‘Could’ve let
me know about the dog.’
Sid doesn’t
reply; his eyes flit between the beast and its owner and me. I turn
back to the stranger in the doorway and wait for him to finish
dragging the mutt indoors. When its slobbering face has disappeared
around the corner I let myself take a deep breath and wait for my
blood pressure to fall down to non-heart-attack levels. It doesn’t,
but I put a foot over the threshold anyway.
‘Wait!’ Sid
hisses. ‘He hasn’t said you can come in yet!’
‘I’m not a
fucking vampire, Sid,’ I reply, continuing my way down the
corridor.
‘Don’t say my
name, either.’
‘Sorry.’ Rule
number one. No names. The fear and adrenaline are building up. My
heart’s beating more quickly, not slowing down. The feeling reminds
me of the look I often see Charlie wearing during the three weeks
of each semester he can afford MDMA; the thick glaze of panic
covering a chewy core of excitement, as he realises that he’s taken
too much in too short a time and has no choice but to wait for it
to hit him like a tube train on a suicide.
‘The fuck do
you think you’re doing?’ says the stranger, as I materialise in
front of him.
I wrench the
curtains of impassivity over my expression.
‘Figured you
wouldn’t want us hanging around on the doorstep for too long.’
He looks at me
like he’s contemplating violence. In fact, he looks like the kind
of guy who’s eternally fighting the urge to start violence, but
thankfully the allure of making some money this morning seems to
help him push it off.
‘Upstairs.’
A gallery of
costumed strangers awaits us inside: Smurfs and Batmen and flapper
birds and budget Batmen and Buzz Lightyears. There’s not much in
the way of mingling; the entire house is knotted with little
six-person bundles, their members facing inwards and chatting
amongst themselves. Those in the expensive, shop-bought costumes
stick together, drinking Jack and Coca-Cola out of plastic glasses,
while those wrapped-up in bed-sheet capes packing cardboard tube
lightsabers take turns gulping Lambrini from the bottle. The class
divide in action. It shouldn’t be difficult to preserve our
anonymity here. Nor should it be difficult to peel Stephen aside
and get our hands on his smartcard; ever since Johnny escaped his
clutches he’s been bouncing between the huddles, laughing at jokes
he didn’t hear and pointing his increasingly laboured smile back at
every person who throws him a ‘you’re not welcome here’ look. Thus
far, no huddle has opened up and let him inside.
‘I think your
mate could use a drink,’ Phoebe says to Johnny. In my peripheries I
notice Stephen’s little ears prick up. He’s too afraid that he’s
not the mate in question to turn around, so he continues to stand
as close as possible to a middle-class group without being politely
asked to fuck off.
‘Yeah, I can’t
see the harm,’ says Charlie. Despite Johnny’s vigorous headshakes,
the script must be adhered to. ‘Stevie, wanna drink?’ he calls,
waving about his bottle of Russia’s finest. Our stooge’s face
breaks into a genuine smile for the first time this evening. I
can’t bring myself to smile back at him. This scene in general, and
Stephen in particular, is making the bile fizzle up in my gut. I
can’t quite put my finger on why.
Steve waddles
over. I hope that the Peter Criss mask can hide my furrowed,
loathing brow.
‘H-h-hiya!’ he
splutters, with a nervous glance at me.
‘Less talking,
more drinking,’ Charlie returns. He takes a bold glug of vodka
himself, as if to prove that it isn’t poisoned, then pushes the
bottle into Stephen’s hand. Scared that he might get a fresh
rejection if he fails to comply, Stephen forces a few painful
swallows down his gullet before he starts to cough and
splutter.
‘I’m going to
find the john,’ I tell Freddy. He grunts in response, looking
almost as uncomfortable as I am.
‘I’m going to
see if there’s any decent whiskey in the cupboards,’ he replies. We
wander off in different directions, leaving Charlie to corrupt the
innocent. I thread my way between the bundles, which are by now
becoming tepee-shaped, as their constituent parts lean further in
on one another. I can’t work out if they’re too scared to branch
out or too contemptuous to go and explore the rest of their
species. By the time I’ve clambered up to the landing there’s a
dull throbbing behind my temples, and it’s not until I’ve locked
myself in the bathroom that I can feel my blood pressure begin to
fall again.
If a member of
the Secret Service wandered into our house right now, I imagine
we’d be stuffed into the cargo bay of a plane to Guantanamo within
the hour. If our landlord - or Johnny, for that matter - walked in
on us, it wouldn’t add much more than thirty minutes to our
departure time. The curtains of the window looking out onto the
street are tightly drawn and we work in the amber half-glow of
Freddy’s room, since he’s the only housemate who keeps his door
shut as a matter of habit. We’ve pushed the bed to the farthest
corner of the room, both to free up space and to keep the door
blocked, and laid down a plastic, bed-wetter style sheet to protect
the carpet from any spilled powders or potions. I didn’t ask why we
had one of those laying around. If the peroxide goes over, though,
the plastic won’t do anything to stop Charlie getting a peephole in
his ceiling, which is why I’m nervous that it’s Charlie himself
manning the acid station. It would be ironic if he did burn a hole
in the floor of Freddy’s bedroom, I suppose, seeing as how the
stuff he’s trying to cook is meant to be doing exactly that, albeit
on a far larger scale. The stuff in question is thermite, which
anyone who’s watched
Breaking Bad
will recognise as a mix of
iron oxide and aluminium powder, which, when ignited, burns hot
enough to melt steel, rock, and hopefully the floor of Marks &
Spencer.
We’ve each got
our own station: Freddy’s making the fake bomb casings and fuses;
Phoebe’s mixing the fluid to go inside them out of various
household products; Charlie’s making iron oxide by pouring hydrogen
peroxide into a flower pot full of dumpster-scrounged metal, a
soggy tea towel wrapped around his mouth and nose; I’m nestled in
the corner with a notepad and pen, double-checking my calculations
and making sure that each of my little chipmunks are using the
right ratios of ingredients.
We’re going
over the plan as we work. Since revision - even that relating to a
criminal conspiracy - becomes tedious frightfully quickly, we’ve
begun making our own game shows out of it. Sometimes we play along
with the ones on daytime TV, shouting our own questions over the
presenter. Sid, our usual bellicose host, couldn’t make it today,
so at least every ‘umm’ or ‘ah’ isn’t being punished with a
disparaging remark. He’s a bit too serious for my tastes, Sid; I’d
imagine he’s already budgeted out a way to live off his share of
the heist takings for the next five years. I’m not sure that anyone
else has even thought of something to spend theirs on. With his
role vacant, we’re doing an ask-and-answer question relay.
‘Sundance!
What’s your alibi in case somebody squeals?’
In every game
show, there’s one irritating contestant who insists on detailing
the entire thought-process that led to their answer.
‘Well, seeing
as we already know each other’s names and addresses, the aliases
are only there to keep innocent bystanders off the scent. If we
want an actual alibi, we’ve either got to find someone old enough
and respectable enough to lie for us in court, or find three
doppelgängers who can turn up to lectures in our place. Since
no-one has a twin stashed under the floorboards, and since Charlie
doesn’t trust respectable people on general principle, I guess
we’ve just got to rely on each other to do the decent, moral thing,
and shut the fuck up.’
‘Morality’s
never been my strong point,’ Charlie interjects, his voice muffled
by his face-rag.
‘Butch!’ I
call back, in my best Chris Tarrant voice. ‘Who are the only people
allowed to give orders when we’re on the job?’
‘Phoebe, CM
and Charles Bronstein,’ he replies, referring to Freddy and Sid by
their alter-ego names. Phoebe insisted on hers being ‘Dave’, and
while I understand that this is a wise decision on her part, I also
understand Charlie’s reticence about using it in conversation.
‘And why is
that?’
‘Because
they’re the only ones either born with Geordie accents or able to
do a passable impression of one; if all anyone hears from us is
local-speak, the natural assumption will be that we’re just some
ruffians from round the block. Same reason I had to go out and
swipe a load of hoodies to replace the dapper jackets I got
before.’
He goes back
to his work. The rest of us look at each other, confused.
‘Yo Butch,’
Freddy says. ‘It’s your turn to ask a question, man.’
Butch looks up
at Bronstein, then at Dave.
‘Fine,’ he
mutters. ‘Phoebe, what were you and
Sundance
doing upstairs
at that party?’
As I sidle out
of the toilet I notice a fellow glam-rock wannabe lurking in one of
the bedrooms down the hall.
‘Found
anything that’s not bolted down?’ I ask.
‘Nothing worth
taking,’ Phoebe replies.
‘You never
seemed the type to let that stop you.’
She stops
eyeing up potential loot and steps closer to me. She moves slowly
but continuously, until I can smell the metallic face paint on her,
until I can feel the heat emanating from her parted lips. You would
think I’d be used to Phoebe pulling this trick on me by now, but it
still takes an enormous effort to hold her gaze.
‘You’re not
wrong there, I’ll give you that,’ she says. The words flutter
against my nostrils. ‘In fact, if it
was
bolted-down, even
being the worthless shit that it is, I don’t think I could stop
myself from taking it. There’s something about being told I can’t
do something which makes it impossible to resist doing. Know what I
mean?’
For just a
shadow of a second, I’m alive in a world where I was the one
waiting outside the house that morning, rather than Charlie. As
though this traitorous thought has summoned him, Charlie appears in
the corner of my vision, pushing me out of that happy universe and
back into this one.
‘What are you
doing?’ It’s an accusation, not an inquiry. I know Phoebe won’t
bother to say anything, so I dredge up a response.
‘I need a
favour,’ I say.
‘From me, or
from her?’ I can see the hurt and anger emblazoned on Charlie’s
face, as though the old sheen of mischief has cracked and peeled
away.
‘Charlie, if
you’re going to get paranoid about something, get paranoid about
ways the police might be able to track us down,’ I reply, rolling
my eyes so that I don’t have to look into his. ‘I want to swap
places; I go to the lab and nick all this stuff, and you stay here
and get that little toss-bag downstairs drunk. If I stay here much
longer I’m gonna have a brain aneurysm.’
‘Why should I
stay? Why can’t she?’
‘For fuck’s
sake, Charlie; I don’t care who stays, as long as it isn’t me! Toss
a coin, arm wrestle, Russian Roulette; I don’t give a shit. Just
get me the fuck out of here.’
‘Fine. I’m
going then,’ Charlie announces, stepping forward. I notice that he
makes a deferential, almost fearful glance towards Phoebe as he
does it. Phoebe waves her hand, as though to show the world that
she’s giving him permission.
‘Fair enough,’
she smirks. ‘I’d still better get the smart card off him though;
pissed as he is, I’d imagine that I’m still the only one who can
get away with slipping my hand in his back pocket.’ As she says
this Charlie’s nostrils dilate ever so slightly, but he doesn’t say
anything in return.
I’d never
understood why anyone would use the level-creator function in a
videogame. I guess it seemed like doing the developer’s work for
them. If you ever want to do a trial run of an upcoming robbery in
a perfect digital model of your target building, however, there’s
really nothing more useful. Unless, of course, you have a friend
who was curious to see what would happen if you turned up to the
aforementioned robbery sporting bazookas.
Phoebe
declared that she had better things to do than sit around playing
‘Sega’ (her words). This was something of a blessing in disguise,
firstly because split-screen only goes four ways, and secondly
because anyone who didn’t go into a six-month period of mourning
when the Dreamcast flopped is no friend of mine. I must confess,
though, that Phoebe’s recent behaviour makes me curious about what
those ‘better things’ are.
Phoebe’s
absence has at least given Charlie something more exciting to do,
since his role in the main event consists mostly of standing around
outside, by the exit point. Meanwhile, the rest of us bust in the
front entrance, each firing a warning shot into the rafters and
screaming disorientating nonsense to the customers. I slip off to
the right, and politely explain to the staff working the tills that
they’ll be getting the rest of the day off work, and to please
leave promptly and quietly via the entrance. Of course, since the
only phrase I can manage in a convincing Geordie accent is
‘GIMMEALLYOURFUCKINMONEY!!!’ this explanation will be done mostly
by waving a revolver in their faces.
While I’m
testing the cashiers’ commitment to the company, the other three
are moving left. Dave and Sid - or ‘Cuntmonkey’, as Charlie has so
eloquently dubbed him in his absence - trap the crowd in a pincer
movement. Dave goes down the near aisle and Bronstein down the far
one, and together they sheepdog all of the shoppers into the
middle. They march the flock towards the tills, where I’m waiting
with my best Bad Motherfucker face to direct the evacuees towards
the door and push the hostages off to one side.