The Trojans

In the middle of the lounge there were two tables together, both of which were smothered under a pile of banknotes of all denominations. On the side of the table nearest the door, sat the neat, counted bundles. To the right, lay a huge random pile of cash, with yet more loot in the sacks and bags around the table. In between the piles of money were mugs, beer bottles, glasses of beer and spirits and around the two tables sat seven men. As if designed to frustrate any writer hoping to tell their tale, they were all of similar build and look, all dressed in black, with shaven hair, no beards, moustaches or glasses, all in their late forties or early fifties and all of slightly above average height and build, nothing at all to distinguish them from each other. Collectively they were known as the Trojans.

The Trojans were an elite gang of criminals; elite, in part at least, because they resisted the high gain, low risk opportunities of internet theft and fraud in favour of the more old fashioned walk into bank with guns, walk out of bank with money, routine. It was
this type of job that had given them their name, many years earlier, when as teenagers, they had walked into the Camden High Street branch of Lloyds Bank waving stolen shotguns and exited within just six minutes with bags of stolen case. Not steeped in knowledge of ancient history and literature, the gang had equated this quick entry and exit with the Athenian entry into Troy, not realising that the siege actually lasted several years and involved hiding in a giant horse. When a better educated friend wiithin the criminal fraternity once tried to explain this to them, Gary interrupted with the sensible observation that: "Yeah, but it's a good name. If the name works it doesn't matter who hid in the fuckin' giant donkey."

Robbing banks was considerably more risky now than when the Trojans had started out. Forensic evidence meant that the gang had to wear something akin to spacesuits on top of their regular black kit in order not to leave any trace of DNA, not so much as a stray
hair. Apart from William Wheels, they all had criminal records for simtrilar offences and could take no risks. They had worn masks and gloves since the early days, but the latest technology and widespread use of CCTV meant that they had to disguise their shape, using padding and in Tim's case a false third leg, to fool the police as much as possible: latest police technology could recognise known criminals from their body shape and none of them was willing to go through the rigours of dieting just to fool the camera.

The other big change over the last thirty years was the difficulty spending the money; computers meant that all major stores could be alerted to the missing serial numbers, meaning that it would only be possible to spend the money in small amounts at any one time and never twice in the same location. The cost of outsourcing the laundering of the money ate into half the profits.

Altogether seven men sat around the combined tables, couting the procedes of their latest adventure. The man who spoke, the leader Gary Gruff, was the most distinct in appearance, set apart by a face that looked like it had been through at least three lifetimes and a massive pair of hands, both as big as dinner plates. The hands were busy counting a bundle of fifty pound notes.

"Nine hundred and ninety thousand nine hundred and fifty, one hundred thousand; and we've hardly scratched the surface. Let's have a toast anyway, to the first ton thousand, to the Trojans, to the Nat West in Watford.

Glasses and bottles were raised and cheers rang out. "We'll be able to retire with this little lot," said one of the men, nicknamed Spider, even though he looked nothing like a spider. He'd been saying the same thing for the last three raids, and as ever, received no enthusiastic backing for his proposal. The Trjans lived for the next job, they could all have afforded to retire many raids previously, if truth be known, but they didn't want to join the pack of Costa Del Sol has-beens, brains rotting away through lack of
action and drama.

"A special toast," Gary continued in toastmaster role, "to the innitiator of this particular plan, Young Eric Baxter." Eric was six months younger the rest of them and had been burdened with the Young Eric nickname since a time when it actually suited him.

Though the bank raids all kept to the same basic principles, it was Eric who took on the role of checking out the targets, mapping the layout of the bank, position of security guards and security cameras, opening and closing times, peak hours, number of staff and who has the keys and the codes. In this job he had also found out that this was the bank used by the National Lottery and that they had an extra large sum of money in the safe that day due to a recent lottery winner insisting on being paid in cash. In any other gang Eric would have had a nickname like The Planner.

Knowing the routine of these evenings well, Eric himself then arose from his chair and made a short speech.

"Here's to the Trojan army, another great victory!" This was met with great cheers from everyone at the table. "This is our most successful run of jobs and looking at the pile of wonga on the table, this is also our biggest ever haul." This too was met by cheers and more drinking.

"As you know, a job like this is a team effort, and there's no greater team than the Trojans," (more cheers) "Thanks to Gary and Legs for sorting out the front of house, I especially liked the way Legs persuaded the manager that his legs would function better if they remained attached to his knees."

"The old tricks are the best tricks," Legs had replied. Legs, had become the nickname for Tim ever since he started using the fake 3rd leg to confuse the CCTV.

"And a big thank you to SPider and Dave for taking out the security guard. I bet you wish you'd taken out as many women as you have security guards over the years Spider."

"Why take a woman out when you can stay in with her," Spider replied, to raucous laughter.

"Raise another glass to Mr William Wheels," Young Eric continued, "who only stalled twice this time, a personal record.

William laughed along with the others at this joke, everyone knowing, of course, that he had never stalled in his entire career, indeed he was one of the best in the business.

"Lastly, we only got away because of the stirling work of our two lookouts, Tucker making sure the exit was clear outside," Tucker raised his glass and accepted his round of cheers, "and Rowdy overseeing things inside the bank."

The round of cheers was cut short, as one by one the men round the table realised that Rowdy wasn't actually with them.

Gary stood up. "Where the fuck is Rowdy?" he asked and was met by half a dozen blank faces.

"He did come back to the house with us, didn't he? Please tell me we didn't leave him at the bank to do a meet and greet with the fuckin' Metropolitan police force. Wheels, tell me you didn't drive off without him.

William paused uncertainly. "I dunno, I sort of assumed we were all in. You gave me the signal to drive off, I wasn't gonna stop to call a register."

"Fuck." They were all silent for a while. If Rowdy was caught there was a real risk that he might give away the location of their gettaway cottage, the police could be on their way there, could literally be outside the front door. Loyal as the Trojans were, the difference between fifteen years and a suspended sentence meant that no-one could be trusted completely, even after all this time.

"How the fuck did we not notice Rowdy was missing, did nobody wonder why it was so quiet." Nobody said anything, everyone still too stunned to speak.
The seconds ticked by and the clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve.

As the sound of the last ring faded, Gary was finally spurred into action,"Right, we'd better play it safe, the cops could be on the way over here, so we need to leave ASAP. Start bagging the money up, clear your prints off anything you know you've touched, Wheels get some bin bags for the beer and rubbish." He paused as his instructions began to be carried out. "He WAS there wasn't he? We did remember to pick him up didn't we?"

This too was met by confusion, nobody could remember seeing him in the bank, nor even in the van on the way. Everyone had assumed they were all in the van, everyone had assumed they were all in the bank, but because of the nature of his role, essentially the eyes and ears of the group, nobody was watching for him.

"Right, we can't call him from our phones in case he's staying chez plod, but as soon as we see a phone box we call his mobile.

They do still have phone boxes, don't they?"

Another of Gary's went unanswered, it had been a long time since any of them had had occassion to use a public phone.

Gary opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could form the words he was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Fuck," said all seven Trojans simultaneously.

"That could be Rowdy," somebody whispered.

"Yeah, it could also be the cops," said somebody else.

Not displaying an iota of the nerves he was feeling, Gary got up and went to the door. Everything else stopped.