MR TRUNDLE’S REALLY SPECIAL CHRISTMAS

by Richard Banks

                                                                                

Mr Trundle poured himself a sherry from a near-empty bottle and wished himself a merry Christmas. He felt sure it was going to be a good one, almost certainly better than the party he was now hosting. As custom demanded, he had invited the bank’s entire staff into the inner sanctum of his office, and with unusual bonhomie dispensed special offer sherry and mince pies, whilst trying to ignore his guests’ irritating tendency to spill both on his Axminster carpet. He consoled himself with the thought that over one million pounds had been deposited that week by local businesses, and that having safely secured this sum in the bank’s strong room, his official duties on Christmas Eve were now ended.

    The last stragglers, finding the bank’s largess all but depleted, began to leave through a side door in the main office, for the more congenial surroundings of a nearby public house. His chief clerk, Miss Pymm, supervised their departure and shut the door behind them.

    They were alone now, free to play out their Christmas ritual. She would emerge from the staff room, red-cheeked from the cumulative effect of too many sherries, with a sprig of mistletoe placed conspicuously in her hair. He would bid her the compliments of the season and attempt to peck her on the cheek, while she quickly turned her face to catch the full impact of his lips on hers. Subsequent developments were less predictable. Last year she declared herself unable to release the clasp at the back of her dress and his help was needed not only to unfasten it, but to unzip Miss Pymm to a point where her brassiere strap should have been.

    Mr Trundle shuddered at the recollection and steeled himself for what was to come. Through the open door of his office, he watched Miss Pymm totter towards the staff room and close the door. He readied himself for her reappearance by rolling up the blinds of the large plate glass window that overlooked the High Street, and standing conspicuously in front of its lettered glass. For good measure, he turned on the wall lights on either side of the window. Not even she, he reasoned, would try anything in full view of the fast food bar across the road. He looked stony faced at the staff room door, and with mounting apprehension observed the handle turn and the door slowly open.

    The Miss Pymm that came into view was not the Miss Pymm he was expecting. He felt a strange mixture of relief and rejection. There was no mistletoe on her head, at least none that could be seen beneath the crash helmet that almost entirely covered her auburn hair. The floral, cotton dress that had swayed elegantly about her knees was now replaced by a navy blue tracksuit which terminated just above a pair of mud splattered plimsolls. A rucksack, containing her party clothes, was strapped to her back.

    She advanced a few steps into his office and squinted short-sightedly in his direction. “I’ll be going now if that’s okay. Got a bit of a headache. Mrs Sullivan’s clearing up next door, she shouldn’t be long.”

    “Oh,” said Mr Trundle. For a moment he was at a loss for words. “So, you’re off then?”

    She confirmed that she was and with measured deliberation attempted to walk, in a straight line, towards the basement stairs. She paused at the top and clutched the banister. “Mr Trundle, could you do me a favour?”

    Mr Trundle felt his knees buckle. His voice, when it came, was unusually hoarse. “If I can, Miss Pymm.”

    “Would you give me a hand with my bike? It’s in the basement.”

    Mr Trundle wiped a clammy palm down a pin-striped sleeve and, without further conversation, descended the stairs. He resurfaced several minutes later, with the bicycle, to find Miss Pymm still clinging to the banister.

    “Oh dear,” she sighed, “I think I’ve had too much sherry.”

    Mr Trundle suggested that some fresh air might help and managed to steer both bicycle and Miss Pymm into the walkway outside the side entrance. He held the bicycle steady as she mounted it, and for good measure gave the saddle a shove that propelled her beyond the façade of the bank into the middle of the busy main road. He retreated inside and returned to his office, where Mrs Sullivan was gathering up the debris of the party into a large bin sack. He acknowledged her presence with a grimace that he thought might be mistaken for a smile and waited for her to finish. She had almost done so when the telephone on his desk gave two shrill rings. He picked up the receiver, intending to say that the bank was closed, when the agitated voice of Miss Pymm reverberated around his left eardrum.

    “Is that you, Mr Trundle? Oh yes, of course, it is. Thank goodness you’re still there. I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of an accident.”

    “What kind of an accident, Miss Pymm?”

    “One involving a bus, Mr Trundle. It stopped and I didn’t.”

    “Oh,” said Mr Trundle. “Is there any damage to the bicycle?”

    “That’s why I’m ’phoning. The front wheel is buckled. Would you do me a favour and bring me my spare one? It’s in the basement, next to the radiator.”

    “But where are you?”

    “At the top of the High Street, in the Saucy Gander public house. It’s only a mile from the bank. It won’t take you long.

    There was a brief silence as Mr Trundle considered the full implications of what she had said.

    “It’s on your way home,” added Miss Pymm by way of final appeal.

    Mr Trundle repressed a sigh and confirmed that he would shortly be on his way.

    He arrived fifteen minutes later, to find the pub in darkness and the car park almost deserted. He pulled in beside a Ford Fiesta that was parked outside the main entrance and turned off the ignition. A curtain parted in an upstairs room, to reveal a dim light within. There was the sound of voices and a few seconds later a neon strip light spluttered into life behind the glass panelling of the front door. Mr Trundle gathered up the spare wheel from the back seat and hesitantly approached the door. He was about to push it open when it was swung inwards by a sandy haired man of middling years. The man greeted him in an affable Irish brogue.

    “Come in, sir, do come in. The young lady is upstairs with my wife. She’s a bit shaken, but the bike’s okay.” He escorted Mr Trundle through the bar to a corridor where a narrow staircase rose steeply to an open door.

    “Up there?” queried Mr Trundle.

    The Irishman smiled reassuringly and called up the stairs. “Miss Pymm, your gentleman friend has arrived. Is it okay if we come up?” The unmistakable sound of Miss Pymm’s voice confirmed that it was.

    Mr Trundle mounted the steps and found himself in a small storeroom containing a stack of packing cases against one wall, several benches and a small table, where Miss Pymm sat observing her face in the mirror of her powder compact. The Irishman followed him into the room as another man stepped from behind the door. The man advanced resolutely towards Mr Trundle, who sensing his presence, turned to confront him. His startled expression changed to utter astonishment. “Meekins,” he said, addressing the tall, thickset figure of the bank’s security guard. “What are you doing here?”

    Meekins applied a large, gloved hand to Mr Trundle’s jaw, and forced him against the wall. “Now listen good, Trundle. Do as we tell you and you’ll be home tomorrow in time for Christmas dinner. Play the hero and I’ll use this on you.” He pulled a revolver from his jacket and pressed the muzzle against Mr Trundle’s cheek. “Now when I take my hand away from your mouth, you sit down opposite Miss Pymm and listen very carefully to what my colleague has to say. Is that clear?”

    Meekins released his grip sufficiently for Mr Trundle to signify his compliance. He sat down as directed.

    The Irishman crossed the room and settled himself next to Miss Pymm, who with apparent indifference to the drama before her, was reapplying her lipstick with a gloved hand. “Now, Trundle, we are bank robbers and it’s your bank we’re robbing. In a few minutes, you, me and Meekins, are going there to empty that fine new strong room of yours. We will need your keys and the combination number that’s in your head. We’re armed and dangerous, which means that if we don’t get what we want, Meekins and I will be queuing up to put a bullet through your brain. Have you any questions?”

    Mr Trundle spoke slowly and in a faltering voice. “If I co-operate, do I have your word that you will release me unharmed?”

    “You do.”

    “And, what about Miss Pymm?”

    The Irishman let out a raucous laugh. His hand alighted on Miss Pymm’s knee and gave it a playful squeeze.  “Did you hear that, Vickie? He’s concerned about your welfare. That must be a first. Look, Trundle, this is a three-way split. You’re the only victim here. Our little Mata Hari has found a more generous employer. Isn’t that so, my lovely?”

    Miss Pymm arrested the upward drift of his hand. “Better do as he says, Mr Trundle, no point in getting hurt.”

    “None at all,” agreed the Irishman. “Now if you’ll excuse us, my dear, we will be on our way. Expect us back in half an hour, forty-minute tops. Until then, keep your gloves on and the curtains drawn. You, Trundle, will sit in the back of Meekins’s van with me. Meekins will drive. …Well, come on gentleman, let’s get busy. We have a withdrawal to make.” 

    Mr Trundle allowed himself to be driven to the bank, where his abductors donned balaclavas and swiftly disabled the security alarm and CCTV camera. He opened the safe and within twenty minutes the contents of his strong room were transferred into six large holdalls that were loaded into Meekins’s van. On their return to the Saucy Gander, they hurried up to the storeroom.   

    The Irishman was first into the room, and with a celebratory jig advanced across the floor towards Miss Pymm, who leapt from her chair, sending it tumbling to the floor. “Vickie, we did it! We’ve hit the jackpot, just like you said.” There was a tangle of arms and heads as they embraced.

    “Later,” she whispered.

    The Irishman’s thoughts returned to business. “Take off your jacket, Trundle, and roll up your sleeves. Meekins has a little something that will give you the best night’s sleep you’ve ever had.” He held Mr Trundle firmly by the arm as Meekins inserted the contents of a syringe. They lowered him to the floor and watched as he rapidly lost consciousness. “Okay now, no time to lose. Let’s get going. Vickie, you take my car, I’ll follow in Trundle’s. Meekins, you hold on here for ten minutes. Make sure he’s properly out, then lock up and follow on. Don’t lose your way now, or my friend with the alibi will have other things to say about you. Are you ready, Vickie?”

    She glanced anxiously at the prostrate figure of Mr Trundle.

    “Don’t worry my dear. He’s fine. No damage, just as you wanted.”

    Without speaking she left the room. The Irishman nodded grimly at Meekins and followed Miss Pymm down the stairs. Several minutes later the sound of two cars could be heard leaving the car park.

    Mr Trundle opened both eyes and stared at Meekins, who was peering through a gap in the curtains at the main road. He quietly raised himself to his feet and reached out for a chair. Meekins heard the movement and swivelled round to find Mr Trundle gently easing himself onto the chair and mopping his face with a large handkerchief. Meekins raised his arms in triumph. “They’ve gone,” he announced. “They’ve bloody well gone. Trundy you’re a genius.”

    Mr Trundle’s face creased into a weary smile. “Not at all, dear boy. Couldn’t have done it without you. Indeed, had you not told me their plans I would now be as dead as the proverbial dodo.” He winced at the thought of what might have happened.

    “Thank the Lord for Miss Pymm, is what I say,” said Meekins. “Had she not insisted on you being unharmed, O’Leary would have shot you in the back of the van.”

    “Instead, he had to find a way of keeping Miss Pymm onside while still ensuring my silence.”

    “Quite so, Trundy. That’s why I got the job of shooting you, once Miss Pymm was off the premises. O’Leary said you knew too much and that killing you was the only way we were going to get away with it. He was right, of course. Fortunately for you, he was talking to the wrong man.”

    Mr Trundle was overcome with emotion. “My dear boy, how can I ever thank you. Come here, big man, and give me a hug.”

    Meekins did as he was bid. For a few moments, they clung to each other, oblivious of everything except each other. The siren of a passing ambulance jolted them back to reality.

    “We’ve better get on, Trundy. When I don’t turn up at O’Leary’s place he’ll be back here in double quick time.”

    Mr Trundle wiped the tears from his eyes and took a deep breath. “Quite so. No time to waste.”

    “Do you want me to do the shooting now?” asked Meekins.

    “Why not, dear boy. May I suggest, you fire three bullets against the wall over there and three more into the packing cases.”

    Meekins connected a silencer to his gun and discharged the bullets as directed.

    “And now for the blood,” said Mr Trundle, reaching for the spare wheel that had lain unheeded beneath the table. He produced a tyre lever from the hip pocket of his jacket and carefully opened up the tyre to reveal two plastic tubes.

    “Shall I do the honours, Trundy?”

    “Why not,” said Mr Trundle. He watched attentively as Meekins snipped off the top of one tube and poured its contents onto the floorboards beneath the bullet holes in the wall.

    “Is that your blood or mine?” asked Meekins.

    “All yours, dear boy. Mine’s here. Now trickle some of it down the packing cases and the rest on the floor.”

    “Like that, Trundy?”

    “Perfection, dear boy. What a picture it paints! They shoot me, I stagger back against the packing cases and slowly slither down to the floor.”

    “Then, you and I bleed a bit before they cart off our corpses and bury them in the woods.”

    “Never to be found,” added Mr Trundle. “Innocent employees of the bank, murdered by their ruthless abductors.”

     “The Daily Mail will have a field day with that, Trundy.”

    “Banner headlines, no doubt, especially when the perpetrators of this heinous crime are arrested.”

    “Well if you’re careless enough to leave your fingerprints at a crime scene it stands to reason you’re going to be nicked.”

    “Absolutely, dear boy, and what could be more incriminating than Miss Pymm’s fingerprints on her very own teaspoon.” Mr Trundle picked up the spare wheel and shook it until a silver-plated spoon tumbled from the rubber tyre onto the table. “And what about you, Meekins? Did our little ruse work?”

    “Like a treat, Trundy. Told O’Leary that one of my bullets looked a bit suspect, so he picks it up and gives it the once over. When he gives it back to me I take it in the palm of my hand and slip it into my pocket.”

    Mr Trundle nodded approvingly. “Then all we need to do is leave it in a none too obvious place for the forensic investigators to find.”

    “What about between the packing cases, Trundy?”

    “Capital idea, Meekins. The teaspoon can go under the table. Remember to leave your own fingerprints about the room. After all, as innocent victims, neither you nor I would be wearing gloves.”

    “Good thinking, Trundy. ….. There, that should do it. Is there anything else?”

    Mr Trundle shook his head. “Nothing more to detain us here. We will, of course, need to alert the police. An anonymous call from a concerned citizen reporting gunshots in an unoccupied public house and two large objects being loaded into the back of a car. That should bring the boys in blue running to the scene.”

    “We can do that on the way to the marina, Trundy.”

    “Quite so, dear boy. Let’s go. We have two hours to get there, load up and set sail before the tide turns.”

    “Then goodbye England and hello world. A new life beckons, Trundy, or should I be calling you Mr Green?”

    “Please do Mr Jones. After all, those are the names on our passports. New passports for a new life together. What could be better? This really is a very special Christmas.”

The End

 Copyright Richard Banks