Читать книгу How to Rob a Bank - Том Митчелл - Страница 14

‘Dylan Thomas! Writing any poetry?’

It wasn’t the police. It was worse. It was Miss Riley, my old Year Six teacher. Gulp. Her hair was as mad as the last day at primary. She was grinning full beam and holding a Sainsbury’s bag for life. Her perfume, smelling like dying flowers, made me remember spelling tests, circle time and pleas to stop chatting.

‘Not yet,’ I said, somehow managing not to swear, my voice two octaves higher than usual.

‘How’s your mother? What year are you in now? You’ve heard about Beth’s house of course? It was in the News Shopper. She was ever so good at football, bless her.’

I didn’t know which question to answer, so I said, ‘Yes’.

I had the required person behind me, as referenced by my note, but as it was someone I knew, I’d have to chuck it all in.

Wouldn’t I?

Ahead of me, the cream-shirted man asked if he might also send a letter to South Africa.

‘I shouldn’t really be saying this, but they’re lucky to get a flat. Housing is prioritised for people in need, I understand, but why there’s got to be social housing in London, I don’t know, not when house prices are what they are. But you’re too young.’

How would I get Miss Riley to stop talking? She had a weird, faraway look in her eyes. I should just walk away. I’d drop the Frozen bag and jog on. I couldn’t rob the place with her there.

‘How can I help, sir?’ asked the old woman.

She had a warm, caring voice. Her eyes, I noticed, were the colour of chocolate. She’d called me ‘sir’. I don’t think I’d ever been called ‘sir’ before. Silver glasses hung delicately round her neck.

‘Umm,’ I said, stepping up to place the Frozen bag on the counter because my plan in the instant was to pretend to want to buy the bag.

‘You didn’t need to queue for this, sweetheart. You could have paid at the till. This is the postal counter.’ The old woman had pulled on her glasses and was studying the bag through the glass. ‘But that’s £2.99, please,’ she said.

To make my show of having no money all the more convincing, I went to pull my wallet from my jeans. But, would you know it, the note came with the wallet, gliding softly and terribly to the floor. I bent to retrieve it, but thumped my forehead against the counter and knocked my cap to the floor.

‘Aggh,’ I said, staggering backwards into a display of birthday cards.

Miss Riley swept forward to grab the note.

‘No!’ I said, one hand at my head, the other pointing.

‘Mind yourself,’ said Miss Riley, not giving the note to me, but sliding it through the gap between the screen and counter because, obviously, today wasn’t the day for catching any breaks.

‘You want to be sending this, do you?’ asked the old woman. ‘You’ll need an envelope.’

Miss Riley laughed. ‘Get the boy some paracetamol too! Is your head okay?’

It properly hurt, not just because of my bruised skull, but also because of my growing fear; safe behind the security screen, the old woman was slowly unfolding the paper.

‘No,’ I said, bending to retrieve my cap. ‘Don’t read it.’

‘Do you need an envelope, Dylan?’ asked Miss Riley. ‘They won’t be expensive.’

Smiling, the old woman read. She looked up from the note. Her smile faded. She frowned. Her mouth opened but no sound emerged.

‘I can’t make head nor tail of it,’ she said. ‘Is this your writing? How old are you?’

‘Everything okay?’ asked Miss Riley. ‘I used to be this boy’s teacher. Let me help.’

The old woman gestured Miss Riley forward.

A tiny whining sound emerged from my mouth. Was this actually happening?

‘My eyes,’ she said. ‘Can you read any of this?’

Miss Riley craned her neck to make sense of the note the old lady held up.

‘Well, that first line says to put all your money in the bag. Is this from your mum, Dylan?’

‘Are you wanting to make a withdrawal?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s a …’

I didn’t know what it was. Other than an absolute nightmare.

Miss Riley grabbed my arm.

‘Dylan,’ she said, ‘why don’t you just read the thing out?’

I shook my head and broke from her grip.

‘I just want to buy the Frozen bag,’ I said, temporarily forgetting that my worldly riches extended to no more than 8p. ‘The note’s for something else. Not for reading. Thank you.’

Undeterred, the old woman tried reading more. She got so far before beckoning Miss Riley back.

‘Do you have a gun?’ she asked. ‘It says you have a gun. At least, I think that’s what it says.’

‘No. Just a parcel to send recorded delivery, please.’ And then she realised what she’d been asked. ‘A what?’

‘I’ve got 8p,’ I said, pulling the change from my pocket and piling it up on the counter.

‘A gun?’ asked Miss Riley.

‘It’s just a story I’m working on. Can I have it back?’

‘Ahh,’ said Miss Riley. ‘You and your stories. Don’t be embarrassed.’

The old woman pointed at the note.

‘I’ve no idea what that last sentence says.’

‘When I started teaching, handwriting was an important part of the curriculum,’ said Miss Riley.

‘Aha!’ said the old woman. ‘Those two words: shoot you. Definitely.’

‘I’ve got to go,’ I said. ‘I’ve made a huge mistake.’

I turned and tripped over Miss Riley’s shopping, slapping to the floor. Two onions broke for it and rolled under the magazine stand. I pulled myself up, brushed myself down, and pushed through to the front door to safety/freedom.

‘You don’t want your bag?’ called the old woman after me.

‘What about your story?’ added Miss Riley.

I ignored them both.

On the bus home, I sat on the bottom deck, even though three pit bulls meant the space stank of wet dog. My plan had been to come home with thousands of pounds. In actual fact, the morning had cost me the 8p I’d left in the post office.

But the day hadn’t been completely wasted because I’d established that notes and post offices were not the way forward. Even if Miss Riley hadn’t magically turned up, I’m not sure I had it in me to take money from the old woman. All thoughts of insurance had flown from my brain when I’d watched her read my note.

Maybe I needed to find a post office, or a bank, operated by Hitler. Someone so evil they deserved to be robbed.

Maybe banks were the way to go, Dad was always on about how they were run by crooks, one rule for them, another for us, that kind of thing. And in the unlikely event that I were caught, I could always play stupid and say I thought Dad was talking literally, which meant I didn’t realise I was breaking the law, officer.

Banks.

Fewer threats of violence.

Yeah.

Back home, Dad was snoring on the sofa as gunshots sounded across the front room. I took to my computer and headed straight for Google Maps, pausing only to check Beth’s Facebook to see she’d actually posted something for once – a sad-faced emoji, which didn’t necessarily have anything to do with me burning down her uninsured home and forcing her family to move into a cramped high-rise flat, but still …