Lynda La Plante - Civvies

'Hands on your fucking heads!'

The wagon shuddered and rocked – the dull boom of an explosion, a gush of white smoke as the rear doors were blown off. In the wing-mirror Harry could see the sacks being tossed from hand to hand. It was done a damn sight quicker than it had taken him and Cliff to load them. The man at the window never budged his eyes once, the large bore business end of the weapon pressed against the glass. Harry heard the distinctive thwack-thwack-thwack of a silenced automatic as the men pumped bullets into the tyres. The security wagon sank slowly onto its rims.

The raider in the ski mask jerked his head at his companions. 'Go – go – go! All clear!' They dived into the back of the van and pulled the big doors shut behind them.

Covering Harry and Cliff, the raider backed away a step. He glanced behind, judging the right moment to turn and jump aboard. The van came up alongside. The raider half-turned, getting ready. Harry threw the dead-lock bolt. He kicked the door open, catching the end of the submachine-gun, and leapt out. The raider staggered but kept on his feet. He turned and started to run for the van. Harry lunged, got a hand on his shoulder. The raider took a swipe with the weapon, missed, and Harry grabbed it off him. Still holding onto the raider's jacket shoulder, Harry tossed the gun to Cliff. The raider was half-in, half-out of the van door, Harry hanging on like grim death, both of them being dragged along as the van picked up speed. Cliff brought the gun up, sighted, but the two men were too close together to risk a shot. He saw Harry clawing at the raider's head, ripping the mask up so that Cliff snatched a glimpse of the man's left profile. Frantic now, the raider back-heeled, and lucky for him, unlucky for Harry, found a soft target in Harry's balls. Harry let go, dropped, rolled, curled over, hugging himself. Cliff let one off, aiming for the tyres. He missed with the first, bagged a rear tyre with the second. The van veered left, then right, straightened up and was off.

Harry was on the ground, bent over, clutching his property.

'You okay… Harry?'

Harry pulled his helmet off. His face was green. His lips were tight against his gritted teeth. 'Me voice sound higher? Ohhh… Kerrrist!' He started to heave, then held his breath to stop himself vomiting.

From the back of the wagon, Cliff yelled to him, 'they cleaned us out, Harry. Harry…?'

Harry was on his knees on the grass verge, bringing up last night's Murphy's stout and vindaloo. He wiped his mouth and gingerly climbed to his feet, walking back towards Cliff doing an impersonation of John Wayne riding an invisible horse.

He gestured for Cliff to hand the gun over and checked it out. He thought it looked familiar. It was an L2A3 Sterling 9mm sub-machine-gun, a standard British Army weapon issued to tank crewmen and artillery support services. Harry tucked the triangular metal frame butt against his shoulder and blew out the wagon's windscreen. He fired again and shattered the driver's window. While Cliff stood gaping at him as if he'd lost his marbles, Harry walked up to the wagon and head-butted the armour-plated side panel. He staggered drunkenly backwards, a gash pouring blood.

'Go get the cops,' he told Cliff, sinking to the ground. 'Mess yourself up a bit!'

'For the law…?'

Harry was in agony, clutching his head. 'No, you prat! The bloody laundry wages have gone! We got to look like we almost got ourselves killed for it!'

'What you mean, almost?' said Cliff indignantly.

'They were bloody pros, I tell you that much. Knew what they were doin', an' they could handle themselves.'

The same notion had occurred to Cliff. 'One of 'em,' frowning and shaking his head, 'I'm sure I've seen him before…'

Dillon picked up the Sterling from the desk and glanced at Harry, sitting looking sorry for himself with an ice-pack on his head.

'Cops knows about this?'

'Na, I stashed it under a hedge.'

'What about the laundry company, they know?'

Harry snorted. 'Guv'nor was grovellin' his thanks to us in front of the cops – you know, how we risked our lives, what's money!'

Cliff was drying his neck and hands on a towel. 'He's insured, won't hurt him.'

'Screw him!' Harry said. 'Our wagon's a write-off, Frank. They were good, an' you know somethin' – I think they were Army trained.' He indicated the gun. 'That's Army, similar to the one we used.'

Dillon said angrily, 'You should've handed it over!'

'We're insured, aren't we?' Cliff said with a shrug.

'Yeah, we're insured,' said Dillon grimly. 'Third party, fire and theft!'"

'Thank Christ for that.'

Dillon rolled his eyes to the ceiling. 'Theft of the vehicle, you prat! Oh Jesus, this is all we need…' He put the gun down and stared dismally at the dismal view of the basement steps. 'I don't believe it. Why is it every time we make two steps forward we take ten back? Why?'

'You think we'll lose the account?'

'We got no wagon, Cliff.'

'We got the Mercedes – an' I tell you,' Harry stabbed a finger, 'if we'd had that they'd never have got us trapped. I mean, our top speed in that bus was eight…' The phone rang and Dillon answered. 'An' then it shuddered, we were easy pickings.'

'Stag Security… hang on.' Dillon thrust the phone at Cliff. 'Shirley!'

Dillon paced up and down, rubbing his forehead. He said to Harry, 'This is a real downer, you an' me'll have to see if we can get another wagon.' He tapped the Sterling on the desk. 'Bloody get this out of the way an' all.'

Cliff was holding the phone away from his ear. Finally he managed to get a word in. 'Don't scream at me like it was our fault, I'm still shakin'. We were held up, yeah!'

Dillon gave Harry a look and walked out.

'I'll tell you everythin' when I see you…'

Harry tossed a bunch of keys onto the desk. 'Tell her now. You man the office, me and Frank'll see if we can sort a replacement wagon.' He lumbered to the door.

'Hey, Harry!' Cliff covered the receiver. 'What about tonight's job?'

'I'll be back. Get hold of Wally and Taylor, we need four blokes.'

Cliff gave the thumbs-up and went back to telling his fiancee about the morning's raid.

Shirley stared at herself in the full-length mirror, biting her lip. She smoothed her hands over the waist of the brocade and lace wedding gown and felt her stomach. Couldn't have grown that much in twenty-four hours, could it? What did she have in there, the next heavyweight boxing champion of the world?

'You'll have to let it out another inch, Norma,' she told her friend, kneeling at her feet with a mouthful of pins. Norma glared up at her, and Shirley spread her arms helplessly.

'Shirley!' Cliff pounded up the stairs. 'It's me!' Shirley let out a small scream and dashed to the door. As it opened she slammed it shut, nearly flattening Cliff's nose.

'Go away! You can't come in, I'm having a fitting!'

'I'm workin' tonight…' Cliff banged on the door. 'Shirley? Did you hear me?'

'Yes, I heard you,' Shirley snapped bad-temperedly. 'Go away!' She looked round. Norma was crouched double, clutching her throat, coughing, or trying to. 'Oh my God… are you all right? You haven't swallowed a pin, have you?'

'Don't bother to ask if I'm okay!' said Cliff furiously, thumping the door. 'Shot at! Held up in an armed bleedin' robbery! But don't bother -'

Shirley threw open the door. Cliff's furious expression sagged. He stood there with his mouth hanging open, and then he gave as low smile of rapturous wonder.

'Oh man… that's beautiful.'

Harry thought, Typical bloody cock-up. Down here in docklands somewhere, hired as bouncers for an acid house party gig, and they couldn't even find the place! Cliff was driving the Granada, he was supposed to know but of course he didn't have a clue. Berk!