Chapter Two

  The streets of Bethnal Green were just startin’ to hum. Early morning buzz, bin men shoutin’, prams clackin’ on cracked pavement, and me — parked on a knackered bench that’s seen better days, fingers flickin’ through my phone like I’m scrollin’ for salvation. I’m pingin’ every contact I’ve got, every mate, every dodgy cousin’s cousin who might’ve had a job in play. But all that’s comin’ back is long cons, jobs with payout delays longer than a tax return — stuff that won’t help when you’ve got ‘Two Fingers’ breathin’ down your neck, lookin’ for five grand by tomorrow or your mum’s bakery goes collateral.

  So I pocket the blower, take a breath, and look around. The time? Just gone nine. School run o’clock. Which round here means chaos with a coat on. Parents rushin’, kids wailin’, and the streets fillin’ up faster than a pub on derby day. It's noise, it's movement, but more importantly — it’s opportunity.

  I lean back on that cold metal bench, brain rattlin’ like a busted fruit machine, thinkin’ what would Dad do? Then I clock her — young mum, frazzled, pushin’ a pram with one hand and tappin’ her PIN with the other. Her kid’s wrigglin’ like a fish on a hook, tryin’ to leg it while she’s holdin’ him back and not watchin’ the screen. Bang — that’s when it hits me. Like a slap from the past. The Knock and Pocket. One of Dad’s old classics. Short con. Low prep. Medium risk. High reward. And with the streets churnin’ like this? Timing’s perfect.

  I just needed to pick something up and find the right pocket. I flagged a cab sharpish, the kind that still smells of last night’s kebab and cheap aftershave, and we peeled off from the market like a bat outta Bow. Told him, "Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club, and step on it, mate." We rumbled past the tail end of the market where the stallholders were still settin’ up, bleedin’ crates of veg stacked like barricades and some geezer arguin’ over onions like it was life or death. Turned onto Cambridge Heath Road, passed that crusty old laundrette with the flickerin’ sign and the café next to it that does bacon rolls like your nan used to. The traffic was startin’ to swell, mums draggin’ kids, couriers zippin’ about like angry wasps, and blokes already on their second Red Bull of the day.

  As we hit the stretch near Museum Gardens, I clocked the familiar old brickwork of the club peekin’ out between council blocks and rustin’ balconies. That place has seen more shady deals and tearful karaoke than most police stations. "Pull up near that hardware shop on the corner," I told the cabbie, noddin’ to a tiny storefront tucked between a betting shop and a boarded-up vape place. He stopped. “Tenner, mate,” he grunted.

  Bell above the door gave a half-hearted ding as I slipped into the hardware shop — proper old school, the kind of place where the shelves lean under the weight of twenty years’ worth of clutter, and everything smells faintly of turps, mouse traps, and bad decisions. Behind the counter, an old geezer in a mustard-stained cardigan glanced up from a racing paper, didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

  I headed straight for the adhesives — nothin’ fancy, just strong enough to do the job. Found a small tube of super glue, the sort you’d use to fix a broken mug or keep a dodgy shelf from collapsin’. That’s all I needed. Quick, clean, disposable.

  “That it?” he asked, voice like gravel.

  “That’s the one,” I nodded, dropping a couple coins on the counter.

  He slid it over without blinkin’, back to his paper before I’d even turned.

  Back outside, I slipped the glue into my coat pocket like it was state evidence, lit a cig, and started my slow stroll toward the Working Men’s Club. The street had livened up proper now — mums shoutin’ into phones, cabs honkin’ like geese on crack, and pigeons struttin’ about like they owned the pavement. I kept my head down, eyes scanning, brain tickin’.

  Just before the club, I passed old Sammy’s newspaper stand — been there since before the Queen grew grey. He was settin’ out the day’s headlines with his usual enthusiasm, which is to say, none. I clocked the front page — “Prime Minister Caught Nicking from Charity Fund”. Brilliant. Only in Britain could the bloke in charge be a bigger thief than the lot of us on the street. I grabbed a copy of the Standard, gave Sammy a nod and dropped some change on the crate without breakin’ stride. Paper under the arm, cig hangin’ off my lip, I looked every bit the average punter — no different than the rest of the world wastin’ a morning. Only I wasn’t wastin’ mine. I was about to take back control of it, one sticky little trick at a time. Few more steps and the Working Men’s Club loomed ahead, all peeling paint and faded pride. Show time.

  The street outside the Working Men’s Club was buzzin’ now — proper busy. School run in full swing, mums and dads hustlin’ their little gremlins towards the gates with toast still hangin’ from mouths and rucksacks swingin’ like wreckin’ balls. Couple of builders across the road, all hi-vis and steel-toe swagger, shoutin’ over the hum of drills and Radio One comin’ out some battered speaker. Bethnal Green was fully awake, stretchin’ its legs and grumblin’ into the day — and that’s exactly how I liked it. Noise, movement, distractions. Perfect cover for what I was about to do.

  I clocked it just off the corner of an old newsagent — the ATM. One of the ancient ones. The kind that hadn’t seen an upgrade since dial-up internet. No cameras, no flashy fraud-busting gadgets, no contactless this or retina-scan that. Just a well-worn machine that had served the good people of the East End faithfully for years — and was about to serve me, too.

  I strolled up casual, like I was just another fella checkin’ his balance. Slipped my card in, checked the damage. Still sittin’ on a measly five hundred, which, in the face of Tommy Two Fingers, might as well’ve been Monopoly money. Took a tenner out, more for the performance than the cash, and as I collected the note, I let my other hand dip into my pocket. Out came the glue.

  With the smoothness of a magician palming a coin, I ran a thin line along the inside lip of the cash slot. Not a full seal — just enough to gum it up for the next few punters. Make the machine choke and keep hold of the next few withdrawals like a stingy grandad at Christmas.

  I folded my tenner, pocketed it, and walked away like I’d just done the weekly shop — no rush, no guilt, no drama. Found myself a bench across the road, close enough to keep eyes on the prize, far enough to look like I belonged to the scenery. I sat, lit another cig, unfolded my paper — “Prime Minister Caught Nicking from Charity Fund”, lovely bit of irony that — and started readin’.

  Now it was just a waiting game. Wait for the trap to spring. Wait for the machine to do its thing. And when it did? I’d be there. Smilin’. Like the cat who got the cream — and the cash.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  It played out like a scene from a low-budget caper film — and I was front row, popcorn in hand, watchin’ the show unfold with a grin hidden behind my Standard.

  First up, young mum in yoga leggings, kid screamin’ on her hip. She taps away, looks expectant, and then — nothin’. Her eyebrows knit, she presses a few more buttons like that’ll help. Still no joy. She huffs, gives the screen a scowl like it’s personally insulted her, then storms off, mutterin’ about Barclays robbin’ her blind. Next comes a pensioner — bless him — all slow and cautious like the machine’s a wild animal. He gives it a go, waits patiently, even looks down the cash slot like he’s expectin’ a fiver to peek out and say “hello.” When it doesn’t, he gives it a gentle tap, then a less gentle one. Eventually he sighs, mutters somethin’ about “bloody technology,” and shuffles off, empty-handed. Then — and I swear on my mum’s buns — a police constable rocks up. High-vis, utility belt, whole kit.

  Taps away, stands tall, then starts jabbin’ the buttons with increasing fury. No payout. He gives it a suspicious look, as if the machine might cough up a criminal, then pulls out his phone and buggers off to report it, probably to someone who’ll also do sod all. And just when I think it can’t get any better — in walks a vicar. Collar and all. I almost choke on my cig. He gives it a go, waits, frowns, and blesses the bloody machine under his breath before walking off, wallet unopened, soul presumably tested.

  Each one walks away skint, confused, mildly insulted. All the better for me. That slot was gettin’ full. And soon, it’d be showtime. I wait another five minutes or so, lettin’ the tension simmer down like a kettle just shy of boilin’. Then I get up slow, smooth — not a care in the world. Just another bloke goin’ about his day. Cig stubbed out under my heel, paper tucked under my arm, coat collar turned up just enough to keep the chill — and the nosy — at bay.

  I saunter over to the ATM like I’ve done it a hundred times before. Maybe I have. Slide in my card, tap in the digits — casual as you like — and hit the option for a balance receipt. Gotta keep up appearances, after all. The screen blinks, prints the slip, and as it whirrs, I make my move. Right hand balled into a loose fist, left hand holding the Standard just so — and bang. A neat little knock to the underside of the cash drawer, hidden behind the newspaper like I’m readin’ the racing results.

  Click. Beautiful.

  The glue’s done its job, just long enough to jam up the works but not enough to stop the payout altogether. The drawer pops open like a spring-loaded till, and out she comes — a stack of notes, all warm from the guts of the machine, droppin’ right into the open fold of the paper I’ve angled below. Not a soul notices. Builders still shoutin’, mums still naggin’, the world carryin’ on none the wiser. I fold the paper under my arm, not too quick, not too slow — just like I’ve got my hands full of today’s crossword and nothing more. Then I turn, walk away down the street, same pace as before, heart thuddin’ like a bass drum in my chest but face calm as still water.

  The Knock and Pocket. Old con, clean pull. Always good for a quick fix. But I don’t count it yet — no, that’d be bad luck. Gotta get somewhere quiet first. Safe. Then we’ll see how much the machine coughed up. Fingers crossed it was generous.

  Took the first left off the high street and ducked into a little alley behind the butcher’s — one of those grimy back lanes no one’s looked at twice since the ’80s. Bins piled high, smell of old meat and piss waftin’ in the breeze, but it was quiet. That’s all I needed. I slipped behind two steel dumpsters, peeled open the Standard like I was checkin’ the footie scores, and there it was — a tidy little stack, tucked in nice.

  Quick count. Nothing fancy. Just thumbin’ through the notes like a dealer checkin’ his cut. Four hundred and fifty quid from the ATM, give or take. Add that to the monkey I already had sittin’ in the account — that’s five ton — and I’m knockin’ on the door of a full bag. Not quite there, but I could hear it breathin’.

  Still short, but a damn sight closer than I was this morning when I woke up starin’ at a wall and an empty future. Tommy Two Fingers don’t do instalments, and he sure as shit ain’t waitin’ for me to win the lottery. But now I’ve got somethin’ in hand. Momentum. A whiff of hope. That’s more dangerous than a blade when you know how to use it.

  I folded the cash into an old envelope nicked from Mum’s counter drawer, slid it deep into my coat, and lit up another smoke, the day’s nerves flickin’ off the tip with the ash. One con down. The meter’s runnin’, and I need another score. Fast. Bag’s the goal. I’ve got nine ton and a prayer. Let’s see what the streets have left to offer.

  I step out of the alley, still rollin’ my next move in my head like a wheel in a roulette. My options are slim, but they’re there — and that’s enough for now. I’m thinkin’ about another con, maybe a cheeky pickpocket on one of the builders hangin’ round with a bacon bap and half a brain, or maybe I just hit the pub, lay low for a bit, and let the streets whisper their secrets. But then — wham.

  I walk straight into it. A big ol’ brewery truck, one of them proper old-school beasts, just pullin’ up to do the drop at the Working Men’s Club. Don’t even have time to blink. Front grill clocks me clean in the chest, and suddenly I’m airborne. Everything slows — sound cuts out, like someone hit mute on the telly. My ears ring, my body goes numb, and next thing I know, I’m not in me anymore.

  I’m floatin’. Light as air, floatin’ up, up and away from it all. I look down and there I am — broken and bent like a cheap deckchair, blood seepin’ out and puddlin’ on the pavement. Truck driver’s white as a sheet, stammerin’, grippin’ the door like it’s gonna keep him from meltin’ down. He’s yellin’, panickin’, but I can’t hear it. I can only see it, like I’m watchin’ the telly from behind glass.

  A crowd’s already gatherin’. Builders, mums on the school run, the geezer from the offie. And of course — the phones come out. Always do. Half of ’em recordin’, hopin’ for a bit of blood to spice up their day. No one’s callin’ me an ambulance. No one’s sayin’ “That’s Harry Block.” Just eyes, phones, and a growin’ pool of red.

  But I’m not lookin’ down anymore.

  There’s a light above me. Not blinding, not warm. Just... strange. Cold and quiet, but it pulls me in like a magnet to metal. I don’t fight it. I’m tired. Floatin’ toward it, hopin’ — prayin’ — that whoever’s at the gate don’t recognise the name Block. Because if they do... well, I reckon it’s a one-way trip downstairs, innit?

  And as I drift, mind unravellin’ like cheap yarn, I think of Mum. Poor old girl, still back there under the arches, probably butterin’ a bun and hummin’ some sad old tune. She don’t know what’s comin’. Don’t know Tommy Two-Fingers is gonna come knockin’ — and not for a cuppa. I was meant to protect her, not leave her carryin’ my mess. And Dad... he might’ve been a thief, but he never left family hangin’. Me? I’ve gone and died skint and in debt, like a mug. A right proper letdown. But it’s too late now, innit?

  Can’t fix nothin’ when you’re already dead.

  I feel like I’m floatin’ toward that light for what feels like forever — like I’m caught in some cosmic Uber, no ETA, just driftin’ through the void with nothin’ but guilt and bad decisions as company. But then I notice it — I’m pickin’ up speed. Slowly at first, like a feather in a breeze, but then it ramps up, proper fast. The light’s gettin’ bigger, closin’ in, and I’m shootin’ toward it like I’ve been shot outta a bloody cannon.

  And then — whack. The light goes out. Snuffed out like a fag in a piss puddle. And I’m fallin’. Hard. Like a sack of bricks off a lorry. I don’t even have time to scream. It’s just drop, drop, bam! For the second time today, I feel like I’ve been hit by a brewery truck. Everything goes black again — just for a bit — but I swear I can still feel my heart racin’, my lungs gaspin’, like I ain’t done yet. I don’t know how long passes. Minutes? Hours? Days? Could’ve been ten seconds or ten years, all I know is, when I finally open my eyes again... I ain’t in East London no more.

  Nah. This ain’t Bethnal Green.

  In front of me is what looks like a dock — not a boat dock in Southend or nothing like that, but a full-blown fantasy number. Cobbled streets, wooden beams, lanterns swingin’ in the breeze. It’s like I’ve woken up inside one of them nerdy games my mate Tim used to play, the ones with elves, potions, and way too much bloody backstory.

  “What the fuck is goin’ on?” I mutter, starin’ at a bloke with goat legs walkin’ past like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

  I’m dead, right?

  Right?