Time For Trust. PENNY JORDAN
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her the type of privileges they seemed to think. In the evening, when they were out discoing and enjoying themselves, she was at home being catechised by her father as to what she had learned. Her degree did not exempt her from sitting all her Institute exams, and she was all too conscious that he was expecting her to do well.
The pressure on her, well-meant and proud though it was, kept her weight a little under what it ought to be for her height. Even now, early in her working day, she was conscious of an unhealthy tension across her shoulder-blades.
Tonight was the night she went to advanced evening classes for embroidery; the one bright shining pleasure in her otherwise tension-filled week.
She knew that, no matter how much she strove, working in the bank was never going to be anything other than a duty, and a reluctant one at that, but she just couldn’t bring herself to disappoint her parents—especially her father—by telling them that she could not fulfil their ambitions for her.
This particular morning there was no commissionaire on duty, but when she turned the handle on the door of the back entrance to the bank, which the staff used on arriving and leaving, she found that the door was unlocked.
She walked into the familiar Stygian darkness of the narrow Victorian passage that led to the offices and cubby-holes at the back of the banking hall proper.
The first thing that struck her as she emerged into the general office was the silence…the second was the group of masked, armed men, one of whom was advancing grimly towards her, the rest holding the other members of the staff in a silent, threatened group.
‘Get over there and keep your mouth closed.’
Her body trembling with shock, she did as she was instructed. It took several seconds for it to fully dawn on her that this was that most dreaded of all events within the banking community—an armed bank raid.
In such events, all bank staff were instructed not to try to do anything that might risk either their lives or those of others.
As she joined the silent group, Jessica saw that her father’s second in command was among them, his normally highly coloured fleshy features a shade of old tallow. As her father’s second in command he was in charge of one set of vault keys, while the bank accountant held the other. Together every morning they would unlock the vault so that the cashiers could collect cash for their tills.
Whenever necessary, and never normally on a regular basis, fresh supplies of cash were delivered from the nearby Bank of England. Only yesterday, late in the afternoon after close of banking hours, they had received an exceptionally large consignment of cash, and Jessica realised in sick fear that somehow the thieves must have known of this.
In retrospect, the ordeal of waiting while each member of staff arrived and was duly imprisoned with his or her colleagues seemed to be dragged out over a lifetime of unimaginable terror and shock.
None of them had any way of knowing what was to happen to them…whether they would all emerge unharmed from their ordeal.
On this particular day, Jessica knew that her father was not due into the bank until after lunch, having a morning appointment with an important customer. It seemed the thieves knew it as well, because just as soon as they were sure that all the staff had arrived they took them all at gunpoint to one of the large safes beneath the branch and shut them in it under armed guard.
Still forbidden to speak, and under the silent, masked threat of the gunmen facing them, they felt tension fill the room like a sour taste in the air.
All of them were close to breaking-point, but still it came as something of a shock when one of the other girls, the one who had been so catty about her working in the bank, suddenly called out frantically to their guard, ‘She’s the one you ought to be concentrating on. She’s the chairman’s daughter. She’s far more use to you than we are.’
Jessica held her breath, her chest painfully tight with anxiety and fear as the gunman turned slowly in her direction. Through the slits in his mask, she could see the icy glitter of his eyes. He motioned to her to step forward. When she hesitated, John Knowles, the accountant, bravely stepped in front of her, saying quickly, ‘She’s just a girl. Let her be.’
When the gunman hit him on the side of his head with the butt of his gun, a massed audible breath of shock rippled through them all.
Shaking with tension, Jessica obeyed the gunman’s instruction to step forward. He walked slowly round her, the sensation of him standing behind her making the hairs rise in the nape of her neck.
So this was terror, this thick, cold sensation that bordered on paralysis, freezing the body and yet leaving the mind sharply clear to assimilate the vulnerabilities of her position.
The sound of the safe door opening took the gunman from behind her to join his fellow members of the gang. In the low-toned conversation they exchanged Jessica caught her own name, but not much else, and then to her horror she was being told to walk towards them. Flanked on either side by a gunman, she was escorted from the safe.
Hearing the safe door clang closed behind her was the very worst sound she had ever heard. Behind that closed door were her colleagues, safe now, surely, while she…
‘Better take her upstairs to the boss,’ the second gunman instructed the first.
The ‘boss’ was a powerfully built man with the coldest, shrewdest eyes she had ever seen.
‘Chairman’s daughter, is she?’ he repeated when informed of her status.
‘Yeah. I thought we could get a good ransom.’
A quick turn of the ‘boss’s’ hand silenced her jailer.
‘We’ll take her with us,’ the ‘boss’ announced chillingly after studying her for several seconds. ‘She can be our insurance.’
What followed still haunted her in her nightmares. Blindfolded and gagged, she was bundled out of the bank and directly into the kind of armoured vehicle normally used by security companies. Once inside she could sense the presence of other people, even though they remained silent.
The van was driven away and she heard someone saying, ‘How long do you reckon before anyone can raise the alarm?’
‘Bank’s supposed to be open in five minutes. That should give us half an hour or so before anyone realises what’s happened…It will take them a fair time to break into the safe. The only other set of keys are held by the chairman, and he’s out in Kent.’
‘By the time they do get hold of them we’ll—’
A sudden curse obviously reminded the speaker of her presence and he fell silent. She was sitting on the floor of the van, bound, blindfolded and gagged. Her body ached from the pressure of the hard floor and the fear-induced tension. She was sure she was going to die, to become another statistic of violence and greed, and when the van finally stopped and she was bundled out and half dragged, half carried up flight after flight of stairs and then pushed in a dank, foul-smelling room she was even more convinced that this was the end.
She heard the door close but dared not move, not knowing how many members of the gang were preserving a silent vigil around her. The silence went on and on, a relentless pressure against her stretched eardrums, like a soundless, high-pitched scream, battering at her senses.
Time lost all meaning. Her arms and hands were numb, but still she dared not move, picturing the armed man perhaps sitting in front of her, watching her. Her throat was dry and sore, but she couldn’t ask for a drink. Her body ached, and cramp ran like a violent wrenching wire from her left calf to her ankle.
Outwardly motionless and controlled, inwardly she was falling apart, suffering the most appalling imagined fates, wondering if whoever had said those immortal words ‘a brave man dies once, the coward a thousand times over’ had really any awareness of the true terrors created by the imagination—terrors which had nothing whatsoever to do with one’s ability to endure actual physical pain.
At some point she