The noise of the screens being broken, the sudden impact of the men’s entry into the bank, the shouting, the threats of violence, the bags being thrown across the glass-strewn counters, all conspired to make Moira and the two other tellers freeze, unable to function.
‘NOW! You hear me? Get the money in the bag NOW!’
Moira started fumbling the cash into the bag. Such was the shock of this intrusion, she didn’t even think to press the panic button that was connected straight to the nearest police station. The other tellers were doing the same as her, every one of them white with fear, moving like stuttering automatons.
Fabio Danieri watched with satisfaction, feeling so wired that he could barely keep still. Shout at anyone loud enough and they crumbled, anyone in the armed forces could tell you that. And sweet Jesus, could he shout. They all could, all his boys, all the little gang he’d grown up on the Clerkenwell streets with, they were swearing and screaming at the tellers, Move! Do it! Hurry Up!
And like dumb cattle the tellers were obeying, ladling the loot into the bags, pushing them back over the counter.
Piece of piss, thought Fabio.
Then they were leaving the building, hurrying out – not too fast – to the car where Derby their jockey sat at the wheel of the high-performance car, engine running. They whipped off their balaclavas as they went, piled in, and Derby was away, slowly at first, sedately, but soon…
‘Holy fuck!’ shouted Derby, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror.
‘What?’ Fabio strained to see. A cop car was nudging in behind them.
‘Shit,’ he said. They had the bulging bags of cash stacked up around them. Quickly Fabio and the others started stripping off their boiler suits. Fabio was wearing jogging shorts and a black T-shirt under his. He could hear the bank’s alarms going now.
‘It’s OK. No lights, no siren. Just a patrol car, it’s nothing,’ said Derby.
Then Fabio saw the customers running out of the bank, waving wildly to the occupants of the police car, pointing to the car stuffed with men and bags with Derby at the wheel.
‘Double shit,’ said Fabio. ‘Hit it, Derby.’
Derby wasn’t called that for nothing. Give him a few thou of stolen horsepower and he could outrun anything the filth could chuck at him. It was close, but they raced through the streets and finally Derby gave them the slip. The boys dumped the car and the bags in a coach depot car park, stashing the cash all over their bodies under their clothes. Then they split up – and
