Lucky Bunny (9780062202512) (24 page)

We move fast then. Me and Stella open our bags, no finesse, we throw in whole cases, trays, boxes. These are big bags, deep, huge in fact. The size of a man's briefcase. Funny how no one noticed that when we came in.

“Don't move,” Tony says, and Joe stands the other side of this bloke, listening at the door: there is another man, lighting his pipe—old school security—and a shop girl, pretty in her pale blue dirndl, at the front of the store, but they're paying no attention to what's going on in the back room. Still, we have to walk back past those two before we can leave. My heart is clamoring, scrabbling it feels like, like there's a whole bunch of desperate kittens in my chest, trying to get out. The same old feeling, the jabbering, glorious
alive
feeling I always have: my head is dizzy with smells—the leather smell inside Stella's new bag, the Windolene of the glass in the shop, the stink of a spray of lilies, old cigar smoke. The powerful smell of sweat coming off the man with the gold-rimmed specs. And the acid smell of diamonds; that most of all. Their smell and the feel of them. Even through my cotton gloves I can feel them, shivering, like living things, long strands rattling and shrieking, into my bag.

And then these long seconds pass, and Tony stays behind to cover Gold Specs with the gun, as the rest of us trip politely out of the shop, past the blue skirt at the counter, who has her back to us, doesn't notice our faces with our glasses back on, the size of our leather handbags and the way we clutch at them; past the bloke with his pipe, who is chatting her up, doesn't notice the clipped way we're walking, practically running, doesn't see Joe's hand, folded meaningfully inside the top pocket of his coat.

It's only in the street, climbing into the car—Jimmy's got the engine running—that I hear shots, two shots, and a shout, and think in a kind of stunned unbelieving way: oh, God, Tony. None of us had bargained on blinkin' Tony. He's taut as elastic and he just went ping.

I think there's screaming, somewhere. It might even be me. We keep the car door open and we're bouncing along the pavement with it like that as we pull away and Tony comes running out and flings himself in on top of us, a heavy heap, and Stella screams at him—“What did you do, you stupid git!”—and are there people looking, I don't know, are there any witnesses? I'm calm now, flat as a slice of cold ham at the butcher's. “Just drive,” I say, leaning forward, talking to Jimmy, “no one is following us, just drive to where we said . . . and put the radio on.” And Jimmy keeps his eyes fixed on the road, and slides easily through the lunchtime traffic. I run hands over myself under my fur coat as if I'm checking that I'm all here, as if it was me who was shot at. I'm pouring with sweat inside my dress, dripping down both sides of my body, like someone just ran a garden hose over me.

“I'm pregnant,” I say, to Tony, in a whisper, but crammed in the back with us, Stella hears me and gives a strange, jerky sort of yelp.

“Huh?” Tony shakes his head, staring at me.

“I've clicked. I'm expecting a baby,” I say calmly, as the car weaves skillfully, Jimmy's eyes always on the rearview mirror, and we approach our drop-off point.

“Oh doll, oh baby, Queenie—Queenie . . .” Tony reaches for me, and throws his arms around me, burying his face in my neck, hugging me so hard he knocks half the breath out of me.

I'm suddenly aware of Stella—who has been quiet, so quiet through all of this—who's now squirming in the seat beside us, crazily tapping at the window, then reaching for the handle. “Jimmy! Pull over. I'm going—to be sick . . .” she shouts, and we pull over, but only for a second, so she can splash sick into the gutter, before speeding off again towards Waterloo Bridge, all praying that the Soho Don has done his bit; that the promised car is waiting.

T
hat's the easy bit, the robbery. The waiting, the getting away with it, that's something else. All thrill ebbs away from you and your limbs feel heavy and dead, and the cigarette in your mouth tastes of nothing but ash and the food on your plate is just colors and smears and you just want to push it around, and put your knife and fork down, shove your plate away from you. All you can do is wait, and it gives you a headache, the worry, the fears, that something will now go wrong. We listen to the radio and pick up the papers, and wonder. What's going to happen now? I jump out of my skin if there's a knock at the door. Stella nearly flies through the ceiling one time when she hears a siren pass us in the street. It's such a big jump, that afterwards we look at one another and burst out laughing.

I picture Tony's gun, now that I've seen it. “It's at the bottom of the Thames, I chucked it,” Tony says, and I wonder if I believe him. Falling asleep that night, my eyes fly open as I remember it—the Luger—and smell the sweat again of the skinny bloke with the gold-rimmed specs. All this in yellow light, a kind of heat, like a flashbulb just went off. Then I close my eyes again and it's fine; there's no gun anywhere. I tell myself: Tony said he got rid of it.

Finally, about a week later, the heist is mentioned in the paper. Stella brings it upstairs and we pore over the account, feeling like film stars: they found the abandoned car, as we'd meant them to, by the river at Waterloo. Tony says the Old Bill probably guessed at who was financing it, but they couldn't prove it and there were too many at Scotland Yard who were already in the pocket of the Soho Don—he's sure we're safe. The papers go on about these two dark-haired, well-spoken women, who they seemed to think “might have been hostages”—and Stella squeals with joy. “Can't no well-spoken girl ever do a heist then?” she says. “Bleedin' stupid, these journalists, aren't they?” It doesn't occur to the reporter that we might be wearing wigs; that we might not be “dark-haired” at all, or innocent. It's only Tony who is given a proper description; he's the only one anyone got a good look at. The witness, still recovering from shock, is a Mr. Alfred Richardson, Senior Sales Assistant, who, “despite being short-sighted,” is certain the man was in his late twenties, dark haired, around six foot three in height, and well-built.” Mr. Richardson was “terrified when with no provocation whatsoever the gangster fired two shots at the ceiling.”

No provocation whatsoever.
Tony fired at the ceiling. It's only when I read this, feeling relief, that I realize that I'd been imagining something far worse. I'd thought, I'd not wanted to think, but I'd heard the shots, and Tony had been panting and running, and I'd wondered . . .

I shake this from my head. I feel certain that I know Tony. I know he's got a temper; that he gets mad sometimes. Gets the dead needle, as Nan used to say about Dad. I don't like it, but it's part of the deal. You can't just love bits of someone.
All of me, why not take all of me
—isn't that what the song says? I know just exactly how bad Tony can be and well, if he can love me like he does, despite
my
faults, well . . . I can do the same for him.

That night our money comes through, our payment, and that's all that matters. Tony brings it, and Stella and me are really quiet like schoolgirls as we open the envelope, sitting on the cream carpet in my flat; stubbing our cigarettes in this glass ashtray Stella loves, with the big red letters “CINZANO” on the side, and a bottle of champagne beside us, then whooping as we see the notes and suddenly, Stella leaps up, showering me with money. She sticks a roll of tenners in her hair like a curler. She pretends to eat it. She sticks some down her bra and glances up at Tony, sticking out her tits.

“Smell it, Queenie—go on, gel, tell us, what does money smell like?” she says, tumbling backwards onto the rug, laughing.

I pick up a few notes where they've landed and sniff them. What does money smell like? Paper, I suppose. I sniff again, try harder. “It smells inky and sweaty,” I say. “Or maybe just new.” I don't know. God, it smells like disbelief.

A
fter all that. To be nicked a month later by a young shop walker and a policeman for such a silly, small-scale thing. A teddy bear. Some booties. Baby stuff, literally. A pair of the loveliest white cashmere booties. And I tried to find a soft white rabbit, like the one Dad gave me when I was born, but had to settle for a teddy, a very small one, serious-looking, with chocolate brown eyes. I'm in some sort of dream, I'm sliding around like I'm on castors, maybe it's the hormones, because for once my talent—or should I say my
luck
—deserts me; a shop walker spots me right away.

Well, there's one other thing, another reason why I'm there. Tony and I had another big fight. It starts because the tension is so high, the waiting, and one night I say something about that Luger again, about Tony losing it, and his temper and maybe—I can't remember—I think I might have said something to him like “you're a fucking liability.” I was shouting, I think, and before I know it, Tony has kicked me, really hard, kicked me under my ribs, and I'm doubling up and I can hardly breathe. I'm trying to say, but I can't catch my breath, the words won't come out properly: “The baby, the baby—what about the baby . . .” And Tony has smacked me in the face, slammed the door, and left.

So it's later, it's after that, after I've calmed down, and smoked every one of my cigarettes, and bitten my nails down to the quick, and worried about the baby and run my hand over my stomach and wondered and wondered: is everything all right? It's to make everything OK. That's the reason I do it. I could have paid for them a thousand times over, the cashmere booties, the teddy, but that's not it, that won't work the magic. I have to chance my arm. The baby is fine, I tell myself. And just to prove it, I'll go and get it some things, some baby things, and then it—
she
will be real. I close my eyes and that's when it comes to me powerfully that I'm having a girl, and I see her: a baby, with black hair and blue eyes like Tony's, and fully formed arms and legs, and a little heart that beats.

So now, here I am, and I'm cold again, with that icy feeling in my skin, and a sort of blur in front of my eyes that I can't shake. I'm marched to an office, in the back of the department store, and that teddy is plonked on the table between us, where he sits, staring severely at me through the glaze in front of my eyes.

I'm thinking, as they're talking to me, thank Christ there's nothing to link me to the jewelry robbery. Nothing at all. After the fight with Tony I went to see Gloria. I gave her a big envelope with my money in it and asked her to keep it safe for me. She looked at me, she was worried about me she said, but there were no bruises on me, so she didn't ask any questions. “You're the only person I know with money of your own,” I told her. I didn't add: so you won't be tempted to dip into it.

Someone brings me a cup of tea. Staring at the booties, I tell them about the baby, but it cuts no ice. If anything, the policeman they've called in hardens his gaze, taps his pen that much more sharply on the table, disapprovingly. The shop walker glances at the store manager and they all look back at me. They tell me I can call my brief but I'll be denied bail. It's a night in the police cells and then remand at Holloway, given my track record in “absconding.” They mean from Approved School.

“Not exactly a first-time offender, are you, miss? We've got officers at your place right now,” the bloke says, nastily. “What do you think we'll find there?”

Full skirts and net petticoats and scarves and bikinis and ballet pumps from Gamba, in every color under the sun. A whole hoard of things nicked over the last few months; I'm picturing them, as the airless grey room I'm in gets smaller and smaller, and I stare into my cup of tea. I want to close my eyes. I say nothing, but I'm shaking my head. I know I've done something too stupid to believe. I can barely believe it myself. But at least the cozzers won't find the tiniest speck of a sparkler. Not one note of the money. That's what I keep thinking, as I sit there, swallowing my grey tea, and my heart sinking, sinking, sinking. Whoever said it was right: I
am
my own worst enemy. Didn't we almost get away with it? I'm the only one who had to test things to the limit, who had to push her luck just that tiny bit further, the only one who had to
do this.

That night I sleep in the police cell at Shoreditch. A police doctor has examined me, to see if I'm telling the truth about the baby. He does it dangling a fag from his mouth; ash crumbling from the end and dripping onto my chest. I know for sure I've clicked by then; I didn't need the bastard of a doctor to confirm it. I feel so sleepy, sort of drowsy and thickened, slower. I dream all night long of jewels, dancing in front of me. I'm stretching out my white gloved hand towards them and then my hand feels strange to me, like it's not mine at all. I stare at it and follow the arm, the velvet sleeve, and see that I'm right: the hand belongs to someone else, someone who looks like Princess Margaret, a dark-haired woman who is sitting on a table, like a stuffed toy, staring severely at me. Then she bursts into her twinkly royal laugh and I wake up.

H
olloway, remand wing. Noisy and hellish. Always women shouting, or crying, or screaming at one another. No one thinks they should be in here. Bellyaching about their innocence or the unfairness of it all, worrying about their kids or their old man, that's all they do night and day. And there's no peace in routine like the other wings; it's all coming and going, visits from dock briefs; there's always a screw pressing the panic button and other screws arriving like a swarm of ants, to press some poor screaming wretch back into her cell. People being let out for court appearances, family visiting, new prisoners arriving; it's disturbing. The ceilings outside the cells are so high that walking into lunch along the narrow corridor the sound bounces and the place is alive with ranting and echoes.