Two-Way Split (11 page)

Robin moved forward and examined the woman on the floor. A purple stain blossomed on her left leg. Her head lay about a foot from the counter. Her eyes were screwed shut and her mouth hung open. Robin leaned over and touched her cheek. Her eyes snapped open and she blinked several times. Her face was even whiter than Evelyn Fitzpatrick's had been.

"You'll be okay," he said. "Just stay quiet. Understand?"

"Please don't—"

"Shhh."

She nodded.

The roar of Eddie's gun was still ringing in Robin's ears as he picked up the injured woman's parcel and set it on the counter. Robin spoke to the fat woman, the one whose hairspray had choked him when he spoke to her before lunch. "What's your name?"

Her voice was a whisper. "Hilda."

"Well, Hilda." He smiled, although the balaclava probably spoiled the intended friendly effect. "I'd like you to unlock the door, and take this," – he showed her the sports bag in his right hand – "and fill it with lots of money. Think you can do that for me?"

She mumbled a reply.

"I didn't catch that, Hilda."

"The hatch. You can pass it through the hatch."

"If we wanted to pass it through the fucking hatch we would have said so," Eddie said. "You want her to get another bullet?" He indicated the sprawled figure by aiming his gun at her. "You want that on your conscience? I don't think so. Open the door, Hilda. And do it now. We don't have all fucking day."

On the other side of the partition, Hilda waddled across the room. Robin shifted his gaze to the customers huddled together in the corner. One or two had their arms around each other and a few were crying. Most had their heads turned away, instinct telling them to avoid eye contact. Of the six men cowering against the wall, one was trying to outstare Eddie. Not the concrete slab he'd noticed earlier, but a frail elderly man who looked like someone had pissed in his mouth and he couldn't get rid of the taste. He smacked his lips, ran his tongue over his teeth.

Eddie noticed him too. His arm swung away from the woman on the floor and pointed at the old man. "You looking at?"

The old man stared at the gun. He raised his hands. Both palms were deeply lined. His gnarled fingers trembled.

The woman on the floor screamed.

Eddie's arm jerked. He yelled, "Shut up." He waved the gun at her.

"She's been shot in the leg," Robin said. "She can't help it."

"I didn't ask your opinion. Just make her shut up."

From the huddle in the corner came another scream.

"Christ's sake, shut up!"

"How am I supposed to make her shut up?"

"I can't hear you."

More screams from the corner. One setting off the next, like dogs barking. Robin approached Eddie and shouted in his ear. Eddie nodded, aimed at the wall and blew a hole in it.

Silence.

A chunk of plaster swung from side to side, a thin strip of wallpaper all that held it to the wall. Robin watched as the paper tore and the plaster dropped, landing on the shoulder of the woman cowering beneath it. She cried out, startled, instantly on her feet, brushing dust and chalk off her coat.

Eddie strolled over to her.

"I'm sorry." She crouched down again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She crossed her hands over her bowed head.

Eddie stared at her. He said, "Any more racket and I'll put a bullet in your eye." He looked around. "That goes for all of you." He walked towards the prone figure near the counter, scuffing his heels on the floor. "Including you." Placing one foot either side of the wounded woman, he said, "I don't care how much your leg hurts."

The partition door opened and Hilda said, "Give me the bag."

Robin squeezed past Eddie and handed the cashier his sports bag. "Be quick," he told her. "And Hilda? Just money, please. No fancy dyes, okay?"

1:03 pm

From the first he heard of the post office robbery nine months ago Pearce had been concerned for his mother's safety. While he was in jail he'd repeatedly suggested she might look for another job. Of course she'd brushed his concern aside. Danger? What danger? When he got out, he tried again. It wasn't as if it was her money, now, she'd argued. Play along with the robbers, she'd said, and you didn't get hurt. So that's what she would do if it happened. Which it wouldn't. Not in
her
post office.

He pointed out that someone
had
got hurt. And because it had worked, next time the gang would follow the same routine. Walk straight in and shoot some poor bastard before anybody had time to react. But not a cashier, she replied. Cashiers, she claimed, were perfectly safe behind the anti-bandit screen.

When he saw the notice on the door of the post office where his mum worked, he knew something was wrong. The smaller post offices were often inadequately staffed, those earmarked for closure, like this one, particularly so. After a couple of gins last week she'd ranted about increased workloads, ridiculous productivity expectations and training handouts on topics like "Queue Reduction Management" or "Understanding ERNIE: Inside Premium Bonds" which you had to read in your own time because there wasn't anyone to fill in for you while you read them at work. He didn't believe the sign on the door. A couple of illnesses and, yes, the post office might have been forced to close for half an hour, but if they'd had to close unexpectedly she'd have called him.

He couldn't afford to hang about. She was all he had.

A taxi idled by the kerb. He ran over to it and tapped his fingers on the window. The redhead behind the wheel looked annoyed by the interruption. When he didn't go away she finally stopped brushing her hair and rolled down the window.

"Sorry to bother you," he said. "You been here a while?"

"Waiting on a fare. From forty-two." She looked at her watch. "He's late."

"Seen anything unusual?"

"Like what?"

Pearce shrugged. "Obviously not." He patted the bonnet. "Do me a favour?"

"I don't know you. Why would I do you a favour?"

"Phone the police." That got her attention.

She banged the flat of her hairbrush against her palm. Her pale face got paler. "Why would I want to do that?"

"I think a robbery might be taking place."

She laughed. "In there?" She indicated the post office with a casual flick of her blue fingernails. "It's empty."

"Call the police anyway," he said.

"You call them, if you're so concerned."

"I would," he said. "But I don't have time. Got to get started on breaking down that door."

1:04 pm

Eddie's mobile still played
Für Elise
despite repeated promises to Robin that he would change the tune. He held the gun in one hand, phone in the other. The music stopped. He frowned. "Thanks. We'll be out in a minute."

"What is it?"

"Tell Fatso to hurry up," Eddie said.

"What's happening?" Robin stood in the partition doorway, watching Hilda shovelling wads of notes into the bag. "Can you speed up, Hilda?" He turned to Eddie. "Well?"

"We're getting a visitor."

Robin slid his knife out of its sheath. "Armed Response Unit?"

 "Not yet," Eddie said. "Just a concerned citizen."

"Done," Hilda said. "It's all there." She showed Robin the open bag, smiling. He nodded and she zipped it up.

"Bring it here," he said.

Her smile dissolved when she saw the knife. She moved slowly towards him, one chubby hand holding the bag, the other clutching her throat.

"Give it to me," he said.

Her eyelids fluttered as if she was about to faint, but she stayed upright and handed over the bag. She wiped her hand on her thigh.

Banging. Robin glanced at Eddie. More banging. Regular. Insistent. Someone pounding on the front door. Their visitor, the concerned citizen. Robin couldn't tell how Eddie was reacting behind the balaclava. More banging. It stopped and a muffled voice said, "I'm coming in." Silence. A shout accompanied by a screech as the wedge under the door was driven back a couple of inches. Robin set down the bag as a hand reached round the gap at the side of the door and sent the wedge tumbling across the floor. As the door swung open, Hilda dashed forward. He caught her by the wrist and dragged her in an arc straight into his arms. She wriggled until he rested the blade of the knife against her lips. She was panting heavily and her hairspray tickled the back of his throat.

"Let her go." The man who spoke was inappropriately dressed for the cold weather in a white t-shirt and black jeans. He stood in the doorway, chill air gusting in from behind him.

"Who the fuck are you?" Eddie said.

"Get the money," Robin said to Eddie.

"It's at your feet. You get it."

"I don't have enough hands, okay?"

The man in the doorway stepped forward.

Eddie said, "Back off or I'll shoot the fat cow."

"I wouldn't advise it," the man said. "The fat cow's my mother."

Robin said to Eddie, "Pick up the money and go."

"I want to take this fucker out."

"Just do it, for Christ's sake." Robin felt his mouth dry up. Hilda was shaking in his arms, wafting hairspray up his nostrils.

Eddie reached over and picked up the bag. Hilda's son stood against the wall with his arms folded. "You going to try to stop us?" Eddie asked him.

"Not my money," he said. "I don't care what you do with it as long as you leave my mother alone."

Eddie shrugged and moved slowly towards the door. Hilda's son ignored him as he walked past. Eddie opened the door. "Take Mummy with you," he said to Robin and disappeared, the door banging shut behind him.

Hilda's son unfolded his arms and his hands squeezed into fists. Big fists. His arms were ugly with muscles. He dropped his gaze and examined his knuckles. "If your friend had stayed," he looked up again and Robin stared into his cool blue eyes, "you might have had a chance. He had a gun." He glanced at the woman Eddie had shot. "And it looks like he was prepared to use it. You, on the other hand, only have a knife." He took a step forward. "And I don't believe you're prepared to use it."

"You don't think so?" Robin pressed the serrated edge of the blade lightly against Hilda's throat. She tilted her head back and made weird gulping sounds. Dragging her with him, he started shuffling backwards towards the door, trying to keep his hands steady.  His left nostril itched. He sniffed. His eyes began to water. He sneezed. He shook his head. Blinked. Hilda trembled against him. He sneezed again.

"You cut her, you piece of fucking shit." Hilda's son lunged towards him.

Robin shoved Hilda in the back. He grabbed the door handle and was almost out in the fresh air when he felt a tug at his coat. His foot slipped and he was dragged back.

He heard something tear. He stumbled forward, holding onto the doorframe. He couldn't get away no matter how much he pushed with his legs. Shit, it was like running in thigh-deep water. Hilda's son wasn't going to let go easily. Robin tried once more to pull away and again the fierce grip held him back. Panic seized him. He had to get out of here, out of this room, escape from these people who were yelling now, away from Hilda and her son, whatever the cost. It was him or them. Survival was all that mattered. Turning, he swung the knife upwards from his hip. Hilda's son wasn't where Robin expected him to be. He was behind his mother, arms wrapped around her waist, trying to drag her away from Robin. Robin watched with horror as his knife plunged into the side of Hilda's neck. She sank to her knees, eyes wide, staring straight ahead. Only when Robin pulled the knife out of her flesh did she let go of his coat.