by Stan Arnold
Eddie was a part-time heavy-metal drummer, part-time porno-actor and part-time wheelman - and as they drove round the North Circular Road, he seemed to get the gist of Jimmy’s plans.
Not that there was a lot of gist to get. Jimmy’s plans were always dead simple. Not for him the meticulous planning of Reservoir Dogs or The Italian Job. Jimmy just pulled his beret down over his eyes and picked a bank from the yellow pages using a pin. His flawed logic was that if he didn’t know where he was going to rob, neither would the bank. Of course, he ‘cased’ the joint, usually a week before. But, really, all Jimmy liked was demanding the money, running out with the cash and escaping. And that was where Eddie the Surf came in.
Eddie’s big advantage was he didn't look like a criminal. He looked like an unbelievably handsome, tanned surfer boy, with bright green eyes and long, permed, dyed blond hair. Jimmy also liked the fact that Eddie had no vehicle tax or insurance, so if they were randomly stopped by the cops, there was a good chance they’d concentrate of Eddie’s lack of paperwork, rather than the stash of cash in the boot.
Jimmy’s lackadaisical approach to crime shouldn’t make you think he wasn’t a dangerous man. He was very dangerous. He always carried a gun. And was prepared to use it. He’d once been recommended as a hit-man and enforcer for Chuck the Fuck - there was that ‘the’ thing again - but Vlad and Vic had been up for it too, and, given their worldwide reputation as highly professional, sadistic psychopaths, there was no way he could compete. He didn't even get to the interview stage.
Jimmy was a bit worried, because he’s heard down the pub that Eddie could be unreliable - turning up at gigs without his drums, presenting himself at porno-shoots with brewer’s droop, or dropping his car keys down the drain just before a job. But needs must, and anyway, all he had to do was drop Jimmy off at 10.15, drive round the block and pick him up, ten minutes later, when he had the loot.
Jimmy’s pin had landed on the Allied Lion Bank, in Burnt Oak Highway, Enfield. Saturday morning, bound to have lots of cash for punters doing their shopping. Lovely.
Eddie dropped Jimmy right outside the bank, bang on 10.15. He sauntered in and spent a few minutes, checking the situation. While he was in mid-check, he started reading some of the bank’s promotional leaflets that, for a few moments, made him think that if he wanted to rob people blind, he was in the wrong business. He waited until there were virtually no customers at the tills. An experienced guess said three minutes for the cashiers to hand over all the money. And he was right.
‘Everybody down on the floor, now!’ he shouted. This is a robbery. This gun is loaded. Empty them tills into this bag.’
Everyone did what they were told - and that was that.
With his sports bag loaded with notes, Jimmy dived back into the street, and ran to the edge of the pavement. He stopped and looked up and down the road, but there was no sign of Eddie.
In fact, there was never going to be any sign of Eddie. As he was parked up round the corner waiting for the agreed pick-up time, he was approached by an off-duty talent scout for Estrange & York the up-market clothing retail chain, and asked if he’d like to be a retail assistant.
It sounded good. Posh shop. Good money. Loads of girls with wealthy daddies. And confirmation from an international fashion house that he was a really good-looking guy. It was much classier, better paid, and far less dangerous than hanging around waiting to pick up second-rate bank robbers. He asked the scout to jump in, and off they went to discuss terms at Estrange & York’s international headquarters in Bond Street.
It was only halfway through the interview that Eddie realised how long he’d been chatting, and what the unpleasant, if not grisly, if not terminal, consequences might be. He quickly steered the interview round to talking about potential work in Estrange & York’s Melbourne shops, and was considerably relieved to find out that that wouldn’t be a problem.
Outside the bank, Jimmy was having a lot of problems. Fucking Eddie was probably still gazing at himself in the fucking vanity mirror, and some fucking graduate trainee in the bank had set off the fucking security alarm.
The sports bag was heavy with cash, not to mention the tracker device palmed in with the notes by a little cashier girl who even managed to feign tears while she was doing it. No million pound bonus for her next year.
Jimmy wasn’t too fit, and certainly wouldn’t get far with all that weight. He was just going to have to stand there until the sodding firearms squad came to collect him.
There was a flash of sheet lightening from what appeared to be a clear blue sky. At first, Jimmy thought they’d sent a helicopter with a really bright searchlight. But that was it - no thunder clouds, no rain - nothing. To keep himself occupied while he waited, Jimmy half-heartedly waved his gun around and shouted at passers-by to lie on the ground. They did.
Then, suddenly, the cavalry came over the hill. Or to be more precise, a lone motorcyclist came over the hill. Jimmy ran into the road, pointed his gun at the biker,
‘Stop or you're fuckin’ dead!’ he shouted.
The motorcyclist screeched to a halt, got off and parked the bike on its stand. As he came nearer, Jimmy could see this was a ‘cavalry plus’ situation. His worries really were over.
‘Gimme the bike, you scrawny old tart.’
‘What?’ shouted Mrs Hathaway - the siren really was very loud.
‘Give - me - the - motor - bike - you - scrawny - old - tart,’ bawled Jimmy, leaving a one second gap between each word.
‘Of course,’ she shouted back, ‘help yourself.’
He couldn't believe his luck. In ten minutes, he’d be miles away, and could probably get a few hundred quid for the bike, into the bargain. Plus the alarm batteries seemed to have run down, he could think clearly at last.
Jimmy moved closer and waved the gun in her face.
‘And the helmet.’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Hathaway, politely.
As she raised her hands to undo her helmet, she shot out a leg and kicked the stand away. The bike fell heavily onto Jimmy’s legs.
‘Shit!’ he shouted, and glanced down to see the damage.
That was all she needed. A double-handed grip and twist and he dropped the gun. Unfortunately, as it landed, it went off and shot away a considerable part of the groin of a stone cherubim carved above the bank’s door. The prostrate pedestrians moved even closer to the pavement.
A quick Kyusho pressure point slap to the side of the neck and he was down and, more or less, out. Mrs Hathaway didn't often get cross, but this man had really upset her.
She had been planning a lovely ride up the M1, then a cut across country to Oxford, perhaps stopping for tea and buttered scones by the Magdalen Bridge Boathouse, even a trip on the Cherwell, then back to London down the M40 - and this horrible little man had ruined everything. Plus he’d frightened the bank staff and a lot of people who were out just doing their Saturday morning shopping. And her lovely bike was badly scratched where it bounced off Jimmy’s kneecaps onto the kerb.
She grabbed the back of Jimmy’s neck with one hand and pulled him upright. Then, clasping him firmly by the crutch with the other hand, turned him over and stuffed him, vertically, head first, into a rather nicely designed litter bin made from perforated brushed steel, with a rolled aluminium top.
The bin had actually won an EU award for contemporary street furniture design, against stiff competition from specialists in other member states. The award was made at a gala dinner at the Savoy, and had been reported in the local papers, and was the subject of a 4-page spread in Urban Litterbin Monthly. Unfortunately, the designers had not anticipated the bin being used to accommodate discarded bank robbers, and, as Jimmy was plunged into its murky depths, there were two nasty cracks as his collarbones broke.
Mrs Hathaway opened the sports bag and addressed Jimmy’s legs, which had started to thrash about wildly.
‘I suppose you’ve just robbed that bank?’
‘Fuck off,’ came the e
choey reply.
‘I’ll take that as a ‘Yes.’’
‘Fuck off.’
‘I heard you the first time,’ she said and gave the bin a good kick. Jimmy screamed. She kicked the bin again with similar ear-splitting results. She really was very cross.
During this conversation, the pedestrians had started to get to their feet. She picked up the gun with her handkerchief, switched on the safety catch, put it in the sports bag, and strode into the bank. There was spontaneous and very enthusiastic applause from the crowd. Inside, the bank, staff and customers were still lying quietly on the floor.
‘Everything’s fine,’ said Mrs Hathaway. ‘He’s waiting for the police to come and collect him.’
She placed the bag on the counter.
‘Here’s your money. Be careful, there’s a loaded revolver inside.’
And with that, she turned and walked back into the sunshine.
Outside, the crowd had grown. News travels fast in Enfield. There was loud applause and cheers.
She walked through the crowd. People were shouting ‘Well done’ and slapping her on the back. A couple of men tried to lift her up on their shoulders, but she gave them a stern look. They, in turn, looked at Jimmy’s legs sticking out of the bin, and decided it would be better to let her walk to the bike. She put on her helmet, swung her leg over the dream machine, waved modestly to the people, and rode away. No point in hanging around; Saturday was treat day.
Seconds after she left the scene, there was more sheet lightening and the sound of an approaching police siren signalling the start of the due process of law. Although, as it turned out, the fire brigade had to be called and spent an hour cutting Jimmy free, before the legislative wheels could really be set in motion.
*
While people had cheered Mrs Hathaway, all in all, the whole thing had been a terrifying experience - for the bank staff, the bank customers and for the people walking by. Everyone was genuinely shocked that this type of insanity could happen on a London street in broad daylight.
The only sign of real happiness was on the face of one of the pedestrians who had dived to the pavement as soon as he’d seen the gun in Jimmy’s hand.
He was back to his feet, looking down at his iPhone screen, and, although he was re-running video, all he could see was pound signs, lots and lots and lots of lovely pound signs.
Chapter 18
Digby Elton-John sat at his desk in his sparse, wood-laminate-floored office and was having a creative muse.
He was musing on how fucking difficult it was to have a creative muse. For two days now, on and off, he’d been staring at a sheet of paper on his desk. The paper had the words NO CASE TOO TRIVIAL and NO COMPLAINT TOO PUERILE written at the top. And that was it.
He hadn't come up with any other words for his advertisement. The advertisement which he felt certain would take his business into another more profitable direction - at least until he retired in a couple of years’ time.
He’d Googled ‘writers block cures’ and idly toyed with a couple of them to no avail. But this morning, he’d had a brainwave. Whisky. In old black and white films, reporters and writers always had a bottle of whisky next to their typewriter.
With still an hour to go before mid-day, Digby was halfway down his emergency bottle of Johnnie Walker, and was beginning to doubt the effectiveness of this approach, pleasant though it was. One: because no words had appeared on the paper and Two: because he had just spent 15 minutes trying to curl a paperclip out of his drink with his index finger. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how closely he looked, it wouldn't budge. Only when he raised his glass for another slug, did he manage to work out that the paperclip was under the glass.
Obviously, the whisky tactic wasn’t working. Perhaps, if he combined it with another method? Relaxing. Yes. Those old reporters and writers always looked so cool. Digby went for it. He removed his tie.
Ten minutes later, the paper was still blank, and the room was beginning to go in and out of focus. He realised that perhaps the alcohol level ought to be reined in - a black coffee would be nice.
Digby stood up, and his trousers, without the support of his tie, fell to the floor. He was too far gone to realise they’d were now around his ankles, although he was vaguely aware the room had become a little colder. He shuffled over to his ‘refreshments’ area and shoved half a mug of cold coffee into the microwave. Then he shuffled back.
As he stared at the paper for the thousandth time, he began to really concentrate like never before, almost entering a trance-like state. This was new for Digby. He seemed to be turning in on himself. A low pulsating drone started to permeate his brain. Maybe this was like the Tibetan Chant of the Dead or that transcendental meditation stuff where you slip down into deeper and more meaningful levels of consciousness and spiritual awareness. This was the time to write the ad - emotive, powerful words that would shake his competitors to the core with their originality and brilliance. After a few minutes in this heightened state, the low, pulsating, all encompassing drone went ping - and Digby’s coffee was ready.
He shuffled over, and shuffled back with the mug. He took another gulp of whisky and looked down at his legs. He was surprised to see he was wearing deathly white drainpipe trousers rather than the grey flannels he’d put on before coming out.
No matter. Maybe if he looked at other ads for inspiration? The London Evening Standard was in his desk drawer. He spread it out on the desk. The first thing he noticed was not an advertisement. It was a news item. The front page featured the usual stuff about some MPs and a sheep at an animal sanctuary, but next to it were some pictures of an elderly lady wearing motorbike leathers, upending some chap into a waste paper bin. The headline ran: Mystery Gran Bins Gunman with a subhead: Do you know the have-a-go heroine?
He looked carefully. He looked closely. There was something about that face. But after a few seconds, he thought, there’s something about lots of faces, and turned to the classified ads section.
Digby took another large gulp of whisky. Somebody had hidden the coffee. He looked down at his wristband for inspiration. What Would Dan Dare Do?
He drifted back in time. Suppose Dan wanted to hire a cleaning lady for a weekly dusting down of his interplanetary space ship, Anastasia. What would he write for the advertisement he posted on the noticeboard of the Spacefleet Spaceport canteen? He’d probably write CLEANING LADY WANTED as a headline. And for the second time in a minute, something stirred in the depths of his brain. The same area of his brain that stirred when he’d seen the Mystery Gran in the paper. But both stirrings were too far down to make any connections.
The whisky bottle, however, was very close, and what was left of his brain knew exactly how to make a connection with it.
He drained the bottle carefully into the glass, gulped it down in one, and, after a few moments of euphoria, slid quietly to the floor.
When he came to, five hours later, he crawled to his chair and slowly hauled his shattered body up into a sitting position. The sheet of paper was on his desk, and he was amazed to see the advertisement had been completed. The words were great - emotive, powerful, original, brilliant - and ready to work some magic. While he was otherwise engaged, the creative muse must taken time out to pay an unscheduled visit.
Chapter 19
Looking out across London from his fabulously appointed executive office on the upper floors of the Shard, Giles Montagu-Scott was fretting.
He wasn’t fretting about the astronomical rent - he had unbelievable amounts of ready cash. He wasn’t fretting about the criminality and mayhem on the streets down below. He wasn’t even fretting about the criminality and mayhem in the Palace of Westminster whose towers and turrets glistened in the late evening sunlight.
No. He was fretting about his baby.
The birth had been a surprise, and he never thought it would grow so fast. And if he’d known it was going to become so popular, he wouldn't have given it such a stupid name - Daring Dooz.
In five short years, Daring Dooz had become one of the world’s top selling magazines, with an international circulation approaching three million.
Giles started Daring Dooz off as a blog for idiots who would believe anything he wrote. He began to realise that the word is full of idiots, and so, the more they seemed to like it, the more he wrote.
Daring Dooz featured outrageous, courageous, bizarre, death-defying action from around the world - and people loved it.
Soon, Daring Dooz was a small black and white A5, 16-page monthly magazine, selling at £1 - and, to Giles’ surprise, people still loved it. And they continued to love it - even now, when it had turned into a glossy, 120-page, full-colour international spectacular.
It had grown from a baby into a monster. A monster which he now felt was getting out of control - or, at least, difficult to manage. And Giles didn't like anything that was difficult.
Before he changed his name by deed poll, Cyril Tweedy had been a wimp. In fact, he still was a wimp. However, this was the personality trait which had driven him to such stratospheric heights of commercial success.
Cyril had always wanted to be a man of action - a mountaineer, an astronaut, a potholer, a deep-sea diver. But because of a slight childhood asthmatic condition and an aversion to anything even slightly uncomfortable, he had, throughout his life, avoided all physical activity and potentially dangerous situations.
He started the Daring Dooz blog to compensate for his own lack of derring-do. He realised, after the first online edition, that Cyril Tweedy was not a name to associate with the sort of content he was generating. So after a few quid with the Legal Deed Poll Service, the second edition saw the arrival of a new editor, Giles Montagu-Scott. Giles sounded like an ex-guards officer who, without a thought, walked the Arctic wastes, climbed Everest without oxygen, trekked across the Sahara and swam the Pacific, even when the weather forecast was bad.
The reasons for his executive fretting were both cumulative and current.