The Heist
“Dong.” The church bells chime, the flag atop the spire billows in a gust of wind.
I pace the dirt-speckled rooftop of the bank. Shivering and hunching my neck, I gaze intently down at the bustling midday town centre. Plumes of petrol mingle with the smell of oil and food waste. Frustrated drivers slam their horns, yelling at meandering pedestrians. The hustle and bustle of the market square vibrates below me, where the stall owners haggle over prices and office workers sit down to enjoy their lunch.
Target vehicle at two o’clock. Three operators inside. Seven cameras visible.
The time creeps by like molasses in January and the bell chimes once more. In a nearby courtyard, children shriek with joy, chasing the drifting petals that pirouette in the gentle breeze. I wince at the light that bounces off the vehicle’s roof as the sun appears. Wrappers litter the dull grey paving slabs.
“Order number five!” A husky voice calls out.
The perfect mark steps forward: a little old lady tugging at a shopping basket shuffles to the front of the queue, stretching a frail arm towards the window.
Out they came: thick and solid, rich and crisp, vibrant and glinting, warm and shiny.
The enticing sight is too much and I cannot wait any longer – aiming at the collection window, I plot my route to the vehicle and my escape.
I break free. Wind streaks against my face as I swoop down, eyeing my sparkling prize with relish, my claws and beak poised.
The mark screams, flinging the gold pieces that showered the people nearby. She ducks and flails her arms all around her face as I let loose a flurry of feathers. A man in a checked suit tries to swat me away with a newspaper, nearly catching me full in the face. I dodge and weave, getting closer to the sodden ground and the box of glinting bars. Diving and swooping again, I grab what I can, clawing hold of something. I race back to the rooftop to inspect my hoard.
“That seagull’s a menace!” one of the operators yells in my direction, cursing.
A terrible haul, just a shimmering gold broach with a strange-looking cat imprinted on it. The eyes glare back, watching me intensely. Disappointed by yet another unsuccessful heist, I peck at the broach and chuck it with all my might onto the corner, to the rest of the miscellaneous gold junk. The sound of the badge clinking echoes away, and the hubbub of the town centre returns.
People call me many things. Yet I am misunderstood: my gold is chips. Flaky, crispy, melt in the mouth chips – so golden and triple cooked.
Mason Marsh, 10.
