The man wore a corporate tie and a black rectangular name badge. It announced him to be ‘Max Gradual’, the branch manager. I took all this in while raising myself from a kneeling position, as if having just been knighted, and I said, Yes, all was okay and I was going home now, so—
The automatic doors shivered open, even though there was nobody close. I turned to watch their movement, then realised that this made me look suspicious as if I were contemplating running off, which I was.
‘I’ve been watching you, young man,’ said Gradual. ‘You seem very interested in our cash machines.’
I felt the force of an audience: the old couple, the woman with the buggy – they’d forgotten why they’d come to the bank. Their reason for being was now me.
‘I’m doing a school project,’ I said. ‘On cash machines.’
Gradual nodded. He smiled like he was about to bite. His teeth were coffee-coloured.
‘A project, eh?’ he said. ‘A project? A project about cash machines? Tell me about your project about cash machines. Maybe we’ll be able to help with your project about cash machines. A project! I love projects. And these are cash machines.’
The kid in the buggy began crying. His mum fussed to find a dummy. The kid was silenced.
‘It’s for English,’ I said and regretted my subject choice. Of all my GCSEs, English was a poor choice for a cash machine project. Although, I could have chosen French, which would have been worse because I don’t know the French for cash machine. Machine d’argent? I don’t know the French for most things.
‘So what were you looking for? How can I help? With your project?’
The manager stared me down with such intensity that I could see the tiny threads of blood appear in the whites of his eyes. And his voice: he’d barked, he’d properly barked. But … his words, his questions … was he trying to help? Did I dare ask about USB slots? I mean, I’d not done anything wrong. I’d looked at his cash machines. It was because I was a teenager. In his middle-aged, slightly scary eyes, my age meant I was trouble. And that’s prejudice.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said as I heard the automatic doors hiss open again and decided I’d take the sound as a prompt to leave.
‘What’s up?’
My sister’s voice. And she was standing next to me. Still looking like an evil athlete in her all-black get-up. But not in the car. Good job I got a ticket, I thought.
‘I’m Max Gradual, branch manager. Who are you?’
‘I’m this kid’s sister. What’s the problem?’
‘Give the boy a break,’ said the old woman. The room’s focus turned to her. ‘He wasn’t doing anything wrong, were you, love? Crawling about, that’s all. For his project.’
I bit my bottom lip like I was a cute toddler or something. Gradual straightened his back an increment, no longer bending over to pin me down with his stare.
‘Did you ask him?’ Rita asked me.
She couldn’t. Was she? I mean, she knew this was a mistake. It was obvious it was a mistake. All this. What was I ever thinking? You can’t be asking about the security of USB ports. It’s all about the secrecy.
The woman with the baby spoke. She wasn’t queuing any longer; there was nobody at the cashier’s window. The fat businessman had left without me noticing and the cashier, a young woman who might be fit, stared at the action through the glass, resting her possibly fit face in her hand.
‘He said he was doing a project. Didn’t you?’ said the mother.
I nodded. Because that’s exactly what I’d said.
Gradual’s eyes darted around the space to meet the gaze of the audience: the old couple, the mother, the cashier, Rita. He attempted a smile, which looked more like he was reacting to having his privates placed in a vice.
‘He didn’t ask for a job? He was meant to ask for a job,’ said Rita. ‘You were meant to ask for a job.’
Gradual shook his head. I shook my head. My mouth was suddenly dry. I wanted to tell Rita that we should leave. I wanted to tell Rita that I didn’t want a job. We could be unemployed together. But I’d need a glass of water to do that.
‘We’re not hiring,’ said the manager. ‘And how old are you? I thought you were at school. Doing your project.’
His tone had shifted. He was on the defensive.
‘Give the boy a job,’ said the old man.
‘Saturday morning,’ said Rita. ‘A schoolboy trainee. You’re open Saturday mornings, right? The thing is, ever since our parents died, we’ve struggled for money and not only that but the discipline and organisation required to work in such an obviously well-run bank is just what the boy needs. I said our parents were dead, didn’t I?’
Things were unravelling. Like the life status of Mum and Dad. What if I ran outside? The people would forget about us. They’d think it was a joke. I could deal with Rita later. I wasn’t yet an adult. I was well within my rights, and expectations of fifteen-year-olds’ behaviour, to run away.
But my feet didn’t move. I was rooted to the carpet.
‘They’re open Saturday morning,’ said the mother and the cashier nodded behind her. ‘You poor children. Give the boy a chance.’
‘So sad,’ said the old man. ‘Go on. A Saturday job.’
Allegiances shifted. Suddenly Gradual was my only ally in the room. We were united in not wanting me to work here. Not least because I was planning to rob the place, not that he knew that. It was all very well for Rita in her Nike Death outfit, but I’d be the first person they’d suspect when the cash went missing: the ace teenager recently hired, having been discovered inspecting the cash machines and claiming he was doing a school project. He’d always been so quiet, so friendly.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, looking down at my dirty Converse.
‘I don’t know,’ said Gradual, looking down at his sensible leather shoes.
‘We have the part-time school-age temp scheme,’ called the cashier, offering a thumbs up.
‘The poor boy,’ said the old man. ‘An orphan.’
‘Well, I’d need to see your CV,’ said Gradual. ‘And your parents really are dead?’
‘Umm,’ I said because my parents, as far as I knew, weren’t dead.
‘Yes,’ said Rita. ‘Really dead. Completely dead.’
‘My parents have passed away too. An accident up Ben Nevis. Look, what’s your name?’
‘I’m not sure …’ I began.
‘Dylan,’ said Rita.
‘Dylan,’ said Gradual. ‘Maybe we’ll be able to find you something. It just so happens our part-time school-age temp recently left us.’ There were muted cheers around the bank branch. ‘But being in school doesn’t mean we don’t expect you to work hard. On the contrary.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Rita. ‘We’ll email you his details.’
‘My email’s on the website. Or drop it round. Whatever’s easiest.’
He’d said ‘whatever’s easiest’. This was a deep change in the man who was bellowing at me three minutes earlier. Gradual didn’t seem like a ‘whatever’s easiest’ type of guy.
‘Thanks again,’ said Rita, grabbing the manager’s hand and shaking it wildly. He stood dazed. ‘Shake his hand,’ she said to me, releasing her grip.
‘Well, I’ll need to see his CV first. And a covering letter. And the Saturday position is more training than job, so it won’t pay much.’
He was speaking for the sake of the audience. He was trying to wrestle control from Rita. It had been simpler for him before she’d turned up. Simpler for me too.
But I did as I was told. I shook his hand. I said thanks. And we left. A wave to the cashier, the mother, the two OAPs.
Inside the car, buckling my safety belt, I asked Rita what had just happened.
‘I got you access, that’s what,’ she said. ‘You’re our insider.’
‘I don’t want to work there, Rita. I’m fifteen and I’ve got GCSEs to do.’
‘I don’t want an ungrateful brother, but some things you’ve just got to put up with. Did you check the colour of the guy’s teeth? Gross.’
She started the engine and reversed the car out of the parking bay. A passing Range Rover sounded its horn but Rita didn’t react.
I thought back to what Dad had said about how being an adult was coping with a succession of people telling you to do things you don’t want to do.
‘How did you know the machines didn’t have USB slots?’ I asked. ‘You came in banging on about our parents being dead and getting me a job, but you never asked about the USB slots.’
‘Don’t be an idiot all your life.’
All right, I thought, feeling the heat of my blood increase by a degree, I’ll take your job. And you know what else I’ll do? I’ll rob the bank of tens, maybe hundreds, of thousands of pounds and then we’ll see who’s the idiot when you’re begging me to buy you a MacBook Air.
And, I reasoned, even if everything went wrong and the bank never got robbed, at least I’d have earned some cash. I could buy Beth one of those tiny mirrors that women have in their purses. That’d be a sensitive gift. It could have a little jewelled whale design. It would show I understood women. Unlike Harry, for instance. And, you know, it might not be thousands of pounds and it might not compensate her for burning down her house or pay for a deposit, but, as Mum says every Christmas, it’s the thought that counts.
‘Whatever,’ I said to Rita. ‘What. Ever.’
At least Mum and Dad would be pleased. About me getting a job.