“Hi there,” he said. “Cashed up, everyone? Ready to go?” Then he saw Wiggy. Then he saw me. Then he heard thunderous crashes from the stairs below.
He drew his weapon.
The young man behind the counter started to cry loudly.
Harold charged through the door.
Wiggy swung his baseball bat.
I picked up as many bags of cash as I could manage.
Harold fired his gun. A huge lump of plaster detached itself from the ceiling and fell on the SecureCorps guard’s head just as Wiggy’s bat connected.
“Oh farkin ’ell,” yelled the SecureCorps guard, who was wearing protective headgear but went down in a pile of rubble anyway.
Harold fired his gun at the manager, who seemed to be making for his panic button. The manager went down.
I said, “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Don’t just stand there,” Wiggy said, grabbing a couple of carrier bags in the hand that wasn’t wielding the bat.
“Huh?” said Harold. And for once I could see what he meant: A real live gun, with real live ammo, going off twice in a confined space leaves you with real live tinnitus. It had never happened to me before. But then I’d never worked with Harold before.
We scrambled for the door. On the stairs Wiggy remembered to remove his mask. He pulled mine off, too. And snatched the plastic gun out of my numb fingers. Harold stumbled down after us, picking up his walking stick from where he’d left it at the bottom, and unwinding his scarf from around his head.
I didn’t even want to look at him. Wiggy, The Gent, and I had never, in all of our long careers, ever used live firearms. No one had ever been hurt except for the odd whomp with a baseball bat when persuasion didn’t work. Harold was supposed to be the look-out. He was supposed to have warned us about the SecureCorps guard and not charged in afterwards firing a live gun.
I wanted to drop everything and run away from all of them. A lifetime of YMCA lunches didn’t seem so bad anymore. I tore off The Gent’s coat and carried it over my arm, hiding some of the Safeway bags. As I’d feared, my hair was a mess.
We stepped out into the bright autumnal street and Wiggy spun round to face Harold. “What. The hell. Did you. Do that for?” he wheezed.
“Say again,” Harold said. “Come on, we got to get back to the car. Elsie, give me a hand. My hip’s knackered.”
“I’d like to knacker your thick skull,” I said. I wanted to leave him but I couldn’t without endangering the rest of us. “Why the hell didn’t you warn us?”
“Huh?” He leaned heavily on my arm and we limped up the High Street towards Cristettes Kitchenware and Novelties.
Wiggy started shouting, “Why the hell didn’t you—”
“Shut up,” I said, “anyone could hear.” Except Harold.
Harold didn’t even hear the police sirens as three police cars raced past us to the betting shop. My heart was staggering and my vision went speckly. I heard the gunshots and saw the manager tumble all over again.
I’m not quite sure what happened then because the next thing I remember clearly was The Gent helping me out of the car next to my block of flats. He carried a large Cristettes bag which he gave me when we got to my door.
“What’s that?” I asked, and The Gent sighed diplomatically.
Apparently I’d had a funny turn in Cristettes and insisted on buying three baking trays, a set of glass candleholders, and a large wok. He reassured me that I’d paid for them with my own money. He said that the staff in Cristettes were very nice to batty old ladies and had thought nothing of it.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” he said sympathetically.
“No, no, I’m quite all right,” I said, wondering what on earth I’d do with another wok. This wasn’t the first funny turn I’d had in the last year, and for some very odd reason I always seem to buy a wok. But I didn’t want to tell The Gent about it. “How’s the tooth?” I asked, to distract him.
“Your oil of cloves worked a treat,” he said. “I tried it in the car while I was waiting. The tooth’s nearly stopped hurting. You’re more use than a pharmacist, Elsie.” Which, of course, is why we call him The Gent — he lies to make other people feel good. But he did look better.
“Wiggy’ll be along when he’s dropped Harold and dealt with the car.” He made sure I was sitting comfortably and then he went away to make the tea.
I sat and wrestled with my wayward mind, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. Why had I felt so wonderful with a plastic gun? So dismal with a live one? Had I drawn attention to us in the shop? What would happen now we were guilty of robbery with violence, maybe even murder? But most of all I wanted to know what went wrong.
I didn’t find out until Wiggy showed up when The Gent and I were on our third pot of tea. He turned on the TV for the local news before dropping like a rock onto my sofa. His face was grey with fatigue.
“Harold,” he said. “Not my favourite. Person. Big mistake. Working with him.”
The Gent poured him a cup of strong tea and we waited while he recovered his breath. “Where’s the money?” he asked first.
“Ah yes,” The Gent said, “we need to talk about that.” He gave me a sidelong glance and then spoke directly to Wiggy. “At the moment it’s in Elsie’s laundry hamper. I know she usually keeps it in her chest freezer, but when I looked in there I found there wasn’t enough room. Elsie, do you know you have four woks in your freezer? Wiggy, she’s got four woks in her freezer. I know it’s where she hides stuff, but why hide four woks?”
“It’s none of your business what I keep in my freezer,” I said. “Why aren’t we talking about what went wrong at the betting shop?”
“Hold on,” Wiggy said, turning up the volume on the TV. “This is about us. Look.”
What we saw was black-and-white grainy footage from a surveillance camera somewhere in the ceiling of the betting shop. We watched fascinated as two shadowy figures entered and then one of them skipped around like a goat pointing a gun in all directions.
“That can’t be me,” I said. “I don’t jump around.” The Gent and Wiggy said nothing.
Jerkily the two behind the counter began filling bags. The film froze while the newsreader said, “Witnesses describe being threatened by two men wearing masks. The third member of the gang only made his appearance after the arrival of an employee from the security firm who should have transported the day’s takings to a night safe.”
“Two men?” I said. “That’s wonderful. We’re home free.” Again The Gent and Wiggy stayed silent.
The film continued with the leisurely entrance of the man from SecureCorps, shortly followed by the muffled figure of Harold. The newsreader said, “As you can see, the footage ends abruptly when the third man shot out the security camera. The manager of the betting shop, who only survived what he describes as certain death by a trained marksman when he ducked behind the countertop, said, ‘These men were armed to the teeth and very violent. They terrorised my staff in what was clearly a meticulously planned raid.’ Police are asking anyone who witnessed three men fleeing from the scene to contact them immediately.”
“Fleeing?” Wiggy said, turning off the TV. “Harold flees at the speed of a rocking chair. What’s up, Elsie?”
“I thought Harold shot the manager,” I sobbed. “I thought…”
“I know, I know,” Wiggy said. “Have you got a handkerchief, Gent? The old broad needs mopping.”
The Gent passed me his handkerchief, politely pretending not to see my streaming eyes and nose.
Wiggy said, “Who knew Harold even had a real gun? Maybe he wasn’t lying about the South London gang after all.”
“It’s unforgivable,” The Gent said. “We made it quite clear to Harold — no real firearms. He knows how we work. We have a reputation.”