Stupid old Ocky banged on about number stations all day long. His monotone drawl repeated the same facts about how if you tune into certain frequencies on your radio, you can hear streams of numbers spewed out by clipped English voices. Sentences that make no sense. And most bizarrely enough, the tinkle of music that sounded like an ice cream van. All message ciphers for government agents.
This is true, and fascinating, but once you understand the meaning behind such bizarre phenomena, most people move on with their lives.
Not Ocky. Ocky had his basement crammed with tech that buzzed with static. His jumpers may have had holes at the elbows, and his trousers did not reach his ankles, but he showed off new pieces of kit every week.
Stupid old Ocky. Always good fun though. After a few pints a story about North Korean shortwave signals was a good laugh.
‘Tell us about the ice cream vans Ocky,’ We would say, and he would adjust his glasses, and tell us once again of spies, and their streams of numbers hidden in plain sight.
One night Ocky burst into the pub, holding printed sheets of paper.
He rambled about hours spent cracking codes. How his equipment had been worth the investment, and the debt on multiple credit cards. After all this time, he had a location. An exact spot in Scotland where his precious number station existed.
‘Who wants to come?’ He shouted.
We cheered, and raised our hands. This was like finding a unicorn after bullying someone for wearing a horn on their head.
Ocky’s one condition was we had to leave tonight.
Four pints of cider each made this a brilliant game. Since we lived in Devon, we pooled the money for petrol, and crammed into the back of Ocky’s Mum’s Peugeot. We left around eleven that evening, and sped down dark country roads and glowing motorways. We stopped once for hot drinks and toilet breaks. I remember Ocky’s hands shaking on the steering wheel, even though his coffee remained untouched.
Ocky’s instructions pointed to a spot on the top of a small hill. The closest road ended near some rusted fencing, but we found a gap large enough to squeeze through. We clambered up the gradient, slipping and sliding on the damp grass in our smart trainers. The alcohol had dropped to a pang of regret, and my bladder begged for relief. Ocky was close to receiving a beating.
But the rising sun revealed our prize. We gasped at the ice cream van with the radar antenna on top. The faded signage displaying the tariff, and different types of unknown flavours. The grinning man peering through a mucky window, the cones in both of his hands dripping with grey sludge. And the never ending dirge of ice cream tunes, both familiar, and a tune from hell.
What had Ocky got us into now?
Line: Ocky’s one condition was we had to leave tonight.
