We knew where we were going. Tonight was the
culmination of months of off-and-on again trolling around The Depot.
The Depot sat on a full acre of near downtown industrial land,
surrounded on three sides by car sales yards with the fourth open
to a short, darkened street. The office buildings were on the
street side and where there wasn't buildings the side was
enclosed with a ten foot high chain-link fence... adorned with a
skirting of razor wire. Such a high fence was relatively
uninviting, however the eleven foot driveway gate topped with
spikes added a touch that could not be beat.
The dangerous gate, repelling fence, darkened
buildings and quiet, misty street gave off the aura of a sleeping government
operation... If you ignored the tens of white vehicles inside
with Telecom logos clearly displayed on their sides.
As fearsome as the gate looked, it was easily navigated by
climbing where the gate met the fence. We had discovered this
weeks earlier, after previous to that draping a scrap of carpet
over the razor wire and climbing a secluded spot of chain-link.
During those first expeditions we had crept
between the Ford Transit Vans and the smaller Toyota vans in the spots
where the large floodlamps shone least.
There was always lights on in the office buildings, and always
cars in the parking lot. We stayed as far away from these as we
could, always wary.
Tonight was different. Tonight I had come to a different
conclusion. Fake-out.
That's all these cars and lighted rooms
were; A charade to disuade anyone brave/daft enough to have decided the
razor wire and sharpened gates weren't enough of a challenge.
Whether we fell into the brave or the daffy category, I'm not sure,
but we were walking around relatively in the open now,
investigating all the office rooms one by one, through the
windows, to make damned sure we weren't wrong.
After at least half an hour of meandering, it was time to get
down to business.
We were armed with our night-time trade
tools, a roll of black electrical tape and a long, thin bladed, slot head
screwdriver.
We went between the vehicles, pillaging everything that might
remotely be of interest.
Linesmen handsets, laptops, cellphones, phone cabling, manuals
for everything from field surveys to NEAX exchange units, they
were all fair game.
We busted into each vehicle as we had learnt
how to best, through trial and error, popping a quarterlight to get into the
Utilities, skillfully breaking off the catches on the sliding
windows to get into the Toyota vans and rather less skillfully
breaking windows on the Transit Vans.
I crawled through the vehicles with my leather tank gloves on,
ironically pillaged from a German tank pilot during
World War Two, passing anything of value out the window to my
cohort. My partner would pile things up until he had an arm-full,
and then take the pile back along the route to the main gate and
leave it in an ever increasing mound in the shadows.
We had spent hours there. Andrew was getting
nervous. I was lost in adrenaline, however soon we were on the same page as
his repeating comments about not 'Feeling right' began to rub off.
After three and a half hours, and countless vehicles, I began to
agree with him.
He went to escort the goods back to the boot of the car while I
cleaned up, making sure I hadn't lost anything, walking back
along the route of our crime looking for items out of place.
Soon he found me again, and it was time to leave.
We made our way along the backs of some large
flatbed trucks until we heard a noise.
A grinding, perhaps sliding noise and the hum of an idling
engine. Close.
We dropped to our knees and looked under the row of trucks,
hiding behind tyres. A car. A white Stationwagon. Telecom logo.
Not good.
The vehicle entry gate slid to a close behind him and the Toyota
drove along the lane between giant spools of cabling and the
trucks.
That was about it for us. Enough excitement.
We moved like Gazelles on steroids, flying between the rows of
vehicles towards the gate, powered by the extra litre of
adrenaline in our veins. We arrived at the gate at the same time,
I was more athletic than Andrew, but clearly when properly
motivated he was more than willing to keep up with me.
He shot up the gate, and I followed closely behind.
We surveyed the street on the other side. Quiet. Empty. Thank
Christ for that.
Moving in the shadows, like liquid speed, we
made our way to the car, parked, it now seemed, disturbingly close to the
scene of the crime.
Hindsight is 20/20.
I started up the Ford and we quickly made our way out of the
city, along the banks of the Avon river, hearts still attempting
to hammer their way out of our ribcages.
We made it all the way home before thinking
about what had happened.
How close we had come. How they place must now be crawling with
people. The police. Will they have dogs?
We double and triple-checked that we hadn't lost anything
incriminating... And thats when Andrew realised.
He'd left a pile of manuals by the gate in the shadows.
"Manuals, puh! Who cares?"
"But... they have my fingerprints... I didn't wear gloves when
moving the goods around."
So we took everything out of the car and stashed it, and drove
all the way back into the city.
I parked in the same spot, between a print company and a security
firm - again, how ironic - right up beside a dumpster out of the
street lamps reach.
We disembarked and walked, quickly but
confidently around the entire perimeter of The Depot.
Sure enough, the lights were all on, the number of cars had
tripled and as we had passed one lit window, there was six or
seven people surrounding a conference table, all looking very
stern.
Andrew assured me, the pile was right beside the gate.
What was I to do?
When we reached the gate again, I climbed it,
moved into the shadows and found the pile of goods - undiscovered
thankfully.
No Police vehicles anywhere. Maybe Telecom were keeping this to
themselves? Save the stigma of showing how poor their security
was?
I slipped the manuals under the gate, one by one, and then heaved
the plastic tote box over the fence, and then I swiftly followed it.
And, for the final time, we made our way home.
We scoured the newspapers for any hint of proof. Posterity you
see. It's not enough to have felt the rush, but the need for
other people to see it. To know.
But there was nothing.
I guess Telecom didn't want anyone knowing how easy it was. We
passed by The Depot months later, slowly, investigating.
Everything seemed the same. Apart from a new pole in the centre
of the yard. And on top of that pole, a video camera with a
steady red LED like a stoplight.