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Next morning Harry pulled on the company blue polo shirt complete with embroidered logo. No more suits, no more ties, no more smart shoes that were his uniform as an IT contractor. He'd enlisted in the ranks as a minimum wage lackey, just like the majority of the working population. He trudged into the kitchen and Peggy handed him a cup of tea.
"You look very smart," she lied.
"Thanks very much, I know you're just saying that, but it helps."
“There’s some toast there.”
“Cheers,” he whizzed a couple of slices and took a big bite of one. He offered Peggy a jammy kiss that she didn’t refuse. “Got to shoot off, you don’t want to be late.”
The dogs fussed around his feet as if they could smell his reluctance.
“Have you got your blaster?” asked Peggy.
“What?”
“Star Wars Bar.”
“Thick skin must I have,” he waved a piece of toast at her and disappeared out of the back door.
She watched him go down the road and gave him a little wave he didn’t see, “May the Force be with you.”
When Harry got to the shop big Marge had already opened up. She got there before 8 o'clock to have everything ready to open up by 8 am on the dot, the company were very keen on punctuality.
"Hiya, glad you made it back."
"I told you, I'm not a quitter."
She looked at him with the same penetrating gaze that Peggy used to read his thoughts.
"We'll see about that, but making it in for your second day is a good start."
"What do you want me to do?"
"The papers are up, the promo boards are done, you could check there are enough betting slips in the dispensers and that we have enough biro's as well. Oh, and can you check there is bog roll in the toilet, we don't want Richard the Turd back in the shop with his trousers round his ankles."
Harry was happy to do the few mundane tasks that helped to start the day. The only customer in was a youth playing the machines by the door. He was a typical estate dweller, dressed all in black; black waterproof trousers, black waterproof coat with the hood up and pulled tight around his face. The look was finished off with a black roll scarf pulled up to just under the nose. The Ninja didn't look round when Harry topped up the biros in the dispenser next to the fruit machine.
"Hey Harry, come and see this, a bit of excitement for your second day. We've had a big winner from the Irish Lotto."
The youth on the machine stopped pressing buttons for a moment and turned his head to look at Big Marge then quickly returned his focus to the flashing lights.
"How much is it?" said Harry coming back behind the counter.
“Seven and a half grand.”
"Seven and a half grand," repeated Harry, "that's a year’s salary for me, at the moment of course."
"Somebody is going to be very happy, I hope it's one of the nice ones."
"Can you tell who it is?"
"You can if you want to sort through that big box of cards and check every single number in there."
"We'll just have to wait and see, suppose it adds to the excitement."
They didn't have long to wait. A bang at the door signalled the arrival of Wheelchair Wanker. The handles of his wheelchair bashing against the glass pushed the door open.
"Oh my god he's early, that can only mean one thing," said Marge.
"Oh Jesus you don't mean?"
"Oh yes I do," said Big Marge, "would you believe it."
"I don’t believe it."
Wheelchair Wanker forced himself into the shop backwards waving his receipt like a triumphal banner.
"Every one's a winner."
Harry thought that this was going to be a good day, but now he was depressed.
"There you go £7,500 and be quick about it."
"I'll just have to run it through the till,” said Marge.
"Come on come on I haven't got all day.”
‘I rather think you have,’ thought Harry.
Marge put the receipt through the till and sure enough, Wheelchair Wanker was £7,500 better off.
"I can't give you the money now," said Marge.
"What you mean?”
"I mean we don't keep that sort of money in the shop, it just encourages robbers."
The machine playing youth in the corner momentarily turned his head towards the counter.
"This is because I’m disabled, isn't it. If it was anybody else you would have the money. You don't like me, I know, that's why you are doing this."
"You can believe what you like," said Marge, "it's company policy, nothing to do with personalities or wheelchairs, it's the same for everyone."
Although Big Marge shared Harry’s antipathy towards the pathetic creature in front of them, they both knew he was a cheater and a liar, the odds were stacked against them if WW complained to Management that he was being discriminated against. Secretly she’d happily drop him and his wheelchair into a car crusher but externally she had to be as nice as pie.
"If you come back at 12 o'clock I'll have your money for you," she pushed his receipt back under the counter.
He snatched it off her, "You better had, or I'll be putting in a complaint."
And with that Wheelchair Wanker pushed himself backwards towards the door, glaring at Marge and Harry. The Hoody on the slot machine unexpectedly jumped up and opened the door for him.
"At least somebody likes me in this shop," said Wheelchair Wanker as his parting shot, although he didn't thank his well-mannered doorman.
Marge got on the phone to the other local shops and began asking for money. It was common practice among the shops whenever they had a big winner. She managed to pick up two grand here, three grand there, a thousand in another shop.
"You'll have to go and get the cash for me Harry, Kaylee has phoned in sick again, her little lad’s poorly, and there is nobody else until I can phone around and get someone in."
"What, you expect me to carry six thousand pounds in my back pocket through the middle of town with all those ne'er-do-wells out there."
"You’ll be okay, you're a big lad, and you can't look after the shop so there isn't any choice."
"Can't we just pay by cheque or bank transfer?" asked Harry.
"We could do, but I know he won't take a cheque because it will upset his benefit claims if money suddenly appears in his bank account. They'll think he's been working, haha."
"Don’t we have some security arrangement, like a cash delivery service?" Harry was clutching at straws.
"I'm sorry mate we are still in the dark ages, you'll have to be the courier. It’s cheaper for the firm to use a minimum wage slave to do their dirty work than an expensive security service. I’m afraid you’re expendable," she handed Harry a cloth cash bag and waved him out of the door.
Ten seconds after, the Hoody on the machines also decided to quietly take his leave. Marge, who never missed a thing, watched him go and crossed her chubby fingers.
As Harry walked through the still quiet early morning streets he examined every approaching stranger to check for signs of a bulge in their pocket. He gave everyone a wide berth. His dad had been a policeman and he remembered how the old man was wired to be suspicious of everybody, now he knew how that felt. He checked nervously over his shoulder too and was sure he caught sight of the Hoody from the slot machines but it could have been a shadow or his over anxious imagination.
He didn't like it, but this was all good experience for Harry, he'd never been to the other company betting shops in the town centre. He was struck by the similarity of the staff and the punters to his own shop, they all seem to have been created out of the same mould and he pondered he may a square peg in a betting shop round hole.
He got back to the shop just before noon, bursting for a pee from the coffee he'd been offered in each of his pick-ups. The black hooded youth was back playing the slot machines in the corner, perhaps he had imagined seeing him on the street after all. The shop had filled up with the usual suspects. Nobby the Jobby was hunched over the Racing Post scribbling his small odds bets in an indecipherable scrawl. Old Ronnie was on his stool at the far end of the shop calmly watching the dog racing from Haringey. At exactly 12:00 mid-day he would take himself off to the market for a sausage roll and a tea. Cheeky Jimmy was sitting on the table with Nobby exchanging wisdom about the forthcoming races. Harry slipped quickly behind the counter and Big Marge locked the door behind him.
“Did you get it all?” Marge looked calm but Harry realised the pressure was on if she didn't have the money. Wheelchair Wanker was going to create a scene, he would complain for sure and Marge just didn't want the aggro. "You did get it didn't you?"
"Yes five grand," said Harry unburdening his bulging pockets with bundles of £20 notes.
“We need six,” the pitch of Marge’s gravelly voice went from baritone to tenor.
"Only kidding," he pulled another roll of twenties from under his cap, "wanted to spread it around, if it was all in the bag and I got mugged it's all gone."
“You had me going there, didn’t expect it, I’m going to have to watch you.”
Marge’s expression was seriously Churchillian and Harry thought he’d crossed the line, but then she cracked a grin.
“You need a sense of humour to survive in here, I’ll let you off, this time.”
Harry relaxed.
“But don’t mess with the money,” the face returned quickly to Bulldog.
“Okay, got it.”
“Watch the shop while I count this,” Marge retired to the back office.
Harry could see her from his lookout by the tills. The sight of all that cash reminded him of the time he worked in a military hospital in Saudi Arabia in the eighties. Everyone was paid in cash and would queue up at a counter in the palatial marble and gold foyer of the hospital to get their moolah. At the time he was on £2000 a month. It seemed a fortune but the doctors were on five times that. The pay clerks would shove a mountain of notes across the counter like casino croupiers.
In the slightly less opulent confines of the back office, Marge quickly counted the notes with an expertise born of many years practice. Bang on 12 o'clock the front door opened and Wheelchair Wanker backed himself into the shop. Harry steeled himself for the coming encounter. Harry wasn’t an aggressive type even though he looked a bit like a nightclub bouncer with his broad shoulders and bald head. A buzz of expectation and whispers surrounded the entrance of WW, even old Ronnie delayed his sausage roll pilgrimage to witness the drama.
The punters all knew he’d won big, that kind of news spread like cholera in a ghetto. Even on his second day, Harry had noticed a camaraderie among the pack of regulars born out of shared values and desires. Everyone hungered after a jackpot and if one of their brethren got lucky it was reinforcement that their cause was valid and just. But nobody liked Wheelchair Wanker, he was an outcast in a family of outcasts and no one would give him the satisfaction acknowledging his big win.
WW ignored the envious looks as he scooted backwards to the counter like a greyhound after a hair.
"Where is my money then," he said, rubbing his hands together like a not very humble Uriah Heep.
"Not so fast," said Marge.
“What’s your problem now?”
“Receipt,” she held out her Russian shot putter’s hand.
Grudgingly he started to check his pockets but found nothing but old crisp packets and crusty tissues. One of Marge’s bushy black eyebrows lifted as she hoped fervently that he’d lost it. Harry too found he was unconsciously clenching his fists and suppressing a victorious smile. The whole shop held its breath as WW went back over his pockets again with the thoroughness of a North Korean Border Guard. He stood up without any hint of stiffness to check the back pockets of his jeans. Harry and Marge exchanged knowing looks.
WW stopped suddenly as a light bulb went on in his fevered brain. He sat down as quickly as he stood and flipped a catch on the armrest of his chair. He opened it quickly to expose a wad of twenty-pound notes, a bag of Weed, a packet of Rizlas and the precious receipt. He slammed it shut as quickly as he could and reset the catch. Looking around to see if anyone had seen his secret compartment - they all had.
WW shoved the receipt under the glass partition with a gloating smile.
Marge put it through the till scanner and pressed the Pay button then headed into the back office.
“Oi come back here, where’s my money?” he jumped out of the chair again, craning his neck to see where she’d gone.
She emerged from back office with a wad of twenties as thick as a brick. She began to count it out in front of him flicking through the notes counting out loud as she went, “twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one hundred,” and so on. It was amazing how quickly you could count out what was for some a year's salary. Marge didn’t have to count the money but she was determined to make him wait as long as possible. She stuffed the cash into a large brown envelope and squeezed it underneath the glass partition. WW tried to snatch it but she wouldn't let go.
"What are you doing, let go.”
"I want you to count it before you go anywhere else, right here in front of me and the CCTV camera."
She pointed to a small Perspex bubble mounted high on the wall that overlooked the customer side of the counter.
"You are kidding me, you make anybody else do that?"
"Company Policy, too many people try to claim they haven’t been paid right,” she pointed to a notice on the glass that stated as much.
He grudgingly nodded and she let go of the packet.
“Oh and don’t even think about pulling the disabled card on me again,” she pointed to the CCTV, “we’ve got it on record that you’re Usain Bolt in disguise.”
Wheelchair Wanker counted his money, taking three times as long as Marge. The other punters edged closer to him, attracted like flies to a turd.
Wheelchair Wanker finished counting and was about to stuff the bunch of notes into his inside coat pocket when the black coated Hoodie pushed through the crowd of onlookers and stuck a gun in Wheelchair Wankers face.
“I’ll have that," the voice muffled now as his scarf had been pulled up just below his eyes.
A gasp of horror came from the punters and Marge instinctively moved to her left and her hands dropped below the counter. The Hoody spotted her as if anticipating her reaction.
"Don't touch the button or he gets it."
"Not really a deterrent," said Marge.
“I’ll take out more than the Cripple, now move,” he waved her back from the counter and away from the panic button that was connected directly to the Police.
The Hoody heard the sound of a flushing toilet and looked up. The Gents door opened releasing a gut-churning stench into the shop, Richard the Turd emerged fastening the belt on his trousers. Sensing something was wrong, he looked up from his pants into the barrel of the gun. He didn’t flinch.
“Get over there with the other losers,” Hoody waved the pistol in the direction of the huddled punters, then turned his attention back to his victim.
"Gimme the cash," he put the gun into Wheelchair Wankers cheek and the shaking man complied, handing over his precious winnings, "and the stash in the armrest."
“That's medicinal, I need it for my condition,” WW pleaded.
“Dead is a condition too,” observed the Hoody with unexpected wit.
Harry looked on from beside Marge in a state of shock. This wasn't what he’d anticipated on his second day at work. Should he do something? What could he do? Big Marge glanced at him as if to say go into the back office, where Harry knew there was a telephone. If he could slip in while the robber was preoccupied, he could call the Police. Marge nodded at him but he didn’t move. Harry was in a dilemma. Should he let the robber take Wheelchair Wanker’s winnings? It would be a kind of divine retribution on the miserable cheating bastard. Or should he do the right and proper thing and call the police?
Marge could see Harry wavering and pulled a face at him that wordlessly told Harry that he only had one option.
Much as Harry was enjoying seeing the miserable cheating charlatan get his comeuppance, he had already made up his mind and as the robber’s attention was firmly on relieving WW of all his goods, he quickly slipped into the back office, picked up the phone and dialled 999.
WW knew that a hole in his wallet was better than a hole in the head. This kid looked edgy and nervous. He probably wouldn’t shoot anyone but could he really take that chance? Hoody pressed the gun hard into WW’s face, making him yelp.
“Don’t make me do it, Bell End,” shouted the youth.
WW opened the armrest and gave up his stash meekly.
The Hoody stuffed the Weed and cash into his coat pocket. "Everyone's a winner, except you," was his parting shot.
He turned away from his quivering victim to make his getaway but Richard the Turd was right in front of him.
"You need to give that back," said Richard calmly.
"Fuck off Tramp," the Hoody lifted his gun but before he could level it at the reckless hero, Richard grabbed the gun and twisted it hard up the youths back making him squeal and drop the weapon.
But Richard wasn’t finished; he grabbed the back of the robber’s neck and smashed his face hard against the reinforced glass over the counter. Big Marge had a great view of the youth’s nose exploding. The gunman slumped to the floor unconscious, blood flooding from his shattered nose onto the grubby blue carpet.
A spontaneous round of applause erupted from the astounded punters.
Harry and Big Marge hurried out from behind the counter.
“Thank you,” said Marge giving Richard a big hug.
“That was very brave,” added Harry.
“Not as brave as you mate. I saw you slip off there to call the Bizzies.”
“That’s rubbish, you faced down a gunman.”
Richard bent to pick up the pistol; he looked it over and handed it to Harry who declined.
“It’s okay, it’s a fake, anyone can see that.”
“I think you were the only one who knew that,” said Marge and the punters nodded in agreement.
Wheelchair Wanker, his composure and legs miraculously recovered was out of his chair retrieving his cash and stash from the prone assailant.
“Bloody hell, look at Lazarus,” observed Nobby the Jobby.
Wheelchair Wanker wasn’t hanging about, he hopped back in his chair and scooted backwards to the door.
"What, I don't even get a thanks a lotto,” shouted Richard after him.
“Good joke,” nodded Harry in appreciation.
But WW never made it out of the shop; two large policemen blocked the entrance.