Tom Mitchell - How to Rob a Bank

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?

‘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.