ONE — EDWARD TUDOR
If you were guilty, it was a place to hide.
If you were innocent, you had only yourself.
Open for business.
By invitation only.
The owners of The Bank were unknown. No one seemed to remember when it first appeared. One day there it was, two doors away from TOTH Antiques.
Now there were two banks. Toth’s and The Bank. Every member of staff was called Theresa. No one had ever remarked on it.
People queued from the entrance of the town to open an account. They held their invitation cards and did not look at each other. Through the glass, a banker could be seen leading someone down a corridor. A door closed somewhere. A button was pressed somewhere else.
Edward Tudor’s name was called.
A member of staff approached and led him through a door at the far end of the lobby. The badge read Theresa. They walked along a quiet corridor before stopping outside an office. Theresa opened the door and gestured for Edward to enter.
The office was small and windowless. A desk. Two chairs. A computer. A box of tissues squared to the edge of the desk. Nothing on the walls, not even a clock.
A woman was seated behind the desk. Dark hair pulled back.
‘Good afternoon. My name is Theresa and I will be your personal banker today.’
Edward pulled out the chair and sat down slowly.
‘Your full name, please?’
‘Edward Tudor.’
The personal banker typed a few keys and stared at the screen.
‘I see Alister Penrose sent you an invitation. Do you have the invitation card with you?’
‘Yes,’ replied Edward, reaching into his pocket.
‘Thank you. What do you need to deposit?’
Theresa moved her hand under the desk and pressed a button. The office door clicked.
‘We won’t be interrupted during your deposit. Go on.’
Edward looked at his hands.
‘I killed someone.’
Theresa waited.
‘I was seeing someone. A man.’
‘Does your family know?’
‘No.’ Edward rubbed his palms against his trousers. ‘I have a wife. Two children. Nobody knew about him. That was how I wanted it.’
‘And the man?’
‘He got tired of being hidden.’
Edward looked towards the closed door.
‘He said he loved me. Said he couldn’t keep living like that. He gave me an ultimatum: either I told my wife or he would.’
‘What did you do?’
‘There was a storm that night. I went to his house.’
Edward stopped.
Theresa waited.
‘I started a fire.’
‘Was he inside?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know he was inside?’
Edward looked at her.
‘Yes.’
‘And he died in the fire?’
‘Yes.’
Theresa typed.
‘Right. This deposit will be valid for three years. It means no one will know about it. After three years you will have two options: pay more money to keep it secret for another three years, or this will be handed over to the authorities.’
Theresa said it the way she might have quoted an interest rate. Her face did not change.
Edward massaged his forehead. His shirt had stuck to his back. Under the desk, one knee would not keep still.
‘How would you like to pay?’
‘AMEX.’
Edward sat back. His shoulders dropped.
‘There,’ said Theresa. ‘You feel it already.’
‘So that’s it. No one will ever know.’
‘No one will ever ask,’ said Theresa. ‘That’s the work of The Bank.’
She slid a blank card across the desk.
‘Should you know anyone.’
Edward put it in his pocket.
TWO — VERITY DEVEREUX
A man in the waiting area had his phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low.
‘It’s done,’ he said.
There was a pause.
‘No. Nothing will come of it. I’ve done this before.’
Another pause.
‘Because that’s what The Bank does.’
He listened for a moment.
‘Trust me.’
He ended the call.
Slipped the phone into his pocket and walked out.
The door closed behind him.
Verity Devereux’s name was called, and a member of staff escorted her down the corridor.
The same office. The same box of tissues.
A woman with cropped grey hair was seated behind the desk.
‘Good afternoon. My name is Theresa and I will be your personal banker today.’
Verity sat down without being asked.
‘Your full name, please?’
‘Verity Devereux.’
The personal banker typed.
‘I see Cornelius Hale sent you an invitation. Do you have the card?’
‘Yes.’
She placed it on the desk without looking up.
‘What do you need to deposit?’
Verity straightened her jacket.
‘I stole money from the company.’
Theresa waited.
‘Nearly three hundred thousand pounds. Over three years.’
‘And no one discovered it?’
‘They discovered the money was missing.’
Verity looked away.
‘They just blamed the wrong person.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I made sure they would.’
Theresa stopped typing.
‘Go on.’
‘I altered documents. Created transactions from his account. Emails. Enough to make it look as though he had stolen the money.’
‘And your colleague?’
‘Went to prison.’
‘For how long?’
Verity looked down.
‘Eleven years.’
‘He was sentenced to eleven years?’
‘Yes. He’s still there.’
Theresa looked at the screen.
‘That will be two deposits.’
Verity looked up.
‘Two?’
‘The embezzlement is one. Framing your colleague is another.’
‘Does that make a difference?’
‘To the price, yes.’
Verity stared at her.
‘How much?’
Theresa turned the screen towards her.
Verity looked at it for a long moment. Her lips moved slightly, checking the sum. More than she had taken in any single year. She thought of the six years her colleague still had to serve.
‘And both are protected?’
‘For three years.’
Verity reached into her handbag.
‘AMEX.’
THREE — JEAN ELDRIDGE
A young woman pushed through the door with a toddler on her hip. She looked around, took a number and found a seat. The toddler looked at everything with wide eyes.
A receptionist leaned down to say something quietly.
The young woman frowned. The receptionist shook her head once.
The young woman looked down at the child, then back at the receptionist. She stood, adjusted the toddler on her hip and left.
The door closed behind her.
Jean Eldridge’s name was called, and she followed a member of staff down the corridor.
A woman was seated behind the desk. She looked barely older than Jean.
‘Good afternoon. My name is Theresa and I will be your personal banker today.’
Jean sat down carefully, both hands in her lap.
‘Your full name, please?’
‘Jean Eldridge.’
The personal banker typed.
‘I see Eric Dunmore sent you an invitation. Do you have the card with you?’
Jean’s hands tightened in her lap.
‘Yes.’
She placed it on the desk with both hands.
‘What do you need to deposit?’
Jean looked straight ahead.
‘My babies.’
Theresa waited.
‘Twins. I was twenty-six weeks pregnant.’
Jean tightened her hands in her lap.
‘The doctors told me the pregnancy was high risk. They gave me strict instructions. No alcohol. No smoking. Rest as much as possible.’
‘And did you follow them?’
‘No.’
Theresa waited.
‘I kept drinking. I kept smoking. I kept exercising. I knew what they had told me.’
‘What happened?’
Jean stared at the floor.
‘I lost them.’
Theresa typed.
‘Both?’
Jean nodded.
‘Both. I didn’t want them.’
Theresa continued typing.
‘I didn’t want to be a mother.’
‘Right. That will be two deposits. Both will be valid for three years. We will contact you nearer the maturity date.’
Jean nodded slowly.
‘How would you like to pay?’
‘Direct debit,’ she said.
Small. Manageable. Monthly.
As though guilt could be budgeted for.
FOUR — BEATRICE NOLAN
A man near the front of the queue stood up, pocketed his invitation card and straightened his coat. He took three steps towards the door.
A member of staff was suddenly beside him. No uniform. A badge that read Theresa.
A word was said, too low to hear, followed by a gentle gesture towards the empty seat.
The man looked at the door, then at the seat. He sat back down, opened his invitation card and stared at it.
Beatrice Nolan’s name was called, and a member of staff ushered her down the corridor.
A woman was seated behind the desk, reading glasses on a chain around her neck.
‘Good afternoon. My name is Theresa and I will be your personal banker today.’
Beatrice sat down as though she had rehearsed it.
‘Your full name, please?’
‘Beatrice Nolan.’
The personal banker typed.
‘I see Harriet Thorne sent you an invitation. Do you have the card with you?’
‘Yes.’
She placed it on the desk, perfectly centred.
‘What do you need to deposit?’
She folded her hands.
‘I’m leaving my husband.’
Theresa waited.
‘The Minister.’ A small pause. ‘He doesn’t know.’
‘Go on.’
‘I have been preparing quietly for some time. Money moved. His, mostly. Documents gathered. Arrangements made.’
‘And someone else?’ asked Theresa.
The briefest pause.
‘Yes,’ she replied and looked away.
‘And the consequences?’ asked Theresa. ‘If you leave?’
Beatrice looked directly at her for the first time.
‘It won’t just be a divorce.’
She straightened slightly.
‘It will be the front page. Then his seat.’
Theresa typed without expression.
‘Right. This deposit will be valid for three years.’
‘I won’t need three years,’ said Beatrice quietly.
‘How would you like to pay?’
‘Wire transfer.’
She opened her bag, then closed it again.
‘Make it international.’
FIVE — MALCOLM SMITH
Malcolm almost didn’t come.
He stood outside The Bank for a long time, watching people enter with invitation cards in their hands. A woman leaving the building glanced at him, then quickly looked away.
Malcolm was used to that.
The fire had taken most of his left ear. The skin across that side of his face had healed unevenly, running in tight ridges from his temple to his jaw and disappearing beneath his collar. There were places where he could no longer feel anything and others where the slightest touch still hurt.
He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. The footage was still there.
A security camera on the house opposite his had recorded the street that night. The neighbour had given Malcolm a copy after he left the hospital.
He pressed play. A man approached Malcolm’s house and disappeared through the gate. Malcolm moved the recording forward. Forty-three minutes later, the same man emerged. Seven minutes after that, light began to flicker behind one of the downstairs windows.
Malcolm stopped the recording. He knew the rest. He had lived it, and he had the scars to prove it.
He looked again at the frozen figure on the screen.
Edward Tudor.
The man who had shared his bed. The man who had left him to burn.
Malcolm put his phone away and pushed the door open.
The lobby was quiet. He took a number and found a seat. Around him, people waited with invitation cards in their hands. Malcolm had none.
Two seats along, a woman leaned towards the man beside her.
‘Who did you have?’
‘Theresa.’
‘So did I.’
He had been sitting for less than a minute when a receptionist appeared from nowhere. She wore no uniform. The badge on her blouse read Theresa.
Malcolm looked at the badge, then at her face.
‘Do you have an invitation card?’
‘No.’
‘I’m afraid you need an invitation to open an account.’
‘I need protection. I can pay.’
‘Do you have an invitation card?’
Malcolm stared at her. ‘No. I’ve just told you. But someone tried to kill me. I have evidence.’
‘I’m sorry. The Bank operates by invitation only.’
‘You don’t understand. He thinks I’m dead.’
The receptionist said nothing.
‘If he finds out I survived, I don’t know what he’ll do.’
‘I’m sorry you find yourself in this position. There is nothing we can do.’
Malcolm stared at her. ‘But you protect people.’
‘We protect deposits.’
Malcolm touched the scarred side of his face but said nothing. He stood and put his hand into his pocket. His phone was still there. So was the evidence.
He walked towards the door.
‘Good luck, Mr Smith,’ the receptionist said.
Malcolm stopped but didn’t turn around. Around the lobby, heads lifted. The people waiting watched as he opened the door and stepped outside.
The door closed behind him.
For a moment, no one moved. Then, one by one, they looked back down at their invitation cards.
Behind the desk, the receptionist picked up the phone.
‘Mr Tudor. There’s been a development. We’ll need to discuss your terms.’
The Bank.
Open for business.
By invitation only.
Caroline Giudice is a British writer living in Sicily. She holds a BA (Hons) in Creative Writing. Her short fiction includes ‘Van Cleef’, published in Mr. Bull in May 2026, and ‘The Loan’, published in The Waterdog in September 2026.