Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

I don’t know… Just in case you wouldn’t like it. Or just in case Glenn might find out. Or just…

Bollocks! I hate this! I can’t stand it! I feel so helpless! So stupid!

Please put me out of my misery, Nina. Take it all back, if you must. Just set me straight, once and for all. Laugh in my face, if you want to — or tell me I’ve got completely the wrong end of the stick… Just do something to release me from all this horrible indecision (this pathetic mooning about the place)!

I’ll do anything for you, Nina, you must know that. I’ll do anything. Just say the word. Just give me some sign — some tiny show of encouragement…

I know it’ll be messy. I’m not an idiot. But I don’t care how messy it gets. I don’t care. I love you. I think you’re incredible. I just want to be with you. And don’t worry about Yasmin. I lied about Yasmin — I mean not about Yasmin. There is a Yasmin. We are engaged. But America just seems so far away right now. America just seems like a whole different world, in fact.

Oh yes. And in case there’s any remaining confusion about why I came back here (because Glenn’s take on it was so weirdly off-kilter) I did mainly come back to Yorkshire to support my father (once his business started going under), and I’m living at home not because I want to, but just to try and help Mum and Dad out, financially, for a while.

Glenn was wrong to think that my transferring to RAF Fylingdales was some kind of a demotion. It was actually a promotion. The job came up and I put myself forward, hardly thinking I would get it (there’s this whole, new, high-tech system of radars and tracking devices being installed at the base by the US over the next decade or so — an upgrade, in effect — and they’ve brought me on board to head the whole operation up).

Obviously I couldn’t say anything about this on the tour — it’s all totally hush-hush. And I was happy to let Glenn believe what he liked (I don’t need his approval) but I didn’t want you thinking I’d returned here with my tail between my legs, like some kind of pathetic ‘Mummy’s Boy’, a failure, because that couldn’t be further from the truth.

When I accepted the post at Fylingdales I knew the thing with Yasmin probably wouldn’t be sustainable, long-term. She’s got a teaching job in Houston which she really enjoys, and family there, and tons of friends. Over the past five or so months it’s pretty much fizzled out between us. She was originally meant to visit this Christmas but in the end she decided not to (by mutual consent).

The truth is that she’s never made me feel the way you do, Nina. Nobody can. Only you can. I’m crazy about you — I’m crazy in love with you (like Beyonce keeps on singing in that infernal song of hers).

I had to say it. I had to. I just had to put it out there — if only to stop myself from going slowly insane. I’m sorry if this has upset you. I’m sorry if I’ve behaved inappropriately in some way. I apologize if I somehow managed to misconstrue what you said the other day.

If you don’t respond to this letter I promise I won’t bother you again. I won’t pester you. I’ll just pretend this never happened. I’ll move on. It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. I don’t want you to worry about me. Forget about me! You’ve got enough to worry about!

Whatever happens I just want you to be happy, Nina. You deserve to be happy. You deserve every good thing the world has to offer, and more, so much more…

I’m talking crap now. Yes. I should probably just quit while I’m ahead.

Have a lovely Christmas.

Forget I ever wrote this (if you want to).

I honestly won’t hold it against you,

Nick

PS You were right about the A4 envelope. The book fitted into it just perfectly.

[tape transcript]

TRANSCRIPT OF DICTAPHONE TAPE RECORDING (transcribed on 7/01/2007 by WPC Helen Graves — Front Desk, Skipton)

I don’t know if it’s relevant to the case at all, Sergeant Everill, but the suspect appears to be located in a small, tiled room as he dictates this message (I’m guessing it might possibly be a bathroom, a cellar, or — at a stretch of the imagination — a cell of some kind). There’s an echo to his voice as he speaks, some audible ‘straining’ (I’ve italicized these segments for you), the rustle of tissue paper, and, at the very end, the sound of a low-flush cistern being pulled .

You may notice that I have taken the decision to blank out much of the swearing in the text; this is actually because I named my only daughter, Bronwen, after one of The Little Wren’s most beautiful songs — ‘My White-Breasted Bronwen’ (off his 1994 album Up on the Downs). Bronwen is currently only twelve years old .

Prior to transcribing this tape, I had considered myself quite a fan of Frank K. Nebraska (as he now insists on calling himself). I even played his first hit, ‘A Big Whistle (for a Little Wren)’, as the first dance at my wedding! Of course at that stage I didn’t have the slightest inkling that in real life he would turn out to be such a stuck-up, arrogant, filthy-mouthed little b*****d .

Please feel free to get back to me if you have any queries about the text, as it stands —

WPC Graves

Troy — Frank here — and I’m so f***ing, f***ing ANGRY I hardly know where to put myself… Where are you? I need to talk to you for f**k’s sake! [Sound of FKN grappling, clumsily, with a door handle]

I’m still lying low in the wilds of West Yorkshire struggling to get some s**t together for the new album… [Sound of FKN pushing a door open and entering a small, tiled room] Of course this is on the remotest off-chance that you actually even care where I am or what I’m doing with myself right now… [Sound of FKN petulantly slamming the door shut behind him]

I tried your mobile, but I kept getting sent direct to your message-bank, so then I tried the office, and your haughty, jobsworth of a secretary tells me you’ve swanned off to the f***ing Maldives for three weeks, you jammy c**t!

Why the f**k aren’t you picking up your messages? I mean who the hell gave you carte blanche to suddenly go all f***ing Garbo on me?

Huh?!

Because I’ll tell you something for nothing, here, Troy: if you had picked up those messages you’d be shi**ing your f***ing Bermuda shorts right now. You’d be standing, weeping, in the full glare of the tropical sun, on a wide expanse of f***ing, steaming tarmac, desperately trying to hitch a ride back to the UK on the next available f***ing flight. Your ears would be bleeding, Troy, because I am f***ing livid . I am incandescent with f***ing rage here, Troy.

Oh, yeah, and I can’t be f***ed writing all this down, so I’m recording it on my Dictaphone — as per — then couriering the tape direct to your hotel — or your t**tty stilted chalet — or wherever the hell else you’re parking your slack, white, lazy, pock-marked arse right now.

Kizzy’s sitting by the front door with her coat on, as we speak, primed and ready to make the drop.

[FKN expectorates, noisily, into what sounds like a sink]

The poor kid’s been in f***ing tears all morning, Troy. She’s inconsolable. She hates what this sh*t is doing to me! She thinks it’s criminal that you’ve fucked off like that, without so much as a f***ing by-your-leave. She thinks it’s completely, f***ing unprofessional, as it happens.

So f*ck you, Troy! You’ve made a beautiful, heavily pregnant young girl sob her gorgeous little heart out. You’ve broken her f***ing heart , Troy. You’ve broken my unborn child’s heart, Troy. So I hope you’re f***ing satisfied with that! I hope your three, tawdry weeks in the f***ing Maldives was worth all that, huh?! Huh?!