‘These’ll go off approximately five minutes after we enter the bank. They should set the van ablaze, causing an excellent diversion and hopefully some chaos once the petrol tank explodes.’

  Jim put the devices in position, small gaps apart. Lit them. Cranked down the driver’s widow slightly, to the level calculated to maximise the explosion. Pulled on his mask.

  ‘Okay, let’s do it.’

  The three big bad wolves hopped out, heading towards the doors of the Bank of New Republic on Donegall Place. They planned to do more than just huff and puff at the little piggy bank on the corner.

  * * *

  Security guard Andy Grazier stood inside the revolving door of the Bank of New Republic, glancing constantly at his watch. Three customers to be served. Two long minutes to go. One great occasion coming up. He couldn’t wait to get home. Man City versus Man U, live on Sky, and the entire house to himself. Margaret, the wife, would be going out with a few friends to darts, and the fridge was well stocked with bottles of his favourite beer, Harp.

  Happy Harpy Hours, Andy mused, hoping and praying there’d be no late stragglers coming with deposits. Stragglers were the worse. Always flustered and out of breath, always with lengthy, boring tales about why they almost missed the bank before it closed. By the time they’d given their excuses, a long five minutes would have elapsed.

  ‘Andy?’ the manager Dana Robinson said, emerging from her office. ‘I think we can close now.’

  Andy nodded, trying not to smile with relief, and turned to lock the doors. Just as he could almost taste the Harp on his parched tongue, his biggest nightmare stood before him. Actually, it sat, in the form of a wheelchair-bound customer, trying to squeeze through the revolving door by slamming against it.

  God, why tonight, of all nights? Andy squinted, looking out at the customer, but the black rain beating against the opaque glass and the bad street-lighting made visibility practically zero.

  The wheelchair continued slamming relentlessly against the door, like some sort of medieval battering ram.

  Bloody hell! Andy quickly held his hand up.

  ‘Hold on! You’re going to have to wait a second, until I get the accessible door open.’ He reached down and pushed the blue button, opening the sliding doors. ‘You almost got here too late to make a –’

  Andy’s voice stopped mid-sentence, as a sawed-off shotgun was pushed against his balls by a wolf, while two further wolves rushed into the bank, howling and screaming.

  ‘Everything’s gonna be okay,’ Jim said, quickly exiting the wheelchair, elevating the shotgun from balls to the nose on Andy’s petrified face. ‘Say it!’

  ‘Every … everything … okay …’ Andy looked on the verge of fainting.

  ‘No heroics. Say it.’

  ‘No … heroics …’

  Quickly pushing Andy to the ground, Jim hit the blue button. The accessible doors closed without a sound. The wheelchair was instantly folded up, and stashed behind a desk.

  ‘Put your hands behind your back,’ Jim instructed.

  Andy quickly complied. Jim cuffed both wrists with plastic security cables, then dragged Andy across the polished-marble floor, parking his body behind a large table, out of sight of any nosey passer-by.

  ‘Everyone! Get behind that table, and down on the ground!’ Charlie shouted, waving his Magnum menacingly in the air.

  The customers eagerly scurried behind the shelter of the table, stone-dropping onto the floor. Closing their eyes, they became instant statues. They had seen enough movies to know what could happen in situations like this – especially in cheap movies where everyone ends up shot to pieces. They earnestly hoped this wasn’t a cheap one, especially by Belfast’s cheap standards.

  While Charlie kept watch on the customers, Brian ran to the nearby office. Dana Robinson had been talking to a male customer, but was now midway through rising from her chair at the sound of the commotion.

  ‘Don’t go pushing any buttons, Mrs Robinson. Little buttons create big problems,’ Brian said, pointing the gun at Dana’s face. ‘Comprende? Lo entiendes?

  Vous me comprenez? In other words, do you fucking understand?’

  Dana’s mouth opened. No words came out. She nodded.

  ‘Good. Now sit back down, and place your hands on top of the desk, nice and easy.’

  Dana quickly complied.

  ‘You.’ Brian pointed the gun at the male customer. ‘Get on the floor. Don’t make a sound.’

  The man, completely bald, face expressionless, stared back at Brian. Casually dressed, he gripped an expensive Samsonite Pro-DLX3, a large, expandable briefcase. Puzzlingly, he did not move.

  ‘You deaf, Lex Luther? Get on the floor. Now!’

  Instead of dropping to the floor, the man stood. He towered a good four inches over Brian’s height of five-eleven, and had a smug air of defiance about him, bordering on menacing.

  ‘I think you should leave. Now, while you have the chance,’ the man said, voice calm as floating ice. ‘You really don’t want to fuck with me.’

  Brian glanced left and right, before eyeballing the man. Then, channelling his inner Robert De Niro, ‘You talkin’ to me?’

  ‘I’m talking to you.’

  ‘Let me get this straight. I’m the one with the gun in my hand, and you’re the one with his dick in his, but I should leave while I have the chance?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘You think you’re Kwai Chang Caine?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not what. Who. You know – David Carradine in Kung Fu. Think you can kill ten men with a chopstick?’

  ‘I don’t know what drug is melting your brain, but you better leave, while the chance is offered.’

  ‘Offered? Ever watch The Shawshank Redemption?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘Good, perhaps you remember this wee classic line from it: “I’m not gonna count to three. I’m not even gonna count to one. You will shut the fuck up or I’ll sing you a lullaby!”’

  Brian hit him on the side of the head with the gun so hard, it could be heard outside the office. The man collapsed like wet posters on a wooden fence, banging his already battered head against the edge of the desk, causing blood to appear.

  Dana let out a soft scream.

  ‘What the hell’s going on in there?’ Jim shouted.

  ‘Everything’s under control. Nothing to lose your fur about.’

  ‘Hurry the hell up!’

  ‘You heard the man, Mrs Robinson. I need you to hit the combo on the vault.’

  ‘I … I don’t know the –’

  ‘You don’t know the combo. Right?’

  ‘Only the –’

  ‘Only the night manager knows the combo?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Mrs Robinson?’

  ‘No.’

  Suddenly, an explosion could be heard in the background, somewhere out in the streets.

  ‘Did you hear that, Mrs Robinson?’

  Dana nodded nervously. ‘Yes …’

  ‘That was God. He’s angry at you for telling fibs. Okay, here’s the score. I didn’t even have to look at your badge to know your name. Doesn’t that tell you something? You have a child, a young girl named Sheila.’

  ‘How … how do you know my daughter’s name?’

  ‘That’s irrelevant. What is relevant is that you do as I say, and no more fucking about. Wee Sheila’s fine – at the moment. She’s staying with a friend of ours.’

  ‘Oh my God! Don’t hurt her!’ Dana tried to stand. Her knees wobbled. She slumped back down. ‘Please … please don’t hurt her. She’s only three.’

  ‘Sheila’s not three until next week, so that’s more fibbing. As soon as we’re out of here, she’ll be released. We’ll even throw in a birthday cake and a nice wee present for her.’

  ‘I swear there’s … there’s no money in the vault.’

  ‘Your definition of “no money” is probably a lot different to mine – and you’re still wasting valuable time. This is not going to end right, if you do what’s wrong.’

  ‘I’ll … need to type in numbers, on the computer. That’s … that’s how it works.’

  From his wolf pouch, Brian removed a small, black device, no larger than a mobile phone.

  ‘Ever see one of these?’

  ‘No …’

  Brian connected it to the side of the computer via a USB socket.

  ‘It’s a bullshit detector. Actually, it’s a number cruncher, able to calculate numbers at the equivalent of the warp speed of the Starship Enterprise. Impressed?’

  ‘I –’

  ‘Good. Well, you start fucking about with the combo, and this little lady will buzz, letting me know you’re not a lady. Understood?’

  Dana nodded slowly. ‘Yes …’

  ‘Excellent. Now, do whatever magic you need to do to open Aladdin’s Cave. And don’t get smart. Only stupid people get smart. You really want us to get out of here, nice and safe, right? You want to be there for wee Sheila’s third?’

  Dana nodded, quickly typing numbers into the computer.

  ‘What’s happening in there?’ Jim was leaning into the office. ‘Four minutes left. Hurry the fuck up.’

  ‘Taking an awful long time, Mrs Robinson. My boss is getting irritated. He rarely curses, except when running out of patience while doing bank robberies.’

  ‘I’m working as fast as I can.’ Dana’s fingers danced deftly over the keyboard. ‘It’s complicated. And it’s trickier when your hands are sweating and slipping.’

  Brian did his best Dustin Hoffman: ‘Mrs Robinson, if you don’t mind my saying so, this conversation is getting a little strange.’

  ‘A few more seconds, please … There! That’s it. The vault’s open.’

  ‘Abracadabra!’ Brian shouted. ‘Heaven’s Gate is now open, by invitation only!’

  Jim produced three large gripbags from the wheelchair’s stomach. The bags were designed to look like slaughtered sheep, to go with the wolf costumes. He returned to the office. Tossed a bag to Brian.

  ‘Mrs Robinson?’ Brian said, catching the bag. ‘Get down beside Lex Luther. While I’m gone, I expect you to behave. Do I have your word?’

  ‘Yes … yes …’ Dana said, kneeling down behind the desk.

  ‘You lied to me before. Don’t make the same mistake twice.’

  Brian ran the small distance to where the vault’s door gaped invitingly, an enormous metal wound in the wall.

  ‘Show me the money, honey!’ he shouted triumphantly, turning backwards to do a Michael Jackson moonwalk into the vault. The moment he stepped inside, however, triumph turned to despair. ‘Houston, we have a problem.’

  ‘What?’ Jim said, rushing in behind him. ‘What the hell’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s a vault, Jim, but not as we would like it. It’s empty.’

  The vault was gleaming, all spick-and-span, as if it had been entered into the Cleanest Vault in the World competition.

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘I think you were being a bit over-optimistic with three great big bags, Jim.’

  ‘Come on. Get the hell out of here. We can lick our wounds elsewhere.’

  ‘Mrs Robinsonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!’ Brian shouted, running back towards the office. He kneeled down before the trembling manager, and brandished the gun in her face. ‘You lied to me. No money makes me an unhappy bunny.’

  ‘I … I didn’t lie. I told you there was no money. It’s a new security procedure, new regulations. They remove all the money an hour before closing. You just missed the Brinks security van by a few minutes. There’s … there’s some money in the tills, but not a lot.’

  ‘C’mon! Out!’ Jim shouted, rushing for the exit.

  ‘What we’ve got here, Mrs Robinson, is a failure to communicate,’ continued Brian. ‘You should’ve told me all this before the fan got covered in shit. I don’t like it when people try to –’

  The bald male customer began to stir. He groaned. ‘What … what hit me?’

  ‘This.’ Brian smacked him on the head again, and the big man went silent. ‘See, Mrs Robinson? Now I’m really pissed off.’

  ‘Please don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt my baby.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. No one’s hurting you or your child. I’ve never hurt anyone in my life.’ He glanced down at the crumpled figure on the floor. ‘Well, almost never …’

  ‘Out!’ Charlie said, rushing into the office, grabbing Brian under the left arm. ‘Now!’

  * * *

  Musgrave Police Station, a Belfast stone’s-throw away from the bank. Sergeant Colin Lindsay was taking his twentieth call of the night. He shouldn’t even have been on desk duty, but three of the staff had called in sick, forcing him to cover everyone’s job at once.

  Just when Lindsay thought his night couldn’t get any crazier, the phone buzzed again.

  ‘Musgrave Police Station. Sergeant Lindsay speaking. How can I help?’

  ‘I think there’s a robbery going on across the road,’ a badly slurred male voice said.

  ‘And what makes you think that, sir?’

  ‘I spotted them going in. That’s what makes me think it, smart arse. They thought I didn’t see them, but you’ve got to get up early to catch Jaunty McCambridge – ah fuck! Did I just give my name? I don’t want my name being known, in case someone comes after me.’

  Lindsay suspected the man had been drinking, and not just a small amount. ‘It’s okay, sir. I can assure you that anything you say is strictly confidential.’

  ‘Bollocks! You people always say it’s confidential. Next thing you know, everyone and their granny knows, and I’m found dead in some godforsaken place, two in the back of my nut for being a tout. Snitches always end up in ditches.’

  Lindsay coughed impatience from his throat. ‘Where exactly do you think this robbery is taking place, sir?’

  ‘Can’t really see the building’s name, without my glasses. And all this rain bucketing down isn’t helping. I think it’s a bank. It’s directly facing Burger God – hey, have you tried the Big Devil Special?’

  ‘What?’ Lindsay’s patience was shortening.

  ‘Big Devil Special. A Halloween one-off for less than a quid, but you’ve got to buy the chips – or French Fries, as they call them nowadays. Still, not a bad deal when you think of it. The sauce would burn the arse off Satan himself, so be careful. You’ll be farting flames for days. I don’t like their coffee, though. Too bitter. I prefer McDingle’s. What about yourself? McDingle’s or Burger God coffee?’

  ‘Yes, look … the robbery? What details can you give?’

  ‘Details? Well … there were three wolves. One of them was in a wheelchair.’

  ‘Three wolves in a wheelchair …?’

  ‘Have you been drinking or something? I said there were three wolves, and one was in the wheelchair. They were all grinning. Actually, come to think of it, they looked more like werewolves than your ordinary wolf, like from one of them there David Attenborough documentaries.’

  Not another one, thought Lindsay. In the last thirty minutes, he had received reports of five drunken witches on broomsticks hovering over City Hall, casting spells on unsuspecting tourists; a colony of vampires chasing after an ambulance, looking for blood; and a gang of mummies demanding more bandages in the Royal Victoria Hospital.

  ‘Have you been drinking, sir?’

  ‘Well …’ Jaunty’s voice became hesitant. ‘Just a few beers and brandies. That’s why I’m beating this coffee into me, before I go home. Maggie – my lovely wife – would murder me in this state. Oh fuck, there I go again naming bloody names!’

  ‘If you can’t tell me anything else about this robbery that you think you witnessed, and where exactly it’s taking place, then you really need to stop wasting police time and get off the phone.’

  ‘If that’s your attitude, let them rob the place. Hold on a sec – just gonna ask this wee woman the name of the building.’

  Lindsay was about to end the call when Jaunty’s excited voice came back.

  ‘Bank of New Republic, that wee woman says it’s called.’

  ‘Bank of New Republic? Donegall Place?’

  ‘If that’s where Burger God is.’

  ‘Okay, sir. I’ll send officers over to investigate. Thank you for calling.’

  ‘Hold the hell on. Not so fast. Do you think will there be a reward?’

  ‘A reward?’

  ‘For stopping the robbers.’

  ‘If you’d like to give me your name and address, sir, I’ll see the bank gets it,’ Lindsay grinned.

  ‘Balls to that! You’re not getting my address. No reward’s worth that!’

  The phone went dead and, for a few seconds, Lindsay debated with himself about the quality of the caller’s information. It didn’t sound too reliable. Still, he’d be in the shit if a robbery was taking place, and the brass discovered later he’d refused to respond.

  ‘I hate Halloween duty,’ Lindsay mumbled, putting out the call for a silent and rapid response to a possible robbery in progress. ‘Werewolves my hairy arse …’

  * * *

  The anxious trio emerged from the bank, just as flashing police lights beamed through the city’s drenched darkness. As they neared a corner, a police car came to a halt outside the bank, spewing out four carbon-copy cops, all overweight, young and nervous-looking.

  ‘Walk calmly. Don’t panic,’ Jim whispered.

  As the three wolves reached the end of Donegall Place, a group of slightly intoxicated young women in witches’ garb appeared out of nowhere, and commenced walking beside them.

  ‘Where’s the party, Mister Wolf?’ a pretty, green-faced witch asked, ruffling Charlie’s hairy face.

  Despite the fierce coldness of the night, inside the mask, beads of sweat were spotting Charlie’s face, stinging his eyes.

  In the near distance, two police cars, sirens blasting, chopped through the heavy night traffic, causing cars to part like Moses working the Red Sea trick.

  ‘Cat got your tongue, Mister Wolf?’ Pretty Witch gave Charlie’s arse a playful squeeze.

 

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