Nothing could be further from the truth. This Simon Pettit had blue arms, just the odd glimpse of flesh providing a window to the man beneath the ink. His head was large, shaven and attached directly to his shoulders without the least acknowledgement of a neck. He didn’t collect stamps or press wild flowers, but nor did he follow a football team or involve himself in anything physical; his passion was barbel-fishing, a pastime that provided all the exercise he wanted. With no qualifications or special skills, Simon had got this far in life through spells of honest graft matched with similar periods of inactivity on the dole. A little thieving here and there had allowed the purchase of some top class fishing gear and a regular season-ticket on one of the country’s finest stretches of river.
It was here – half a mile up from the railway bridge – where Simon regularly added to his enviable tally of big barbel captures, 12lbers not rare and heavier fish on occasion. But they didn’t come easy. Another angler may have filled those long gaps between bites with a novel or a cryptic crossword, but Simon’s dedication simply wouldn’t allow such diversion for he had once seen a specimen of barbus barbus so huge that he doubted his own senses. He’d just released a low-double and had left his landing-net lying parallel to the margin, the black 6ft pole just inches from the toe-caps of his wellies. On attaching a new hook-length, Simon’s focus had altered in response to a movement in the water less than eight feet from his nose and there, in the clearest of water, hung a barbel with elephant’s ears for fins and the shoulders of a bull. The fish had been all but still, but not as frozen as Simon who had stopped breathing as he absorbed the reality of the moment – it was nothing less than colossal, more than two-thirds the length of his landing-net pole and thick as his thigh. After a full minute, the fish had slowly risen to slide away with the poise and awesome majesty of a jump-jet. Simon had to have that fish.
But there was more than this single-mindedness that kept Simon’s eyes tethered to his rod-tips; he harboured a fantasy, one he imagined from scratch each and every time he settled-in for another marathon session with his rods. The basics never varied, but as time went by his dream of stealing a large and precious jewel grew more elaborate; the details changing to provide more excitement then changing again to instil the sobriety necessary for success. He’d practiced the theft a thousand times but even within the freedom of his mind he’d never actually made-off with the gem; to have done so would have meant the end of his dream and he enjoyed it far too much for that to happen.
It was the sheer novelty of his plan that kept him amused; an idea that inevitably embraced his love of barbel and one which – surely – would provide him with the best possible alibi in the event of an investigation: “Wot? Me? Why? I was fishing!”
He saw himself there, on the bank, being questioned by a pair of police officers alerted by the description of his van but getting nowhere with their impromptu interrogation. For added authenticity he allowed for his removal to the nick for a further grilling, but by five o’ clock in dreamland he was back indoors with the precious stone cunningly concealed beneath a concrete slab mid-river at his favourite swim.
It was late September and Simon’s quest for that whiskered torpedo was keen as ever. Nobody had caught it and nobody was likely to, given the remoteness of its domain way out in the middle of nowhere. He’d had plenty more good fish – exceptional fish – but Simon knew the truth of that one mega-beast, a fish his long experience told him was 30lbs. The embarrassment of thinking this figure had long passed with the certainty of what he’d seen and the mark he’d applied to his pole forty-nine inches from the rubber button.
Simon was feeling good. The weather was fine and the river in tip-top condition. In the kitchen he set about the preparation of his bait – a cheese-based mix with a dash of something he never disclosed to anyone. As he grated, Wessex Radio told of the following day’s Dorset Show and the rare exhibition of the Christchurch Crystal, second only to the Koh-i-Noor in size and weight and bequeathed to the Countess of Wessex by a recently deceased in-law. Security would, of course, be very tight.
When the report finally sank into Simple Simon’s preoccupied barbel-brain, he ceased grating and felt a silly smile bisect his face – this was too silly to be true! There was no serious thought in his head of stealing the bloody thing but as he resumed his grating and kneading the notion of realizing his long-held fantasy seemed less outrageous, and by the time he’d put the cheese-sausages through the rolling machine a par-baked idea of what he might do had taken shape. It was nothing like his fantasy: no weighted hook being back-wound through a skylight and into a display case – and it wasn’t as if he owned a dark suit and bow-tie, no, he’d take himself along to the show early next morning and merely keep his eyes open for events…just see what happens.
Meanwhile there was fishing to do. By ten o’clock Simon was ensconced in his swim and half-heartedly watching for the barbuled leviathan to reappear. He had seen it, hadn’t he? His eyes flicked to the marked pole for confirmation then out to the streamer-weed where his baits lay, a beautiful scene with damsel flies dancing over the white flowers of water crowfoot and the sweep of piping kingfishers. Simon took it all in, unconsciously building an image of what belonged where: the dark areas, the light patches, the serpentine fronds of emerald green…the picture he’d built remained unchanged until late afternoon when he noticed that a bright gravel patch had turned dark. The sky was cloudless. Simon slowly raised himself, craned forward and cupped his Polaroids – yes! That had to be the one! The pale patch had been the length and width of a desk but now it was reduced to a pair of thin yellow strips separated by the dark bulk of a big, big fish. Simon decided not to actively pursue it; better to stay low and to fish ‘blind’ in the normal way, trusting to luck rather than his doubtful stealth and agility. Resisting the urge to keep tabs on the giant, he remained seated behind a screen of yellow flags all afternoon, willing the fish to his bait and ever-watchful of his rod-tops.
Then it was here! Right under his nose again, unnaturally huge but perfectly formed, the bearded juggernaut imparted only the occasional flick of the tail to maintain its station in the margin-flow. Simon dared not move. He understood at that moment the value of living experience and the fact of witness, their worth as moments of truth in an angler’s life. He watched and absorbed the spectacle before him, vowed never to forget and to be thankful for the gift of sight. Then, as before, the beast rose a few inches and moved off like a scene from Close Encounters. Simon felt that same elation, that sense of privilege for being The Chosen One in a natural drama. He fished until dark before returning to his van for the drive home and a good night’s sleep.
Next morning, the small TV in the kitchen reminded Simon of that day’s events at the Dorset show: things would get going from 09.30 but the jewelry exhibition and that of the Christchurch Crystal would not open until mid-day. Simon correctly assumed that the priceless stone would be in transit until then and unlikely to be given more exposure than was absolutely necessary.
After breakfast he packed his fishing gear into his unremarkable white van and set it all up in his favourite swim before making his way to the show in the folds of the Dorset countryside…you never know. The grounds were fresh and as yet unspoiled but a steady stream of visitors fanned out from the main entrance to explore the stalls and marquees. Simon mingled and went with one of the flows, soon to find his self at the end of an aisle where a couple of burly, uniformed security types were moving heavy display cases past a bank of CCTV cameras and into a canvas cavern. He bought a cup of coffee from a nearby stall and sat at a table to watch how things progressed, but any nefarious schemes he may have conjured-up over the years were far from his mind: they weren’t going to happen.
But then a noticeably robust security vehicle appeared and stopped at the entrance to the Jewelry Marquee. Simon watched the driver and his bearded mate alight then shake hands with the security men. There were smiles and some light conversation before the group of four disappeared into the white canvas dome. Simon re-seated his self in order to get a better look and noted the stern expression of the taller security officer as he addressed the drivers. He thought of Porridge’s Mr. McKay and smiled, then stood and slowly gravitated toward the armoured vehicle, coffee in hand and curious now. As he drew closer, the driver entered the truck’s main body through a thick and heavy door while his mate went around to the near-side of the vehicle and banged twice on its side. Simon then saw Beardy screech open the security drawer at the rear and remove a limp and grubby bag which he rushed into the marquee. Returning empty-handed, Beardy again double-thumped the side of the van, waited a few seconds then opened the drawer to find another lightly-filled canvas bag. This, too, was hurriedly ferried into the marquee and into the hands of the security officers. This time there was a marked delay in Beardy’s return and Simon rightly envisaged his colleague standing in the back of the security van, impatient and with another grubby bag waiting to be collected. In due course Beardy returned and the same double-thump saw another limp bag materialize in the drawer ready for transfer.
Even closer now, Simon Pettit craned his neck a little to see Beardy and the tall security officer bent over a green-baize table and conducting some kind of examination. Before long they straightened as if to conclude their business then, to Simon’s surprise, they went down again like a pair of dogs at a feeding bowl: the driver would be getting agitated.
Simon saw the possibility and wondered if The Big One had already been taken in but, big one or small one, the contents of one of those bags could change his life forever. He felt dizzy, hot and utterly consumed by the trepidation of uncertainty, not wanting to believe that he could so easily make a killing but sure – in waves – of his good escape. His fantasy was happening. Not to act would be to fail. In a moment of madness Simon strode over to the van and delivered two thumps to its side; the drawer screeched open and there lay a red velvet bag. He crammed it into his pocket and hastened away, buttocks clenched and head down, mind reeling, heart pounding, eyes agog in disbelief at what he was doing. But he’d done it and there was no turning back. What, exactly, he’d stolen was of no interest at this point; Pettit only knew he’d committed a very serious crime and needed to distance himself from the area as quickly as possible.
He was sure the alarm would have been raised by the time he was back in his van and travelling back toward his stretch of river, and he was right. Wessex Radio told of the theft with undisguised media-glee – a huge event in a sleepy part of the country. Simon learned that the security van had actually marred the scope of the CCTV but that the somewhat swift departure of a white works-van might have some connection with the crime. Simon was scared – very scared, and he hadn’t even opened the jewel bag to see his ill-gotten gains. As his van rocked and rolled down the familiar rutted track to the river so something akin to rational thought took merciful hold of his senses, and back on the bank in his low-chair, Simon was able to adopt a strategy for the coming hours…he’d have hours, wouldn’t he? He looked up and out at the river before him, clear water gliding silently through the buttercups of a magnificent Dorset water meadow – life was good; he’d be ok!
Buoyed-up by this fresh optimism, Simon delved into his pocket and took out the soft, warm, drawstring bag. He felt the faceted egg-shape within and noted its heaviness. Prising apart the bag’s puckered mouth he suddenly stopped and looked back across the field, then upstream and downstream and across to the opposite bank for signs of ‘company’. There was no one. Sure of his solitude, the barbelman slid the stone onto his palm and gasped with wonder…how, he wondered, would he get rid of this? The Christchurch Crystal – there in his ground-bait stained hand – was simply too good for him; it didn’t belong in the hands of a bloke who drove a white van and legered Bacon Grill and pellets for barbel. Belgium wasn’t it? Yes, Antwerp! That’s where the real villains took their gear! Yes, he’d take his gem to Antwerp and…
His thoughts abruptly ceased on seeing an impossibly large dorsal fin rise from the flow beyond the crowfoot: the beast was about and moving and Simon’s barbel-brain kicked-in. On went a large feeder filled with hemp and blocked with stiff ground-bait. The jewel thief let it swing a couple of times then sent it flying upstream, there to trickle its load into the current. With the rod propped high and desperate for a drink, Simon set about organizing a brew, one eye on the rod-top. Apart from any physical need for liquid, he figured the activity would serve to suggest an uninterrupted long-stay by the river. There were boot-prints all over the place, and a small rubbish-bag he’d positioned close-by would confirm this. If the law was to arrive he’d have the world’s best alibi: he’d even unfurled a sleeping-bag under his brolly and, really…whoever heard of an angler breaking-off to steal a national treasure?
Simon sat in the sunshine of mid-afternoon, sipping his tea and trying to forget what was under his chair, but how on Earth could he? The ease with which he’d come by this stupendous stone had been out of all proportion to its value and importance and, for this, he felt he should be exonerated somehow; he hadn’t used a weapon or threatened anyone, he’d just picked it out of a drawer and strolled-off. But eggs was eggs: he had illegal possession of one of the most valuable gems in the world. He’d nicked it. He wanted it and didn’t want it but either way the fact remained that he had it. With no sign of the police or even a distant wail of a siren by four o’ clock, Simon warmed to the possibilities of what the stone’s value could do for him…travel, a camper-van, a house – yes! He wanted it! Incredibly he’d made good his dream!
With his barbel-brain back in gear, Simon made a point of regularly casting a fresh load of hemp and ground-bait into the same spot upstream; he figured this would inure the fish to the disturbance it created while laying down a substantial carpet of goodies. Hook-bait was two small halibut pellets hair-rigged beneath a forged size 8. Could he achieve the perfect day – a near-priceless jewel and a 30lb barbel? That fish had to be 30lb. He catapulted a swarm of pellets, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms for five seconds; then he was bolt upright and feeling under his seat for the velvet bag, the distinctive red bag tailor-made to hold the diamond. Simon pocketed the stone, lit his small stove and hung the bag over the flames with his forceps. Reduced to ash, the remains were stomped and ground into the mud by Simon’s size 11s, further easing Simon’s troubled mind. Things were taking shape. There was any number of white vans on the road, he thought, and who would have randomly made a note of his registration number? Why would anyone? It’s not as if he’d alerted anyone, rocketing away from the site, wheels spinning and engine screaming, was it? The police would be checking lock-ups, roundabouts, industrial estates, known villains – not some mad angler with the smell of stewed hemp and cheese about him!
But all of this didn’t deter a pair of patrolling police officers from checking-out the white van parked a half mile across the fields from the main road. PC Atkins swung the Mondeo onto the rutted track and carefully picked his way around the pot-holes to the river, Simon Pettit in blissful ignorance of their approach.
PC Atkins and his colleague, PC Wilmot, had acted on impulse and with no firm reason to suspect one of a million white vans. They were nearing the end of their shift and had merely seen the chance to finish the day in the pleasant environs of the river valley. Both were anglers. Closer now to the unsuspecting jewel thief, the Ford lurched into a large and muddy puddle compelling PC Atkins to hit the gas and noisily fish-tail out of trouble. Simon straightened in his chair and turned to see the marmalade sandwich less than a hundred yards downstream and heading his way. Act naturally he thought… just fish…reel in and do fishy things. Swinging-in his rig, the obvious hit him – the stone was bulging in his pocket and just begging to be questioned. When the patrol car briefly disappeared behind a line of bushes Simon whipped-out the jewel, squeezed it into his feeder and hurled it mid-stream; as the patrol car came back into view Simon could be seen placing his rod in the rest and making a couple of turns of the Shimano. He heard the doors clunk shut and looked up in mock surprise to greet Atkins and Wilmot with a nicely inquisitive smile.
Down they came into Simon’s swim, all the hallmarks of a barbel-fanatic’s marathon quest for a big ‘un. “Any joy?” asked Wilmot, “You’ve certainly got the right conditions”. There ensued a classic fishermen’s exchange before Atkins chipped in.
“How long you been here?” Simon was confident enough to embellish his reply with the study of his watch. “I’ve been here precisely…thirty-five hours and fifty minutes. Got here just after six yesterday morning!” He thought it prudent to enquire of the officers’ presence and was told of the Dorset Show affair. They were checking-out white vans in the area and needed to take a look inside his vehicle. Of course they found nothing but the usual mess in the passenger foot-well, loose change and petrol receipts in the centre console and a heap of angler’s junk in the back. Satisfied of Simon’s innocence the officers rejoined him in his swim and resumed chatting about barbel. Simon felt the weight ease from his shoulders and then he remembered the pellets on his rig – they never fall off, do they?
“Ay-oop!” Wilmot had seen a nod of the whitened rod-tip, “Could be in there, mate” Simon hoped not. For the first time in his angling life he prayed that the bite should not develop. It wasn’t as if he could feign a bungled strike – a three foot twitch would have the fish charging all over the place and – horror of horrors – one of the officers would almost certainly grab the net to do the honours…
After four or five minutes of inaction PCs Atkins and Wilmot shifted their gaze and announced their imminent departure adding ‘tight lines’ as they reached the top of the low embankment. Simon raised his hand and turned his back, relieved, but at that moment, his rod lurched over and frantically stabbed at the river. Instinctively, Simon threw out his arm and grabbed the cork but the rod bowed and straightened to the rasp of 10lb line being stripped from the reel. In seconds, Atkins and Wilmot were back and urging the clearly worried Simon to stay cool – this was a big fish. When at last it slowed, Simon tightened-up a fraction and tried to raise the rod – but it was futile: his adversary kept its belly to the gravel and steam-rollered unstoppably upstream. None of them had ever seen anything like it.
With sixty yards of straining line glinting in the glow of evening, the fish broke surface and lolled with its head downstream, but Simon daren’t bring his monster in. Perhaps…perhaps the diamond would fall free, or maybe the feeder would snag and rip itself from the main line – it had happened before. But this was a fish without equal! A true monster whose escape he simply couldn’t allow. Fired with an overwhelming need to land his quarry Simon leaned back to form a perfect half-circle in his rod; the fish followed unwillingly, repeatedly thumping the carbon and getting its head down in the gravel. Just as he’d feared, one of the coppers took hold of the landing net and shuffled down to the water’s edge but the fight was far from over. At times, there was stalemate, Simon at relative ease with a bended rod and the fish content to sulk with its bulk.
Then the fish was close and its sheer enormity was made plain to all three: never had they seen such a barbel, a specimen the length and girth of a 30lb pike – only whiskered and broader of shoulder. Atkin’s and Wilmot’s eyes were three feet down and trained on the fish but Simon’s were focused a little closer to the surface where he could see the diamond in the feeder, fully exposed but for a trace of ground-bait lodged within; a few more swirls or a spirited dash would see the gem displayed in all its naked glory – and on the bank it would be curtains for him…he dared not land it.
With PC Wilmot crouched in readiness with the net and PC Atkins poised with his camera, the barbel made a final desperate push for the half-submerged brambles downstream – and Simon let it go. Atkins and Wilmot came face to face, bewildered. Why had he not clamped down on the exhausted fish?
Reeling in a loose line, hollow-eyed and speechless, the need for some kind of explanation to the mystified coppers didn’t even occur to Simon Pettit. He was free – but condemned to wonder for the rest of his life.
Cliff Hatton
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Acknowledgements to Jack Perks, Freshwater Blog (barbel)
Farnham Angling Assoc. (River)
Vashi (Diamond)
publicityworks.biz (Van)
