During the next few months I settled into a routine of teaching black kids journalism, going out with Jade in secret and writing chapters about cars for Clarence’s motoring encyclopaedia. I went to the Asda car park in Essex once a week where I handed over new words in exchange for more assignments and I got some cheques for the work I’d already done. What with the money from teaching - which was not a lot, but better than nothing - coupled with the money from Clarence, I was beginning to get some of my confidence back and actually felt like I’d turned a corner.  In truth, it was more of a slight bend, but at least everything was beginning to feel a whole lot better.
One weekend Jade and I went to Littlehampton for the day. We sat on the pebble beach and watched the dirty brown water crashing in, shushing among the pebbles, hissing out. We moved what felt like two tonnes of the small round stones to dig a hollow where we sheltered from the worst of the gusts scything off the North Sea.
We settled and she looked at the sea and her long black hair was blowing about her face and she said into the snatching wind, “I have a story to tell you,” and I imagined the words reaching Toulouse by midday. We huddled closer and in our small private world out there in the whispering pebbles she began.
“When I was 17, still at school, I got a job in a bookies. Just on the front desk, helping punters relieve themselves of their money. But it was fun. I met some real characters. One day, this young man comes in to the shop. It’s maybe five to five. Just before closing. It’s empty. Just me and my nails. The manager out back, doing whatever he did all day. I don’t know. I looked up and all I saw, I swear all I saw, was a black hole. The end of a gun barrel. Pointing in my face. I’ll never forget it. “Give me the money,” he said. “Do it now.” I didn’t hesitate. We’d always been told if this happened, don’t be a hero. Just hand it over. I was shaking and I felt sick. I shovelled money into a black plastic bin bag he handed over the counter. The manager didn’t make an appearance. He never made an appearance. When I’d put all the notes in the bag I looked up at the gunman. I passed it over the counter. He had a nice smile. He could afford to smile. There must have been 20 grand in there. At least. There were no CCTVs then, nothing to show what he looked like. But I wouldn’t forget. He just walked out. I watched him go. Then I started shaking. Uncontrollably. I could have been killed. The manager walked out to lock up. When he saw me I collapsed in a heap on the floor. He knew we’d been robbed. Told me it was the same thing as before. Same thing as in Holborn where he’d managed the other shop. “Did he have a limp?” he asked, helping me up. “No,” I said, “he had a gun.”
“Jesus,” I said, “that must have been terrifying.”
She leaned closer, buffeted by the gale. “That’s not the half of it. Three weeks later I’m out clubbing. Up town, top ranking, as we used to say. I’m with some friends. And then I see him. He sees me and starts to come across and I start shaking. But he smiles. He has a nice smile. I just stare at him and he leans close because of the music and shouts, “I know you from somewhere.”
“Yeah,” I say, “last time I saw you, you stuck a fucking gun in my face.”
It dawns on him then and he says, “Aw, sorry. It’s just my job, you know. Want a drink?”
“I haven’t got any money,” I say drily.
He shrugs. “Me neither. Don’t worry. I’ll be back in a mo”. And then he’s gone. I thought, it would be sensible to leave. But I didn’t. Ten minutes later he’s shouldering back through the crowd.
“Hey, I just did the shoe shop down the road. Let’s go somewhere quiet and get a drink.” So we did.
In an all-night café he apologised. He explained this was his business. It was what he did to earn a living. How he made money.
Turned out the police were always following him. They suspected him but didn’t have enough. All the money he made he put in his daughter’s account. She had a different name to him, the mother’s name. They were separated, but okay, and he saw the kid several times a week. And usually at weekends. The police suspected he was doing the robberies. But they couldn’t prove it because they had no idea where the cash could be going.
He’d do bookies because at that time hardly any of them had cameras. Also, they all had a policy of handing money over, no questions asked, if someone came in armed.
“Funny that,” I said to him, “I work at Gala, the bingo hall, and they don’t have cameras either. Loads of money sloshing around there, specially at weekends.”
He smiled that nice smile and said, “ Let me make it up to you.”
I looked in her jet black eyes, the hair wisping her face, her lips full and pale pink. The wind, or maybe it was something else, making me shiver a bit. I said hoarsely, “I have a gun.”
She looked at me and said, “I’ll bet you do.”