up and carried her to the back door.
Nigel opened it and saw the Morris Eleven Hundred in the yard. He didnât say anything. It was Marty who said, âChrist!â But the car was empty and the yard was deserted. Rain was falling in a thick cataract. Nigel rolled the plastic carrier round the money and thrust it inside his jacket.
âWhere the hellâs Groombridge?â whispered Marty.
Nigel shook his head. They splashed through the teeming rain, carrying Joyce out to the van, and dropped her on the floor in the back.
âGive me the gun,â said Nigel. His teeth were chattering and the water was streaming out of his hair down his face.
Marty gave him the gun and got into the driverâs seat with the money on his lap in the carrier bag. Nigel went back into the bank. He stumbled through the rooms, looking for Alan Groombridge. He meant to look for Joyceâs shoe too, but it was more than he could take, all of it was too much, and he stumbled out again, the door slamming behind him with a noise like a gunshot.
Marty had turned the van. Nigel got in beside him and grabbed the bag of money and Marty drove off down the first narrow side road they came to, the windscreen wipers sweeping off the water in jets. They were both breathing fast and noisily.
âA sodding four grand,â Marty gasped out. âAll that grief for four grand.â
âFor Christâs sake, shut up about it. Donât talk about it in front of her. You donât have to talk at all. Just drive.â
Down a deep lane with steep hedges. Joyce began to drum her feet on the metal floor of the van, thud, clack, thud, clack, because she had only one shoe on.
âShut that racket,â said Nigel, turning and pushing the gun at her between the gap in the seats. Thud, clack, thud . . . His fingers were wet with rain and sweat.
At that moment they came face to face, head on, with a red Vauxhall going towards Childon. Marty stopped just in time and the Vauxhall stopped. The Vauxhall was being driven by a man not much older than themselves, and he had an older woman beside him. There was no room to pass. Joyce began to thrash about, banging the foot with the shoe on it, clack, clack, clack, and thumping her other foot, thud, thud, and making choking noises.
âChrist,â said Marty. âChrist!â
Nigel pushed his arm through between the seats right up to his shoulder. He didnât dare climb over, not with those people looking, the two enquiring faces revealed so sharply each time the wipers arced. He was so frightened he hardly knew what he was saying.
With the gun against her hip, he said on a tremulous hiss: âYou think I wouldnât use it? You think I havenât used it? Know why I went back in there? Groombridge was there and I shot him dead.â
âSweet Jesus,â said Marty.
The Vauxhall was backing now, slowly, to where the lane widened in a little bulge. Marty eased the van forward, hunched on the wheel, his face set.
âIâll kill those two in the car as well,â said Nigel, beside himself with fear.
âShut up, will you? Shut up.â
Marty moved past the car with two or three inches to spare, and brought up his right hand in a shaky salute. The Vauxhall went off and Marty said, âI must have been out of my head bringing you on this. Who dâyou think you are? Bonnie and Clyde?â
Nigel swore at him. This reversal of roles was unbearable, but enough to shock him out of his panic. âYou realize we have to get shot of this vehicle? You realize that? Thanks to you bringing us down a goddamned six-foot-wide footpath. Because that guyâll be in Childon in ten minutes and the fuzzâll be there, and the first thing heâll do is tell them about us passing him. Wonât he? Wonât he? So have you got any ideas?â
âLike what?â
âLike rip off a car,â said Nigel. âLike in the next five minutes.
Nigel opened it and saw the Morris Eleven Hundred in the yard. He didnât say anything. It was Marty who said, âChrist!â But the car was empty and the yard was deserted. Rain was falling in a thick cataract. Nigel rolled the plastic carrier round the money and thrust it inside his jacket.
âWhere the hellâs Groombridge?â whispered Marty.
Nigel shook his head. They splashed through the teeming rain, carrying Joyce out to the van, and dropped her on the floor in the back.
âGive me the gun,â said Nigel. His teeth were chattering and the water was streaming out of his hair down his face.
Marty gave him the gun and got into the driverâs seat with the money on his lap in the carrier bag. Nigel went back into the bank. He stumbled through the rooms, looking for Alan Groombridge. He meant to look for Joyceâs shoe too, but it was more than he could take, all of it was too much, and he stumbled out again, the door slamming behind him with a noise like a gunshot.
Marty had turned the van. Nigel got in beside him and grabbed the bag of money and Marty drove off down the first narrow side road they came to, the windscreen wipers sweeping off the water in jets. They were both breathing fast and noisily.
âA sodding four grand,â Marty gasped out. âAll that grief for four grand.â
âFor Christâs sake, shut up about it. Donât talk about it in front of her. You donât have to talk at all. Just drive.â
Down a deep lane with steep hedges. Joyce began to drum her feet on the metal floor of the van, thud, clack, thud, clack, because she had only one shoe on.
âShut that racket,â said Nigel, turning and pushing the gun at her between the gap in the seats. Thud, clack, thud . . . His fingers were wet with rain and sweat.
At that moment they came face to face, head on, with a red Vauxhall going towards Childon. Marty stopped just in time and the Vauxhall stopped. The Vauxhall was being driven by a man not much older than themselves, and he had an older woman beside him. There was no room to pass. Joyce began to thrash about, banging the foot with the shoe on it, clack, clack, clack, and thumping her other foot, thud, thud, and making choking noises.
âChrist,â said Marty. âChrist!â
Nigel pushed his arm through between the seats right up to his shoulder. He didnât dare climb over, not with those people looking, the two enquiring faces revealed so sharply each time the wipers arced. He was so frightened he hardly knew what he was saying.
With the gun against her hip, he said on a tremulous hiss: âYou think I wouldnât use it? You think I havenât used it? Know why I went back in there? Groombridge was there and I shot him dead.â
âSweet Jesus,â said Marty.
The Vauxhall was backing now, slowly, to where the lane widened in a little bulge. Marty eased the van forward, hunched on the wheel, his face set.
âIâll kill those two in the car as well,â said Nigel, beside himself with fear.
âShut up, will you? Shut up.â
Marty moved past the car with two or three inches to spare, and brought up his right hand in a shaky salute. The Vauxhall went off and Marty said, âI must have been out of my head bringing you on this. Who dâyou think you are? Bonnie and Clyde?â
Nigel swore at him. This reversal of roles was unbearable, but enough to shock him out of his panic. âYou realize we have to get shot of this vehicle? You realize that? Thanks to you bringing us down a goddamned six-foot-wide footpath. Because that guyâll be in Childon in ten minutes and the fuzzâll be there, and the first thing heâll do is tell them about us passing him. Wonât he? Wonât he? So have you got any ideas?â
âLike what?â
âLike rip off a car,â said Nigel. âLike in the next five minutes.
Similar Books
