Guy N. Smith by Bats Out Of Hell

Author:Bats Out Of Hell [Hell, Bats Out Of]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Published: 2012-01-07T14:16:53+00:00

Chapter Eight

The Bank’s Treasury was possibly one of the latest publicised functions of banking in the whole of the city of Birmingham. Without its existence the banking system would not have operated smoothly. A local headquarters for the supplying of additional cash, and the collection of surplus money by means of bullion vans, serving all the branches in the area, had replaced the previous method of dealing with these requirements by High Value Packets, both labour and time saving.

The bullion-vans passed almost unnoticed in the city traffic. Their weekly collections and deliveries at branches were noted with mild interest by passers-by. Those with more subversive motives attempted to discover their timetables, routes, and the amount of money which the vans carried. Yet an air of mystique prevailed. Security companies’ vans were attacked frequently. The Bank’s went unscathed, such was their organisation and security, including a number of guards who remained on board at all times whilst they were in transit, even to the extent of eating their meals inside during all weathers, in stifling heat or freezing cold.

Yet the Treasury itself was a veritable fortress, a basement stronghold beneath a huge office block where security measures were such that none could pass beyond the first checkpoint without proper authorisation. The underground structure was old, partially converted to meet modern requirements for the storing of vast quantities of money into a maze of tunnels which housed the many strong rooms and working areas where money was counted and sorted into denominations. Large amounts of cash, the daily takings of multiple companies, was also brought in here for counting and checking, thereby dispensing with lengthy delays at branch counters. This section, adjacent to the main strong room with grilled walls and locked doors, was known as the Credit House.

Some twenty clerks were employed in the Credit House alone, spending five days of the week shut away from the daylight, working laboriously and monotonously. They, too, were subjected to several checks before entering or leaving their place of employment, everything geared towards an invincible money store.

The heat wave penetrated the depths of the Treasury right down to the Credit House, the clerks sweltering in the heat that was conveyed underground by the brickwork in the same way that storage heaters retain their temperature.

Joe Lutton had worked in the Credit House ever since its formation a decade ago. Everything was a routine which did not deviate, and, provided one obeyed the rules and systems laid down, there was a substantial pension to be picked up on retirement. One did not even have to count the notes by hand these days. One simply inserted a bundle into a machine, pressed a button, checked the digits recorded on the dial, and removed the notes from a clip at the back of the instrument. Machine-minding, in effect. Joe Lutton, a small, dapper, freckled-faced clerk in his early forties did not even have to think about the work these days. His mind wandered to other matters as he laboured with the efficiency of a human robot.

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