Free The Sunshine Cruise Company by John Niven Page B

gun from … wherever, and you walk in and you say, “Give me the bloody money.” It’s not rocket science.’ Susan was pacing the floor now. She was clearly insanely drunk, but she was speaking with conviction, with something passing for seriousness.
    ‘You’ve never been much of a drinker, have you? I’ll put some coffee on.’ Julie went to get up but Susan put her hands on her shoulders and forced her back down, kneeling to face her, the two of them eye to eye.
    ‘I mean it, Julie. Why not?
Why fucking not?
I … I mean, “You are overdrawn by five pounds. Oh, by the way, the letter we’ve sent to tell you this will cost you
thirty
pounds!” Or … or, “Oh, we’re sorry, that cheque you paid in weeks ago still hasn’t cleared so we can’t let you have your money yet because we need it to help us make another 500 billion pounds in profits.” Or – “Oh dear, we seem to have screwed up and lost everyone’s money, but that’s OK, because you guys can all just bail us all out, thanks. And, and, you know what? We understand your
husband just died
but unfortunately we will still be taking your home off you because, you know, your future matters to us!”’ Susan stopped and made a grinning thumbs up, like the poster. ‘“Your future matters”? Your
money
matters and you can go to hell! I mean it! I’ve had it! I’ve never done a single thing wrong or bad in my whole life and here I am – out on the bloody streets at sixty? FUCK THEM! FUCK THE FUCKING BANK, JULIE!’
    Julie didn’t quite flinch but she definitely blinked. You rarely heard Susan drop the F-bomb. ‘Susan, listen to yourself. You’re seriously talking about robbing a bank?’
    ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ Susan sat back down opposite her on the floor and took another cigarette. She lit it, coughing.
    ‘Er, you go to jail?’
    ‘Oh, come on. You said it – I’m out of my mind with grief. Diminished responsibility and all that. Half-decent lawyer, no previous criminal record, you’d probably only get a few years. You do half the sentence and then come out and sell your story. Might get a fortune. Anyway, from everything you read, prisons are all TV and Wi-Fi these days.’ She picked up her glass and drained it, as if to cement this stunning piece of logic.
    ‘I really don’t think,’ Julie said slowly, ‘I’ve ever seen you quite this drunk. Maybe at Rose Trask’s wedding.’
    ‘And besides, you’re wrong,’ Susan said, taking a deep draw on her cigarette. ‘That’s not the worst thing that could happen. Jail? Definitely not. You know what the worst thing that could happen is? I go off to be a barely tolerated house guest at Tom and Clare’s while you spend the next ten years up to your elbows in filth at that old people’s home before we both move in there together to wait to die. Eh? How about that, me old mucker? How do you like them apples?’
    Julie thought about this for a moment.
Christ.
She looked at Susan. Another strange expression had come over her face; she was looking up at the ceiling, as though she’d stopped herself midway through a train of thought.
    ‘Oh dear,’ Susan said.
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘Just need to be sick!’
    Susan leapt up and ran careering out of the room. Julie listened in amazement as she heard the honking, retching symphony come echoing out of the bathroom.

NINETEEN
    THE DAY ROOM held four old ladies. Three of them were dozing in armchairs upholstered in that cheap, easy-to-clean vinyl. The fourth – Ms Ethel Merriman – was in her wheelchair over by the windows, munching boiled sweets and leafing through some photographs. Julie was mopping – old Mr Grant, too much tea this morning, quite a flood it had been – certainly hung-over, but nowhere near where Susan had been on the Richter scale that morning. She was thinking as she was mopping. ‘
Ten years.
’ ‘
How do you like them apples?
’
    ‘Ethel?’ Julie said, laying her mop against the wall and