“… the fuck?”
Reverently, Ken set a wooden teapot-stand down on the table. It had been crowned with a plastic measuring jug. “Well. Very interesting.”
“I don’t understand it. I don’t know what happened.”
The fat man was at work on the next parcel. He looked down at the contents without showing them to Anthony. “What’s this supposed to be?”
“Two Dresden figurines.”
‘Two wooden dolls.” He held them up. They were hideous things, homemade, with crudely painted faces.
The next parcel was the silver dish ring, or rather a stainless-steel dog bowl.
“I don’t fucking believe this…” Anthony picked up one of the smaller packages and started ripping, pulling it apart recklessly, careless of the contents, which was a mistake. It was not a fine little carving of a mouse asleep inside a walnut shell. It was a hen’s egg, and it broke. He could feel the blood beating in his head, the rage pushing against the bones of his skull. “She sent me on a wild goose chase. She had me up on the roof cooling my heels while she was downstairs going through my bag. The fucking bitch.”
“You wouldn’t be up to them,” the fat man observed in much the same tone as if he’d said the sky was blue.
Together, they unwrapped every parcel on the table, revealing every piece of junk that Anthony had carried away from Clementine Hardington’s house. Chipped brown side-plates dating from the 1970s. A lump of coal. Two wooden spoons. Orange plastic egg-cups that were supposed to be salt cellars. Six green tiles masquerading as framed miniatures. Old matchboxes filled to the brim with rice to make them as heavy as the snuffboxes he’d assumed they were.
“This is a nightmare.” Anthony couldn’t stop staring at the junk on the table, as if he could make it change back into riches if he only looked hard enough. “I’m embarrassed, Ken.”
“So you should be.” He settled back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his paunch. “Ah, well.”
“Is that it?”
“Doesn’t make any difference to me. You’re the one who’s out of pocket.” He yawned. “You shouldn’t be surprised. There’s a reason they’ve held on for so long. They don’t give it up easily.” He nodded at the last parcel, the smallest, which Anthony was clutching. It should have been the ivory samurai, upright and noble. “Open it.”
It was tightly wrapped, folded in on itself, and he struggled to undo it, pulling the material apart eventually so what was inside bounced out and landed on the table where it spun around and around. Ken picked it up.
“What’s this? A shotgun shell?”
Anthony shook his head, his mouth suddenly dry. “It’s a message.”
He knew in his heart that even if he had realized what she was planning – even if he had been as angry with her then as he was now – he would never have been able to pull the trigger. He knew it just as well as he knew that if she held the gun, she wouldn’t hesitate. That was as much her legacy from her ancestors as the crumbling stones of the house, the acres of boggy parkland, the fine art and furniture and woodworm and all.
And as far as Anthony was concerned, she was welcome to the lot of it.
A MEMORABLE DAY by L. C. Tyler
IF THERE’S ONE piece of advice I’d like to pass on it’s this. Keep a note of your alias. There’s nothing worse than the sudden realization that you’ve no idea who you are
The young lady, whose name had also temporarily slipped my mind, was starting to look at me a little oddly.
“Mr Smith? Your tea…”
Smith – yes, of course. “John Smith”, probably. My imagination is almost as bad as my memory. Hopefully they wouldn’t ask me to confirm Smith’s address, which was now forgotten way beyond any hope of recall. That’s the good thing about being a hero, of course – people don’t cross-examine you or expect you to provide proof of identity.
“Thank you,” I said, accepting the steaming mug and wondering how many times she’d addressed me before I’d responded. “Thank you. That will go down a treat after all this afternoon’s excitement. A treat.” I tried to appear brave but modest – I’ve seen it done, so had a vague idea how it should look.
I took a first sip of the tea. Heroes clearly took plenty of sugar, or maybe the young lady had distantly remembered that a hot sweet drink was good for shock. We’d all had a shock, though possibly I’d had a bit more than the rest of them. Hopefully the worst was over. Fingers crossed.
“I’m sorry we can’t offer our hero something stronger,” said Mr Adewole, who I remembered was the Assistant Branch Manager (or was it Deputy?). He straightened his tie. I’d seen one like it in a shop earlier – pure silk, sixty quid. I’d been tempted, as they say, but not tempted enough.
“Tea’s fine,” I said. “The cup that cheers.”
“You’re a hero,” said Mr Adewole.
“He’s a hero,” confirmed the young lady. (Arabella? Daisy? Lillwen? Some name like that anyway.)
“Seems like I’m a hero, then,” I said.
We’d explored the present indicative quite well. I am a hero. Thou art a hero. He, she or it is a hero. Actually it was the first person plural we needed. We are heroes. I hadn’t done it alone.
I’d been walking along the Holloway Road, head down, doing my level best not to get in anyone’s way. My bag was a bit heavy and I’d stopped outside the bank briefly to check the contents and make sure all was well. I’d just put it on the ground and had scarcely begun to pull the zip when this large geezer with a stocking mask over his face and a sawn-off shotgun in his hands comes charging out of the door. I stood up and stepped aside respectfully, as you do with large geezers carrying shotguns. He went past at a fair lick and off down the Holloway Road. Then, stone me if his mate (small geezer, stocking mask, large nylon holdall stuffed with cash) didn’t run straight into me from behind as I was stepping back. He wasn’t big, as I say, but he was going fast enough to knock us both to the ground three or four feet from where I had been standing. I didn’t bear him any ill will – he hadn’t trodden on my bag or anything – so I suppose it was just a reflex reaction that made me lash out at him the moment we were both back in a sitting position.
With my arm fully extended, my fist just about made contact with his face. I’m not sure he even registered that I was trying to punch him, to be honest with you. It must have been simple curiosity that made him pause, looking at me as best he could through ten-denier nylon, for just a fraction of a second too long. A stocky member of the public had come running up and pinioned him in a pair of muscular arms. The small bank robber cursed me under his breath, but there was nothing more for him – or me – to do. Game over.
In the middle distance, the big guy with the shotgun had reached a conveniently parked Honda with its engine running. It was purple – a bit too visible as a getaway vehicle, but I’d already seen evidence that they weren’t the brightest pair of bank robbers in North London. He’d been about to jump into the fake-leather passenger seat when he turned and saw that his mate with the money was sadly no longer with him. The big guy too was still wearing ladies’ hosiery on his face, and I couldn’t read his expression, but from his body language he wasn’t best pleased. For an instant I thought he might be about to come back and shoot a few of us, but fortunately all hell chose to break loose that very moment. The bank staff had been able to get their nervous little fingers to the alarm buttons and there were lights and noises and people running everywhere.
The young lady was already heading down the steps towards us, with Mr Adewole a few prudent paces behind her. Somewhere in the distance you could just make out a police siren – probably a squad car off to deal with a bad outbreak of graffiti, but it was enough to make up the mind of the guy with the gun. He was back in the purple Honda, which took off with a vicious roar of the engine and a screech of tyres – an event common enough on the Holloway Road not to draw much comment from passers-by.