by Gary Davison
00.15
Sweat running down our faces, palms itching inside the plastic gloves, Gregg gently turned the door handle, easing it open. The draught blew in the sound of voices. I placed my hand over Gregg’s and shut the door. There was nowhere to hide. If they opened the door we were fucked. My guess was a key colleague cashing up because Eleanor, in all the time we had been watching the door, had never cashed up before twelve forty-five.
Gregg tapped his watch – five minutes had passed. He tried the door again and the coast was clear.
00.20
We were six minutes behind schedule when we reached the cash room door. The first code was rejected, the red light flashing like a strobe. The next code triggered the holy green and we were in. The room was tiny, white walls, stack of grey cash boxes, four cashier’s trolleys and a door to the left with a one-way glass window. Gregg punched in the code and it opened first time.
00.22
In front of us there were two grey safes, each double the size of a filing cabinet, with a wheel, a keyhole and a silver keypad. On a table to the left, there were two trays of paperwork, five or six electronic scales and piles of plastic moneybags with Securityinc blazed across them in blue. Underneath, there was another metal container. Gregg tried Eleanor’s long key in the first safe and shook his head.
“Try the code first.”
He input the last code then tried the key; it turned.
I rushed to the door and checked out of the window.
Gregg was struggling to open the safe and let go of the wheel. “It’s no use, Spence, it won’t budge.”
“Forget it, let’s be away before someone comes in. We’re fucking bang to rights here.”
Gregg lunged at the wheel and pulled with everything he had. I shouldered him aside and tried the other way. Two clunks and the door swung open. The safe was partitioned off with shelves, sand coloured clothbags on the bottom and middle, plastic Securityinc bags on the top. Gregg ripped open a Securityinc bag and showed me – packed solid with notes, $1000 written on the purple wraps. “Come on then!”
I shoved him forward and he stuffed the plastic bags into the holdall. I went to the other safe and tried the three steps: clunk, clunk. The top two shelves were full of Securityinc bags.
“Just the s-securi bags,” Gregg stuttered.
Like a psycho on supermarket sweep, I filled the bag in seconds, topping it off with cloth cash bags.
00.31
I looked through the window and it was all clear. As I turned back I froze. In the far corner a camera was directed at the safes. “Fuck!”
The screen in the CCTV room hadn’t shown the safes, so there had to be a separate monitor and recorder. Gregg pulled at the metal container under the table, fumbling keys into the lock, but couldn’t open it.
I knew it. I fucking knew it. How the fuck could we not see that camera. Even if we’d seen it we would still have been fucked. Two shelf-packers creeping into the safe room, what excuse could we give? Fucking none. Other than that we were trying to rob the place. Attempted robbery, conspiracy to rob and fuck knows what else adds up to years behind bars.
We sat, backs to the wall, listening to the rumbling air con unit. We had been in the safe room for fourteen minutes, but it felt like hours. I crawled forward, lay on my belly and listened to the metal container.
“This isn’t it,” I said, clambering to my feet, “Come on!”
00.36
We moved swiftly through the cash room and corridor, stopping at the CCTV door. Gregg opened it at the second attempt and we went inside.
“Under the desk,” I said.
“This is it, it’s buzzing like fuck.”
He tried Jeff’s and Eleanor’s keys, but couldn’t open it. I took them from him and slowly worked my way through both sets. The cabinet sprung open. Inside was a single screen split in two, showing the cash room and the safe room. I ejected the tape and locked it shut.
00.41
We had been in the backrooms for thirty minutes – twenty longer than planned. Aileen and the key colleagues would be cashing up. If we left now, we could walk straight into a supervisor, cashier or the security guard. We sat watching the screens and the door handle. Five texts came through from Cam wanting to know what was wrong.
Another seven minutes passed and we checked the door again: doors opening and closing and voices. Unless they discovered the cash missing, then it was unlikely that anyone would come into the CCTV room. But still, sitting in plastic gloves, sweat pouring out of us with two sports bags full of cash, we were hardly chilled.
Gregg elbowed me and we leant towards the bottom left-hand screen. It was Cam, standing on the corner of 17 looking well suss. We rolled over silently laughing as he minced off towards the toilets.
00.54
We crept along the corridor to the secure door. There were no customers going through the checkout and Cam was back at 17.
I went out first and pulled the trolley towards the door. Gregg packed the bags into the empty boxes and we made for the warehouse. The security guard nodded as we travelled along the crossover, before turning up 16, onto the top aisle and through the warehouse doors. Cam appeared alongside and helped steer the trolley to its resting place. Aileen was standing outside the staffroom, having a row with a key colleague. Gregg pulled the two bags out and I hoisted one over my shoulder and the three of us walked out of the service yard door.
I dropped the bag at the top of the landing and caught Amber in my arms.
“What took you so long! You should have been back ages ago! I was worried sick.”
“You’ll not believe what happened,” I said.
“Straight in,” Gregg said. “Can’t believe it.”
“Straight in. I swear to God.”
Cam was stood at the window. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Amber searched our faces. “Well then,” she said, settling on mine.
“Lift that.”
She did.
“Loaded,” Gregg muttered, walking away. “Loaded. Yeah, loaded. Look, Spence?”
I lifted my head.
“What the fuck we going to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t… I mean…”
“Look,” Cam said, lifting his backpack. “I don’t care about the money. The last bus leaves in ten minutes and I’m on it.”
“If we do one,” I said. “They’ll be straight onto us for this. You know that.”
“Fuck it,” Gregg said, grabbing his bags. “Let’s be away. If we’re miles away, what the fuck can they do?”
There was no chance of us facing the music tomorrow and getting away with it. Even if we could, they’d go after Cam because he’d be the only one that had left on the night of the robbery and when they caught him, he’d fold and we’d all be fucked.
I stepped out into the rain, posted the keys and hurried to catch up with the others. We turned the corner and Gregg ran ahead and caught the driver.
Breathing heavily and brushing the rain off, we took our seats.
The driver got off to take a piss and my heart started hammering. I could hear sirens. We looked at each other and I was all for legging it when he got back on.
I checked behind us, still nothing. Just as he started to pull away, something caught my eye. Sat on the pavement staring up at me was the stray dog from the park. He was soaking.
“Let me up,” I said to Amber.
“Spence!” Gregg shouted. “What the fuck?”
“Two seconds, mate,” I said. “I’m bursting.”
“Haven’t got time to wait, son.”
I jumped off and the driver slowly pulled away.
I jogged into the toilet block, knelt down and wrapped the dog in my sweatshirt. I ran out and chased the bus and caught up at the car park exit and jumped on.
Part 2
14
After counting the cash in a Securityinc bag, Gregg estimated that we had over six-hundred grand. We
should be bricking it big time, but we were fucking giddy being on the run. Stars of a top-drawer movie.
Reservoir dogs, Heat, The Vasey Gang. Why the fuck not? We’d just robbed a top supermarket of all its takings. Best thing I’d ever done, this. No doubt. I know I wanted out early on, but last night and now the buzz, it’s unbelievable. I swear I feel like I’ve just dropped from another fucking planet.
The plan was to stay on the overnight bus until we reached Byron Bay, but after seven hours the driver spotted the dog and kicked us off at Port Macquarie. We sent Amber and Cam to buy a car at the lot we’d seen on the way in. Gregg and I sat outside Café Coluzzi on the corner of Pacific and Clarence, shades on, drinking cappuccinos in the morning sun.
We needed a safe place to store the cash that couldn’t be traced back to us. Gregg refused to use a safety deposit box: too many cameras, too difficult to get back out. We scanned the local directory and rang three storage companies, the closest was The Carry Gentle Cargo Company in Kempsey. They had 24-hour security and access, and a room the size of a closet cost $95 per month.
A burgundy Toyota Camry pulled up to the kerb.
Gregg shook his head and reached for the bags.
“4x4 is what I said, nugget. What the fuck’s this?”
Cam argued that paying any more than three grand in cash for a car would look suss. Gregg snatched the keys and jumped into the driver’s seat. Two miles down the road we pulled off into some woods and had ourselves a fire. The holdalls, cash bags, gloves, videotapes, clothes and shoes. Everything. Cam was flapping at all the smoke blowing back onto the road, but we waited until there were only ashes left.
We followed the directions to an industrial estate on the outskirts of Kempsey, and Amber walked ahead with the backpack to hire a locker. Gregg thought the Securityinc bags might have slow releasing ink, so we decided not to take any of the robbery money with us until we knew for sure it wasn’t traceable.
Twenty minutes later Amber returned.
“Absolute doddle,” she said, getting into the car. “He photocopied my passport and I filled the form in and paid two months up front.”
“How big was the room?” Gregg asked. “No way of anyone getting in?”
“About the size of a school locker. Cameras everywhere, and who’s going to try and steal a trampy backpack?”
“True, true,” I said. “No questions on what was inside?”
She shook her head.
“Fucking yes!” Gregg said, punching the air. “I thought we were never going to get shot of it.’
We stopped at the next services and waited on the corner while Amber filled up. Cam went on foot patrol and returned brandishing a copy of the Sydney Star.
“Check this out,” he said, holding it up. “Ideal place, my friends. It will be a rocking and a rolling for sure.”
“Gay festival?” Gregg said. “You’re having a laugh.”
“You never heard of Fat Tuesday? It’s huge! It’s not just gays, there’ll be hoards of chicks there, mate.
Anyone who’s anyone will be there this weekend. Here, look who’s on, The Killers, Rogue Traders, Kasey Chambers. It’s big time, mate. Believe it.”
“Who the fuck are Rogue Traders?”
“They sang that Voodoo Child, didn’t they?” I said.
“A gay festival? Definitely not. We need to go to ground until we know what’s happening.”
“He could be onto something,” I said. “We could disappear at a festival, especially one as big as this.”
“You heard of it before?”
I nodded. “They reckon it’s been going longer than the Sydney Mardi Gras. It’s meant to be jumping.”
Cam showed Amber the advert. “What do you think?”
“Ah! Yes! It’s meant to be unreal!”
Three against one.
15
Fat Tuesday was held right on the coast between Nambucca Heads and Coffs Harbour at a town called Marasa Bay. Cam rang ahead and there was camping space left, so we stopped off and bought all the essentials.
About a mile out we hit traffic. It was scorching, everyone hanging out their car windows and sounding their horns. Fireworks exploded in the clear blue sky ahead and a massive beachball was being passed back along the traffic jam.
There was a bright yellow Holden Ute in front of us, and one passenger, stood at the cab, was wearing a purple-feathered headdress. The queer fucker turned around and saluted the car behind us and I swear you’ve seen nothing like the tool trying to escape out the bottom of his purple lycra shorts. Fuck me, he had to be half horse. Had to be. Amber craned her neck to get a look, but he’d turned back around.
A tall black bloke, middle-aged, in white leather hot pants, white wellies and a brown sheepskin waistcoat, jogged down the hard shoulder, followed by a fat lad, skipping along in black leather pants, bare-chested and pierced to fuck.
Cam went over and talked to a few lads that had gathered next to the railings. Amber and I got out and had a smoke.
“What do you reckon?” Cam said, showing us a Zorro mask. “How could anyone find us dressed in these?”
Gregg was doing his nut because the car in front had moved forward an inch. “If any of these fucking weirdoes come near me,” he said, “I’ll go straight for them. No questions asked.”
“You’ve got to be the most homophobic person I’ve ever met,” Cam said.
“Am I fuck.”
“Yeah, you are.”
Gregg pointed at a lad dressed as a Charleston Girl, trotting between cars. “Look at that. What the fuck’s that all about? Is that what you’re into? Dressing up in birds’ clothes and wearing makeup?”
“Might be.”
Further ahead, everyone was out of their cars hanging over the railings, jumping around.
“Look at that!” Amber shouted.
From the flyover we were on to the sea was about two miles, and every square foot was covered in people partying. Marasa centre was kidney-shaped with a road running right round it. Bikers, a brass band and a farm trailer – with what looked like midgets or kids in cartoon costumes – led the march. The streets around the monument and park were lined with palm trees. Food trailers puffing out smoke were on every corner. Right below us there were old stone buildings, probably the town hall or courthouse.
The traffic started moving, the road swept inland and we were directed into a field to park. We got our bags and tents, and followed the crowd towards the farmhouse. The ten-minute walk in the heat nearly brought us to our knees, but we perked right up when we turned past the building – thousands of tents as far as you could see and everyone was partying. The farmhand took $12 off us, opened the metal cattle gate and let us through.
There was a straw track running right through the middle of the field with revellers heading along it towards a stone arch.
We reached our spot, which was four back from the track. Cam wanted to leave the tents until later, but people were following right behind us and we needed to get set up or we’d lose our place and the gear would probably get nicked. Cam made for the port-a-loos at the far end and Gregg and I started on the tents. Amber gave Teatime some water and food.
Once we had the tents up and gear in, I wandered onto the track and had a good look around. From the farmhouse to the main road was packed solid with tents. Attendants or security guards wearing luminous bibs were posted around the field and at the toilet block, and a few were on the move checking on the campers. Just along from us, there was a dispute going on between an attendant and a jumped-up hippy because he’d pitched his tent too close to his mates and they had a fire going in the middle. Two girls, nude from the waist up and painted green, came skipping towards me. They were wearing orange fishnet stockings with black knickers, and red beads down to their thighs.
Cam leant on my shoulder. “We going to get in amongst it or what?”
Gregg joined us on the track. “I’m knackered after driving. I might just doss here for a while.”
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br /> “Are you for real?” I said. “Have you not seen the birds heading in there? Fuck’s sakes, I thought you wanted your leg over?”
“I’m only joking about the blokes,” Cam said. “There’ll be more straight people here than gay.”
Gregg was in the same clothes we had changed into at Kempsey and looked dishevelled. His shoulders were slumped and his eyes black and sunken.
“I’m going to ring Stevey at the Travellers. See if he’s heard anything.”
“What if he has?” I said, taking hold of his arm. “What difference does it make now? The longer we stay away from the law, the less lightly it is they can pin anything on us. And the best place to hide tonight is in there, dressed as the four Zorros.”
We pulled our masks on and started for the stone archway. The security guard walking the queue stopped at us. “This yours?” I nodded. “It’s no fun in there for a dog, mate, he’ll have to stay behind.”
We took Teatime back and opened the tent door.
“I should stay with him, he’ll be confused,” Amber said. “What happens if he panics and gets lost?”
“He’ll be sound. He knows we’ll be back.”
We joined the queue and paid our entry fee.
Everybody was desperate to get through the stone archway and out into the daylight and chaos, and I was constantly being nudged in the back. The pounding music, the screaming crowd, the fumes, and the fear of being trampled on, left me short of breath. If we bunched up any more I’d be lifted off my feet and crushed. Why the fuck did they let people through the tunnel at a faster rate than they were letting them out? Fuck’s sakes.
We handed our tickets in and stepped out onto the road, and were immediately barged down the street by lunatics waving flags and trying to keep up with the procession. I kept hold of Amber’s hand and staggered up a grass embankment to safety. Right next to us a bunch of Rastas were flat out on the tom toms and dustbin lids. I could hardly see anything for all the flags being waved.
