How to Rob a Bank. Tom Mitchell
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 …
‘Ever Tried. Ever Failed. No Matter. Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better.’ Samuel Beckett
‘Have you considered offices?’ asked Dad from the sofa. ‘Better an office than a ladder, I’m telling you. Accidents happen on ladders.’
Dad flicked through Sight & Sound as I thumbed the BBC Sport app. Palace hadn’t bought any players and the new season was getting closer. Their problem was the salaries of quality players. How many banks would I need to rob to be able to buy Palace? Even though they’re crap, they’d still cost hundreds of millions.
Football, bloody hell.
‘Did you hear me?’ asked Dad. ‘Even if you don’t get a summer job in an office, you should think about one when you’re my age. You don’t get covered in sewage in offices. Not unless you’re really unlucky.’
I glanced up from my iPhone. He’d not shaved in a couple of days. It made him look homeless. I thought of Beth. I looked back to my phone. What now? Notes obviously weren’t the way forward. How else do people rob banks? Was there a way of making myself invisible? Like when you’re at a popular kid’s birthday party? That’d make the whole robbery thing easier.
Tremors of vibration – a call! I stared open-mouthed at the screen. Beth! it said, as if by magic. (I can’t remember why I’d put an exclamation mark next to her name but it meant every call from her felt dramatic.)
‘A girl?’ Dad smiled.
I ignored him, and shot up the stairs past an eye-rolling sister into my room.
‘Hey,’ I said at the exact moment my back bounced down on to the mattress.
A cat replied. And it mewed. At least, that’s what I thought I heard. Maybe Beth had accidentally cat-called me, meaning a cat had slinked across her phone without her knowing.
But no.
‘Dylan?’ she said and I think the sound was sobbing.
‘Are you with a cat?’
She laughed. One of those congested laughs people do when they’re crying. I don’t know why I asked if she were with a cat. Well, I do: I’m an idiot.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sniffing. There was a sigh like ripped paper. The sobbing stopped. Usual service had resumed. ‘I was just feeling a little overwhelmed. How are you doing?’
I closed my eyes, imagining I knew how to talk to women.
‘Chilling,’ I said and immediately regretted it. ‘Not chilling. It’s been a weird few days.’
‘Yep,’