he still stood there at the end of the queue.
Steadily the green lights came on, and one customer moved to a till, then another. Alan stayed in the queue and shifted with it as it passed a row of tables spread with green blotters. A man was sitting at one of the tables, making an entry in his paying-in book. Alan watched him, envying him his legitimate possession of it.
The time was half-past three, and the security man moved to the door to prevent any late-comer from entering. Alan began framing words in his mind, how he had lost his memory, how the sight of that emblem had recalled to him who he was. But his clothes? How could he explain his new clothes?
Looking down at those jeans brought his eyes again to the man at the table. The paying-in book was open for anyone to see that two hundred and fifty pounds was about to be paid in, though Paul Browning hadnât been so imprudent as actually to place notes or cheques on it. Alan knew he was called Paul Browning because that was the name he had just written on a cheque book request form. And now he added under it, in the same block capitals, his address: 15 Exmoor Gardens, London NW2.
As a green light came up for the woman immediately in front of Alan in the queue, Paul Browning joined it to stand behind him. With a muttered âExcuse meâ, Alan turned and made for the door.
He had found a bank reference and an identity, and with the discovery he burned the last fragile boat that could have taken him back. The security man let him out politely.
9
Joyce woke up first. With sleep, her confidence and her courage had come back. The fact that the others â those two pigs, as she called them to herself â still slept on, made her despise more than fear them. Fancy sleeping like that when youâd done a bank robbery and kidnapped someone! They must want their heads tested. But while she despised them, she also felt easier with them than she would have done had they been forty or fifty. Disgusting and low as they were, they were nevertheless young, they belonged with her in the great universal club of youth.
She got up and put on her clothes. She went into the kitchen and washed her hands and face under the cold tap, a good cold splash like she always had in the mornings, though she usually had a bath first. Pity she couldnât clean her teeth. What was there to eat? No good waiting for those pigs to provide something. Like the low people they were, they had no fridge, but there was an unopened packet of back bacon on a shelf of that bookcase thing, and some eggs in a box and lots of tins of baked beans. Joyce had a good look at the bacon packet. It might be a year old, for all she knew, you never could tell with people like that. But, no. Sell by March 15, it said. She put the kettle on, and Flora margarine into a frying pan, and lit all the other gas burners and the oven to warm herself up.
The misery of Mum and Dad and Stephen she had got into better perspective. She wasnât dead, was she? Stephen would value her all the more when she turned up alive and kicking. They were going to let her go today. She wondered how and where, and she thought it would be rather fun telling it all to the police and maybe the newspapers.
The roaring of the gas woke Marty and he saw Joyce wasnât on the sofa. He called out, âChrist!â and Joyce came in to stand insolently in the doorway. There are some people who wake up and orientate themselves very quickly in the mornings, and there are others who droop about, half-asleep, for quite a long time. Joyce belonged in the first category and Marty in the second. He groaned and fumbled for the gun.
âFor all you know,â said Joyce, âI might have a couple of detectives out here with me, waiting to arrest you.â
She made a big pot of strong tea and found a packet of extended life milk. Nasty stuff, but better than nothing. She heard Marty starting to get up and she kept her head averted.
Steadily the green lights came on, and one customer moved to a till, then another. Alan stayed in the queue and shifted with it as it passed a row of tables spread with green blotters. A man was sitting at one of the tables, making an entry in his paying-in book. Alan watched him, envying him his legitimate possession of it.
The time was half-past three, and the security man moved to the door to prevent any late-comer from entering. Alan began framing words in his mind, how he had lost his memory, how the sight of that emblem had recalled to him who he was. But his clothes? How could he explain his new clothes?
Looking down at those jeans brought his eyes again to the man at the table. The paying-in book was open for anyone to see that two hundred and fifty pounds was about to be paid in, though Paul Browning hadnât been so imprudent as actually to place notes or cheques on it. Alan knew he was called Paul Browning because that was the name he had just written on a cheque book request form. And now he added under it, in the same block capitals, his address: 15 Exmoor Gardens, London NW2.
As a green light came up for the woman immediately in front of Alan in the queue, Paul Browning joined it to stand behind him. With a muttered âExcuse meâ, Alan turned and made for the door.
He had found a bank reference and an identity, and with the discovery he burned the last fragile boat that could have taken him back. The security man let him out politely.
9
Joyce woke up first. With sleep, her confidence and her courage had come back. The fact that the others â those two pigs, as she called them to herself â still slept on, made her despise more than fear them. Fancy sleeping like that when youâd done a bank robbery and kidnapped someone! They must want their heads tested. But while she despised them, she also felt easier with them than she would have done had they been forty or fifty. Disgusting and low as they were, they were nevertheless young, they belonged with her in the great universal club of youth.
She got up and put on her clothes. She went into the kitchen and washed her hands and face under the cold tap, a good cold splash like she always had in the mornings, though she usually had a bath first. Pity she couldnât clean her teeth. What was there to eat? No good waiting for those pigs to provide something. Like the low people they were, they had no fridge, but there was an unopened packet of back bacon on a shelf of that bookcase thing, and some eggs in a box and lots of tins of baked beans. Joyce had a good look at the bacon packet. It might be a year old, for all she knew, you never could tell with people like that. But, no. Sell by March 15, it said. She put the kettle on, and Flora margarine into a frying pan, and lit all the other gas burners and the oven to warm herself up.
The misery of Mum and Dad and Stephen she had got into better perspective. She wasnât dead, was she? Stephen would value her all the more when she turned up alive and kicking. They were going to let her go today. She wondered how and where, and she thought it would be rather fun telling it all to the police and maybe the newspapers.
The roaring of the gas woke Marty and he saw Joyce wasnât on the sofa. He called out, âChrist!â and Joyce came in to stand insolently in the doorway. There are some people who wake up and orientate themselves very quickly in the mornings, and there are others who droop about, half-asleep, for quite a long time. Joyce belonged in the first category and Marty in the second. He groaned and fumbled for the gun.
âFor all you know,â said Joyce, âI might have a couple of detectives out here with me, waiting to arrest you.â
She made a big pot of strong tea and found a packet of extended life milk. Nasty stuff, but better than nothing. She heard Marty starting to get up and she kept her head averted.
Similar Books
