time. She was only twenty. She was a girl. Never mind the bankâs suspicions, never mind now what anyone thought. His first duty was to rescue Joyce or at least stand with her and support her. He fumbled through the folds of the dress to open the door. He wasnât afraid. With a vague wry amusement, he thought that he wasnât afraid because he didnât mind if they killed him, he had nothing to live for. Perhaps all his life with its boredom, its pain and its futility, had simply been designed to lead up to this moment, meeting death on a wet afternoon for seven thousand pounds.
He would leave the money in the cupboard â he had thrust it into the pockets of his raincoat which hung beside Joyceâs dress â and go out and face them. They wouldnât think of looking in his raincoat, and later heâd think up an explanation for the bank. If there was a later. The important thing now was to go out to them, and this might even create a diversion in which Joyce could escape.
But before he touched the door, something very curious happened. He felt into the pockets to make sure none of the notes was sticking out and against his hands the money felt alive, pulsating almost, or as if it were a chemical that reacted at the contact with flesh. Energy seemed to come from it, rays of power, that travelled, tingling, up his arms. There were sounds out there. They had got the safe open. He heard rustling noises and thumps and voices arguing, and yet he did not hear them. He was aware only of the money alive between and around his fingers. He gasped and clenched his hands, for he knew then that he could not leave the money. It was his. By his daily involvement with it, he had made it his and he could not leave it.
Someone had come into the office. The drawers of his desk were pulled out and emptied on to the floor. He stood rigid with his hands in the coat pockets, and the cupboard door was flung open.
He could see nothing through the dark folds of the dress. He held his breath. The door closed again and Joyce swore at them. Never had he thought he would hear Joyce use that word, but he honoured her for it. She screamed and then she made no more sound. The only sound was the steady roar of rain drumming on the pantiled roof, and then, after a while, the noise of a car or van engine starting up.
He waited. One of them had come back. The strange voice was grumbling and muttering out there, but not for long. The back door slammed. Had they gone? He could only be sure by coming out. Loosening his hold on the money, he thought he would have to go out, he couldnât stay in that cupboard for the rest of his life. And Joyce must be somewhere out there, bound and gagged probably. He would explain to her that when he had heard them enter the bank he had taken as much money as he had time to save out of the safe. She would think him a coward, but that didnât matter because he knew he hadnât been a coward, he had been something else he couldnât analyse. It was a wrench, painful almost, to withdraw his hands from his pockets, but he did withdraw them, and he pushed open the door and stepped out.
The desk drawers were on the floor and their contents spilt. Joyce wasnât in the office or in the room where the safe was. The door of the safe was open and it was empty. They must have left her in the main part of the bank. He hesitated. He wiped his forehead on which sweat was standing. Something had happened to him in that cupboard, he thought, he had gone mad, mentally he had broken down. The idea came to him that perhaps it was the life he led which at last had broken him. He went on being mad. He took the money out of his coat pockets and laid it in the safe. He went to the back door and opened it quietly, looking out at the teeming rain and his car standing in the dancing, rain-pounded puddles. Then he slammed the door quite hard as if he had just come in, and he walked quite lightly and
He would leave the money in the cupboard â he had thrust it into the pockets of his raincoat which hung beside Joyceâs dress â and go out and face them. They wouldnât think of looking in his raincoat, and later heâd think up an explanation for the bank. If there was a later. The important thing now was to go out to them, and this might even create a diversion in which Joyce could escape.
But before he touched the door, something very curious happened. He felt into the pockets to make sure none of the notes was sticking out and against his hands the money felt alive, pulsating almost, or as if it were a chemical that reacted at the contact with flesh. Energy seemed to come from it, rays of power, that travelled, tingling, up his arms. There were sounds out there. They had got the safe open. He heard rustling noises and thumps and voices arguing, and yet he did not hear them. He was aware only of the money alive between and around his fingers. He gasped and clenched his hands, for he knew then that he could not leave the money. It was his. By his daily involvement with it, he had made it his and he could not leave it.
Someone had come into the office. The drawers of his desk were pulled out and emptied on to the floor. He stood rigid with his hands in the coat pockets, and the cupboard door was flung open.
He could see nothing through the dark folds of the dress. He held his breath. The door closed again and Joyce swore at them. Never had he thought he would hear Joyce use that word, but he honoured her for it. She screamed and then she made no more sound. The only sound was the steady roar of rain drumming on the pantiled roof, and then, after a while, the noise of a car or van engine starting up.
He waited. One of them had come back. The strange voice was grumbling and muttering out there, but not for long. The back door slammed. Had they gone? He could only be sure by coming out. Loosening his hold on the money, he thought he would have to go out, he couldnât stay in that cupboard for the rest of his life. And Joyce must be somewhere out there, bound and gagged probably. He would explain to her that when he had heard them enter the bank he had taken as much money as he had time to save out of the safe. She would think him a coward, but that didnât matter because he knew he hadnât been a coward, he had been something else he couldnât analyse. It was a wrench, painful almost, to withdraw his hands from his pockets, but he did withdraw them, and he pushed open the door and stepped out.
The desk drawers were on the floor and their contents spilt. Joyce wasnât in the office or in the room where the safe was. The door of the safe was open and it was empty. They must have left her in the main part of the bank. He hesitated. He wiped his forehead on which sweat was standing. Something had happened to him in that cupboard, he thought, he had gone mad, mentally he had broken down. The idea came to him that perhaps it was the life he led which at last had broken him. He went on being mad. He took the money out of his coat pockets and laid it in the safe. He went to the back door and opened it quietly, looking out at the teeming rain and his car standing in the dancing, rain-pounded puddles. Then he slammed the door quite hard as if he had just come in, and he walked quite lightly and
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