Our offices and warehouse had been emptied, and even our house had been raided, all our computers confiscated in a flurry of activity. They moved with precision, leaving us feeling stripped of our identity and livelihood. Just like that, we were out of business.
During questioning, the officers probed into every nook and cranny of our operations, their persistence wearing me down. “The business paid its taxes,” I reiterated, my voice growing hoarse. “We run good books. It’s all there to see.” But they didn’t seem phased by my insistence. All our paperwork lay in their hands now, including records of every deal over £100k that had ever crossed our desks. We were laid bare before them, with nowhere to hide.
After what felt like an eternity—roughly eight hours—they finally let us go, feeding us vague assurances about pending investigations. “We’ll be in touch,” they said, their expressions unreadable as we left the station.
As I stepped out into the cold, damp air, I overheard one of the officers laugh and call out to me, “How’s the V-hard business going?” His tone was mocking, taunting.
“Fine. Do you want to buy some?” I shot back, attempting to match his laughter with sarcasm, but I could see the amusement didn’t quite reach his eyes.
I climbed into a taxi, the ride home feeling like a funeral procession. The weight of reality crashed down on me as the world blurred past the window. It felt like the end of a chapter, a life I couldn’t return to. The thrill we had chased was now tangled in regret and loss.
When I finally stepped through my front door, the silence was deafening. The home that once felt vibrant now seemed hollow, devoid of the life we had built. I looked around, realising just how final everything felt. There was no going back—our lives were upended, and I could almost sense the noose tightening around us.
All I could think about was the urgency to escape, to run away from it all. And then, after a brief conversation with Jenny, the decision was made—we had to get out of this life.
Within days, we packed what we could and made arrangements for a clean break. Our departure felt like ripping off a Plaster, quick and painful, but necessary. Each moment leading up to our exit felt charged with a mix of fear and hope. As much as I dreaded what lay ahead, the idea of freedom carved out a space in my heart.
We left behind the chaos, the stress, and the ever-lurking shadows of our past. With every step toward our new life, I felt the weight lift—slowly, but surely. It was time to turn the page and write a new story, one where we could find peace from the storm that had consumed us.
When Jenny and I finally found a quiet spot in our heads, a place where we could think away from the chaos of our past, we made the decision to arrange a mortgage. We still had savings and good accounts, remnants of our previous lives that gave us hope for a fresh start. After much deliberation, we quickly arranged to look at a few houses in France.
In no time, we stumbled upon an incredible opportunity—an Italian-style farmhouse set on 100 acres in the south of France, complete with a swimming pool and picturesque farmland. It felt like our dreams were coming to fruition, and we couldn’t believe our luck when we sealed the deal. We sold all our cars and toys, including my beloved Rolex, but I couldn’t part with the Harley; it was too much a part of who I was.
In many ways, you could say we were on the run. Despite the beautiful scenery and tranquil surroundings, the feeling of unease lingered, like a shadow trailing us. The farmhouse was breathtaking, an oasis where the costs of living seemed nearly insignificant in comparison to the UK—this kind of property would have easily fetched over £2 million back home. Instead, we managed to secure it for 475,000 euros, taking out a mortgage with a solid deposit from our savings.
Settling into our new life was a challenge. The kids enrolled in local schools, diving into the task of learning French, which they took to like natural sponges. Jenny, ever the determined spirit, seemed to thrive in the new environment. She believed she had it all figured out, planning to trade online again using her old contacts.
As for me, I found myself doing nothing. Days turned into weeks, and I sank deeper into a routine of drinking and smoking. The weight piled on, and before long, I found myself tipping the scales at over 18 stone. It blew my mind how quickly I had let myself go, each pint of Guinness adding to the burden of my growing depression.
The charm of our new house soon began to wear off. I felt like a sitting duck, once again waiting for something to happen, something that would disrupt this fragile façade of peace we had built. The dread of being discovered nagged at the back of my mind, and the thought that our past could catch up to us lingered like an unwanted guest in my thoughts.
One morning, as I stood looking out over the sprawling fields that surrounded our home, I realised just how much I missed the thrill we once chased. The drinks and the shadows had dulled my senses, and I longed for the excitement of our previous life, even if it had come with its own demons.
“Jenny,” I said one day over lunch, trying to voice my growing dissatisfaction, “I don’t know if I can do this. It’s beautiful here, but I just feel… stuck.”
She looked up from her phone, a momentary flicker of concern crossing her face. “Give it time,” she replied, offering encouragement. “Things will turn around. We just need to find our footing again.”
I wanted to believe her, but the weight of the world felt heavy on my shoulders. It was hard to find solace in the tranquillity around me while the storm of my past loomed overhead.
One evening, I found myself out with a young man I can only describe as a bit of a retard—he was about 25, a little backward, but he took a shine to me. I didn’t mind; everyone deserves a friend, no matter their quirks. So, we hopped on the Harley and headed out for a drink at a local bar. The night was young, and the excitement of the open road called to us.
After a few too many pints, we decided it was time to head home. He climbed on the back of the bike, laughter bubbling up between us as I revved the engine. I felt a kind of reckless abandon that night, the wind whipping through our hair as we sped up into the hills.
I was riding fast, feeling the thrill of speed, when suddenly I caught sight of flashing lights in my mirrors and the piercing sound of a siren. A cop car had started to chase us, and my heart raced with the rush of adrenaline. With too much alcohol in my system, I knew I shouldn’t be riding, but the boy behind me was laughing, egging me on.
“Go faster! Faster!” he shouted, his laughter blending with the roaring engine. Driven by the intoxicating mix of danger and alcohol, I shifted down and took off with a jolt. The Harley shot forward, and the boy’s laughter echoed in my ears, a wild sound that spurred me on even more.
It was around 3 a.m., and my motorcycle’s engine roared, bouncing off the hills and carrying our reckless escapade into the darkness. I knew I was pushing my luck, but the thrill was addictive. I cranked the throttle, feeling the bike respond like an extension of my own desires.
I manoeuvred through the twists and turns, the wind screaming past us as we deftly lost the police in the inky night. I could only hope they couldn’t follow the trail of sound left in our wake. For what felt like an eternity, I kept pushing—faster, harder, louder—and the boy laughed even more, his joy infectious amid the chaos.
As we finally slowed, the adrenaline began to taper, and I drew in a shuddering breath, the reality of what we had just done crashing down on me. “That was fun!” the boy exclaimed, still riding high on the thrill of our escape.
“Yeah,” but inside, the laughter didn’t reach my heart. I felt that familiar pull of anxiety creeping in, reminding me that we had flirted with disaster. As exhilarating as it was to weave through danger, it was a reckless game we were playing—one that could lead to dire consequences if we kept tempting fate.
I parked the Harley at home, every sound echoing just a little louder in the stillness of the night. The thrill began to fade, replaced by the creeping shadows of doubt. What had I gotten myself into? I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that life was closing in again in ways I didn’t want to acknowledge, and that thrill might not always end in laughter.
As time wore on, we found ourselves running dangerously low on money. The reality was sinking in like a stone; our income had all but dried up, and finally, the time came for me to part with the Harley. Selling it felt like losing one of the last vestiges of joy that had carried me through the chaos, but it was a necessary sacrifice.
No matter what we tried, the money stopped coming in. Our desperate attempts to stay afloat faded into nights spent drowning our fears in cheap wine—every colour and age, including cooking wine. At this point, as long as it was liquid, we were willing to drink it. The nights blurred together, and what once felt like a vibrant escape became a routine that weighted heavily on our spirits.
Jenny and I began to panic; the mounting pressure of bills and the reality of our situation drove wedges deeper between us. The laughter that once coloured our relationship turned sour, and we started to resent each other in small, heartbreaking ways. It was a painful realisation—our dream had begun to unravel, and it felt like we were holding onto ghosts of what used to be.
Desperation set in, and I made the decision to head back to the UK to earn a little cash. I'd take on painting and decorating jobs, and yes I can sell the hard tablets again.
So, Jenny and I had finalised the end of our business relationship; that chapter was now firmly in the past. She was living in my house in France with her new man, and we had put the property on the market. I needed my money out of the house as quickly as possible, and it felt like an anchor weighing me down.
As time went by, we received an offer for the house, and it felt like a glimmer of hope. After agreeing to the terms, I made the trip back to France to finale the sale and collect my share of the proceeds. When the time came, I held the cash in my hands—bundles of €500 notes, a number of thousands altogether. For the first time in a long while, a wave of happiness washed over me. I could feel the shackles of my past loosening.
“I’m out of it all,” I thought, feeling an exhilarating sense of freedom for the first time since it all began. I was back on the road, pockets full of cash, and a renewed sense of purpose coursing through me.
Saying goodbye to Jenny wasn’t easy; there was a bittersweet feeling between us. Despite everything, memories lingered like echoes of laughter shared in better times. As we stood there, a tear glimmering in both our eyes, I felt a mixture of sadness and relief wash over me. “Goodbye, Jenny,” I said softly, and she returned the sentiment with an understanding nod.
I walked away, feeling a strange lightness in my step. I was ready to start anew, free from the burdens that had tied me down. With a pocket full of cash, I made my way back to the UK, buoyed by the promise of a fresh start.
But beneath that sense of freedom was a nagging doubt. I had built my life on quick profits and fleeting excitement, and now, with an uncertain future ahead, I questioned what lay in store for me. Life had a way of slipping through fingers, and as much as I wanted to embrace the freedom, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my past was ever-watchful.
I was in Spain around 2006, in the sunshine on my first morning there after a turbulent past. Groggily, I stumbled out of bed and checked my voicemail, expecting a friendly greeting or a simple check-in. Instead, I was met with a severe message that sent my heart plummeting.
“In a stern voice, the recording said, ‘This is Customs and Excise. There is a warrant for the arrest of both of us and we need to go and hand ourselves in.’”
In that moment, my heart fell out of my arse, and a cold sweat broke out across my skin. “Fuck!” I thought, sheer panic setting in. I needed to contact the number immediately and find out what this all meant.
My body shook uncontrollably as I processed the implications. It took about an hour for the shock to wear off enough for me to think rationally again. Well, there went my holiday plans—completely fucked.
With dread gnawing at my insides, I realised I had to reach out to Jenny. I hadn’t heard from her since France nearly a year ago, but I knew I couldn’t face this alone. I found a phone box and dialled her number, my heart racing.
When she picked up, I could hear the bustle of life in the background. “Hey! It’s been so long! How are you?” Her voice brightened the otherwise tense atmosphere on my end.
I didn’t have time for pleasantries. “Jenny, it’s me. Listen, there’s bad news. I just got a voicemail saying there’s a warrant for our arrests.”
“What? Are you serious?” she exclaimed, disbelief written all over her voice.
“Yeah, they’re after both of us. I have to figure this out. I don’t even know what this means for us,” I stammered, feeling the weight of the situation crushing down on me.
She paused, her silence heavy with a thousand unspoken thoughts. “I’m in Ireland now, starting fresh with my family,” she finally replied, the genuine warmth in her voice tinged with concern. “What should we do? Do you need to hand yourself in?”
“Yeah, I think I do. It’s the only option. I just wanted to let you know,” I said, my heart sinking. “This is the last time we’ll talk before it all goes down.”
“I didn’t expect this,” she replied slowly. “I’m sorry it has come to this. I never thought—after everything, we’d end up back here.”
“Neither did I,” I admitted, a lump forming in my throat. “Take care of yourself, alright?”
As we wrapped up the call, I felt a mix of sorrow and resolve swelling within me. That was the last time I spoke to her, a bittersweet goodbye tinged with the unshakeable reality of our choices. We were bound by the same past, but now it was time for me to confront our future head-on.
I knew we had to hand ourselves in, no matter how much it filled me with dread. There was no escaping this life anymore. The road ahead was dark and uncertain, but it was a reckoning I had to face, whether I was ready or not.
In that moment, as I faced the impending doom of my situation, I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare reminiscent of "Hotel California"—a place where the lights were bright, but the shadows were long, and escape seemed impossible. The realisation that I might never get out weighed heavily on my mind, filling me with dread.
Desperation pushed me to pick up the phone. So I called up the captain—my solicitor—who had been with me through many of my trials, and now, he was the only lifeline I could cling to. “I need you to deal with this,” I said, my voice shaking slightly as I outlined the situation. “There’s a warrant for my arrest, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Let’s take a deep breath,” he replied, his voice steady and reassuring. “We’ll figure this out. You’re not alone in this.”
Over time, I had unwittingly become his biggest client, fuelling his ambitions and helping him to build a substantial practice. My cases had not only benefited me but also set him up to become a big name in the field—something I could only hope to maintain with our entwined fates.
As we navigated the murky waters together, he began outlining a plan to handle the impending investigation. I listened intently, knowing that every word was critical. “First, we need to ensure you have all your documentation in order and—” he started, but I interrupted, my anxiety bubbling over.
“The problem is, I can’t think straight,” I blurted out. “Everything feels like it’s unravelling. What if this is it?”
“Listen to me,” he said firmly, forcing me to focus. “You’ve been through worse. We’ll approach this strategically. You still have options.”
With that, I let out a shaky breath. I didn’t want to feel trapped; I wanted to reclaim my life, my freedom—some semblance of control over my destiny.
He reassured me that we’d assemble a defence and meticulously review every detail. “This is a bump in the road, not the end of the journey,” he said, and I clung to those words like a lifeline.
As we continued our discussion, I began to feel a flicker of hope amidst the chaos. The path ahead was uncertain, but with my solicitor by my side, maybe I could navigate this storm after all.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I replied, feeling a renewed sense of determination. “I won’t let this define me. I’ll fight to turn it all around.”
Steeling myself for the battle ahead, I leaned into the support of my solicitor, confident that with his guidance, I had at least a fighting chance to escape the nightmare I found myself entangled in.
You’re probably wondering what happened to the Brothers. The truth is, I had to let them go. It was a tough decision, but I knew it was necessary. They had all known the score, understood the risks that came with our lifestyle, and while they had a good run at it, it served its purpose for them.
One member of the gang, a guy I had gotten to know well over the years, decided to move back to Ireland after we parted ways. He was one of the tough ones, always full of bravado and laughter. But tragedy struck almost immediately. The first week he returned, I received the gut-wrenching news: he had died on his Harley, the very bike he’d bought via a contact of mine.
The news hit me hard. It felt like the weight of the world landed squarely on my shoulders, and I couldn’t shake the sense of guilt that crept in. I had been part of that life, and now, in some small way, I felt responsible. “It could’ve been any of us,” I thought grimly, haunted by the memories of reckless nights spent riding through uncharted roads.
His death served as a stark reminder of the dangers involved in our lifestyle. It felt as if the universe had dealt us a cruel hand, taking away yet another person who had been part of our turbulent journey. The Brothers had embraced the thrill of the ride, the wild freedom of living in the moment. But now, that wildness turned bitter, and I couldn’t escape the realisation that our pasts were fraught with peril.
As I navigated the storm of my current predicament, the loss hung over me like a cloud. More than just a friend, he was a reminder of everything I had tried to leave behind. I couldn’t help but think that in the world we had operated, life and death danced on a precarious edge—a dance I had tried to escape but inevitably faced again.
With the Brothers gone, I felt more isolated than ever, engulfed in a sense of loss that went beyond mere friendships. The thrill of the past had turned into a haunting memory, and as I wrestled with my own survival, I knew I needed to keep moving forward. I had to forge a new path, one unburdened by the ghosts of my past—, and it had to begin now, as I steeled myself for the battles ahead
Not long after settling into my new reality, I received a call from the captain—my solicitor. His voice was steady but grave as he informed me that I needed to hand myself in to a police station in London. “It’s a small out-back station,” he said, “but you should go as soon as you can.”
My heart raced as I acknowledged the inevitable. When I arrived at the station, I found them waiting for me. The officers seemed almost too ready, and before I knew it, the dogs were on me, arresting me without a moment of hesitation.
“Charges include money laundering and VAT evasion,” one of them stated flatly, and just like that, my world plunged into chaos once again.
“Oh well, this is it,” I thought to myself, resigned to the unfolding nightmare. Ironically, the police were quite nice to me; it was strange considering the circumstances. They had no jurisdiction over me—not really—since Customs and Excise wielded more power than the police in this situation. They were privy to details I was oblivious to, which only added to the discomfort.
I realized I was now a high-profile arrest, my name carrying a weight that came with all kinds of assumptions and implications. As they processed me, the atmosphere buzzed with an unsettling energy. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the stakes had risen to a new level, that the past I thought I had escaped was catching up in the most explosive way possible.
They had no cells available for me, as the station was overflowing with others in similar predicaments. There I stood, feeling like a character in a dark comedy, the absurdity of it all making my mind swirl. Little did I know just how tangled the web around me had become as I braced for whatever would come next.
While the officers processed the paperwork, my mind churned. I was ready to face what lay ahead, but inside, a pit of dread settled, reminding me that this might just be the beginning of the end of everything I had known.
I was then transported to another police station miles away, and they shoved me into a cell crowded with a load of other unsavoury characters. The atmosphere was grim, a haphazard mix of nerves and resignation. My life felt like it was crumbling faster than I could grasp. At that moment, my mind drifted to Catherine—my girlfriend of a few weeks, someone I had known since childhood. She was sweet and supportive, but I had kept her in the dark about the darker aspects of my life.
But now I was sitting in this cold, unforgiving cell, and the reality of my situation bore down on me. I could no longer hide from the truth. I remembered her number and instinctively dialled, my heart thumping in my chest.
When she answered, surprise and concern flooded her voice. “Hey! What’s going on?”
I took a deep breath, realising the gravity of what I was about to say. “Catherine, it’s me. I’m—I'm in jail. I was arrested, and I need you to know where to find me.”
The silence on the other end was palpable. I could only imagine the swirl of emotions she was feeling, the shock settling in like a weight. The cat was out of the bag—there was no turning back now. I braced myself for her reaction, whether she would feel compelled to hang up or offer her support.
“What? Are you serious?” Her voice trembled with disbelief.
“Yes, but it’s complicated. I didn’t want you to know all this—none of it was supposed to affect you. I didn’t want to drag you into my mess.” I heard a slight hitch in her breath, and my heart sank.
“You’re in a terrible position,” she finally said, her voice steadying. “But I’m here for you. Please tell me what I can do.”
Her willingness to stand by me brought warmth to the freezing reality I was trapped in. The connection we had forged felt like a lifeline in the storm, and I was immensely grateful.
The next day, I went through the process of being moved to prison on remand, where my bail was set at a staggering £100,000. Deep inside, I felt despair; I knew I didn’t have that kind of money. That’s when my family was dragged into my mess, and I realised the true weight of my decisions.
My stepfather, let’s call him Charlie, came to the rescue, surprisingly agreeing to come up with my bail bond. I was astonished, feeling the swell of gratitude and guilt at the same time. The relief washed over me when the officers finally informed me I’d be released. Believe it or not, I was free within 12 hours. I wouldn’t be processed into prison after all—what a narrow escape.
As the heavy doors opened on the other side, I caught a glimpse of Catherine in her bright green Jeep, waiting nervously at the curb. The moment I stepped outside, I saw the worry etched on her face transform into relief. But as I climbed into the car, the floodgates opened for both of us. We broke down, the weight of recently revealed truths crumbling under the surface.
“I can’t believe you’re out! This is so crazy,” she exclaimed, tears shimmering in her eyes. “What happened?”
I knew I had to explain everything to her, but the words felt heavy on my tongue. There was so much to unpack. “It’s a long story,” I said softly, taking her hand and squeezing it tightly. “But I promise to tell you everything.”
As she drove away from that prison, the world outside felt surreal. The freedom tasted sweet but came with grim reminders of the shadows lingering around us. I was out on bail, but the reality of what lay ahead weighed heavily on my mind, and I knew the battle was far from over.
My solicitor was hard at work with my case, so much so that the paperwork piled up in his office like a mountain of evidence against me. Luckily, I received legal aid to cover the costs, which alleviated some of the pressure, but the sheer volume of documents was daunting. It took over a year for my case to finally make its way to court, an agonizing wait filled with anxiety and uncertainty.
Meanwhile, Catherine and I tried to lead a semblance of normal life amidst the chaos. We moved in together to a quaint house in a Surrey village, enjoying the tranquility of suburban life. For a while, things seemed to settle down. We found our routine, and for the first time in a long while, I felt a glimmer of hope.
But then one day, disaster struck. Catherine was in her mid-thirties, vibrant and full of life, when she suddenly collapsed one afternoon. I had been in the other room when I heard a muffled thud. My heart raced as I rushed in to find her unresponsive. I called for an ambulance immediately; the urgency of the situation engulfed me.
When the ambulance arrived, they whisked her away, and I jumped on my motorcycle to follow them straight to the hospital. Panic surged in my veins as I fought to keep calm, knowing that every second counted.
When I arrived, the medical team worked on her right away. The hospital buzzed with activity, and I was left standing in a whirlwind of emotions. The news came that she had suffered an embolism—a frightening diagnosis that made my heart sink. What could have caused this? Why was this happening to her?
Fortunately, luck was on our side; Catherine healed completely after a tense few days in the hospital. As she recovered, I wanted to do something special for her, to show her that life was still beautiful amid uncertainty. I suggested getting a cat, something small and loving to support her during her recovery.
We adopted a cute little kitten who quickly became her constant companion—a baby she could nurture. Watching the bond grow between them was heartwarming, and it seemed to breathe new life into Catherine’s spirit.
However, as a month passed, the conversations with my solicitor weighed heavily on my mind. He frequently asked about where all the money had gone, a constant reminder of the unstable ground we were treading. The gnawing feeling of entrapment crept back, reigniting my desire to escape.
Eventually, we made a bold decision. With a mixture of hope and anxiety, we packed up our lives once again and moved to the Isle of Wight, seeking a fresh start away from the shadows of our past. The island felt like a breath of fresh air—beautiful landscapes and a slower pace of life allowed us to breathe again, if only for a moment.
But deep down, I knew that running away didn’t erase my past. The legal troubles loomed larger than ever, and I couldn’t shake the sense of impending confrontation. We were starting afresh, but the weight of everything was still there, lingering like an uninvited guest.
go to 1.4
Comments