[b]24 Minutes Left in Extra Time[/b]


Charlie tossed the last of the bank bags out the window and closed the door. He let out a slight breath and turned around. All five people in the counting room were on their stomachs, staring down at the floor. Their wrists and ankles tied with the phone cord Charlie had yanked from the wall. They all seemed calm. Even the girl he’d caught eyeballing him was staying still. She hadn’t moved a whole lot and still seemed to be out of it. Maybe he’d hit her harder than he thought.

“Someone will come calling eventually,” he said. “I want you all to play nice and keep your mouths shut when the coppers come calling.”

He quickly went through the men’s pockets and the women’s purses. He came up with three driver’s licenses, a wallet with the old lady’s home address in it, and a personal checkbook the young, mustached man had in his jacket pocket that gave his name and home.

“I know where you all live now,” he announced. “So just remember that when Old Bill start asking questions.”

He opened the steel reinforced door and stepped out, shutting it behind him and quickly walking down the corridor. Charlie checked his watch. The game had probably just ended so he could slip into the crowds exiting out Wembley with no problem. Bobby would be waiting near gate G and they would leave together.

Charlie was surprised when he exited out the door Cecil had opened for him and saw no people in the corridors. He could still hear the roar of the crowd from his left. That meant the game was still going on. Extra time.

“Oi!”

A sharp voice made him turn. A security guard bounded towards him, the man’s big gut swinging with every step he took..

“We need you!”

“For what?”

“Incident report. We want to press charges against some cunt who thought it’d be a good idea to pop off crackers in the middle of the game.”

Charlie had to resist the urge to smile.

“Lead the way, guv.”


---


[b]20 Minutes Left in Extra Time[/b]

Bobby had to resist the urge to laugh when the security guard led the copper into Wembley’s holding cells. Charlie Enfield looked down his nose at him with a disdain so convincing it had to be at least partially real. Bobby tried to apologize with his eyes. Him getting nicked hadn’t been part of the plan, but whatever the plan was it was now in flux thanks to delays and West Germany’s ability to score at the last minute. 

“I’ll take it from here,” Charlie announced to the security staff. “Take him over to the station house for processing.”

“What?” The security guard looked puzzled. “Right now?”

“Yeah,” Charlie shrugged. “Game’s wrapping up. There are plenty of other Met officers around in case something happens.”

The guard was about to say something, but the rest of the men in the cells began to cheer wildly along with the other security guard on duty. 

“England scores!” the radio announcer screamed. “Hurst to the bar… West Germany is now saying that it wasn’t a goal. And now the officials are trying to figure this one out.”

“One less rowdy to deal with,” Charlie said to the guard.

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” The guard nodded before turning his attention back to the radio. He kept his head cocked towards the radio as he opened the cell door.

“He’s all yours, mate.”

“And… he’s given it! He’s given it! The goal stands and England is now up 3-2!”

Everyone in the cells cheered, save for two people. While celebration continued all around them, Charlie pretended to restrain Bobby’s wrist and push him forward out of the cells and up the stairs. 

“3-2,” said Charlie. “Shit. I bet the score wouldn't get over four.” 

“So you lost?” Bobby asked.

“Yeah,” Charlie said with a laugh. “Looks like I’m out twenty quid…”