Книга - How to Rob a Bank

How to Rob a Bank
Tom Mitchell


A life of crime – how hard can it be? A funny, filmic and fast-paced crime-caper.When fifteen-year-old Dylan accidentally burns down the house of the girl he’s trying to impress, he feels that only a bold gesture can make it up to her. A gesture like robbing a bank to pay for her new home. Only an unwanted Saturday job, a tyrannical bank manager, and his unfinished history homework lie between Dylan and the heist of century. And really, what’s the worst that could happen?A funny, filmic and ill-advised crime caper.





















First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2019

Published in this ebook edition in 2019

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

Text copyright © Tom Mitchell 2019

Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover illustration copyright © Euan Cook

Tom Mitchell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008276508

Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008276515

Version: 2019-01-03


To Jacob, Dylan and Nicky


Contents

Cover (#ue62d750b-174b-5157-9d4d-96a32c1e4034)

Title Page (#u6ccf87cd-afe8-5f8b-b62c-2a7c0e94583f)

Copyright (#ub03db49d-d905-5ccf-be74-8fc8e8f3d435)

Dedication (#u50c30663-7313-55f0-9554-87f99cb79c22)

Part 1 (#u90ea4d40-ee29-52f6-8074-a287532ff541)

Chapter 1: Identify Your Justification: Why Bother? (#u6c6f3a65-9d60-54f0-b740-cb5da8f1d813)

Chapter 2: Exercise Caution Around Naked Flames (#u2dc63396-3766-5ce8-b3a8-dbcb83df6708)

Chapter 3: Remember: There’s No ‘I’ in ‘Team’ But There is in ‘Win’ (#u03ba7751-5454-5e73-97ca-1bdd6c55c202)

Chapter 4: Does Robbing a Bank Suit Your Needs? (#u7e88441d-1f9e-56fc-a5a6-2025837534a6)

Chapter 5: There’s Such a Thing as Being Over-prepared (#u1725b457-e0dd-57a8-9630-1b6508422c9b)

Chapter 6: Ensure Your Target Ticks All the Boxes (#u7a590762-b010-5eec-a3f6-98f2dccc0485)

Chapter 7: Anything That Can Go Wrong, Will Go Wrong (#u4ddd22a5-7f1e-5f21-8158-743be212ea79)

Chapter 8: Be Prepared to Use Your Imagination (#u5ef3d138-6b90-5018-baed-0140da865185)

Chapter 9: ‘Ever Tried. Ever Failed. No Matter. Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better.’ Samuel Beckett (#u922cf1cb-bafe-5b73-967e-f52523b22f2c)

Chapter 10: Use Technology to Your Advantage (#u7024ab2c-8de1-5ecc-802a-cd987311cc2b)

Chapter 11: Do Your Best to Avoid Violence (#ued317968-d669-5f19-a624-b48ab755afff)

Chapter 12: Get Your Hands Dirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13: Robbing a Bank is Like Riding a Horse (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14: Trust Nobody (#litres_trial_promo)

Part 2 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15: Remain Focused, No Matter What (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16: Do Your Homework (Scout the Location) (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17: Short-term Pain for Long-term Gain (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18: Nothing is Free, Not Even Stolen Money (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19: A Good Thief is a Good Actor (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20: Take Care of the Present and the Future Will Look After Itself (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21: Remember: Everybody Makes Mistakes (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22: Breaking the Law Isn’t Fun (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23: Avoid Mixing Business with Pleasure (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24: Don’t Cry Over Spilt Milk (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25: Nobody Said Robbing a Bank was Easy (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26: It’s Better to Fail Before, Rather Than During, a Crime (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27: You Don’t Want to End Up Locked Away (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28: Never Be Too Proud to Ask for Help (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29: Expect to Fail and You Won’t Be Disappointed (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30: The Darkest Point of the Night Comes Before Sunrise (or something like that) (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31: Take Advantage of Unexpected Opportunities (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32: Flexibility Can Be as Important as Detailed Planning (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33: A Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins with a Single Step (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 34: Don’t Let Your Ego Blind You to Your Plan’s Faults (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 35: The Running Track of Life is Littered with Potholes (#litres_trial_promo)

Part 3 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 36: Operation RHC (Retrieve History Coursework) (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 37: Fail to Prepare, Prepare to Fail (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 38: Don’t Forget the Importance of Good Timing (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 39: Never Underestimate your own Potential for Stupidity (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 40: Don’t Try to Rob a Bank on Your Own (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 41: Robbing a Bank is a Matter of Holding Your Nerve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 42: Take Inspiration from Everywhere and Everything (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 43: There’s Nothing More Important Than Your Getaway Plan (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 44: Don’t Forget to Eat (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 45: The End (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)






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(#ulink_73e8f271-5b78-5db6-9dfb-f84994cb18c5)

Identify Your Justification: Why Bother? (#ulink_73e8f271-5b78-5db6-9dfb-f84994cb18c5)


Ask yourself – do I need the money? Robbing a bank isn’t something to do to pass the time, like kicking footballs over the neighbour’s fence or reading. Some people rob banks because they’re greedy. Those people are usually caught after buying muscle cars or diamond-encrusted baseball caps. Others enjoy the adrenalin rush of thrusting sawn-off shotguns into the faces of middle-aged women. Those are typically twenty-somethings with troubled childhoods.

Me? I robbed a bank because of guilt. Specifically: guilt and a Nepalese scented candle.

Let me explain.

It was an endless summer and I was fifteen and fed up with playing Call of Duty and FIFA. There are only so many times you can get sniped in the chin or spanked five–nil before you start questioning the meaning of it all. Mum and Dad’s moaning meant I’d applied for part-time jobs. But even McDonald’s had turned me down. Dad said this was evidence of Broken Britain. Mum said I shouldn’t stop trying.

It was a Saturday afternoon, one of those boring summer Saturdays without Premier League football and with lasagne planned for dinner. Dad was on the sofa, Mum was on the wine, and Rita was on the phone. And all my friends, apart from Beth, were on exotic holidays with never-ending beaches and azure oceans.

‘What do you know about Watergate and Richard Nixon?’ asked Dad. His question, like most of his questions, was a run-up to convincing me to watch a film. This time, it was All the President’s Men, which he’d first shown me when I was in primary school and I’d thought boring and confusing.

I told him I was off to see a girl. That shut him up.

‘Good for you,’ said Mum, who was at the dining table, holding a dog-eared magazine in one hand and a chipped wine glass in the other.

‘Yes,’ said Dad, waving a hand to silence Mum. ‘Live a little.’

Dad was being ironic. It was something else he did – watching films and being ironic. That was Dad. Also – snoring.

I went to my room, closed the door, and ignored the smell of sweat that rose like shimmering heat waves from my stained duvet. I fell to my knees and ran my hands underneath the bed. My fingers passed over crisp packets and sticky patches that I’d worry about later. Finally I found the package I’d been searching for. It had been hiding here since Monday when Brian, our seven-foot-tall German postman, had stood at our front door and had said:

‘Parcel for you. Ist party time?’

And he’d smiled a smile so bright that to look directly into his mouth would blind you.

TBH, I wasn’t 100 per cent convinced a Nepalese scented candle would impress my friend Beth. But I’d cornered myself when Harry, a drippy guy in the year below, had asked what I’d got Beth for her birthday.

Beth lets Harry follow her around because their mums are members of the same yoga club or something. He thinks they’re best friends but they’re so not.

I didn’t even know she had a birthday. I mean, I know everyone has a birthday but …

‘I’m a teenager,’ I said. ‘I don’t buy friends birthday presents. I don’t even write on their Facebook walls.’

‘I bought her a necklace,’ said Harry. ‘It’s silver.’

Round Beth’s neck was this pretty thing with tiny dolphins that I’d not noticed until now.

‘Honestly,’ said Beth, ‘I don’t care about presents.’

I confess: I panicked.

‘A Nepalese scented candle,’ I said. ‘That’s what I got you.’

And I said this because only the day before, Dad had watched me order Mum a Nepalese scented candle on the internet. It was her birthday soon and he thought it would be good for me to get her something that smelt nice.

‘A Nepalese scented candle?’ Beth said on the swings in the rec, swinging as only teenage girls can swing. ‘That sounds cool.’

‘It sounds lame,’ said Harry.

I didn’t take any notice of Harry because he said everything was lame.

So, days later, in my room, kneeling at my bed like I was praying to the god of smelly things you buy the women in your life, I thought, Yeah, Dad, I will take a risk. I’ll give Beth a Nepalese scented candle.

Beth lived in a home built by her angry builder dad to resemble a miniature version of the White House and she looked exactly like Emma Stone. Like exactly. Like getting stopped in the street by old men exactly like Emma Stone. Google Emma Stone. That’s what Beth looked like. Really.

Even though her home was a baby version of the White House, it was actually massive compared to everyone else’s and especially mine. It even had its own cinema room, although the screen had yet to be installed. Her mum used the space to hang washing and it smelt of damp and regret.

I’d not told Dad about the cinema room. It might send him into a spiral of depression, whatever that means.







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Exercise Caution Around Naked Flames (#ulink_9a53f2a9-4602-53f2-b87b-1844656e5541)


Forty minutes after retrieving the package, I was sitting on Beth’s bed and telling her to shut the door. If I acted assertively, I might forget I was in a girl’s bedroom and all the associated confusing feelings like wanting to run but also to stay here forever. The curtains were still drawn from the night, but this was good. I nodded at the poster of Andrew Garfield. He was looking at a horse. I wondered how it would feel to fall asleep looking at Andrew Garfield looking at a horse. I wouldn’t like it.

‘I’d have tidied if I’d known you were coming,’ she said, kicking clothes out of the way. I think I saw knickers.

Before anything, I asked, ‘Where’s Harry?’

‘Coming,’ she said. ‘You know … he’s either here or … he’s coming here.’

I pulled the package out of my jeans. The padded envelope was bent and twisted. Lionel Messi looked down from alongside Andrew Garfield and I couldn’t help thinking he stared at me as if I were an idiot. Still, he wasn’t as good as he used to be.

‘Happy birthday,’ I said.

Beth joined me. The mattress sighed. I could feel her body radiating warmth. I handed over the package.

‘Nice wrapping,’ she said, studying the battered envelope.

She pulled the top off. Inside were strips of newspaper. She shook these out.

(What if there was nothing else inside and I ended up looking like an idiot? Again.)

The candle plopped to the floor like a calf from a cow. It was squat and circular like a stack of digestive biscuits. There was a shiny metal rim round the soapy-looking wax. In the centre, a black wick drooped.

‘Thanks,’ said Beth, her Emma Stone lips forming a smile.

Was it an impressed smile or a laughing-at-Dylan smile?

‘A candle,’ I said, picking it up.

‘Nepalese scented?’ she replied. ‘You know, Mum sometimes runs a bath and lights these when she’s had enough of Dad.’

‘They’re supposed to be therapeutic,’ I said, guessing.

‘You saying I’m stressed?’

‘We’re all stressed,’ I said in a quiet voice.

I hoped she couldn’t see my tell-tale heart quaking beneath the Crystal Palace replica shirt.

‘Let’s light it!’ she said, bouncing up from the bed.

She crossed to her desk and pulled open the top drawer. There was a rush of pens and paper. Finally she found what she’d been looking for – a lighter. Did she smoke? She didn’t smoke. She was Beth.

The lighter, cheap and plastic, turned cartwheels as it flew through the air and hit me squarely on the forehead. Beth laughed. I rubbed my head and asked if we were lighting it.

‘Why not?’

‘Your mum?’

‘What about my mum?’

‘She might think, you know, that we’ve been smoking or something?’

Now it wasn’t only Messi who looked at me as if I were an idiot. I held the lighter and inspected the candle. What if it smelt horrible? What if the scent had hallucinogenic properties and made us go crazy? People jump out of windows and all sorts.

I took the candle to Beth’s desk and pushed away a pile of revision workbooks to make space. I flicked the lighter. It didn’t catch. I flicked again. An orange flame erupted. I held it to the wick. It caught. A smell blossomed. A combination of wet dog and herbs.

I coughed, my shoulders jumping. The scent of the Nepalese scented candle was a real throat-tickler.

And, at this point, the heavy feet of Beth’s mum began pounding towards us from the corridor.

‘Mum!’ hissed Beth. ‘It stinks! Put it out! Get rid of it! It’s not Nepalese!’

Now coughing too, she forced her back against the door and pointed desperately to the wastebin overflowing with Coke cans and crisps that sat under the window.

I licked my fingers and pinched at the flame. I felt needle-sharp pain and, despite myself, let out a tiny yelp.

Beth’s eyes almost exploded from their sockets.

I grabbed the still-smoking candle and threw it at the bin. Such was the horror of monster mother’s footsteps getting louder, I didn’t register the amazing shot. Bull’s-eye. Next to go was the lighter. This hit the brim of the bin and fell behind, unseen. By now Beth’s mum was knocking at the door. I yanked open the window and flapped my hands while scanning the room for deodorant to spray to cover the stink.

‘Just a second,’ shouted Beth. ‘I’m not decent.’

There! Under the desk! A pink aerosol can!

‘Not decent? Haven’t you got Dylan in there, young lady?’ her mum asked.

Beth stepped forward and the door opened, striking the back of her head.

‘Ow!’

I sprayed a feeble burst of aerosol as Beth rubbed her head. And Beth’s mum took in the full vision of the darkened room and she wasn’t impressed.

My cheeks burnt red.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked, eyeing the strange pile of newspaper strips. ‘And why does it smell of yoga in here?’

‘Hello, Mrs Fraser,’ I said. ‘How are you?’

My voice wavered. Beth’s mum looked like Emma Stone in her mid-forties. Emma Stone in her mid-forties narrowing her eyes.

‘Dylan Thomas,’ she said. ‘Are you writing any poetry yet?’

‘Not yet,’ I said.

She nodded.

‘Why are you holding Beth’s deodorant?’

I had nothing to say. I looked to Beth. She looked at me.

‘Muuuum,’ she said after a while.

‘I was sweaty?’ I offered.

Her mum’s eyes narrowed further, a slit of iris remaining, until –

‘You two! I’m not angry! I understand.’ She grinned. ‘I was young once … if you can believe that.’

My cheeks exploded in embarrassment. Beth mumbled something unintelligible and I couldn’t help noticing how she scrunched up her nose in disgust.

‘I’ve got Pringles downstairs,’ Mrs Fraser said.

With her hand on the doorknob, she stood back to allow us through. Neither of us looked at the bin as we passed.

We were sitting at the dining table, eating Pringles, drinking Coke and listening to Mrs Fraser tell us how important getting a good set of GCSEs is when we first saw the dark mass of smoke spread its tendrils down from the staircase to the carpet. Mrs Fraser, with her back to the stairs, thought Beth was joking when she stood and pointed and shouted ‘Look!’

‘Never mind all that,’ Mrs Fraser said. ‘I want to know how you plan to pass English when you never do any reading.’

Like someone had started a bonfire on the stairs, the same thick, earthy clouds of smoke blossomed towards us.

‘Oh my days,’ I said when I saw what Beth was pointing at.

The dark smoke moved silently and stealthily like dry ice at a school musical. There was something unreal and uncanny about the way it thickened into the space.

When Mrs Fraser saw it she screamed, ‘Don’t panic!’

She ushered us from the room and out of the house, panicking and shouting, ‘The White House is on fire! The White House is on fire! Don’t panic! Don’t panic!’

Outside, stood Harry. We rushed past as he pointed at the smoke spilling from the front door and whispered in awe, ‘So not lame.’

In 1814, British soldiers burnt down the White House. It must have looked like this. But bigger. And with fewer Nissan Qashqais parked outside.

That very afternoon, Beth’s house, Pringles, scented candle, posters of Andrew Garfield, Lionel Messi and all, burnt away to nothing but ashes and twisted metal. The destruction was complete.

And my thumb and forefinger hurt for days.







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Remember: There’s No ‘I’ in ‘Team’ But There is in ‘Win’ (#ulink_80413100-7567-5a24-9850-9688997147d5)


A few days after the fire, I saw Beth walking through the rec with a thick black sports bag over her shoulder. Harry trailed close behind, pulling a grey wheeled suitcase. It bounced across the uneven turf. He raised two fingers at me. I didn’t know where they were going or where they’d been.

I’d called out. ‘Do you want a hand?’

I wanted to say more, to apologise to Beth, but didn’t know which words to use. They all seemed wrong. And I had no idea how much Harry knew. I didn’t want to mug myself off.

‘Sorry for burning down your house, yo!’ would be a stupid thing to shout, however much I wanted to.

Beth stopped. She smiled as if a dentist had asked her to show off her gums, i.e. not very convincingly.

‘Really?’ I called, jogging to catch up.

‘It’s all good,’ she said. ‘We’re in a sweet flat with views across London.’

Harry stood at her shoulder, nodding like a broken doll.

Her home, the burnt one, had gone viral. Images of the tiny, fiery White House had swept through Twitter, with jokes about Trump and everything.

‘Tell him about your stuff,’ said Harry.

He’d swapped his nodding for a pulling-legs-off-a-spider grin.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Beth.

She dropped the sports bag. It wheezed as it hit the grass.

‘What about your stuff? Did you manage to save anything?’

Beth squinted but it may have been because of the sun. And the water in her eyes was probably due to hay fever too. Not that she ever got hay fever.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s all gone. My clothes. My books. My stuff. But, you know, someone said your possessions end up possessing you, so …’

Her voice tailed off. I felt that churning in my stomach, a Vindaloo guilt like I’d eaten a secret curry the night before.

‘At least you’ve got your phone,’ I said, because of all the things to lose, your phone’s got to be the worst.

‘Yeah,’ said Harry. ‘At least you’ve got your phone, Beth. Everything else is up in smoke, but you can still Instagram.’

Beth shushed Harry. Not only did it stop him talking but it also stopped him smiling.

‘It’ll be fine,’ I said because that’s what you say when bad things have happened. ‘Your mum and dad will work something out.’

(They had money, after all.)

‘Yeah,’ said Beth. ‘And it’s sunny out and the end of the summer is, like, weeks away and we’ve got sick views and I can always buy new clothes, so …’

But her heart wasn’t in her words.

I watched them fade from the rec, a panting Harry following like a squire to his knight. Why’d I mention her phone? How was that any help? The word on the street was that faulty wiring was the cause of the fire but my scented candle had so burnt down Beth’s house. I mean, the wick was still smoking when I’d thrown it in the bin. It was the cause of the fire, for sure. So sure that I’d spent the time between being picked up from the blazing home (a crowd had formed outside pointing at the flames licking up from the windows) and seeing Beth in the park expecting a knock at the door from the police or, worse, Beth’s angry dad. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even focus on Football Manager.

I’d destroyed Beth’s house and everything in it.

(But if she’d lost all her possessions, what was in the bags? I bet Harry was sucking up and, like, offering to lend her towels and all sorts.)







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Does Robbing a Bank Suit Your Needs? (#ulink_a18ce791-5dfe-5990-894c-64b26a2b8764)


On the way home from the rec I stopped at the corner shop to buy a Lion Bar in the desperate hope that sugar would make things better. I told myself the whole faulty wiring thing was reason to be happy, even if it weren’t true. It’s a post-fact world, I thought. I still felt supernova guilty, but at least I wasn’t going to prison. Prison would be bad for a boy of my imagination and size. And, anyway, houses have insurance, Mum said, and Beth’s family would be able to claim expensive things had been destroyed, so—

‘It’s not all bad,’ Mum had said last night, sipping wine. ‘Remember the time we were broken into and you claimed for a Blu-ray, Kay?’

Dad did not remember.

‘Must have been another husband,’ he’d said from the sofa.

Stepping from the corner shop, my world focused on unwrapping the Lion Bar, I heard a voice.

‘Buy us a …’ it began.

It was a voice wavering from high to low, a voice unsure whether to commit to adulthood. It was Dave’s voice. Dave Royston. The biggest melt in the neighbourhood. He hung about on the corner, smoking cigarettes and thinking he was a gangster. His cronies, Adam and Ben, like gophers on alert, stood at either shoulder. I don’t think I’d ever heard Adam or Ben speak, only their high-pitched laughter like hyenas on helium.

I took a bite from the Lion Bar. If I should die, it wouldn’t be on an empty stomach.

It tasted of heaven and caramel.

‘Dylan!’ he said. ‘You gay! What you doing? Buying poetry?’

I stepped to the side. He did the same to stop me passing.

‘No,’ I said quietly, chewing. ‘They don’t sell poetry here.’

‘Give us your Lion Bar. Nobody eats chocolate on this corner without my say.’

He snatched the Lion Bar from my hand. I couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it, only hoping there was a terrible disease in my saliva that would make his testicles fall off. He took a bite and chewed with his mouth open. His privates weren’t obviously affected.

‘Just saw your girlfriend. In the rec. High-rise Beth. Shame. I thought they were loaded.’

‘What?’

Dave laughed and it sounded like a theremin.

‘You don’t know? Her, her mum, her dad, all moving to a tiny flat in one of the high-rises. Serves her right. Llama’s a bitch.’

‘Karma,’ I said, dropping a shoulder left, then moving right. My winger’s feint deceived Dave and I pushed past Ben.

The high-rise? That couldn’t be right. Beth’s family had money. They had a cinema room, even though the screen had yet to be fitted and it had burnt down. The high-rises towered over the east of town like huge, broken teeth. She couldn’t be living there. No way. She looked like a movie star, I mean, and she’d said they’d moved somewhere with a nice view. She couldn’t have meant there.

If this had been a film, I might have fallen to my knees and lifted my fists to the sky and shouted ‘Noooo!’

What had I done?

Dad’s van, white and with Thomas and Son, Plumbers etc. on the side, was parked outside our house.

Dad was in the front room.

‘I came home early to spend time with my favourite son. Where’ve you been? What d’you want to do?’

I told Dad I didn’t want to do anything. I told him I’d bumped into Beth. I told him I had a headache. Dad’s tone changed gears, shifting down to compassion.

‘What was she up to?’

‘Walking. Probably to the high-rise. Because an idiot burnt down her house.’

Dad’s eyes grew warm. He stretched a hand to my shoulder. It didn’t reach.

‘That’s a lesson about insurance,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard they had no insurance, right? You’ve got to have insurance. We live in an insured world. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? Remember this, son. Insurance.’

How did everyone know everything but me? I should check Facebook more often.

I later found out, on Facebook, that Beth’s dad wasn’t a successful builder after all. He’d spent the family’s money, inherited, building the house I’d destroyed. He’d planned to sell it at a profit, but it turned out nobody wanted to live in a mini version of the White House, not in England anyway. So the family occupied the building as Beth’s dad continued to lower and lower the asking price, until –

‘Do we have insurance?’ I asked.

Dad smiled. ‘We do now.’

I felt the weight of the high-rise across my shoulders. I couldn’t forget Beth’s face as she trudged across the rec. Like your favourite teacher, not angry but disappointed. A deflated Emma Stone. And all because of me.

‘Shall we watch a film?’ I said.

At least I could make him happy.

Dad knew just the thing, he always does: something to take our minds off fires and insurance. He’d recorded it the night before and although it was full of swearwords and violence, it was a straight-up classic. Something I needed to watch for sure.

‘Your English teacher can bang on about Shakespeare and Wordsworth as much as she likes,’ he said. ‘But some films are as important a part of your education.’

‘What’s it called?’ I asked, settling into the sofa next to his warmth. He was still in the bleach-blanched tracksuit bottoms that he’d worn to work. At least he’d taken his boiler suit off. ‘Dog Day Afternoon. It’s based on a true story. I know they all say that, but this one really is. You won’t believe it, but it’s true. And it has Al Pacino before he became a diva.’

We watched the film. And that afternoon, and for the first time ever, Dad changed my life.

Dog Day Afternoon: definitely in my top-ten bank robbery films, maybe even top five. And especially important for being the film that decided how I’d make everything better:

BANK ROBBERY.

I’d rob a bank and I’d make good. I wasn’t sure how much money nice houses cost or suburban banks held, but at the very least we could go shopping and replace all Beth’s stuff. And maybe even pay for her to live somewhere nicer than the high-rise. I’d probably still have enough left over to buy a sports car (and a chauffeur to drive it) and there’d be cash too for Dad to stop work for six months and write the screenplay he always said he had in him when he’d drunk too much. Mum could buy a share in a vineyard or something. I wouldn’t give any money to Rita because she didn’t deserve it.

So long, History coursework and your ‘Why did the USA become involved in Vietnam in the 1950s and 1960s?’ (30 marks). Hello, master criminal and ‘What’s the most effective way of robbing a bank?’ (£1,000,000).

Best get Googling.







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There’s Such a Thing as Being Over-prepared (#ulink_5411e21a-826d-53c8-8880-6e15b9e782d9)


As with any skilled occupation, robbing a bank requires specialist equipment. The type of specialist equipment not easily obtained by fifteen-year-olds. Specialist equipment like guns, for example. In the night following Dog Day Afternoon, I lay in bed and my blind eyes stared through the darkness and I felt guilty and I thought about stuff.

I thought about using a stun gun. Obviously an actual gun was a non-starter. I mean, I’m an idiot but not that much of an idiot. Could you convince a bank worker to hand over cash in exchange for not being Tasered? And was I mean enough to do that?

I was pretty sure you could buy one online. Not Amazon (unless you lived in the States) but from a dodgier part of the internet: the place Palace buy their centre backs, the dark Web. It’s like Amazon but with illegal stuff and a slightly higher chance of getting arrested.

Getting a stun gun delivered to your own house would be a mistake of course, but as Dave Royston lived round the corner I’d just use his address. It would be amateur-level easy to intercept Brian the German postman or somehow get to the package before Dave, which is exactly what I did two years ago when buying bangers off eBay (fireworks, not sausages). And if it all went wrong? Well, Dave saw himself as a gangster. He’d get his mugshot on the news and everything. I could just imagine the scene …

The suburban road, all drawn curtains and tired trees, quiet except for the slam of car doors as commuters climbed into Ford Fiestas and Nissan Micras. Suddenly the roar of sirens would break that silence as police transit vans pulled up outside Dave’s house. People dressed like video-game police would pour out of the vans, their guns bouncing against their chests as they thrust forward, up the crazy paving of Dave’s front path. The SWAT team would rush Dave’s door and, the next thing you know, Dave is face down on the tarmac with the lead SWAT guy telling him, ‘No one moves around here without my say-so.’

Would I feel sorry for Dave if he were arrested because of a stun gun I’d ordered? Probably not. He had stolen my Lion Bar.

Still, as much as all this would be funny, the sad truth is that only idiots rob banks with guns, even stun guns. I’d done the research like I’d planned my History coursework. On my iPhone, in the toilet, I’d googled ‘armed robbery’. I’d discovered the moment you take a gun to the party, even if it’s a stun gun, the sentences imposed by judges jump higher than a frog full of helium. And the truth is I wouldn’t feel great waving guns around, even if the worse they could do was stun.

The room was thick with steam and thinking. And was a bit stinky TBH.

I don’t need a Taser, I thought. No. I’d use a better weapon to hold up a bank: MY BRAIN!

(But not literally. You know what I mean.)

In Out of Sight, a 1998 film, George Clooney robs a bank using nothing. No accomplices, no guns, nothing. All he does is enter one of those air-conditioned Hollywood banks with old-style ringing phones and tidy desks and he spots a stranger chatting with a bank manager at some polite table. The stranger has a leather briefcase on the floor. Clooney approaches a teller (the American who gives out the cash) and tells them he has an accomplice. He points at the stranger who, for all Clooney knows is chatting about the weather, and says the guy has a handgun in his briefcase and should Clooney give the signal, he’ll pull it out and shoot the bank manager. Of course, it being George Clooney, the teller believes him and hands over an envelope bursting with dollars.

I’m no George Clooney, but, like Clooney, I’m able to walk and talk, most of the time anyway, and that’s all it took for Clooney’s character to rob the bank.

FYI Clooney eventually gets caught. How? His getaway car has a flat battery. As Mr Stones, the coach of the U13 football team used to say: ‘Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.’ Mr Stones didn’t say much else, apart from ‘It’s the taking part that counts.’







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Ensure Your Target Ticks All the Boxes (#ulink_a3f09432-0bbd-5810-a71f-d6b9b18f3895)


Location, location, location. The fewer associations you have with your target, the better. Unlike George Clooney, I couldn’t drive. And my parents would notice if I were off catching planes and trains. So, like at school, my geography was limited.

I went on Google Maps, centred my location, and searched for ‘post office’, thinking that a post office would possess less security than a bank. You normally get a Perspex screen and Google says there’s usually a panic button under the counter but what you don’t get are armed guards and drooling Rottweilers. What I had in mind was a Postman Pat-style set-up, with an elderly woman who sits next to a container of lollipops and knits all day. She’d call me ‘sonny’ and offer no physical objection to the robbery. I’d simply be another example of the rotten state of modern youth. Like Al Pacino says in Dog Day Afternoon, these places have insurance. Nobody would be losing out. Granny would have a new story for her bingo friends. Broken Britain. Who cares?

Outside, the rain fell without break from low clouds the colour of failure. Bad weather is a constant during school holidays. When we grow up and get jobs, we’ll be sitting in our offices and it’ll be sweltering outside, guaranteed. Global warming.

Dad was on the sofa watching a Western and scratching himself. He was meant to be unblocking the drain of a house belonging to the parents of a rich kid in the year above, but he couldn’t do much when it was raining. He said this whenever there was the slightest suggestion of moisture in the air, whether the job was inside or out. Either way, it was a pretty lame excuse when you’re a plumber and getting wet was pretty much first on the list of things you’d expect to happen during the working day.

‘Want to join me?’ he said, patting the cushions with the hand that had recently been down his jogging bottoms. ‘It’s only just started. Mum won’t be back for ages. How’s the job search going?’

After my half-hearted application to McDonald’s, Mum and Dad had got it into their heads I was actually applying for jobs, and not only this but having a part-time summer job was, like, the best idea ever.

The edges of my mouth curled downwards. Crazy sounds like someone was breaking up furniture with a pig came from the TV. In a darkened bedroom, a man was hugging a woman. He was wearing a cowboy hat.

‘We can fast-forward the rude bits,’ Dad said, his hands searching for the remote controls as the cowboy grunted. ‘It’s violent and sweary. You’d like it. It’s not all cuddles.’ He paused. ‘Like life really.’

Upstairs, Rita’s movements rolled through the house like teenage thunder. And even though you could hear the rain drumming on the roof, I told Dad I had to go out.

‘To do what?’

‘Homework,’ I said. I looked to the TV. ‘With a girl. And then jobs. You know.’

The naughty cowboy meant I could leave without feeling guilty. Because I was only a kid. The film would corrupt my morals.

The front door was open as I shouted through to Dad, ‘It’s holiday coursework.’

‘Wear a jacket,’ said Dad, defeated by the c-word.

So, with the pre-prepared threatening note in my back pocket, I took a bus to the target, Krazy Prices. I found the old Arsenal shirt Nan had bought me for Xmas. At the time, Dad had said her confusion was a warning sign of dementia, but I honestly think she didn’t know the difference between Palace and Arsenal.

‘They both play in London, don’t they?’ she’d said, biting her false teeth into a mince pie. ‘Don’t be such a fusspot.’

They have CCTV on buses. They have CCTV everywhere, but they have it particularly on buses. If you’re lucky, you might sit on one with its own display and get to stare at people without looking weird. They use these bus images for missing kids: Charlton teenager last seen on the 53. And there’s a grainy black-and-white screen grab that could be anyone with a face, but looks like a ghost, which it kind of is.

My thinking – if the police were to bother searching the bus CCTV for the ballsy teenager who’d emptied a local post office of all its cash, they’d see a kid with an Arsenal shirt and a baseball cap, two things I never wear.

It took three goes with my Oyster but the driver had the Daily Mail open on her lap and didn’t turn her head when I stepped on. The bus smelt of fried chicken. The bottom deck was full of mums with prams and grannies with wheeled shopping baskets, so I climbed upstairs.

I took a seat in the middle. Screwed into the ceiling above the front window was a black hemisphere. Through its glass you could just about make out a camera. I pulled down my cap and dug my chin into my chest. I thought about the post office. About the note. As long as I believed all would be fine, all would be fine.

Rain smudged the windows, bending the vague shapes of the outside world out of focus. I stared at nothing and tried to think positive thoughts.

The rain’s intensity faded as the bus dropped me off only a few metres away from the post office. Krazy Prices looked to be a counter at the back of a corner shop. The Guardian sponsored its awning: a middle-class neighbourhood. I checked for the note in my back pocket, the key to today’s successful robbery. After confirming it was there, I took a deep breath, which tightened my chest even more, and stepped forward to push through the entrance.







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Anything That Can Go Wrong, Will Go Wrong (#ulink_008c830e-0b3f-5b40-8a1b-2bd7a61c211f)


An old-fashioned bell rang and the door almost hit an old man waiting at the back of a queue that ran for six bodies to the counter. Alongside a Perspex-protected screen was the unprotected newsagent’s counter, at which nobody queued. A woman in a sari sat on a stool and watched a tiny television playing loudly.

The line for the post desk stood tightly between a greeting cards stand and a magazine display. Close enough to the old man’s cream jacket to smell his Old Spice, my eyes darted around the space, searching for a camera. I couldn’t see one, but that didn’t mean it didn’t exist. Like God. And farts.

Water dripped from my cap’s brim. The bright red of the Arsenal shirt had turned burgundy. With my empty stomach rumbling, I wondered whether I shouldn’t give it up and go home for food. I had 8p in my pocket. Maybe the bored-looking woman would pity me and sell a single boiled sweet for a stack of coppers?

The queue moved forward. A man with a huge beard walked through to the door, saying ‘Excuse me’ over and over as he left. What would happen when the note was read? The question didn’t make my chest feel less tight, but it did force my hand to my back pocket.

I hadn’t printed my message because I knew they could trace printers. Instead I’d written it left-handed. It had taken a few efforts before I was happy that my block capitals were legible. It would have been embarrassing to be asked to read out particular words and also against the whole point of the note.

The queue moved forward again. I folded the note in half as a woman pushed a toddler through. A rush of air and the doorbell sounded, but nobody joined the queue. Remember: I was doing this for all the right reasons. In a funny way it was actually the right thing to do. My heart beat double fast as I reopened the note. The paper was damp, but the ink hadn’t run.

PUT ALL YOUR MONEY INTO THIS BAG. DO NOT TAKE BANKNOTES FROM THE BOTTOM OF THE DRAWER. DO NOT SOUND THE ALARM. THE PERSON BEHIND ME IS READY TO SHOOT YOUR ASSISTANT IF I GIVE THE SIGNAL. IF YOU TALK TO THEM, THEY WILL SHOOT YOU.

I refolded the note and shoved it back into my pocket, tight between my backside and my wallet. I’d forgotten my loot bag. Another customer left and the queue moved forward. There were now three people in front and still nobody behind. What could I do for a bag? I looked from the aisle of magazines to the greeting cards. On the bottom shelf was a bag. It was A4 size, pink, and had an image of a Frozen princess. It wouldn’t hold much money, but it was better than nothing. I leant across to grab it.

‘Watch yourself,’ said a departing man.

There were now two people until the front desk. I couldn’t believe for such a busy post office no one else had entered. The plan was a non-starter if nobody stood behind me. The note would make no sense. Would that be the end of the world?

Think of Beth. Think of all her stuff. Destroyed. By you.

I pulled down my baseball cap even further. The brim squelched wet between thumb and forefinger. If I pulled it any lower, I wouldn’t be able to see.

The voices from the TV began to sing. A Bollywood tune – all strings and sitar. It was probably a love song but all it did for me was to excite the bumblebees of anxiety that buzzed against my ribs.

Look, if nobody joined the queue, I’d take it as clear evidence that stealing money was a bad idea. There had been enough clues already.

The next customer left. There was now only one person between me and destiny. As he asked how much it would cost to send a first-class letter to New York, America, I peered round his shoulder at the person behind the Perspex screen. Up until this point, I’d not looked because I didn’t want a heart attack.

It was an extremely old woman, possibly the mother or grandmother of the bored sari-wearing TV-watching woman. Her hands shook as she turned over books of stamps. Her hair fell in cotton wisps across a deeply lined forehead. I stopped looking, instead focusing on the void of the old man’s back. Even though a grandmother had been my ideal target, now I was faced with one the nerves gripping my heart were joined by a tremendous churning of my stomach – guilt (and hunger).

Because, essentially, I’m a nice guy.

The door opened. I didn’t turn at its sound, but remained facing forward. Footsteps sounded across the tight space. A presence. Someone had joined the queue. I daren’t turn round. I didn’t want to jinx it. Instead I ignored all the strange insect feelings coming from my body, and I pulled out the note.

George Clooney, Al Pacino, Clint Eastwood.

Dylan Thomas.

Maybe I should just go home?

I remembered the rain. I remembered the fire.

I gritted my teeth and jutted my jaw. I was no longer a south-east London loser teenager. I was a Hollywood hero. All I needed to do was hand over a note and the next thing you know I’d be walking out with a Disney bag full of cash. The old woman wouldn’t care. She’d seen enough in this world to no longer be surprised by anything. Come on. It wasn’t her money.

And then … a hand on my shoulder. Before I turned I understood what I’d see: the police! Because the game was up. They’d known all along. What had I been thinking?







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Be Prepared to Use Your Imagination (#ulink_01076f6d-8a7d-5818-a7ed-f5f0d80900a9)


‘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 …







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‘Ever Tried. Ever Failed. No Matter. Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better.’ Samuel Beckett (#ulink_1117dd5e-d7db-5d38-8b08-9a4ba3c0dc3f)


‘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,’ she said. ‘Tell me about it. Look. I don’t want to unload but … do you mind if I unload?’

For a brief, brilliant moment, I thought she was about to lay into Harry.

‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Unload away.’

‘So Dad, fresh from the no-insurance revelation, has just announced we’ve got until the end of August to find, like, six weeks’ rent as a deposit.’

‘That’s lame,’ I said, disappointed this wasn’t about Harry and not entirely sure what she meant.

‘That’s, like, thousands of pounds and we’ve literally got nothing. And if we don’t pay, we get evicted.’

‘I’m sure something’ll work out,’ I said. ‘Your dad knows people.’ The grunting sound coming out of my phone indicated Beth wasn’t as confident. ‘And, anyway, what if I got you the money?’

Beth laughed.

‘You? How?’

I thought back to the incident in the post office.

‘Winning the lottery?’

‘That’s sweet, Dylan, but are you even old enough to buy a ticket?’

‘No, but they don’t know that and we could go on holiday to, like, Hawaii and pay people to do our GCSEs and did you know the capital of Hawaii is Honolulu?’

‘Honolulu?’ said Beth.

‘It’s fun to say.’

‘Honolulu,’ said Beth again.

‘Honolulu,’ I replied.

There was a bass rumble down the line, a thumping sound.

‘It’s Mum,’ said Beth. ‘I’ve got to go.’

The line disconnected and I lay staring at the ceiling for a while before creeping back downstairs.

Dad had been waiting.

‘There’s this film I recorded …’ he said the very second I walked into the room.

I collapsed into the sofa and as I did so a huge smash broke through the house. Had I broken the chair? No. The sound had come from above. I almost expected Mum to crash through the ceiling, but she didn’t. The noise was metallic, like a car hitting another car. Rita and Mum were soon standing in the front room’s doorway, faces pulled in alarm. Mum held Rita’s hand.

Even though it was late afternoon, Rita was in her pyjamas (decorated with cartoon dogs). Mum wore jogging bottoms and a T-shirt. She often claimed to be going off for a run, but other than the ‘activewear’, there was no evidence that she ever did. Evidence like leaving the house, for instance.

‘What was that?’ she asked. ‘That noise?’

‘It sounded like something hit the roof,’ said Rita. ‘Like maybe a drone.’

My heart froze at the thought of FBI agents streaming from the attic. They’d found the note. I was done for. This was it – the scene of my arrest. I should have liked to wear something smarter than an old Palace training top. And what if I were put into a cell with a load of Brighton fans?

‘Probably just the aerial,’ said Dad. ‘Sounded like the aerial. It’s looked like it was going to fall for months. Don’t worry. It’s the aerial.’

My heart continued to beat. If I had to imagine what an aerial falling off a roof sounded like, it would have been the exact sound I’d just heard. And the FBI agents would have stormed the front room by now. And, anyway, what would the FBI be doing in Orpington?

Rita pointed at the TV.

‘The picture’s still there,’ she said.

‘Kay?’ said Mum. ‘Are you not going to do anything?

Dad, rising and sighing, told Rita that we got our TV from a cable.

I nodded. Idiot.

‘Oh,’ said Rita.

As Dad looked for his trainers and Rita disappeared upstairs, Mum told me to help my father.

‘You wouldn’t want him falling off,’ she said.

Although it was wet outside, it wasn’t raining. It meant Dad could go ahead with climbing up on to the roof to investigate and I’d have to expend energy helping him.







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Use Technology to Your Advantage (#ulink_eb6d12d9-0a79-5f31-b651-300f546f0199)


Ours is a small terraced house, built for workers at a brewery long since bust. The roof sits steeply, like an upside-down V, and almost fringes the upstairs windows. The aerial had toppled, but hadn’t fallen to the ground. It lay across the roof slates held by its white cable.

Dad grabbed a wire cutter from his van. The rear doors creaked.

‘Stop gawping and help me with the ladder,’ he said, untying it from the van’s roof rack.

The ladder, when extended, reached half a metre below the aerial.

‘Hold it tight,’ said Dad. ‘Concentrate. You don’t want your father’s death on your conscience. You’d turn to drink and foul language.’

He climbed the ladder. It trembled as he rose. The rubber grips on the feet held the grey tarmac and I didn’t have to try hard to keep it from slipping. Dad reached the top rung and lowered his chest and stomach to the roof. It was a strange image, as if he’d fallen asleep on top of the house. I wanted to take a picture.

Positioned alongside the aerial, he stretched to cut its cable and set it free.

‘I’m just going to let it fall, so mind yourself,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you getting squashed. There’d be a terrible mess to clean up.’

He stretched to get at the white cord.

‘Oops,’ he said.

The ladder strained with metallic groans. Dad swore.

And, very slowly but with unceasing inevitability, he lost his balance.

He managed to fall head first, knocking the aerial to one side and slipping quickly on his belly down the damp tiles. I jumped from the ladder and briefly stood with my arms out underneath the gutter, as he slid down the slate, at the point where he might land.

He screamed swearwords as his arms, head, chest and legs slipped into empty air.

I braced myself to be struck by Dad’s heavy body. He jolted to a stop. The turn-up of his right jean had caught on a nail. His body swung inwards and smacked against my sister’s bedroom window. The glass wobbled but didn’t break and Dad hung face down from the guttering.

He swore once more.

Rita appeared at her window, screamed and pulled the curtains together.

Standing under my father’s reddening face, a gap of about three metres separating his head from mine, I asked if he were okay.

‘Does it look like I’m okay? Get your mother!’ he hissed. ‘Quickly, Dylan!’

But Mum was already outside, standing next to Rita and holding Rita’s hand.

‘What should we do?’ she asked.

Dad dropped a centimetre as his denim ripped.

Spit rained as he replied.

‘Move the ladder, for Christ’s sake!’

I moved the ladder. Its legs scraped along the ground.

Upside down, he told me to grip its base.

He managed to get his hands on the sides of the ladder. As he did, the denim tore free and he swung one hundred and eighty degrees. The ladder shifted slightly, but heroically I held it from falling. Dad’s legs swept past the top of my head and his feet found a rung. They struck the ladder with a metallic clang.

He was safe.

I stepped out of the way as he climbed down. His face was as red as an Arsenal shirt.

‘You okay?’ asked Mum. ‘You were swearing ever so much … the neighbours …’

He patted my back.

‘Good job, son,’ he said. ‘What a team. Sorry about the swearing.’

‘The aerial’s still just hanging there,’ said Rita.

Dad ignored her.

We went back to the sofa. Dad brought through a beer from the kitchen. A length of denim trailed from his right leg like a snake had its fangs caught in his ankle. He offered me a beer, but I turned it down. It’s best your parents don’t think you drink.

‘Close shave, Dylan,’ he said. ‘Close shave. Should get these bad boys framed.’ (He meant his jeans.) ‘Put them on the wall like footballers do their shirts. I could’ve died out there. Funny how life turns on insignificant details. Like the type of trousers you’re wearing. There’s a film in that. The Right Trousers.’

He pulled open his beer can. Foam rose and he took the can to his mouth quickly, his eyes rolling.

‘Let’s watch something,’ he said, when he’d finished gulping. ‘Take our minds off things.’

As he’d just escaped death, I couldn’t say no.

Office Space was funny. In a not-laughing-out-loud, grown-up comedy way. The main character, Peter, gets hypnotised to cope with work stress. But the hypnotist dies of a heart attack before breaking Peter’s trance. As a consequence of his altered state, Peter doesn’t care about anything and goes through his days only doing stuff that makes him happy. (A bit like Rita.) He gets promoted at work. He gets a sexy girlfriend (young Jennifer Aniston). I guess there’s a life lesson there, but, anyway, although it’s never made entirely clear, the main character and his friends essentially work for a bank. And what do you do when you work for a bank? You conspire to rob the bank.

‘Are there loads of films about robbing banks?’ I dare to ask Dad.

‘It’s a whole genre,’ he says, without turning from the screen. ‘The heist. It’s human nature to want something without having to work for it. Like you and your GCSEs.’

As the end credits rolled Dad asked if I fancied another film. The night was yet young. Rita was out drinking. Mum was exercising. We could easily fit another movie in.

I grunted something noncommittal thinking, Fine as long as it was nothing with Emma Stone.

As he scrolled through the options, I thought about Office Space. Or, more particularly, Peter’s plan for stealing money. Even though the film was set in 1999, before Chelsea or Man City won stuff, Peter didn’t use a gun or a note. He used computer code, programmed to take tiny amounts from all the financial transactions managed by the company’s servers. The money taken at each calculation would be too small to be noticed. However, because of the huge amount of transactions, the amount of ‘stolen’ cash would soon grow. This was a film and fictional thieves can’t get away with breaking the law, so it turns out the code is faulty. Loads of money is taken over a single weekend and the three robbers are screwed, but—

Dad asked if I preferred the Coen brothers or Wes Anderson. But what if a code like the one in Office Space actually existed? What if it could be bought online, on the dark Web, for example? Wouldn’t that be an easy and effective way of robbing a bank? Isn’t everything electronic these days? You wouldn’t even need a balaclava or ski mask.

‘Do you think it would work?’

‘What?’

‘A computer code? To rob a bank?’

‘Can’t see why not. If they can download pictures of naked celebs from the naked celebs’ phones, they can install shady code on a cash machine. Probably happens all the time.’

‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘Hmm.’

Because he was right.

Mum appeared. She was wearing sports clothes, but was also completely sweat-free. In her right hand was half a glass of white wine.

‘Can I get my boys anything?’ she said. ‘Are you about to watch something? Shove up, let us join. What a day!’

She forced herself down on to the sofa, a sofa designed for two, a sofa on which I was now squashed between Mum and Dad.

Plan: I’d pretend to need a slash but wouldn’t return. In my bedroom, I’d get on the computer and search the dark Web for code to rob banks. Here was a path forward, and it made me feel light-headed like I’d had a glass or two of Mum’s wine.

The MGM lion roared.

‘Quick question: what are you going to do about the aerial, Kay?’

‘It’s not going anywhere,’ said Dad. ‘Chill.’







(#ulink_78a5911d-8626-5ebb-bf5f-c5948d4bbc8a)

Do Your Best to Avoid Violence (#ulink_78a5911d-8626-5ebb-bf5f-c5948d4bbc8a)


If you’re thinking I would use my personal email address to buy stuff off the dark Web, you underestimate me. I set up another account.





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