So, I finally have internet in the new house! Hooray! Regular uploads can now recommence.
Brogues. What kind of self respecting bank robber wears brogues? Apart from the ones that do it all in ledgers and ‘Financial Acquisitions.’ I mean, this guy is standing there, wearing a Halloween mask and waving a shotgun and he’s wearing brogues! Imagine his to-do list.
1: Pick up the spaniels from the groomers
2: Take Rupert and Eleanor to private school
3: Rob Alliance and General
4: Go home to Charlotte and drink port while listening to the Archers.
Ok, I may be exaggerating there. He’s probably only got one kid. But seriously, these are some really nice shoes.
My face is cold. This floor is very cold. Why do they make banks like this anyway? Towering columns, high tables, armed gunmen.There’s an incredible draught too. Looks like middle class bank robber (I’m calling him Piers) has a friend. This one isn’t so well dressed though. Shabby trainers, trackie bottoms.
I don’t believe it. I’m in a Breaking Bad Episode.
Piers and Johnny (I can hardly call them Walter and Jessie, I’m fairly sure that’s against copyright. The Thought Police will invade my brain!) have been shouting. ‘Stay down, bitch!’
I may have imagined the last word.
I’m so scared. That’s what I’ve realised. I think there are police outside now. Piers and Johnny seem frantic. Johnny is shifting from foot to foot. One of his trainers is trailing a lace, and I can just hear it scratching on the floor as he moves from foot to foot. A slight bounce every time, just enough to drag the aglet a little further, making a slight tick on the cold marble floor.
I can see the reflections of the police lights, red to blue and back again. Muffled shouting through the glass doors. Then a new cold feeling. Two circles of metal, placed tenderly against the nape of my neck. I can feel the shaking. It moves down the length of the barrel, forcing it to brush against those tiny hairs. All the sound has been drained from the room, drowned out by the hammering of my own heartbeat. A soundless crash as the doors break, a faint tinkling like rain on the roof of the conservatory when you’re nowhere near it.
One incredibly loud bang.
The Idiot In Tin Foil