May Day

“I’ve got a plan.”

“NO!”

“What do you mean, no?”

“In the same vernacular of No more plans, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because your plans are shit!”

“For example?”

“Take a look around, genius…”

Tom Daly and Eric Watkins had been friends since boyhood. Mates in school, drinking buddies at their local pub, and currently, failed partners in crime, as the two compadres visually surveyed the box-like bank vault they had inadvertently trapped themselves in.

“How was I to know the door shut automatically?” Eric unapologetically pointed out.

Tom remained silent, quietly counting to ten in the attempt to remain calm.

“Why do you think I asked you to bring that big wooden wedge I made?” He facetiously countered.

“…I dunno… I thought it was for sumfin else.”

“What else?”

“…For… like… a weapon?”

“It’s a fucking doorjamb, you wanker.”

“You said it was a tool. I mean, it looks like an axe.”

“What use is a wooden axe to anyone?”

“…That’s the same question I asked me own self…”

“What was your self’s own answer?”

“…Not got a clue…”

“Don’t say anything else, Eric, alright? Not another fucking word…”

Tom had always been the level-headed one in their relationship and the smarter of the two; however, school had bored him to the point of incessant truancy, leading to expulsion. Unable to lock down a permanent job, he accepted that receiving unemployment benefits was a better living than digging ditches, as it paid for enough pints of beer to keep him happy and social.

Eric – on the other hand, had been a grafter all his young life – albeit, a dubious seller of counterfeit handbags at London’s Berwick Street market, before moving on to shifting watered down perfume at heavily discounted rates. Blessed with a loud but high tone of voice, Eric would often be heard trying to attract the hordes of West End shoppers passing by his makeshift street corner pop-up stall,

“Come one, come all, three for the price of two,” he would pitch to the unsuspecting marks.

Whatever tax-free income he made in his cash-in-hand vocations, was never enough to provide him a comfortable life in 1970s London. To him, the only creature comfort from living a life of poverty, was being in the company of his old mate, Tom.

“…May I just point out one little thing, Tom?” Eric pleaded while raising his right index finger in the air. “Then, I’ll stay schtum… I promise.”

After an intentional lengthy silence, Tom finally answered, “What?”

“We’ve been in ere all night, right…?”

“Yeah, pissin’ in our tea flasks.”

“Lucky we never had to take a shh…”

“…Get to the point,” Tom quickly interrupted.

“Yes, right. We’ve been in ere all night, right?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you just said that.”

“Right, right, I know. I’m just re-gathering my train of thought… We’ve been in here…”

“Don’t keep restarting your sentence… finish it, you muppet!”

“It’s ten to eight in the morning!” Eric quickly blurted out.

Tom blankly looked at Eric with a contemptuous expression sneering from a corner of his mouth.

 “…What are you now, Big Ben?”

“What I mean, is that the manager will be arriving soon to prepare for the bank to open.”

“…And…?”

“…and they will unlock the vault’s door. We’ll be the last thing they’ll expect to see when the door opens, so we’ll just get them to let us out the front door, where we can skedaddle…. That’s my plan, mate… operation Whoosh!”

“What if they don’t comply?”

“Well, we can put that doorjamb to good use…”

“What if it’s a woman? I’m not threatening a woman.”

“How many women bank managers are there today…?” Eric mocked. “Yeah… trust me, it’ll be a bloke.”

“Eric, this was supposed to be a we’ll be in and out in a jiffy, coz it’s a bank holiday and the street’s will be void of people – type of job. Isn’t that wot you told me?”

“I can’t help it if things didn’t go to plan.”

“That’s coz you left the vault door unattended.”

“I was just trying to be helpful. That first safety deposit box you crowbarred out looked heavy.”

“If you had used the doorjamb…”

“Well, I didn’t, so shoot me…”

“…You know, that’s probably your best idea, yet.”

“That’s a joke, right… Tom?”

While contemplating his response, Tom’s memory flashed a series of images reflecting several failed intrepid adventures brought on by other ideas of Eric’s. One stood out larger than the others. It was the time when Eric suggested they steal a car to take their then girlfriends down to Brighton for a day. Halfway there in an old Austin-Morris 1100 - with an overtly loud exhaust that leaked fumes through the passenger footwell, they ran out of petrol, so had to travel the remaining distance on foot, finally arriving in Brighton after all the shops had closed. Hungry and thirsty, they decided to eat at a local Indian restaurant, but with no money to pay for dinner for four, they attempted a sophisticated “Runner,” an elaborate dine-and-dash scheme, but because of their lack of familiarisation with the neighbourhood, they were quickly apprehended by the annoyed staff. Eric – the Prince of plans - devised an idea to argue over who would pay the bill when it arrived – even convincing the girls to get so upset, that they staged a walkout to get a head start. As the manager tried to calm the situation, Eric suggested the two of them race around the block, the loser then having to pay for the meal. Convincing the manager to participate in the farce, he innocently volunteered to place them under starting orders before saying, “GO!” Thinking his plan to be foolproof, Eric decided to shout back, “See you, sucker!” at the manager, just as the two teenagers scampered away. Sprinting out of view by turning left at the first corner, their race came to an abrupt dead-end, forcing them into an immediate about-turn, sending them stumbling into the clutches of several angry waiters. The girls – seeing this all take place, quietly disappeared into the night, leaving Tom and Eric to face the consequences. Rather than call the police, the restaurant manager forced them to wash dishes and clean the toilets for the remainder of the evening, only releasing them in the early hours of the next morning. Exhausted, penniless, and hungry again, they laid on a couple of seafront benches, sleeping until early afternoon; before hitchhiking all the way back to their council flat in London’s Chalk Farm area.

The sting from the short recollection of their day out in Brighton, still bothered Tom. It symbolised Eric’s scatterbrained ideas. At the angry cusp of directing tirades of abuse towards Eric, the vault was suddenly illuminated with additional light - accompanied by a clicking sound as the vault’s door swung open letting in a welcome rush of fresh air.

“Told you, din I…” Eric proudly boasted.

“Right,” said Tom. “Get ready to rush ‘em.”

The two friends primed themselves for an assault on whomever had the unfortunate task of encountering them. A tiny bead of sweat hung precariously over Tom’s concerned and furrowed brow, caused by the anticipation of their imminent flight to freedom. Glancing back at each other for some form of guidance, their patience ran rapidly thin when nothing happened.

“I thought you said the manager checks the vault…”

“Nah, mate,” replied Eric. “I said the door would be unlocked by them. I’ve no idea who does the vault check.”

“So, what do we do, now?”

“…I’ve got an idea,” Eric chirpily chimed to Tom’s disconcertment. “Yoohoo!” Eric cooed with both hands forming makeshift megaphone around his mouth.

“What the fuck are you doing, Eric?”

“I’m throwin’ my voice to distract them… Cooee!”

“Who told you that’s how you throw your voice?”

“I seen it in a cartoon…”

Eric paused his unintelligible calls to listen for a response of any kind from outside the vault.

“I don’t hear anyfin, Tom.”

“Yeah, they’re probably thinking who’s the idiot making stupid Looney Tune sounds at this time of day…” Pushing past Eric, Tom decided to take the initiative. “I’m outta here.”

Before Tom could take a step toward the door, Eric blockaded his friend by standing in his way.

“Nah, mate. I got us into this mess, so it’s only right that I get us out of it.”

Without waiting for a reply, Eric stuck his head through the open gap of the door, took a quick peek of the other side, then darted his head back in.

“What is it,” a nervous Tom demanded to know.

“Nothin’,” was the curt reply from Eric.

“What do you mean nothin?”

“…There’s no-one there. The place is empty.”

“I thought you said…”

“Yeah, well… I might have read it wrong.”

“Read what?” Tom vexingly asked.

“The article in the News of the World about the new vault installed here… Come to think of it, I don’t think the manager needs to open the vault… Yes, I remember now. It’s on a…”

In the same passage of thought, both of them realised the inner workings of the vault’s door - and in unison, they both blurted out, “Timer!”

“…So,” Tom elucidated. “This whole… escapade was based on an article you read in the biggest Sunday scandal newspaper?”

“It was a detailed description of how the vault operates. Here! I cut out the article and brought it wif me, just in case I missed sumfin.”

Producing a torn piece of newspaper from his black duffle bag, Eric handed it to Tom, who quickly read through it.

“…Did this… instruction manual also tell you that the vault wouldn’t be used right away?”

“Can’t remember,” Eric quickly replied – trying to avoid the question entirely.

“And… that before fully testing the automatic locking and opening of the vault, no valuables would be stored in it?”

“…Yes,” explained Eric before launching into a lengthy, “But… they gave the date of it being put into service.”

“…I don’t see any date written here.”

“No exact date. Just the day after the bank holiday.”

“…Which bank holiday?”

Eric pondered the question and scratched his head while trying to process it, then just answered Tom’s question with another, “Wot?”

“The May bank holiday?”

Eric’s face brightened with the recollection of the date.

“Yes! Definitely May… if I’m not mistaken.”

Tom’s head dropped, tucking his chin into his chest, trying to restrain his growing frustration.

“…Which May bank holiday?”

“Wot?” Eric started to squirm ever so slightly.

“Let me be more specific… Was it the May-Day bank holiday, or the Spring bank holiday?”

“There’s only one in May, mate. Always has been.”

“…If you had been paying attention to the front pages rather than gawking at the topless ones, you would have noticed that this year is the first year that the Spring bank holiday will occur on the last Monday of May… instead of its traditional date at the beginning of June, so… May, that’s this month – in case you were confused… has two bank fucking holidays…”

“…I got the dates wrong, din I…”

“Well, it ain’t May Day, you big fucking pillock. Had you actually read the article more thoroughly, you would have known that the vault… this spacious but empty chamber of echoes, won’t be operational until…?” Tom gestured for Eric to finish his sentence.

“…The end of the month?”

“A gold star to the fuckwit,” Tom triumphantly declared. “With the most stupid fucking ideas of the century…”

“Yeah, well… we’ll talk about my ideas later, coz sumfin don’t feel right, Tom. It’s too quiet out there.”

“…You think we’ve been rumbled?”

“Dunno, I’ll take a look. Don’t worry, I’ll stay low.”

“How are you gonna stay low with those floor-to-ceiling windows?”

“Yeah, right. I’ve got an idea... I’ll pretend I’m the cleaner. I saw a feather duster on one of the counters. I’ll use that.”

Eric turned to exit the vault but was pulled back quickly by Tom.

“Take the stocking off your head.”

“Wot? Oh… I’d look a right plonker dusting the windows with that on, wouldn’t I…”

“You don’t need a stocking for that…”

Eric chuckled at Tom’s jest at his expense, before Tom instructed, “Put the doorjamb in place. I don’t want any accidents closing it again.”

Jamming the wooden axe into the vault door’s hinge, Eric swiftly crossed the bank floor, retrieved the duster, then feigned a cleaning routine, waving the duster at everything he passed on his way to the front door. Briefly caught up in the act of the charade, he stopped at a photo of the queen to remove a smudge from the frame’s glass.

Unseen behind the vault door, Tom listened intently for any sign of trouble. Straining to hear, he was jolted back by the sudden appearance of Eric – feather duster in hand, attempting to brush Tom down with it.

“Put that down!” Tom ordered. “What’s out there? Are we surrounded?”

“Well, that’s what I thought, but there’s no-one out there. Not even a passer-by. I don’t think no-one knows we’re in here.”

“…Of course,” Tom foolishly exclaimed. “It’s the bank holiday… The timer on the door has been set wrong.”

“That would explain it being open, and the inside gate being unlocked when we broke in last night.”

“The door wasn’t meant to be shut at all.”

“Right… Of course…! That’s why the chair was stuffed into the opening,” Eric pointed out.

“The very same chair you picked up and brought in here to sit on…”

“I needed to rest me pins. I didn’t know then that it was the only thing keeping the door open.”

“How could you, Eric? The door only has two giant fucking springs attached to the hinges, yeah?”

“Are we gonna argue or are we getting out of here – since the coast is clear.”

“…Gather everything up. Screwdrivers, crowbar, everything. We take it all with us. Leave no evidence that can be traced back to us.”

“Will do, mate. Better grab the piss bottles over there, as well.”

“That, Eric my friend, is you finally thinking.”

Tom turned to pick up the makeshift urinals, as Eric hurriedly stuffed the loose tools into his duffle bag - on the way out of the vault. Stopping at the entrance, he impulsively un-wedged the wooden doorjamb, placed it in his bag, then exited. Taking one last look at the vault to check for anything left, Tom turned to leave just as the clunk of the vault door shut in his face. Banging on the thick metal portal made no impression of a sound worth making – even after thumping both of his fists on its shiny, smooth surface. Desperate to alert Eric of his plight, Tom pulled the crowbar from his bag and infuriatingly banged it against the door. Out of breath and out of ideas, Tom was startled by the echoing ringing of the vault’s telephone. Hesitantly picking it up, he cautiously put the handset to his left ear.

“…Hello!?”

“…Tom! Is that you? Can you hear me? Would you believe they have a hotline to the vault from out here?”

“You took the doorjamb out, didn’t you…”

“You said not to leave anything behind.”

“…I meant anything… and anyone…”

Tom welcomed the guilted silence transmitting loud and clear over the hotline. He had grown tired of Eric’s voice and his incompetency, but a natural human need forced him to reluctantly converse with his hapless friend.

“…I need a piss and both flasks are full.”

“Right,” was the acknowledgement on the other end of the line before an uncomfortable silence purveyed a message of complete defeat.  Through two feet of fortified steel, Tom sensed Eric’s mind was working overtime, but before he could say anything over the telephone, Eric confidently spoke up.

“I’ve got an idea…!”

“No, Eric!” Tom tried in vain to dissuade any further action. However, in the time it took to disapprove of any more ideas, the light in the vault brightened again, but instead of the door opening, a loud, ear-piercing alarm rang through the bank and out of the in-built speakers on the vault’s walls. The din was so loud that Tom barely heard his friend shouting his name over the phone.

“TOM…! TOM…! TOM…!”

“…What have you done, Eric?”

“I set the alarm off.”

“What the fuck for?”

“Coz, the police will investigate it, open the vault, then let you out…”

Demoralised, Tom slumped to the floor, leaving the phone’s handset dangling from the wall, then resignedly tore strips from Eric’s newspaper clipping, rolled them into tube shapes, then crammed them into his ears to muffle the shrill of the alarm. Reaching above his head, he yanked the phone from the wall – all the while listening to Eric incessantly shout Tom’s name through the earpiece.

“Eric…”

“TOM! Thank goodness. I was worried something had happened to ya.”

“Eric… I’ve got an idea.”

“What!? Alright, yes… I’m all ears.”

“Get out of here... Save yourself… Go down the pub and have a pint.

“If you say so, Tom. Yes, alright.”

“…Eric, when you read about my conviction… Now, listen very carefully to what I have to say…”

“….Yes, Tom. I’m listening.”

“When you hear about me getting banged up for bank robbery, right…?”

“Yes, mate, wot?”

“…Don’t even think about coming to visit me or I’LL FUCKING BRAIN YA…!”

Slightly shocked at Tom’s outburst, Eric disregarded the threat as just a stress related, emotional eruption.

“Right… gotta go, Tom. I hear sirens approaching.”

Scribbling a note on a piece of paper that read, “IN HERE,” Eric found a tape dispenser and tacked the note onto the door of the vault. Satisfied his job was done, he hurriedly exited the building and headed for the pub - all the while mumbling,

“Quite honestly, I don’t know what he’s so upset about. I’m only getting him out of there before the bank opens tomorrow… A thank you, Eric, would have been nice…”