weapon.
Screams erupted as the people milling around the greetings cards and stationery section at the back animatedly ignored the gunman’s entreaty and began pouring out through the swing-doors.
‘I SAYS NAE CUNT MOVE!’ he insisted, discharging another shot into the tiles, this time covering himself in polystyrene and plaster-dust. He wiped at his eyes with one hand and waved the shotgun with the other, running to the door to finally cut off the stream of evacuees.
‘Lock the fuckin’ door Tommy, for fuck’s sake,’ ordered the balaclava at the front counter.
‘I’m daein’ it, I’m daein’ it,’ he screeched back. ‘An’ dinnae use ma fuckin’ name, Jyzer, ya fuckin’ tube, ye.’
‘Well whit ye cawin’ me mine for ya stupit cunt?’
Jesus Christ, thought Parlabane, watching the gunman on door-duty usher his captives back into the body of the kirk. It was true after all: the spirit of the Fringe affects the whole city. The worthy ethos of amateurism and improvisation had extended to armed robbery. Must have been Open Mic Night down at the local Nutters & Cutters, and first prize was lead role in a new performance-art version of Dog Day Afternoon.
From the voices he could tell they were young; but even if they had remained silent it still wouldn’t have stretched his journalistic interpretative powers to deduce that they were pitifully inexperienced.
He rewound the action in his head, doing his Billy McNeil replay summary.
Three seconds in, Mistake Number One: Discharging a shotgun into the ceiling to get everyone’s attention, like simply the sight of the thing wasn’t going to raise any eyebrows. There were several hundred people outside in the shopping mall, and a large police station two hundred yards away at the top of Leith walk.
Four seconds in, Mistake Number Two: Charging into the shop and leaving umpteen customers behind you, out of sight, with a clear exit out the front door, through which they rush in a hysterical panic.
Seven seconds in, Mistake Number Three: Blowing another hole in the roof, then turning your back on the remaining customers while you chase after extra hostages that you won’t need.
Eight seconds in, Mistake Number Four: Telling everybody your first names.
Ten seconds in, Mistake Number Five: Finding yourself with at least ten customers plus staff as prisoners. One or two is usually plenty.
In a moment of inspiration, gunman Tommy began rearranging the queuing cordons and ordered everyone behind the rope.
‘Stay there an’ dinnae move, right?’
The customers were uniformly terrified, with the exception of Parlabane, who was just in far too bad a mood to entertain any emotions other than fury and hatred. Decadence is often born of boredom. Nihilism even more often born of a walk through the Old Town in mid-August.
‘Wouldn’t you prefer us to sit down?’ he offered, figuring these guys were going to need all the help and advice they could get.
Tommy thought about it. He looked like he’d need to do his working on a separate sheet of paper, but he got there eventually.
‘Eh, aye.’
Jyzer was busy making Mistake Number Six: Pointing his weapon at a young teller and ordering her colleagues to stay in their seats, where they could each press their panic buttons just in case the two resounding shotgun blasts hadn’t been heard first-hand at Gayfield Square polis emporium.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Parlabane sighed, the words slipping out before he could stop himself.
‘Shut it, you,’ Tommy barked. ‘You got a problem, pal?’
Yes he did. He had a problem with the fact that the chances of these two eejits shooting someone through incompetence-generated panic were increasing by the second. He considered amelioration the wisest policy right then.
‘Eh, no problem,’ he said. ‘But I was wondering… I mean, it’s just an idea really, but maybe you should move the staff over here beside us, you know, so there’s just one group of hostages to
Screams erupted as the people milling around the greetings cards and stationery section at the back animatedly ignored the gunman’s entreaty and began pouring out through the swing-doors.
‘I SAYS NAE CUNT MOVE!’ he insisted, discharging another shot into the tiles, this time covering himself in polystyrene and plaster-dust. He wiped at his eyes with one hand and waved the shotgun with the other, running to the door to finally cut off the stream of evacuees.
‘Lock the fuckin’ door Tommy, for fuck’s sake,’ ordered the balaclava at the front counter.
‘I’m daein’ it, I’m daein’ it,’ he screeched back. ‘An’ dinnae use ma fuckin’ name, Jyzer, ya fuckin’ tube, ye.’
‘Well whit ye cawin’ me mine for ya stupit cunt?’
Jesus Christ, thought Parlabane, watching the gunman on door-duty usher his captives back into the body of the kirk. It was true after all: the spirit of the Fringe affects the whole city. The worthy ethos of amateurism and improvisation had extended to armed robbery. Must have been Open Mic Night down at the local Nutters & Cutters, and first prize was lead role in a new performance-art version of Dog Day Afternoon.
From the voices he could tell they were young; but even if they had remained silent it still wouldn’t have stretched his journalistic interpretative powers to deduce that they were pitifully inexperienced.
He rewound the action in his head, doing his Billy McNeil replay summary.
Three seconds in, Mistake Number One: Discharging a shotgun into the ceiling to get everyone’s attention, like simply the sight of the thing wasn’t going to raise any eyebrows. There were several hundred people outside in the shopping mall, and a large police station two hundred yards away at the top of Leith walk.
Four seconds in, Mistake Number Two: Charging into the shop and leaving umpteen customers behind you, out of sight, with a clear exit out the front door, through which they rush in a hysterical panic.
Seven seconds in, Mistake Number Three: Blowing another hole in the roof, then turning your back on the remaining customers while you chase after extra hostages that you won’t need.
Eight seconds in, Mistake Number Four: Telling everybody your first names.
Ten seconds in, Mistake Number Five: Finding yourself with at least ten customers plus staff as prisoners. One or two is usually plenty.
In a moment of inspiration, gunman Tommy began rearranging the queuing cordons and ordered everyone behind the rope.
‘Stay there an’ dinnae move, right?’
The customers were uniformly terrified, with the exception of Parlabane, who was just in far too bad a mood to entertain any emotions other than fury and hatred. Decadence is often born of boredom. Nihilism even more often born of a walk through the Old Town in mid-August.
‘Wouldn’t you prefer us to sit down?’ he offered, figuring these guys were going to need all the help and advice they could get.
Tommy thought about it. He looked like he’d need to do his working on a separate sheet of paper, but he got there eventually.
‘Eh, aye.’
Jyzer was busy making Mistake Number Six: Pointing his weapon at a young teller and ordering her colleagues to stay in their seats, where they could each press their panic buttons just in case the two resounding shotgun blasts hadn’t been heard first-hand at Gayfield Square polis emporium.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Parlabane sighed, the words slipping out before he could stop himself.
‘Shut it, you,’ Tommy barked. ‘You got a problem, pal?’
Yes he did. He had a problem with the fact that the chances of these two eejits shooting someone through incompetence-generated panic were increasing by the second. He considered amelioration the wisest policy right then.
‘Eh, no problem,’ he said. ‘But I was wondering… I mean, it’s just an idea really, but maybe you should move the staff over here beside us, you know, so there’s just one group of hostages to
Similar Books
