Free Two-Way Split by Allan Guthrie Page B

six men cowering against the wall, one was trying to outstare Eddie. Not the concrete slab he'd noticed earlier, but a frail elderly man who looked like someone had pissed in his mouth and he couldn't get rid of the taste. He smacked his lips, ran his tongue over his teeth.
    Eddie noticed him too. His arm swung away from the woman on the floor and pointed at the old man. "You looking at?"
    The old man stared at the gun. He raised his hands. Both palms were deeply lined. His gnarled fingers trembled.
    The woman on the floor screamed.
    Eddie's arm jerked. He yelled, "Shut up." He waved the gun at her.
    "She's been shot in the leg," Robin said. "She can't help it."
    "I didn't ask your opinion. Just make her shut up."
    From the huddle in the corner came another scream.
    "Christ's sake, shut up!"
    "How am I supposed to make her shut up?"
    "I can't hear you."
    More screams from the corner. One setting off the next, like dogs barking. Robin approached Eddie and shouted in his ear. Eddie nodded, aimed at the wall and blew a hole in it.
    Silence.
    A chunk of plaster swung from side to side, a thin strip of wallpaper all that held it to the wall. Robin watched as the paper tore and the plaster dropped, landing on the shoulder of the woman cowering beneath it. She cried out, startled, instantly on her feet, brushing dust and chalk off her coat.
    Eddie strolled over to her.
    "I'm sorry." She crouched down again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She crossed her hands over her bowed head.
    Eddie stared at her. He said, "Any more racket and I'll put a bullet in your eye." He looked around. "That goes for all of you." He walked towards the prone figure near the counter, scuffing his heels on the floor. "Including you." Placing one foot either side of the wounded woman, he said, "I don't care how much your leg hurts."
    The partition door opened and Hilda said, "Give me the bag."
    Robin squeezed past Eddie and handed the cashier his sports bag. "Be quick," he told her. "And Hilda? Just money, please. No fancy dyes, okay?"
     
     
    1:03 pm
     
    From the first he heard of the post office robbery nine months ago Pearce had been concerned for his mother's safety. While he was in jail he'd repeatedly suggested she might look for another job. Of course she'd brushed his concern aside. Danger? What danger? When he got out, he tried again. It wasn't as if it was her money, now, she'd argued. Play along with the robbers, she'd said, and you didn't get hurt. So that's what she would do if it happened. Which it wouldn't. Not in her post office.
    He pointed out that someone had got hurt. And because it had worked, next time the gang would follow the same routine. Walk straight in and shoot some poor bastard before anybody had time to react. But not a cashier, she replied. Cashiers, she claimed, were perfectly safe behind the anti-bandit screen.
    When he saw the notice on the door of the post office where his mum worked, he knew something was wrong. The smaller post offices were often inadequately staffed, those earmarked for closure, like this one, particularly so. After a couple of gins last week she'd ranted about increased workloads, ridiculous productivity expectations and training handouts on topics like "Queue Reduction Management" or "Understanding ERNIE: Inside Premium Bonds" which you had to read in your own time because there wasn't anyone to fill in for you while you read them at work. He didn't believe the sign on the door. A couple of illnesses and, yes, the post office might have been forced to close for half an hour, but if they'd had to close unexpectedly she'd have called him.
    He couldn't afford to hang about. She was all he had.
    A taxi idled by the kerb. He ran over to it and tapped his fingers on the window. The redhead behind the wheel looked annoyed by the interruption. When he didn't go away she finally stopped brushing her hair and rolled down the window.
    "Sorry to bother you," he said. "You been here a while?"
    "Waiting on a fare. From