A Short Story: Transference by Frank Sonderborg ( Part 1 )

An original Crime Story. So here for the first time on the Steemit, The Blockchain Blog of Writing Busking Dreams, is a story of Anger, Vengeance and Transference. It's in 2 parts the rest will follow over the weekend.
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Pics courtsey of Pixabay

Transference by Frank Sonderborg

We were parked in St. Georges Hill. A millionaire's gated residence in Weybridge.
Around eight miles from London. John Lennon had lived here and took driving lessons around the local streets. So, very upmarket and a good place to run a scam. We were going to hit the house and snap the trap.
The HQ of a master class in Credit Card fraud.
The end result of months of tracking and plain detective work.
We still had no idea how much they had filched from UK punters.
The National Crime Agency had been called in when the big chiefs had realized the scale of the fraud.
Now, armed with a full response team from SFO19. We were getting ready to hit the house.

The information we received, showed it was being run by a gang of very trigger happy Russians.

I felt again the Glock 17.
I wasn’t use to being armed.
But I had the training and enjoyed the buzz.

We went in hard behind the SFO19 armed response unit.
Front door, back door, windows.
The house was empty.

The Russians, if there had ever been any, had left in a rush.
The floors were covered in Credit Cards, thousands of them.
The other rooms were full to overflowing with Gissa-Job CVs.
The scam was simple enough.
A well paid job advertisement would suck in thousands of CVs with enough details, to enable the scammers to apply for new Credit Cards.

Every detail needed, was provided by Citizen Joe Soft-Touch.
It was always a Big Time Charlie job in Qatar or Dubai or some other Tax free haven.
It was slick and well planned and of course victim-less.
The punters would get their money back.
The only one out of pocket was the insurance companies.
And fuck-em was the general public consensus.

We were put on the trail, as MI5 believed it was a possible terrorist cell.
An empty house when we raid, stinks of just one thing.
A mole.
A mole in either our organization or MI5.
And at the rate our lads where getting locked up for schmoozing with the Fourth Estate.
It could very well be one of ours.
Everybody was looking for a pension-pot to get out of the game.
After doing due diligence we left the rest, to the bag it all up boys. And headed back to the office.

This was no terrorist outfit, that was crystal clear. Just a straight up scam job.
By the looks of the Credit Cards and the sheer amount of paperwork, it had been running awhile. So it must have reamed in millions.

I signed in the Glock and headed for home.
Only a couple of hours late.
The wife was entertaining our daughter and Grant, her loser boyfriend.
What a fucking jerk, only a couple of years younger than me and hanging around with my princess.
I hated the bastard.
She had met him on the rebound after getting herself knocked up by some slick talking rich Arab student from Oman.
Had the kid and finished her Law degree.
Loved her for that. What spirit and toughness.
A Single Mom, as Mr Oman high tailed it back to the land of sand, four wives and four wheel drive Ferrari’s.

We had a grandson named Ahmed and we loved him to bits.
Then she took up with Grant the eternal loser.
He had teenage kids and an ex-wife somewhere.

She tried to leave him, but he threatened to kill himself and of course she felt responsible.

First hooked on drugs, then he went cold turkey. Big fucking deal. Became an alcoholic instead.

The vices always remain constant, as my Mom used to say.
Met my daughter in her final year at University. Blood sucking Social Vampire.
Yea, I threatened him.
But he latched on like a love leech and made her responsible for his actions.

I told her, let the fucker die if he wants to.
Even his own children are more mature than that piece of shit.
But Helen, my beautiful daughter loved him. And threatened to cut us out of her life.

My wife went nuts at this.
“She loves him,” was her desperate plea.
“He's a useless piece of shit,” was my reply,“It’s blackmail on behalf of that fucking waster.”

My wife went berserk. “I want my daughter and grandson. So behave. It’s your daughter’s choice. Accept it. Or I'll leave you.”
So I sucked on that cyanide pill and accepted it.
I still thought he was a miserable wimpy motherfucker.
But for the peace of mind and keeping my marriage, I kept my mouth shut and entertained the bastard.
They came and played happy families with us. Ahmed was such a great kid.
I often wondered will he ever go chasing his real Dad.
When he realizes this fake piece of manure is no relation.
Grant had a get rich, then a get poor scheme, one after another and quickly ran down my daughter’s and then our savings.
I said to Helen “Tell him to get a real job. Any job.” But as usual she took offence and we were punished by her absence for a month.
The wife took it hard and would not speak to me.
I could not get my head around it.
He fucks up and we get to suffer.
As always, I had to go around and apologize and make up. Usually with hard cash.
Then out of the blue he was offered a great job.

So the wife organized a meal with wine to celebrate.
As usual, I was late again.
Most times I made sure I was late with work.
I just could not stand the small talk with the dead beat.
I felt more like punching the motherfucker than shaking his hand.
They had already started eating when I arrived.
Grant, drinking my fine wine eating my food. Arm around my daughter.

My wife, Maria, was beaming. Grant had been offered a fantastic position. It meant moving away from the UK. I felt a sickness coming on.

Helen said, “Its Qatar, not really that far. A financial adviser for Murakk Finance. We move in a month. It will take that to finalize the paperwork and move our stuff.”
My wife was looking at me.
Willing me to be happy. And failing miserably.

Thought, yea great news. Financial adviser, fuck. I would not trust this guy to buy the morning paper.
“Did this job entail any up-front payments?” I asked, not really wanting to hear the eventual answer.
Helen immediately jumped on me. “You never stop do you? You never give up. Still picking, picking, picking. You’ll never accept Grant as he is.”

“Honey, look, it’s a simple question. Has he paid any cash up front to his new employers?” I looked at him and knew the answer.

“Yes,” he said. “They needed some money for a work permit and moving expenses. But I will get refunded. It was no different, than buying an annual train ticket and then getting it refunded by the firm.”

“So let’s get this straight. You’ve landed a big time Charlie job in Qatar. With a world renown Blue Chip Finance Company and the first thing they do is ask for cash to pay for your relocation.”

Grant looked his usual loser self. “Yes, and what of it. What’s it to you?”
This time I really lost it. “It’s my fucking money you piece of shit. My savings are fuelling you’re fucking dream world. And now you’ve shoved a sucking pump, into your bank account, belonging to a bunch of cretins, from fucking Murakk Financial services.”

My wife was up, pleading with Helen to stay. She looked at me with hate in her eyes.

Then I snapped and broke every rule in the book.

“I’ve just come back from a raid on a Credit Card Fraud Factory.” They stopped and looked at me. “Yea, a fucking Credit Card fraud operation. They suck in idiots with promises of great jobs and then they rip them off. Copy their credit card details and apply for new ones. After all, they have every fucking detail of your life. School reports.
Where you’ve lived. Where you’ve worked. It’s so fucking easy. And you Mr fucking financial wizard. You will find, and this may be a problem, as you cannot even find your own arse hole. You have been scammed.”

I was powering along in the naive belief the penny would finally drop for my daughter. Grant was on his mobile. I drank my wine and watched him. Calling his bank. The white face as he realized his account was overdrawn. I said nothing as they stormed out. The wife crying went to bed.
I was still at the table a few hours later when I got the call. “Jeff it’s me, Harry Smyth.”

I had not heard from Detective Harry Smyth, in years. “Yea, Harry what’s up.”

“Your daughter lives in Croydon?”

Now I was on full alert. “Yea, she does Harry, what’s happened.”

“Jeff, I don’t know how to say this. I’m terribly sorry.”

I had hung up and was on the way to my car, before he had finished the sentence. I drove like a mad man in the direction of Croydon. Harry spotted me and let me through the cordon and up into the apartment. Helen was in a corner of her bedroom bloodied and broken. Ahmed was in his blood spattered bed.

“Where is he?” I said very quietly.
Then I lost it. “Where the fuck is he.”

Harry said, “Calm down. We still don’t know what happened here. Her boyfriend is missing.”
I collapsed in a chair and started crying. “She was my little girl, Harry.”

Harry said, very gently, they were shot sometime this evening. Neighbors heard the couple and kid arriving home and then an argument. Lots of screaming and then gunfire. Then the boyfriend left. “Look Jeff I’m sorry but we have to do our job. Go home and we’ll contact you tomorrow.”
But I didn’t go home. I went to my locker and got a spare gun. An untraceable ice cold piece. Then I went hunting
If I could have bottled the essence of hate, it would have sold on eBay. It was a pure hill-billy eye for an eye biblical venom. I had a gun and I was going to blow that motherfucker, down to the burning hell he deserved. I drove around until the sun came up. Sometimes I thought it was all a dream. Then I felt the gun and I knew it would not be over until I had burned him.
I went home and let myself in. I sat again, at our happy families table and waited for Maria to rise.

To Be continued.......................