17

May 2018

Maxim, Greg, Alex, Vickey, Leon

It was the second time they’d met up. In a pub by Parliament Hill Fields. There were a lot of people around relaxing, and the five colleagues didn’t really stand out from the crowds. They sat at a table with a bench on either side. Leon bought everyone a beer in a paper cup and several packets of sunflower seeds to chew on. They looked like a bunch of friends who’d got together to hang out over the weekend.
Greg said that they should never meet up in the same place twice. There was nothing to stop some miserable old granny with nothing better to do phoning up the local police station, and then some overly zealous young lieutenant would start asking questions, and remembering faces. Anything could happen as a result of idiotic chance occurrences like that. Greg had been telling Max the truth when he told Max that an ideally planned robbery could go off the rails because of some entirely random events. You had to be very careful.
“So, in August we do the bank,” Greg began.
The group noticeably perked up.
“But first we do the chemist’s on the Cally Road,” said Greg.
“Yes,” nodded Max.
“The roles should be close to the ones on the main job,” said Greg.
He looked at Vickey.
“Vickey,” Greg said, “your role is just the same as in the main job.”
Vickey nodded that she understood.
“As soon as we go in, you stick the “CLOSED. SERVICE BREAK. 15 MINUTES” sign up and stay out in the street,” said Greg. “You stand there with a wad of paper as if you’re doing a survey. It looks a bit stupid,” smiled Greg, “but that’s enough to stop any chumps wanting to get into the drugstore1 while we’re getting down to business.”
“Got it,” said Vickey.
“At the end of the day, said Greg, “it’s entirely possible. A 15-minute service break at a drugstore. For a stock take, a delivery of goods or some bullshit like that. The cunning bit is that 15 minutes for a service break is a totally reasonable amount of time, but on the other hand, nobody’s going to stand around for 15 minutes waiting.”
Max nodded in agreement. He knew that Greg had a lot of experience in robberies and he understood a lot about people’s behavior.
“We wait for the right moment,” said Greg, “so there’s no one in the chemist’s. Vickey walks around in front of the entrance with her phone turned off, so it doesn’t ring at the wrong moment, she’s pretending that she’s talking on it, and all the time she’s checking through the window to see if there are any customers left.”
Leon smiled, remembering that he’d used the same trick in the past to check out a girl he’d liked without giving himself away.
“But if some guys pop out of nowhere, we just call it off and split up,” Greg continued, as always in his calm tone. “And it doesn’t matter where they come from. Maybe they were stocktaking inside or they got past Vickey – that could happen too. If a couple of chicks turn up that won’t make any difference.”
Alex didn’t like the sound of the expression “a couple of chicks,” but he kept quiet.
“In any case, you all wait for my command,” continued Greg. “There’s only one no-no – kids.”
Alex looked at Greg attentively.
“If there are kids in the chemist’s we don’t go in,” said Greg. “And you remember, Vickey: no matter what, don’t let anyone into the chemist’s, and if someone comes up with a kid then do whatever it takes, lie down in front of them. Kids are sacred.”
Max again nodded his agreement to Greg. He knew his partner’s principles where it concerned kids and he respected them.
“Agreed,” said Alex, as if speaking for all of them.
“Right, so Vickey’s at the chemist’s,” continued Greg. “Alex comes up and joins her as if she’s met a good friend. A totally normal scene – normal questions, how’s it going, a hug. A bit further off at the bus stop, Max and Leon are having a chat. I’m also speaking on the phone about ten yards off.”
Max finished off his cup of beer, put it on the corner of the table and got himself another one. Greg noticed that, and also noticed that Alex hadn’t touched his cup once.
“Having made certain that there’s no one in the chemist’s and that none of the people walking by are heading in,” Greg said as all this was happening, “Alex says goodbye to Vickey and enters. That’s the sign. Leon follows him in, and then Max and me.”
Taking a big sip of beer, Greg continued:
“After we’ve gone in, Alex goes up to the chemist, reads off a list of medicines we’ve prepared in advance, the girl goes off to get them, and that’s where a question pops up: Is there another chemist in there?” said Greg. “If there isn’t, then it’s an easy job. When the chemist comes back to the till we’ve already got a barrel trained on her. I’ve got the sights on her and I ask her to open the till and hand over the money. In the meantime, Max’s standing right there and he puts a second gun right up against Alex’s head. Leon drops to the ground and starts squealing like a pig,” continues Greg. “Basically, she won’t have a choice. She’ll hand over our dough like a good little girl.”
Max nodded again.
“Then we all leave and head off in different directions according to the plan we work out. We’ll talk about that later,” said Greg. “I’ll leave last, having asked the chemist to lie down on the ground and count to a hundred.”
“And if there are two chemists?” asked Alex.
“If there are two,” said Greg, “then it’s all the same, only Max holds you by the collar with one hand and aims the gun at the second one.”
“Got it,” said Alex.
“The main thing on this job is getting the chemist to do what we want,” said Greg. “Right from the get-go. Burn her up with your eyes. And you, Alex, and you, Leon – shout at her to hand over the money and not risk their lives, you say you’ve got kids, well, this isn’t your first time doing this. And that’ll work. It’s always worked,” Greg concluded.
Leon could feel how he was sweating all over. From his bald spot to the soles of his feet. He wanted to jump up from the bench and run away. Wherever the road would take him. He was very worried. But he’d been just as worried a year ago when, using almost the same technique, he’d robbed a chemist’s with Max. And back then, just as he was doing now, he calmed himself down by imagining that he was playing the passive role of a customer screaming in panic, using that panic to put pressure on the chemist. He just tried to keep the idea that he was part of an organized criminal gang out of his mind.
“Tell them about the liquid bandage and the make-up,” Max said to Greg.
“Of course,” Greg answered him. “We put liquid bandages on our hands in advance so that we don’t leave fingerprints. And the main thing is the make-up.”
Vickey looked at Greg with interest. She couldn’t imagine that this crass, slovenly person could understand anything about make-up.
“And we’ll have so much make-up on that our own mothers wouldn’t recognize us,” Greg assured them all. “I’ll explain what you’ll have to do and how. Vickey will be the best at doing it.”
Greg really had thought through all the details. Bearing in mind that nowadays there are cameras almost everywhere you had to be unrecognizable, but natural at the same time. The best thing for that was make-up.
“The men will have beards,” said Greg. “Nobody’s surprised by beards nowadays. A kid walking down the street, twenty years of age, and he’ll have a beard.”
“Hipsters,” said Vickey.
“Who gives a shit what they’re called. It suits us fine,” answered Greg.
Vickey was sent to a café with internet in the center of town. She prepared by putting on big grey glasses and a roomy hooded top so that it was impossible to see what her figure looked like underneath. Long, baggy jeans covered trainers on thick heels which made Vickey looker taller than she actually was.
Vickey laughed when Greg explained the plan for purchasing the make-up in scrupulous detail, but Greg insisted that every tiny point in his instructions be followed down to the letter. “Some really serious robberies have been solved because of some really smalltime nonsense,” he said, “you wouldn’t believe it. Professional thieves have been caught for tiny fuckups. And you’re not pro thieves,” he said spikily. “So, remember guys: there are no minor details on this job.”
Through an online store, Vickey ordered a sizeable package of make-up. She clicked for it to be delivered by a courier. At Greg’s insistence, she was to meet the courier at a metro stop. “There’s a lot of people there, artificial lighting. Even if the cops work out we’re using make-up, and even if they find our courier, he won’t be able to identify anyone,” he said. Naturally, Vickey paid in cash.
They bought glue-on moustaches, beards and wigs for all the participants in the coming robbery. All of the make-up that Vickey bought looked entirely natural on them.
“I hope this is the best investment you’ve ever made,” Max said to Alex when he talked the latter into paying for the first purchases.
“I hope so too,” Alex answered dryly.
To ensure total security, Greg bought them all cheap mobiles at Walthamstow Market and put burner sim-cards in them. From that point on they were only to contact each other using them. He insisted that they turn their main mobiles off whenever they met up, so that their built-in geolocations wouldn’t give them away. “We don’t want to get caught out like some loser who burgled some crap and then got busted because of a phone call from his mother,” he told the guys.
As a joke, Alex even suggested that they come up with cover names for whenever they had to refer to one another. “Like Mr Yellow and Mr Blue in Reservoir Dogs,” he said, smiling.
But only Vickey smiled back in response. The others hadn’t seen Tarantino’s films, it seemed.

18

May 2017

Vickey. Diary

“Alex loved a quote from Kurt Cobain, I don’t remember it perfectly, but it was along the lines of “I get overcome by this fucking sorrow, sad, little, sensitive human fish. From the age of seven I hated everyone just because people think that you can get on with everyone and sympathize with them – it’s that easy.”
Alex graduated from the philosophy faculty of LSE. The faculty of dreamers.
If only Alex was like one of the famous bloggers or journalists, professionals who really know how to make a living. A person who isn’t searching – he already knows. And he uses his knowledge like a tool to earn for himself and his family. Alex is talented too, after all. He struggled too, he worked to earn money. And he could put all his effort into something big and that would bring in a lot of money. And I’d be by his side. And I’d put up with his constantly changing moods. And it’s not the money that’s important to me, I couldn’t give a damn about money. I’d live with him whatever the conditions. I want him to be a success. I want him to be in demand and happy.
“I can probably do a great deal. It’s just I don’t want that. I already have to fit in the whole time as it is.” That’s what he says about himself. It’s the problem of a fucked-up, wise dude who doesn’t want to accept the world the way it is. Of course, it’s easier to smoke grass and drink a bottle of Beaujolais, sitting in your apartment in Shoreditch, which he inherited from his grandma. He can see perfectly well that the way he’s living, somehow, isn’t quite right, but there’s nothing he can do. He can only describe the situation and laugh at himself. It would be all right if he didn’t want anything. He could work as an editor in some small London publication. He’d get home at five every evening, and I’d be waiting for him. But no, he’s hungry – hungry to achieve something. But what?
Once he was heading a big PR project. A classmate from LSE had asked him to do it. He managed it wonderfully. He earned a load of money. He asked me what he should do with the money. I’d seen that he’d got involved in the project because he didn’t want to let his university friend down. To be more precise, he wanted to help him. Having taken on the job, he started meeting people he didn’t like, all those greedy, grabbing liars who unavoidably crop up at the scent of money. He put up with them for the sake of his old friend. But definitely not for the money. He finished that project by gritting his teeth. “I can’t bear to see them,” he told me.
He headed several magazines. But he always left because he couldn’t get on with the teams. He hated the “glossy articles”, demanded real journalism that would help people. In the unavoidable conflicts that ensued between him and the teams, the shareholders always chose the latter.
He hides himself away. Because he hasn’t achieved what he wanted. And he wanted to achieve a lot. He wanted to help people. Make them better.
He’s a romantic. He always believed that literature can and should change people. “How could Steinbeck’s ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ not change someone for the better?! Faulkner, Henry Miller, Hemingway.
He couldn’t adapt to fit in. I think that he’s never been responsible for anyone. Not for a wife. Not for children. Not for his parents. He wasn’t put up against the wall like people who come to London in search of a better life are. Like those who have to find a crumbling apartment to rent in an old block of council flats and then hand over a third or half their pay for it.
He just got stuck in a kind of vacuum. And now he abandons people because his conscience is tortured by the fact that he doesn’t meet the expectations of people who mean a lot to him, so he just leaves. He dumps everything and everyone. And leaves. And then he starts it all over again. Everything from scratch. And again it doesn’t work out.
He spent two years writing an adaptation that they put on in one of London’s top theaters. The director asked him to come up on stage after their production’s premiere. He was applauded. He was hugged by the actors. But when the champagne bubbles had all popped, it turned out that the royalties that playwrights get couldn’t provide him with the kind of life he was aiming for. You had to write a lot. You had to run a conveyor belt, was the popular expression. You had to work fast, and a lot. As if you were churning out soap opera episodes. He’d never been able to do that. And nobody knew the names of playwrights, no one would recognize them out in the street. He started writing a new play for the same theater, but then he abandoned it. The same happened with a big musical that he and an old friend from university had come up with.
One night, before disappearing yet again, he phoned me, drunk, and I think he quoted his beloved Cobain. I don’t remember it exactly: “Sometimes I feel like the spawn of hell. I’ve let the devil in, and I can’t drive him out.
I really feel sorry for him. And for myself.”