Howard shut his front door behind him and slid the deadbolt across, exhaling deeply as he leant his forehead against the cool wood of the door. To say that it had been a long day was somewhat of an understatement. After he had dropped the kid off he had driven to the next village where he had his car parked up in a lock up that he kept hold of. There he had left the van and driven back to London, via a shop to pick up the evening paper. The headlines screamed at him – 'Bank Robber escapes with £2,000,000 cash from Colbotts bank – fears grow for missing girl'. That had made him snort with laughter. They had printed a grainy photo of him, his face partially obscured by Vince's, pulled in tight in front of him – it wasn't enough to identify him - the newsagent had barely looked at Howard as he's handed over the money. Howard wondered what would've happened if he'd let his black trench coat slip open and reveal the remains of the security guard's head all over his shirt. Even the photo evoked the memory of how the boy's hair had smelled, and how it had tickled his nose. There was a hundred and one things he should be doing, Howard knew, so why was he obsessing over a boy he barely knew and was unlikely to see again. He had to ring his boss, for one thing. It amazed him that he hadn't heard from him already – he must've seen the news, seen how it had gone so badly wrong. According to the paper, Jim was dead and Jackie was in a coma. It was up to him to provide some answers, whatever they may be. Howard couldn't even comprehend how things had gone so badly wrong. It was a Sunday – there wasn't even supposed to be anyone in the bank that day, instead there was at least six staff members having some kind of training event or something, as well as security. One of them had even brought their kid in; she had been playing on the floor, her hair shining golden in the sunlight. Howard wasn't sure whether they had been more shocked to see him or him to see them. And Vince, Vince had been there as well, leaning on the counter as though he owned the whole place. Maybe they had opened the bank for him specially – Howard had heard of that happening occasionally for rock stars or celebrities. Lets be honest, if he was in Colbotts bank he was probably someone pretty special. You had to have £80,000 to even open an account there. That was, after all, the kind of place that Howard specialised in – the sort of place that didn't even look like anything from the outside, the kind that you needed your own pass to get in. And, barring today's monumental fuck up, he was usually very good at it. The best. That was why his boss had asked for him specifically for this job. As tempting as it was to just take the £2,000,000 and disappear to a sunny island somewhere, reputation was everything in his game, which was why he had to arrange a meeting with his boss sooner rather than later. Luckily he had all his important contacts written in a beaten up black leather address book that he kept tucked behind a loose brick inside his chimney so he would be able to contact him without his mobile phone. He would just have to go out and find a phone box to call him. It wouldn't do to phone him from his own phone – that wasn't how things worked. You didn't let people know anything about you, not anything real. That was far too dangerous.

He walked into the kitchen and poured himself an extremely large whisky and drank deeply from the glass, wincing as the firey liquid hit the back of his throat. He wearily put the glass down on the counter and got on with his post job routine. As he waited for the water to run hot, he started stacking the dirty dishes from last night in the sink. It had been his best mate, Ian's idea, initially, about ten years ago. Howard could remember now how he'd started it, when they'd lived together in that dirty flat above a shop in Dalston. Ian had convinced him to leave the dishes until after they got back ('just in case something goes wrong Howard' he'd explained in his slightly nervous, breathy tone, 'if the police came looking round here, they wouldn't suspect us – no one would go out robbing without doing the washing up first'). Howard had laughed at his logic but somehow picked up the habit and it was now as much a part of his pre-job routine as checking over his kit or having one last look at the blueprints of the place he was turning over. Of course Ian was long gone – he had killed himself in prison. Howard didn't want to think of that though, not ever, and turned his attention to the dishes instead.

Just as he was wiping the suds from the first plate, the phone rang shrilly – the sound cut through the air, making him drop the plate back into the sink in shock. He clenched his jaw in annoyance at his routine being interrupted. Who the hell could that be? No one had his land line number and he was ex directory, obviously. Wiping the water from his face, he went to pick it up, muttering a prayer under his breath that it was just a wrong number or someone trying to sell him double glazing. He knew he shouldn't pick it up, that in reality, it wouldn't be a wrong number and he had never had a call about double glazing in the four years he had lived there. It had to be trouble.

"Hello?" he asked tentatively, as he lifted the receiver to his ear.

"Hiya!"

"Who is this?"

"It's Vince…..we met earlier today. I don't know, maybe you don't remember?"

Howard smiled, in spite of himself. Vince seemed to have that effect on him.

He sounded genuinely uncertain - as if he could forget him, even if they had met in slightly less ignominious circumstances.

"How the fuck did you get this number?" The laugh that tinkled down the phone at him made him want to hunt the little shit down and slap him round the face – not punch him, not shoot him, just a sharp slap to the face that would wipe the smug smile that he could hear right off it.

"Errr – I looked in the address book on your phone and found the number stored under Home," Howard screwed his eyes tightly shut, needing the rest of the glass of whiskey. How could he have been so stupid? Giving him his phone! He was willing to reconsider not wanting to shoot Vince.

"What do you want? And where the hell have you got the nerve to phone me up? You know I could kill you right?"

"I know. But you won't. If you were going to you would've done it this afternoon, in the car,"

"You didn't answer me, what do you want?"

"What do you think I want?" Vince countered, cheekily.

Hearing his voice down the phone line felt strangely intimate. Howard cradled the receiver under his chin, imagining that they were the only people in the whole world as he walked the fine line between threatening and whatever this was turning into,

"Tell me" he growled.

"Money, of course. I reckon you owe me after all,"

"What!" Howard spluttered. He nearly hung up the phone before he realised Vince was still talking.

"I'm an accessory – you gave me the money and the phone – that means I've benefited from the crime. And I helped you escape from the police - "

"You were a hostage," Howard interrupted wearily, "you didn't have much choice,"

There was silence for a moment as Vince seemed to consider the idea. Howard was torn between hanging up and keeping the boy talking all night.

"I did though didn't I – I got into the van all on my own," he sounded almost proud of himself.

The simplicity and sheer audacity of the argument made Howard smile. He reached over and picked up a fifty pound note, rubbing it contemplatively between his fingers. The whole thing seemed almost surreal – who did this little tosser think he was?

"How much do you want? Couple of thou? A million? 50% ought to cover you for all the work you put into the job, all the risks you took,"

"Fuck you, you sarcastic twat, I only want a couple of hundred,"

Howard tried to justify it in his head – that he was only going to get his phone back, after all his boss had probably tried to call him a hundred times; that it might be a good idea to make sure the kid kept quiet, either with money or threats or actual violence – but in the end it was the desperate tinge to Vince's voice that made him forget the fact that London was crawling with police all looking for him and that in all his years in the business, this was the stupidest he had ever acted.

"Alright then, where do you live?"

"Carrestone Estate, London"

At this Howard started slightly – he knew the area by reputation alone. It was a shit hole, plain and simple – it was where the dregs of society were sent and discarded in the hope that they would either all kill each other or live happily in some kind of lawless savagery. The tower block that the Carrestone Estate was built around could be seen for miles and Howard could never be sure that it was just his imagination that made the sky look a little greyer over it. How the hell had Vince ended up living there? Howard knew it was madness to enter the Estate at night, let alone carrying large amounts of cash. So he was surprised when he heard a voice that he recognised as his own, arranging to meet the boy in the Duke of Wellington, a pub on the outskirts of the estate. He was halfway out the door, pulse racing at the thought of seeing the boy again, before he realised that he should change out of his bloodstained clothes into something less conspicuous. This boy was really going to be bad news.

"So what's a guy like you doing somewhere like Colbotts?"

Vince smirked slightly, raising an eyebrow in a way that made Howard's face feel hot,

"You know that sounds like a bad chat up line don't you,"

Vince smiled shyly at him over the top of his drink. In another life they could be friends, maybe even more. The injustice of this made Howard feel sad and take a deep draught of his pint. Vince seemed to notice the shift in atmosphere and, dragging the sleeves of his top down over his hands, seamlessly put the conversation back onto a safer track,

"I was handing out CVs to all the places down the high street - I was looking for a job. I got sacked from my last one for giving my manager a hair cut. It wasn't my fault though, he looked genius with a mullet. But he wouldn't give me last month's pay – hence my searching for a new job before I get kicked out of my flat for not paying the rent – hence my needing the money,"

He stared down at the table, tracing the ringed stains of long-emptied pint glasses with his fingertip, obviously embarrassed. Howard reached into his back pocket and drew out the cash nervously, concealing the notes in the palm of his hand as best he could. He risked a swift look around the bar before handing over the cash. The place was pretty empty and most people in there looked harmless enough. Vince clung onto his hand for just a second too long, running his finger along Howard's palm and making him draw his hand sharply away, momentarily forgetting the money and the need for secrecy. In a move so practiced that it made Howard wonder at how innocent this boy was exactly, Vince slipped the fold of notes up into the cuff of his top, like a magician palming a card for some shit trick. Howard racked his brain for something to say, frustrated at himself for feeling nervous, like he was on a date,

"So you really live here then, the Carrestone Estate?"

Vince replied nonchantly, although a slight flush coloured his pale skin, belying his embarrassment,

"You know, it's not so bad as people think. There is trouble sometimes but if you keep your head down you generally get left alone. So where do you live then, some flash loft apartment in Canary Wharf, I bet?"

Howard chuckled, "Hardly. That sounds a bit trendy for me," Vince nodded eagerly and it occurred to Howard that Vince had just asked about his place to change the subject, and so pressed on with his questions,

"Seriously though Vince, how did you end up here?"

The smile slipped from Vince's face for a moment and he gazed down into the depths of his drink, before pasting the brightness back on,

"That's a story for another day,"

"I'll hold you to that," Howard retorted automatically.

Their eyes met as they shared the singular thought that there would be no other days, no time for any more stories. This really would be the last time they saw each other. Howard opened his mouth to say something when he saw him. The guy sitting at the bar, just visible over Vince's left shoulder. Something about his body language, the way he stared intently at Howard for a few seconds before pulling his phone from his pocket with studied carelessness and sending a text, made Howard instantly suspicious. It could be nothing, or it could be the police, or worse, he argued with himself, back and forth, wondering what to do. In the end his survival instinct paid off over any desire to stay and get to know Vince better.

"I'm just going to the toilet," he said to Vince, louder than was necessary, as he rose from his chair, but he needed the guy at the bar to hear so he wouldn't follow him.

He walked as slowly and calmly as he could to the toilet and pushed the door open, using the tips of his fingers on the tarnished brass plate, before letting it slam shut. Once inside he moved a lot more quickly. Throwing open the tiny window in one of the cubicles, he hauled himself up and out of it. It was a tight fit but somehow he managed it. He dropped lightly down onto the tarmac of the car park, his trainers barely making a sound, and walked quickly to his car, not looking back.