by Rob Stevens
‘Did she believe you?’ Arnold asked.
‘I think so,’ Mr Cheeseman nodded. ‘Although, for the record, it turns out Councillor Thomas isn’t a gruff Londoner at all but softly spoken. And from Wales.’
‘That’s weird,’ I said. ‘I’m sure he came round our house once and was really gruff and … oh hang on.’ I felt a pulse go through me. ‘Come to think of it that was Councillor Thompson. Sorry.’
Mr Cheeseman laughed. ‘I think you’d better reconsider any plans you had to join the intelligence services.’
‘I think you’re right,’ I said sheepishly. ‘Thank you for doing this, Mr Cheeseman. It means a lot.’
‘Don’t mention it. I hope it helps keep your family together. Family matters more than anything. I know that better than anyone.’
Mr Cheeseman smiled but his eyes were sad. I smiled back.
‘See you soon, Mr Cheeseman,’ said Arnold and we both turned to leave.
‘By the way,’ Mr Cheeseman said. ‘I hope you two had nothing to do with that incident at the bank yesterday?’
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘that was just a misunderstanding.’
‘I wasn’t trying to rob the place,’ said Arnold. ‘I just accidentally told them it was a hold-up.’
Mr Cheeseman let out a wheezy laugh. ‘Well, it might be worth you two stopping by the station some time to explain.’
I considered his idea for a moment and realised he was right. ‘We will,’ I promised. ‘Tomorrow.’
On the way home I got a text from my dad. He said there’d been a mix-up with his golf so he was free this afternoon after all. I sent a message back asking if he could meet me in the Square at two-thirty and he sent back a thumbs-up emoji. I couldn’t believe it. I was actually going to get everyone together at the same time for the big match. I hoped they would all understand that I wanted to talk about Lenny and remember him. I felt slightly sick with nerves.
When we got home Arnold wanted some toast. There was a fresh loaf in the bread bin. I got the jam and butter out of the fridge and handed him a small butter knife.
‘Help yourself,’ I said. ‘I’m just going to change. We’ll head out to the stadium in about half an hour.’
I went to my room and opened my chest of drawers. My Panthers rugby shirt was folded at the bottom of a pile of tops – where it had remained untouched for the last year. As I unfolded it I had this weird feeling of déjà vu. I saw myself, full of excitement, unfolding the same shirt to wear to last year’s match. It was a memory so powerful it was like it was actually happening. For a moment I expected Lenny to come bounding into the room in his Panthers shirt singing a rude song about thrashing the Kestrels.
As I buttoned the collar (Owen Ritchie always wears his rugby shirt buttoned up) I noticed my phone lying on my desk. The previous day I’d been telling Arnold about the song ‘He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother’, by The Hollies, because it always makes me think about Lenny. He’d never heard it so I’d promised to play it to him but in the excitement of winning big on the fruit machine, accidentally holding up a bank and almost getting hit by a bus, I’d forgotten about it.
I slipped my Beats headphones on and scrolled through the tunes. I knew the song was on an old playlist, I just wasn’t sure which one. As I searched for it, I stumbled upon other tunes I’d completely forgotten about that Lenny and I used to sing along to. I ended up lying on my bed, listening and reminiscing. I didn’t know how long I spent there, cocooned in my own little world – absorbed in tunes and lyrics and soaking in the memories they conjured up.
It had slipped my mind that the reason I’d started listening to music in the first place was to find ‘He Ain’t Heavy’ for Arnold. When another song ended and the sound of The Hollies filled my head I jumped off the bed with a start.
Arnold! I’d forgotten all about him.
With my headphones still on at the top of the stairs I was blissfully ignorant of the dramatic scene I was about to enter. On the landing, the faint whiff of burnt toast filled my nostrils and it occurred to me I should have shown Arnold how to adjust the settings on the toaster.
I checked my watch. One-thirty. Time to go to the stadium to pick up the tickets. I jogged down the stairs eagerly. The whole crazy plan seemed to be coming together.
I was about halfway down when I noticed the front door was open. I was curious but not anxious. Maybe Arnold had popped outside for some reason – chucking some burnt toast in the dustbin perhaps? A few more steps down I noticed a policeman’s navy trousers and his shiny black boots.
In a split second I knew my plan was about to be derailed. It was like all the guilt and regret that I’d ignored over the past few days hit me in one go. As if it had been stored up inside me, just waiting for the time to explode.
I slipped off my headphones and watched the scene play out in the kitchen. Olivia was wielding a loaf of French bread like a baseball bat. Arnold was armed with a butter knife and a slice of toast, while the police constable tried to persuade them both to step away from their bakery items. I wondered whether it was even worth mentioning that I had just been about to own up about having Arnold to stay. I felt like lying about bringing him home was worse than being wanted for the bank job. The things I felt guilty about, in descending order of regret were:
Bringing Arnold home without telling my family.
Not owning up to having Arnold in the house.
Asking Olivia to cover for me breaking her window.
Getting annoyed with Olivia for not covering for me when the reason she hadn’t was because I’d smashed her mobile phone (as well as her window).
Accidentally holding up a bank.
Not owning up to accidentally trying to rob a bank.
Playing cricket in the garden.
The police officer finally convinced Olivia to put down the French bread then Arnold laid his butter knife on the counter. At that point I was still thinking I might be able to talk my way out of it. But when Arnold called me by name the game was up.
When the policeman asked me to confirm where I’d been the previous afternoon at the time of the attempted bank robbery, I tried to buy some time by telling them it was a funny story.
‘If I wanted to hear a funny story I’d have asked you if you have any funny stories,’ he said, with a surprising amount of authority. ‘I want you to confirm your whereabouts yesterday afternoon between 4.32 and 4.44 p.m.’
I considered my options. Glanced at Arnold. Swallowed. After another moment of excruciating silence, Arnold and I both spoke at once. Incredibly we both came up with a really convincing alibi at the exact same moment.
Predictably though, the alibis we gave were different. I said we’d been messing around on the beach and Arnold said we’d been in Chambers Park.
‘I think you two had better accompany me to the station, don’t you?’ said the officer.
I thought about the lady waiting to meet us in the gift shop at the stadium with the match tickets.
‘But we have to be somewhere at two,’ I said desperately.
The police officer snorted. ‘I shouldn’t think so, sunshine.’
As Arnold and I traipsed out of the house, shadowed by the policeman, Olivia followed.
‘You can’t come,’ I said.
‘You’re joking,’ she said with a smile so kind I wanted to hug her (but I didn’t in case the policeman thought I was trying to pass her incriminating evidence or something). ‘I’m not letting you go on your own. I’ll call Mum and Dad and get them to meet us at the station – they’ll sort this out.’
‘You can’t tell them,’ I urged. ‘You have to go to the Square at two-thirty. Mum and Dad will be there. You have to keep them there until I arrive.’
‘I can’t let you go to the station on your own …’
‘Please, Liv. It’s really important. I’ve got us all tickets to the rugby match this afternoon. I want us all to do something together – to remember Lenny, but also to try and start again.’
/> ‘I take it Mum and Dad don’t know?’
I shook my head. ‘Promise me you won’t tell them?’
She nodded.
‘And promise me you’ll be in the Square at half-two?’
My sister looked dubious.
‘Promise me, Liv.’
‘OK,’ she said with an encouraging smile. ‘See you at two-thirty.’
Arnold and I were sitting on metal chairs in a small windowless room at the back of the police station. The police officer from the kitchen was standing the other side of a battered desk. Nobody spoke. The hands of the clock on the wall crawled round. When they reached two o’clock I couldn’t contain my frustration any longer.
‘What are we waiting for?’ I asked, quickly adding, ‘Sir?’ to make up for my tone.
The constable sighed. ‘We are waiting for the Duty Station Sergeant to question you regarding the attempted robbery of Lloyds Bank on Saturday afternoon.’
‘We can explain,’ I said.
‘You’d better hope you can.’
‘You’ll laugh when you hear what happened, won’t he, Arnold?’
Arnold studied the police officer carefully. ‘It’s really hard to say … Maybe.’
‘I’m not in a laughing mood.’
Arnold pulled a face. ‘In that case, maybe not.’
‘You see,’ I continued, as if I’d been encouraged to tell my story, ‘we went into the bank to withdraw some money but there was a delay because Arnold didn’t have his bank card on him. When he explained to the queue behind us that there was a hold-up he just meant ‘hold-up’ as in a delay but of course they thought he meant ‘hold-up’ as in a robbery. It was probably something to do with the fact that Arnold was wearing a balaclava at the time. Next thing we knew the manager had set off the alarm thinking we were trying to rob the place! It really was quite comical.’ I’d been grinning inanely as I spoke in an attempt to entice the police officer into seeing the funny side.
His face remained completely deadpan. ‘That’s quite a story,’ he said. ‘I’m sure the Duty Station Sergeant will enjoy hearing it.’
I didn’t quite know how to take that. I glanced anxiously at the clock. ‘How much longer do you think this will take?’
‘How long is a piece of string?’
‘What string?’ asked Arnold.
Nobody replied.
Time ticked by.
At twenty past two the door opened and another policeman stepped into the room. There was short whispered conversation between the two officers before the visitor left.
‘OK, boys,’ our guardian announced sharply. ‘On your feet.’
‘Where are we going?’ I asked. A tiny chink of hope made me think he might be letting us go.
‘I have to take you to interview room six. Follow me.’
Arnold and I got up and shuffled out of the room while the constable marched proudly ahead of us. He led us past the station desk and down a long corridor with lots of doors leading off it.
‘Are we going to speak to the sergeant now?’ I asked. That glimmer of hope allowed me to believe we might still make it to meet my family and that the lady in the rugby club shop may have saved our tickets for us.
The policeman stopped outside a door with a plastic number six screwed to it.
‘Is this interview room six?’ asked Arnold.
‘How did you work that out, Einstein?’ sneered the constable.
‘Because of the number on the door,’ Arnold said. ‘And by the way, my name isn’t Einstein.’
The policeman opened the door and indicated we should go in with a jerk of his head. Inside the room, on the far wall, a clock said it was nearly twenty-five to three. I felt my heart sink. I pictured my family in the Square, stranded amidst the sea of rugby supporters heading to the game. I felt this overwhelming urge to be with them. If I didn’t get there they would be swamped and lost in the crowds – swept away and separated for ever. But I knew there was no hope. It was too late.
As I stepped into the interview room I heard a door open behind me. Instinctively I turned and found myself looking at the square-jawed, heavy-browed face of Sergeant McIntosh. I realised she must be the Duty Station Sergeant we were waiting to talk to and I felt a glimmer of hope inside my belly.
‘Well, well, look who it is!’ she exclaimed warmly. ‘My favourite two do-gooders. Although you’re cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?’
‘Cutting what fine?’ asked Arnold.
‘The time,’ the sergeant laughed. ‘I was beginning to think you didn’t get my message.’ She looked at us both for a moment, decoding the expressions on our faces. ‘Wait. You didn’t get my message, did you?’
I felt like I did at school when I hadn’t been listening properly to what Mr Beaston was saying about trigonometry. ‘I got the part about there being no reward from the guy whose wallet we handed in,’ I said.
‘What about the other part?’ Sergeant McIntosh enquired, folding her fleshy arms.
I shook my head. I could feel my face going red. ‘I didn’t listen to the rest of it,’ I confessed. ‘I sort of got distracted …’
‘Distracted, were you?’ Sergeant McIntosh huffed. ‘Well, if you didn’t get my message asking you to meet me here at two-fifteen then what is it that brings you here?’
‘I apprehended them myself,’ the policeman from my kitchen announced, with a smug grin. ‘These two individuals are here for questioning in relation to the attempted robbery of Lloyds Bank at approximately 4.32 p.m. in the afternoon, yesterday … afternoon.’
Sergeant McIntosh’s straight mouth curved into a broad grin. ‘Are you serious?’ she laughed.
The policeman nodded solemnly. ‘I have already obtained a partial confession but it was not during an official interview. According to protocol I am escorting them to interview room six where we will wait for you to conduct a formal cross-examination when you have completed the duty with which you are presently engaged upon.’
‘Honestly, Constable Saunders, I do wish you would speak in plain English sometimes.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Tell me about this confession.’
Constable Saunders opened his notebook and cleared his throat. ‘One of the suspects admitted that his accomplice turned to the queue of people in the bank and told them there was a hold-up.’
‘I only meant it was taking a long time,’ Arnold protested.
‘It probably looked worse because he was wearing a balaclava on his head,’ I said.
‘Why was that?’ asked Sergeant McIntosh.
‘Where else would I wear it?’ asked Arnold.
‘It was really cold,’ I explained.
‘OK,’ Sergeant McIntosh said calmly. ‘Saunders, I’d like you to wait for me in the interview room. I’ll be there in ten minutes with more questions.’
The hope in my belly died like the embers of a fire and I went to follow Constable Saunders into the room. Sergeant McIntosh’s hand on my shoulder stopped me in my tracks. ‘Not you two,’ she said with a smile and she closed the door, leaving the young policeman alone in the interview room.
‘We’re not being arrested?’ I asked.
Sergeant McIntosh walked us back up the corridor towards the station desk. ‘Why would two kids hand in a wallet containing hundreds of pounds in the morning then try and hold-up a bank in the afternoon? It just doesn’t make sense. I can tell when kids are lying and when they’re telling the truth.’
‘We were going to come into the station and explain. Tomorrow.’
‘Why not today?’
Arnold and I looked at each other. ‘We were hoping to go to the rugby match with my family,’ I said sadly, glancing at my watch. It was nearly quarter to three. ‘But it’s too late now.’
We reached the desk at the front of the station.
‘Actually,’ said Sergeant McIntosh, ‘wait here one second. The reason I asked you to come in was because I asked my brother to drop by and say hello.’
&
nbsp; Even though all was lost I still had this powerful urge to hurry to the Square to see my family. ‘That’s really nice,’ I said, ‘but we’d really like to get going, if that’s all right?’
Sergeant McIntosh’s eyebrows made a straight line low over her eyes. ‘My brother is a very busy man,’ she said sternly. ‘He’s been here since two-fifteen waiting to speak to you two. He is in as much of a hurry as you are, believe you me. Now I am asking you to wait here – is that understood?’
Arnold and I nodded meekly and watched the sergeant bustle away.
While we waited I suggested Arnold ring the club shop and ask whether, by any chance, they were still holding the tickets for us. As we expected, the answer was no. The lady from the ticket office had just left to go to work in the hospitality suite. She had held onto our tickets until two-thirty but had eventually returned them to the ticket office. They had sold immediately.
I saw Sergeant McIntosh approaching, mostly obscuring the figure behind her.
‘So these are the two boys I was telling you about. The ones hoping to go to the match today.’ She stepped to one side and my mouth fell open.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ the man said, offering his hand to me.
‘Owen Ritchie,’ I said, shaking it vigorously.
‘Why are you giving a false name?’ Arnold whispered.
I laughed, finally letting the man’s hand go. ‘I don’t mean I’m Owen Ritchie – he is.’
Arnold stared at the man. ‘Owen Ritchie the famous rugby player?’ he said.
‘Guilty as charged,’ Owen Ritchie laughed. ‘Listen – Rosie tells me you’re a mad keen Panthers fan?’
I nodded, grinning stupidly.
‘Who’s Rosie?’ Arnold asked.
Owen Ritchie put his arm round Sergeant McIntosh. ‘My big sister here.’
‘Oi! Less of the big if you don’t mind,’ Sergeant McIntosh laughed.
‘Owen Ritchie is your brother?’ I laughed.
‘Well, I did tell you he was a pretty good rugby player, did I not?’
‘Talk about an understatement,’ I gushed.