Love Letters From the Grave(7)

He’d been both nervous and excited when he left home early on the Friday morning of the caper, driving away into the unknown. As arranged, he’d met Wendell early and driven to a planned location at the edge of the city to pick up the six gang members. They’d then driven, four to a Packard, to the targeted bank.

‘Stay in the car,’ snapped Hepworth to Charlie as he nodded to the three men in the back of the car. ‘Don’t move for anything or anyone until we’re back. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Charlie, his legs turning to liquid so fast that he doubted he could move anyway, even if he wanted to.

He’d heard about bank robberies, of course – it was impossible not to. As Wendell had said, they were becoming almost commonplace since the Wall Street Crash. But in Chicago. Not here. Somehow he’d never imagined he might be involved in one.

It had suddenly become very real when he saw the gun protruding from the pocket of one of the men in the back seat, and had watched Hepworth slip back the safety catch on a pistol as he climbed out of the car.

He wished he could talk to Wendell. He could ask if Wendell was armed, what they should do if anything went wrong. Charlie wasn’t armed himself, and never would have been. He would have refused to even be a driver if he’d had even an inkling of what was to come. Wouldn’t he? It was hard to think straight as adrenaline surged around his body.

Sitting at the wheel of the shiny black, late model, souped-up Packard, he tingled with a strange mix of excitement and anticipation that was tinged with a growing sense of dread. He assumed that Wendell, in an identical car parked in front of him, was feeling the same way. To settle his nerves, Charlie focussed on using his driving skills and love for speed to make a quick and successful get-away from the bank, picturing the gear changes, the stabs of his feet on the accelerator, the brakes, the twists and turns that he’d practiced with Wendell.

It was now several seconds – only seconds? – since they had pulled up to the curb at the side of the bank, watching as the six other members of their group marched briskly around the corner to enter the front door of the bank. Any moment now they would emerge from around the corner, hopefully carrying bags of money.

‘Any moment now,’ whispered Charlie. ‘Any moment. They’ll come out, with the money. The poor folks’ money. Any second, Charlie.’

He’d convinced himself so much of this that he was just about to turn over the ignition, when a terrible sound emerged from the bank – a scream, followed by one, two, three gunshots, rapidly fired. Through the partially-opened windows Charlie could hear a woman sobbing, wailing to be spared, to be saved for her children’s sake, and just as he was taking in what she was saying an explosion rang out, assaulting his ears. More sounds: an iron gate clanging shut – or open, it was impossible to tell; screaming, crying, a terrible howling like a keening stag, wounded but not killed, and then another gunshot. The keening stopped abruptly.

Charlie clutched his head between his hands, half as an attempt to cut out the horrible noises, half in horror and shock at where he’d found himself. What should he do? He was under the strictest orders not to get out for anyone, but he wanted to stop it, wanted to help the screaming woman, wanted to cry out to Wendell, to Hepworth, to anyone …

But his instructions had been very, very explicit. ‘Do not move, not for anything or anyone. Wait until we come out.’

And as long as he sat there, unarmed, just driving a car, only driving a car, he wasn’t part of this, was he? He was separate from it. Just a chauffeur. Just a fifteen-year old boy, thrilled at the chance to drive a flash car at top speed. Wasn’t he? Charlie’s breath caught in his throat. It was hard to inhale. Hard to think.

Suddenly, a vast number of police and unmarked cars raced in, seemingly from every direction, sliding to a screeching stop in a tight angle along the front and side of the bank. Armed men poured from the cars, some in police uniforms and some in civilian clothes, dropping instantly into defensive positions around the bank. A plain-clothed man behind a Ford Model A (and how could he take the time to know it was a Ford Model A? Charlie felt as though his brain was operating outside of his body) lined up his sights on the bank door and then gave a tiny but firm nod.

Almost immediately a cacophony of gunfire, shouting and screaming erupted, with men running heedlessly in all directions and horrific sounds of all kinds bouncing off the walls, the cars, the windows of the bank.

Bullets hit the car, tearing into the metal and glass and ricocheting off the Packard in front. Charlie dived onto the floorboard, covering his ears, cowering beneath the dash as the shouting, screaming and gunfire seemed to go on forever. Bullets sliced through the bodywork into the car, ripping through the padded ceiling and collecting in the driver’s seat where, only moments ago, he’d been sitting, rigid with fear and indecision.

He lay shaking, coiled like a wolf pup. Suddenly both front doors were flung open, several pairs of hands reached in and Charlie was yanked violently out of the car. He turned to cry out to Wendell, to warn him that he should move, but through the linked arms of the two policemen who were hauling him toward their vehicle, still dodging bullets as whoever remained of the bank robbers fought back, Charlie saw something terrible – so terrible he knew it would remain with him for the rest of his life.

Wendell was exactly where he was meant to be: bolt upright in the driver’s seat, waiting for Hepworth and the others to pile into the car. One side of his scalp was missing, and the whole of Wendell’s face, still frozen into a shocked expression, was obscured by the curtain of blood that flooded over his features.