[b]5:16 PM
4 Minutes Left in Extra-Time[/b]

With every passing minute, the crowds outside Wembley Stadium grew and grew with size. Drunken renditions of “God Save the Queen” were tossed back and forth between expectant England fans. The Three Lions were 3-2 up and on the cusp of securing their first World Cup win – on home soil at that. For Red and Coach, who were taking shelter in a stolen ambulance crammed full with stolen cash, that wasn’t much comfort to them. Charlie and Bobby’s lateness was playing on both of their minds.

“What do we do?”

“We’re not leaving them behind,” Red responded curtly.

“Blimey, Red,” Coach bristled in the seat next to him. “I wasn’t suggesting anything of the sort. I’d as soon chop my own bollocks off than leave them high and dry on a job. You know that.”

Turner had regretted saying it the second the words had left his mouth. His nerves had got the better of him. For not the first time that afternoon, Red silently damned himself for having got Cecil involved in the scheme at all. They could have found another way in. He should have found another way in for them.

Before he had a chance to apologise, he made out Charlie’s squat figure cutting its way through the crowds of people. In front of him was Bobby, ridiculous outfit and all. He was frog-marching towards the ambulance with a stern look on his face.

“That’s them,” Red said with a point in their direction. “Start the engine. I want us out of here in thirty seconds flat.”

Coach shot Turner a nod. Red climbed from the passenger seat into the back of the ambulance and opened up its double doors from the inside. Charlie gave Bobby one last shove, almost knocking him into Red’s arms, and shut the doors behind him.

“Better late than never, comrades,” Coach called out from the front as he stuck on the siren.

“I can take off these stupid clothes now?”

Red smiled at Bobby.

“Yes, Bobby, you can take off the clothes.” 

Lewandowski pulled the Union Flag waistcoat off over his head and flung it onto the floor of the ambulance. He was half-rolling up his sleeves when Red motioned to him to join Coach in the front of the ambulance. Once he had sat down, Coach began to pull out of the parking lot. Turner took a seat opposite Charlie in the back. There were bags of money piled around their feet.

“What happened in there?”

“Your boy Cecil happened,” Charlie fumed. “He was twenty minutes late. I stood out there with my ass flapping in the wind for twenty goddamn minutes.”

“At least he came through in the end,” was all Red could muster by way of defence.

“Yeah, well, excuse me if I’m not as forgiving. The whole job could have gone south.”

The siren hadn’t quite had the desired effect. The crowds had parted some to make way for it – but not nearly at the speed you would expect. The ambulance was taking a slow and winding course through the crowds, with bags of money sliding to the left and right with Coach’s each turn of the wheel. 

Turner was about to attempt to justify Cecil’s lateness for a second time when Crowder called out from the front of the ambulance.

“Pipe down back there, would you? England are about to win the World Cup.”

Coach reached for the dial and turned the volume up. Sensing the tension between himself and Charlie, Turner stepped up towards the front of the ambulance to listen in to the football with Coach and Bobby. Through the radio, the sound of Kenneth Wolstenhome’s voice came booming.

“The referee looks at his watch. Any second now, it will be all over. Thirty seconds … the Germans are going down and they can hardly get up. It’s all over, I think.”

Crowder prematurely pumped one of his fists, before quickly snapping it back into place and steering the ambulance away from the stadium car park and towards the exit in the distance. As they crossed the threshold, Wolstenhome sounded again, this time even more desperate and excitable than before.

“No, it’s – and here comes Hurst, he’s got – some people are on the pitch, they think it’s all over! It [i]is[/i] now!”

There was a roar from the stadium behind them. The assembled crowds that were lining Wembley’s streets broke out in scenes of pure ecstasy. Coach shook his fists excitedly in the air and Red dug his hands into Crowder’s shoulders with a laugh. In the passenger’s seat, Bobby beamed that broad, wholesome smile that only Bobby could. Turner turned to Charlie sat in the back and smiled at him. Enfield smiled back faintly, but only for a second.

[i]It was almost done[/i], Red thought as the ambulance drew away from the stadium. They made one last stop so that Charlie could pick up the Wolseley the Binney’s old man had kindly supplied them with, but after that it was smooth sailing.

England had won the World Cup – and they had managed to rob the bastards blind under their noses without so much as a shot fired. 

Something told Turner that he would remember this day for the rest of his life.

[center][b]***[/b][/center][b]5:14 PM
2 Minutes Left in Regulation[/b]

There were only minutes left until the referee blew his whistle. George Thursgood had no intention of missing out on England’s victory lap once that whistled sounded. After a little coaxing from his brother Johnno, he’d agreed to broach the idea of the pair of them heading down to the field with Gladys. They arrived at the sorting room, where Gladys reigned supreme with the help of Cecil’s squeeze Iris, and George gave the door a quick rap with his knuckles.

Nothing. Usually Gladys’ hoarse, cigarette-shredded voice sounded through the door within seconds. Perhaps “The Battleaxe” had agreed to let the staff go down to the field already, George thought to himself for a second. He rapped his knuckles against the door one last time before, again at his brother’s coaxing, deciding to try the handle.

“Gladys,” George called out as the usually-locked counting room door swung open. “You don’t mind if Johnno and I head down to the st-”

The elder Thursgood stopped in his tracks as he spotted his colleagues tied up around the room. In the centre of the room, where the piles of notes were usually laid out to be counted, was only an empty table. He knew straight away what had happened. And it had left him with knots in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh, christ. We’ve been robbed, haven’t we? On Cup Final day of all days,” Johnno whimpered.

“Go and find a copper,” George implored his younger brother earnestnessly.

Johnno nodded and disappeared into the stadium’s corridors in search of a police officer. George knelt down beside Gladys. He pulled a pen-knife from his pocket and hacked through the cables that bound her feet and hands. He hadn’t even finished helping the old woman to her feet when she gestured to the rest of their colleagues.

“Help me untie the rest of them.”

The two of them set about untying the other bound members of staff one-by-one. There were tears, even anger, all around as they all clambered to their feet. Only Cecil and Iris remained on the ground. Gladys had broke towards Cecil to help him so George knelt beside Iris to do the same.

It took less than a second for Thursgood to realise that the girl was eerily still.

"Something’s wrong with Iris.”

From outside of the counting room there came a roar that shook Wembley Stadium to its foundations. Just two minutes ago, George would have been the first to try and decipher what it meant. Now, staring down at the young blonde girl’s unmoving body, he couldn’t bring himself to think about football. 

Gladys, who was about to remove Cecil’s gag, stopped dead in her tracks.

“What are you talking about?”

George instinctually placed his fingers against Iris’ neck in search of a pulse. After a second or two, his face awash with dread, Thursgood looked round at Gladys.

“She’s not breathing.”