About the Author
Markus Zusak is the award-winning author of The Book Thief and I Am the Messenger, both Michael L. Printz Honor Books. An international bestseller, The Book Thief has sold over 4.5 million copies in the U.S. alone and has garnered worldwide critical acclaim. The New York Times called it "Brilliant and hugely ambitious. . . . Its the kind of book that can be life changing," and The Guardian (UK) said, "Unsettling, thought-provoking, life-affirming, triumphant and tragic, this is a novel of breathtaking scope, masterfully told. It is an important piece of work, but also a wonderful page-turner."
Markus Zusak is the recipient of the Margaret A. Edwards Award for significant and lasting contribution to writing for teens. He lives with his wife and children in Sydney, Australia.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
the holdup
The gunman is useless.
I know it.
He knows it.
The whole bank knows it.
Even my best mate, Marvin, knows it, and hes more useless than the gunman.
The worst part about the whole thing is that Marvs car is standing outside in a fifteen-minute parking zone. Were all facedown on the floor, and the cars only got a few minutes left on it.
"I wish this bloked hurry up," I mention.
"I know," Marv whispers back. "This is outrageous." His voice rises from the depths of the floor. "Ill be getting a fine because of this useless bastard. I cant afford another fine, Ed."
"The cars not even worth it."
"What?"
Marv looks over at me now. I can sense hes getting uptight. Offended. If theres one thing Marv doesnt tolerate, its someone putting shit on his car. He repeats the question.
"What did you say, Ed?"
"I said," I whisper, "it isnt even worth the fine, Marv."
"Look," he says, "Ill take a lot of things, Ed, but . . ."
I tune out of what hes saying because, quite frankly, once Marv gets going about his car, its downright pain-in-the-arse material. He goes on and on, like a kid, and hes just turned twenty, for Jesus sake.
He goes on for another minute or so, until I have to cut him off.
"Marv," I point out, "the cars an embarrassment, okay? It doesnt even have a hand brake--its sitting out there with two bricks behind the back wheels." Im trying to keep my voice as quiet as possible. "Half the time you dont even bother locking it. Youre probably hoping someonell flog it so you can collect the insurance."
"It isnt insured."
"Exactly."
"NRMA said it wasnt worth it."
"Its understandable."
Thats when the gunman turns around and shouts, "Whos talkin back there?"
Marv doesnt care. Hes worked up about the car.
"You dont complain when I give you a lift to work, Ed, you miserable upstart."
"Upstart? What the hells an upstart?"
"I said shut up back there!" the gunman shouts again.
"Hurry up then!" Marv roars back at him. Hes in no mood now. No mood at all.
Hes facedown on the floor of the bank.
The banks being robbed.
Its abnormally hot for spring.
The air-conditionings broken down.
His cars just been insulted.
Old Marvs at the end of his tether, or his wits end. Whatever you want to call it--hes got the shits something terrible.
We remain flattened on the worn-out, dusty blue carpet of the bank, and Marv and I are looking at each other with eyes that argue. Our mate Ritchies over at the Lego table, half under it, lying among all the pieces that scattered when the gunman came in yelling, screaming, and shaking. Audreys just behind me. Her foots on my leg, making it go numb.
The gunmans gun is pointed at the nose of some poor girl behind the counter. Her name tag says Misha. Poor Misha. Shes shivering nearly as bad as the gunman as she waits for some zitty twenty-nine-year-old fella with a tie and sweat patches under his arms to fill the bag with money.
"I wish this bloked hurry up," Marv speaks.
"I said that already," I tell him.
"So what? I cant make a comment of my own?"
"Get your foot off me," I tell Audrey.
"What?" she responds.
"I said get your foot off me--my legs going numb."
She moves it. Reluctantly.
"Thanks."
The gunman turns around and shouts his question for the last time. "Whos the bastard talking?"
The thing to note with Marv is that hes problematic at the best of times. Argumentative. Less than amiable. Hes the type of friend you find yourself constantly arguing with--especially when it comes to his shitbox Falcon. Hes also a completely immature arsehole when hes in the mood.
He calls out in a jocular manner, "Its Ed Kennedy, sir. Its Ed whos talking!"
"Thanks a lot!" I say.
(My full names Ed Kennedy. Im nineteen. Im an underage cabdriver. Im typical of many of the young men you see in this suburban outpost of the city--not a whole lot of prospects or possibility. That aside, I read more books than I should, and Im decidedly crap at sex and doing my taxes. Nice to meet you.)
"Well, shut up, Ed!" the gunman screams. Marv smirks. "Or Ill come over there and shoot the arse off you!"
Its like being in school again and your sadistic math teachers barking orders at you from the front of the room, even though he couldnt care less and hes waiting for the bell so he can go home and drink beer and get fat in front of the telly.
I look at Marv. I want to kill him. "Youre twenty years old, for Christs sake. Are you trying to get us killed?"
"Shut up, Ed!" The gunmans voice is louder this time.
I whisper even quieter. "If I get shot, Im blaming you. You know that, dont you?"
"I said shut up, Ed!"
"Everythings just a big joke, isnt it, Marv?"
"Right, thats it." The gunman forgets about the woman behind the counter and marches over to us, fed up as all buggery. When he arrives we all look up at him.
Marv.
Audrey.
Me.
And all the other hopeless articles like us sprawled out on the floor.
The end of the gun touches the bridge of my nose. It makes it itchy. I dont scratch it.
The gunman looks back and forth between Marv and me. Through the stocking on his face I can see his ginger whiskers and acne scars. His eyes are small and he has big ears. Hes most likely robbing the bank as a payback on the world for winning the ugliness prize at his local fete three years running.
"So which one of yous Ed?"
"Him," I answer, pointing to Marv.
"Oh no you dont," Marv counters, and I can tell by the look on his face that he isnt as afraid as he should be. He knows wed both be dead by now if this gunman was the real thing. He looks up at the stocking-faced man and says, "Hang on a sec. . . ." He scratches his jawline. "You look familiar."
"Okay," I admit, "Im Ed." But the gunmans too busy listening to what Marv has to say for himself.
"Marv," I whisper loudly, "shut up."