Free Two-Way Split by Allan Guthrie Page A

sheath.
    When he turned to face the starkly lit post office interior, Eddie, balaclava stretched over his face, was striding towards the head of the queue, hand dipping into his pocket. The woman at the front, staring at her feet, didn't notice the man wearing the dull yellow balaclava. She didn't notice when he pulled his hand out of his pocket and pointed a doctored Brocock Orion 6 pistol at her. Behind her, some of the other customers were beginning to back away. Somebody said, "Jesus." Somebody moaned.
    Robin hated this part. He picked up his bag and moved away from the door.
    The woman was in her early thirties, smallish, a muddy river of long brown hair streaming over the sides of her face and down her light blue padded coat. A long scarf was wrapped several times around her neck and she was wearing jeans and sturdy white boots. Eyes downcast, she was deep in thought. Trouble with her boyfriend, trouble with her kids, health problems, money problems – whatever her worries, they were about to be put in perspective. Her ungloved right hand clutched a paperback book-sized parcel and her gloved left hand held her other glove, which she was slapping lightly against her hip. Her gaze was still fixed on the floor when Eddie stepped in front of her and pointed the gun at her leg.
    Originally an air cartridge pistol, his weapon had been adapted. Special steel sleeves had been fitted inside the chamber, thereby enabling the gun to fire live rounds. Eddie had paid two hundred pounds for it.
    He shot her in the left thigh with a .22 calibre bullet.
    She collapsed as if her bones had liquefied.
    The other customers moved like a single mute organism. In stunned silence they retreated to the far wall. Eddie faced the two cashiers, who had remained frozen from the moment they heard the gunshot. "You know who we are?" he said. He waited a moment, then said, "Evelyn Fitzpatrick." He was referring to the woman who'd made them famous, the seventy-year-old he'd shot three times in each knee. The local press had loved it. Would she live, would she die? For the next few days they printed four editions instead of the usual three. Sales soared. Until she pulled through. "Be cool," Eddie said. "Don't go pressing any alarms or I'll empty my gun into this lovely lady here."
    Robin moved forward and examined the woman on the floor. A purple stain blossomed on her left leg. Her head lay about a foot from the counter. Her eyes were screwed shut and her mouth hung open. Robin leaned over and touched her cheek. Her eyes snapped open and she blinked several times. Her face was even whiter than Evelyn Fitzpatrick's had been.
    "You'll be okay," he said. "Just stay quiet. Understand?"
    "Please don't—"
    "Shhh."
    She nodded.
    The roar of Eddie's gun was still ringing in Robin's ears as he picked up the injured woman's parcel and set it on the counter. Robin spoke to the fat woman, the one whose hairspray had choked him when he spoke to her before lunch. "What's your name?"
    Her voice was a whisper. "Hilda."
    "Well, Hilda." He smiled, although the balaclava probably spoiled the intended friendly effect. "I'd like you to unlock the door, and take this," – he showed her the sports bag in his right hand – "and fill it with lots of money. Think you can do that for me?"
    She mumbled a reply.
    "I didn't catch that, Hilda."
    "The hatch. You can pass it through the hatch."
    "If we wanted to pass it through the fucking hatch we would have said so," Eddie said. "You want her to get another bullet?" He indicated the sprawled figure by aiming his gun at her. "You want that on your conscience? I don't think so. Open the door, Hilda. And do it now. We don't have all fucking day."
    On the other side of the partition, Hilda waddled across the room. Robin shifted his gaze to the customers huddled together in the corner. One or two had their arms around each other and a few were crying. Most had their heads turned away, instinct telling them to avoid eye contact. Of the