from the rear bedroom I could see a wooded area then houses – a cold damp squirrel staring back at me.
The previous owners had been security conscious, detector lights front and back, and a “bing-bong” issued whenever anyone walked up the driveway. My parents would, most definitely, be keeping the security features.
Happy, we drove back chatting, the offer waiting the solicitors because the previous old couple were now bed-ridden in Spain, their grown daughter handling the sale locally.
Back at our small terraced house we got the kettle on, talk of custom bookshelves along the length of the front lounge, TV to be in the rear.
The following Tuesday, and after studying the Highway Code as if my life depended on it, I passed my driving test first time, the weather having been good for that one-hour test. I now needed a car, so that evening I ventured to a showroom with Bonza – and his mate who knew cars.
The staff were pleased to see me, at least the female staff were, the large fat salesmen did not want my autograph. I found a Vauxhall Vectra I liked, just two grand, and bought it there and then, my bank card used.
‘Why the cheap crap car?’ the fat salesman rudely asked.
‘To practise with a few months, then get a good one,’ I told him.
‘Well … yeah, many a young lad does that, but you look thirty so it’s hard to think of you as a young lad. Or think of four in a bed.’
I smiled widely as he complained about his social life, or lack of one, and I could pick the car up after it had been taxed and serviced.
The next day, lunchtime, and wrapped up warm, a driver took me into town, a very good digital camera bought with extra data cards, six hundred quid paid. It came with a hefty manual, so that evening I was sat in studying, my father wanting to read the manual as well.
On the Friday lunchtime, my erections men in Watford and Essex now shut down - they were not erecting anything in this weather, I ventured around to the printers and greeted the staff, the frump now making herself a few quid in commissions from my posters.
And we now stood at nine thousand posters sold, the production costs coming down, the staff adept at producing the labels and doing the fulfilment - and they were getting faster at it.
A chat to my accountant later, and I might soon need to be VAT registered, but I indicated that much of the money would be paid into the Swedish company. Rolf had sent me the share documents and certificate of incorporation, my accountant checking it.
I had asked my accountant about charitable donations, tax reducing donations, and he had indicated that I could donate a great deal of money without causing an issue, and that my taxable profits would be lowered accordingly.
With a local charity in mind, a kind of meals on wheels, I went to see them on the Saturday morning, the grey-haired staff welcoming me loudly.
‘Ladies, I want to give you some money, but it comes with conditions.’
‘We’re a bit old to take you on holiday, love,’ one said, and they laughed like a coven of witches.
‘No, no … holiday sex, ladies. What I want … is some of your time to be spent with single old ladies, not just meals delivered, I want an hour in the morning and again at night, so I want someone working at it full time.’
‘And you’ll pay towards that?’
‘I will, so how many hours would two grand a month get me?’
They exchanged looks.
‘Two of us full time just about for that money, love.’
I had my cheque book, and I wrote a cheque there and then. Handing it over, I said, ‘Make a start, but I want to see the schedule, and I’ll come with you some of the time. You send the schedule to my accountant once a month.’ I gave them the address.
‘Next, I want a man involved, a big man, some security visits for the old ladies.’
‘What about that lad that knows you, Big Dobby?’
‘Ah, yes, excellent, he’s a gentle giant, lovely man. Rope him in. And I’ll do the rounds with him, some cash in hand. And I’ll pop in regular now that I know where you are.’
‘So these three girls in that bed..?’
Embarrassed by the old ladies, I left with my head down.
Sunday, my new computer turned up, and the delivery man set it up for me, despite most of our household items now going into boxes for the imminent move. I handed the man my digital camera, and he showed me how to run the cable to the computer, and to download images.
I was soon having a quick lesson on PaintShop, how to make the greens greener and the sky bluer, and in work I had become proficient with Windows 95. I had a modem, so I set-up a three-way connector with the house phone line, and I dialled Rolf.
‘Hello? You there?’ I typed into the box on the screen.
We soon had an interactive chat onscreen, so the system worked. And I could now send him images, only very, very slowly.
Monday, and I picked up my new car with a driver from work, the paperwork checked. Oil checked, tyre pressure checked, enough petrol, and I drove my first car out the showroom - and to the glass factory without killing any innocent pedestrians.
Documents all photocopied, and left with my uncle in his safe, I went for a drive with a window fitter next to me, and he offered some advice as we drove around Leicester.
Back in work, Julie detailed a story about me in the local paper, my charitable work, and it read as if I was giving a great deal of money to charity.
At home that night my father had a look at my first car, and I took him for a spin, my driving proficient since I had clocked up sixty hours of study. I had not needed the sixty hours, but it was in my nature to do things right, and to excess.
We drove in the dark, and we drove on the motorway, my father me offering advice on how to avoid being killed by idiot drivers, and how lorries always tried to squash cars and kill the occupants.
Back home, he noted, ‘Your driving is very smooth, no issues, it’s just the practise of different situations, different idiots trying hard to get themselves - and you - killed.’
The next day I drove to work, and then with a fitter I drove to my Coventry customers, a few windows to have a look at. We had supplied the windows and frames, the construction company fitting them, but if fitted incorrectly the windows would shatter.
The fitter had kit to test straightness, and he did, one window frame wrongly fitted and soon adjusted a few millimetres.
After a cup of tea and a long chat with the staff I drove back, soon swearing as a lorry tried very hard to kill us, my passenger shouting at the lorry. I had pulled back, my heart racing, and we followed the manic driver towards Leicester.
Approaching Leicester, and as we observed, the lorry nudged a car that span out of control. Pulled over, and rushing out of my new car, myself and my passenger had a mouthful of abuse to aim at the lorry driver as I helped the injured lady in the car.
Police on scene, and they recognised me, soon hearing about my near miss, the angry protesting lorry driver soon handcuffed and slammed against his truck.
The middle-aged lady went in an ambulance, her car a write-off, and I made a loud angry statement to the po
Key handed to me, I drove to her house, a small dog fed and stroked, the house checked over and locked. Back in the ward I handed back the key; the dog was fine and she could relax.
At home, I called the twins, tales to tell of my first car, and of dangerous lorry drivers. They were worried for me, but they would be busy the next day, more clothes to model as they proudly detailed four thousand posters sold.
The thieving photographer in Zurich had caved, money sent to Trish, the photos destroyed, and he would never get a professional photography assignment again. The comedian who had used our photos had sent us a few grand, rather the BBC did on his behalf, with a nice apology.
The next day in work, a few new quotes to type-up, and I was again in the local paper, someone having snapped me at the hospital, my trip to the lorry-injured women’s home detailed, no one to look after her poor dog.
Bob Turnball finally called, and he wanted a meet in London. A day booked with the Watford erectors, and I had stretched it a bit with my uncle, since I would only spend an hour in Watford.
Tuesday night, my house now all boxes and hard to find anything, I drove to the hospital, only to find the thirty-year-old son at the mother’s bedside.
I shook his hand. ‘You can take over now.’
‘Thanks for helping, and … it’s freaky odd that it’s you after seeing you on the TV. My girlfriend was going nuts when she saw the newspaper story.’
‘She local?’ I puzzled.
‘Yes, but in a wheelchair.’
‘Permanently?’
‘Yeah,’ he sadly reported. ‘We were together since age seven, got married young, then she was injured on holiday, jet ski.’
‘Good that you stuck with her.’
‘Couldn’t imagine being without her.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Aircraft safety inspector, so I travel.’
‘And when you do travel..?’
‘My mum and her mum help out, one big happy family.’
Wednesday, and I got the train instead of driving, the train connections being good from Leicester, and I could relax with a cup of tea on the train. I was not in disguise, and a few businessmen got chatting. It passed the time quickly.
At Watford they wanted all the gossip over a cup of tea, just five minutes spent chatting about the next job.
Back on the train, I was being glanced at, not least because I was in my trademark suit, and on the tube a few brows furrowed as the tired and weary commuters recognised me.
Near Oxford Street I found the posh offices and signed in, soon up in a lift and meeting Bob Turnball and his management team, more than half of that team being ladies.
‘What? No beautiful girls?’ he complained. ‘We only asked you here because we thought you might bring some.’
His team laughed.
‘They’re busy modelling clothes in Stockholm I’m afraid.’
We sat.
‘We have a shit load of things that you can do, but over-exposure is an issue. Oh, and Diageo are buying Smirnoff, so that ties it all up well enough. We have a good relationship with Diageo, so we can organise something soon.’
‘Jacqueline is filming, three months,’ I told them.
‘So we gathered, yes. And the twins?’
‘A few small contracts, a few days at a time.
‘If we use the full team then Mercedes will be pissed off and it will look too similar, so we don’t want Jacqueline or … Mercedes cars, we want a fresh break from that.’
I nodded. ‘What’s the product?’
‘Drinks, drinks and more drinks, plus we have Interflora to look at.’
‘I can do Interflora by myself or with the twins,’ I suggested. ‘Do they want a sketch?’
‘Have you got one?’ he challenged.
‘I can have one quickly,’ I assured them. ‘What aspects do they want to push? Price, delivery, range?’
‘A mix of all three, but they like to think of themselves as quality, not your local amateur shop. But quality not quantity is out.’
They laughed.
‘Can the sketch be funny?’ I asked.
‘Sure. And if it creates a catchphrase then all the better.’
‘Do they have one already?’
A lady put in, ‘They had … because they’re the best on the statics. And say it with sympathy.’
I stood. ‘OK, I need a lady florist.’ A lady keenly stood. ‘I walk in, nice smile.’ I cleared my throat and smiled, staring into the eyes of the make-believe florist. ‘I want something that tells my nan she’s the best. Then … I want something that tells my mum I would visit more if work was not so manic. Then … then I want flowers that tell my girlfriend that she’s on borrowed time.’
They laughed.
I faced Turnball. ‘Too much?’ I asked as I sat.
Smiling, he said, ‘No, we’ll pitch it, see what they say. Your nan and mum are the targets, same for most flower buyers. They want year round sales, not just Mother’s Day.’
‘I’ll think up a few sketches, but they may be sexy.’
He shrugged. ‘Buying for your girlfriend is a large part of their sales.’
A lady put in, ‘They do 45% funeral flowers.’
‘I’ll think up a naughty funeral sketch,’ I told her.
‘Next, swimming costume range, and … fucking expensive with it they are. Some island, they don’t care which one.’
‘Nearest tropical island?’ I asked the managers.
‘Tenerife maybe. Enough sunshine to shoot,’ a man put in. ‘And cheap.’
‘Fuerteventura,’ I told him. ‘Dead quiet, miles of sand dunes, but no palm trees. Caribbean is ten hours, Seychelles is … seven hours with a stop in Dubai?’
‘Seychelles,’ a few people suggested.
‘I can forego the flight costs,’ I told Bob. ‘We’d have a holiday as well. What are they offering?’
‘We mentioned the twins, and they’ve upped the rate to fifteen hundred quid a day total, thirty outfits a day.’
‘Total length of the shoot?’ I asked.
‘About eight days, give or take a few re-shoots.’
‘Fine, we can do that. But it’s a fixed price, no residuals?’
‘No residuals, it’s for a catalogue.’
‘Ask about the suntan level.’
A lady put in, ‘They’ll want the twinstanned, medium tan. And they often let you keep the outfits.’
‘Really?’ I puzzled.
‘Yeah, they can’t re-stock them.’
‘Shit, that would be good, a lifetime’s supply of bikinis.’
Bob asked, ‘Would you look at some charities, for free..?’
‘Definitely. I have my own adopted charity in Leicester, and I pay the helpers to sit with old ladies twice a day, and we hired a security guy as well now to check in on them. So sign me up, just let me know which charity, because some of them waste all their money.’
‘Salvation Army?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Oxfam?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t want to do too many, be over exposed,’ Bob told me.
In his office we sat with cups of tea for a chat about the business, and about my projects, and I was soon on the tube, and being recognised.
On the overland train I called the twins, they were home, and I detailed the new projects. Hearing that they could keep the all the swimwear they were suddenly very keen to do the Seychelles job.
The next evening I met Dobby, a giant of a man at twenty stone in weight, but a gentle giant that I knew from school. He had been a grounds keeper for many years, till they had finally decided that they wanted someone that could actually spell, and paint football pitch lines … in a straight line.
I now walked with him around my home patch, old ladies met and chatted to, always a cup of tea offered to us. Bonza joined us, he knew Dobby, and we walked on, Dobby having a list.
At the next house the lights were out, which was odd because the lady was housebound and infirmed. I opened the door’s letter box and peered in, the smell hitting me. And I could make out the body.
