bampot central by Christopher Brookmyre. 17.10.01 This is Bampot Central the short story, which is available in the crime anthology Fresh Blood II. It was shortlisted for the 1997 Crime Writers Association Short Story Dagger Award. Page 1 of 7 There was a six-foot iguana swaying purposefully into Parlabane's path as he walked down High St. It had spotted him a few yards back and instinctively homed in on its prey, recognising that look in his eye and reacting without mercy. Some kind of sixth sense told cats which person in any given room most detested or was allergic to their species, so that they knew precisely whose lap to leap upon. A similar prescience had been visited upon spoilt Oxbridge undergrad hoorays in stupid costumes dispensing fliers for their dismal plays and revues. It was for this reason that a phenomenon such as the Fringe could never have thrived in Glasgow. In Edinburgh, most locals were stoically, if wearily, tolerant of such impositions; through in the west, dressing up as a giant lizard and deliberately getting in people's way would constitute reckless endangerment of the self. "There's no getting past me, I'm afraid!" the iguana chirped brightly in a stagey, let's-be-friends, happy-cheery, go on, please stab me, you know it'll make you feel better tone of voice. "Not without taking one of these!" it continued, thrusting a handful of leaflets at him. Parlabane had put on the wrong t-shirt that morning, forgetting that his errands would unavoidably take him through places residents knew well to avoid during the Festival (or to give it its full name in the native tongue, the Fucking Festival). He was wearing a plain white one, which was nice enough but vitally lacked the legend "FUCK OFF - I LIVE HERE", as was borne on several others at home. His August wardrobe, he liked to call it. "Keeble Kollege Krazees present: Whoops Checkov!" the leaflet announced. "An hilarious pastiche of Russian Naturalism! Find out what Constantine really got up to with that seagull!" Followed by the standard litany of made-up newspaper quotes. "Come along tonight," solicited the iguana. "It might even cheer you up a bit!" Parlabane swallowed back a multitude of ripostes and summoned up further admirable self-control by keeping his hands and feet to himself also. He breathed in, accepted a flyer and walked on. Remain calm, he told himself. He was over the worst of it now, having passed the Fringe Society office. North Bridge was in sight. It was his friend's son's birthday the next week, and the gift Parlabane wanted to get him was only on sale in a small toyshop on the High St. If it had also been on sale at the end of a tunnel of shite and broken glass, he'd have had to think long and hard about which store to visit during this time of year; as it was he'd had no such choice. The gift was a posable male doll in a miniature Celtic kit. The intended recipient lived in Los Angeles and would have no inkling of there being any significance to the costume, knowing only from Parlabane's attached note that the doll was to be named Paranoid Tim and must be subjected to every kind of abuse David's little mind could dream up. He looked down at the pavement, carpeted as it was in further leaflet-litter, mostly advertising stand-up gigs by the A-list London safe-comedy collective, the ones who had each been bland enough to get their own Friday night series on Channel Four. He wondered whether anyone doing stand-up these days wasn't "a comedy genius", and daydreamed yet again about Bill Hicks riding back into town on a black stallion and driving these lager-ad auditions into the Forth to drown. Maybe he should have just sent the kid a card and a cheque, he thought, eyeing a nearby mime with murderous intent. But what the hell, he'd bought it now, and whatever he sent wouldn't spare him the next ordeal he had to face that day: a trip to the Post Office. He picked up pace going down towards Princes St, as the unpredictable crosswinds made North Bridge an inadvisable pitch for leafleting. The route was therefore comparatively free of obstacles, save for a gaggle of squawking Italian tourists staging some kind of sit-in protest at a bus-stop. Parlabane approached the St James shopping centre with a striding, let's-get-this-over-with gait, all the while attempting to take his mind off the coming horrors with another calming fantasy involving the three female flatmates from Friends. This time he was disemboweling them with a broadsword, the chainsaw decapitations having grown a little tired. It was too simplistic to lay the blame at the feet of the Tories' Care in the Community policy. There had to be something deeper, to do with tides, ley-lines and lunar cycles, that explained why every large Post Office functioned as an urban bampot magnet, to which the deranged couldn't help but gravitate. From the merely befuddled to the malevolently sociopathic, they journeyed entranced each day, as though hypnotically drawn by the digitised queuing system. Parlabane remembered those Les Dawson ads a few years back: "It's amazing what you can pick up at the Post Office." Yeah. Like rabies. Or maybe anthrax. He bought a self-assembly packing box at the stationery counter, then after ten minutes of being humiliated by an inert piece of cardboard, returned to purchase a roll of sellotape and wrapped it noisily around the whole arrangement until Paranoid Tim was securely imprisoned. It looked bugger-all like a box, but the wee plastic bastard wasn't going to fall out, which was the main thing. Then he joined the queue. There were three English crusties immediately ahead of him, each boasting an ecologically diverse range of flora and fauna in their tangled dreads. They were accompanied by the statutory skinny dog on a string, and were sharing round a jumbo plastic bottle of Tesco own-brand cider and a damp-looking dowt. The dog wasn't offered a drag, but it looked like it had smoked a few in its time, and probably preferred untipped anyway. Behind him there was a heavily pregnant young woman, looking tired and fanning herself with the brown envelope she was planning to post. And behind her were a couple of Morningside Ladies muttering about whichever Fringe show had been singled out for moral opprobrium (and a resultant box-office boost) this year by Conservative Councilor Moira Knox. He'd got off lightly, in other words, and the queue wasn't even very long. The ordeal was almost over. Except that at the post office, it's never over till it's over. He caught a glimpse of a figure passing by on his right-hand side, skipping the queue and making directly for the counter. Parlabane was following the golden rule of PO survival - never look anyone in the face - but was nonetheless able to make out that the person was wearing a balaclava. His heart sank. It was the number one fashion accessory of the top-level numpties, especially in the height of summer, and this one looked hell-bent on maximum disruption. Then from a few feet behind him he heard an explosion, and turned around to see fragments of ceiling tiles rain down upon the betweeded Morningsiders. Behind them was a man in a ski-mask holding a shotgun. "RIGHT, NAE CUNT MOVE - THIS IS A ROBBERY!" Parlabane turned again and saw that the balaclavaed figure at the counter was also holding a 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 keep an eye on, and your china can get on with posting his airmail or whatever." "Christ, mate," said one of the crusties, "why don't you offer them our bloody wallets as well while you're at it? I mean whose side are you on?" "Fuckin' shut it, you," snapped Tommy. "An' it's no airmail, it's a fuckin' robbery, right?" Parlabane held his hands up and shrugged. Whatever. Jyzer, who by superiority of one synapse was the brains of the outfit, had cottoned on to Parlabane's thinking and gestured the other tellers to file out from behind the counter. Then he ordered Tommy to collect everybody's wallets, proving that he was broad-minded and open to suggestions from any of the hostages. "Sheer fuckin' genius," Parlabane muttered to the crusty, who wouldn't meet his gaze. Tommy backed away, eyes flitting back and forth between the growing pile of wallets and purses and the front doors, outside which a crowd had gathered. "Oh, I just knew something like this was going to happen," muttered one of the Morningsiders to her companion. "I just knew it." "Me too Morag, me too." Parlabane had suffered enough. "Well it's a pity neither of you fucking clairvoyants thought to tip anyone off, then, isn't it?" he observed. "Now, son, there's no need for that." He looked away. This was the quintessence of British "respectability". There were two brainless arseholes holding them prisoner with shotguns, but they could still get upset about the "language" you used. Jyzer's initially quiet dialogue with the remaining teller was beginning to gain in volume. Parlabane hadn't caught what Jyzer was asking for, but he wished to hell the stupid lassie would hurry up and give him it, especially as there were now two uniformed plods peering in the doors and hustling the onlookers back. He looked at his watch, figuring the Balaclava Brothers had a few more minutes before an armed response unit showed up to raise the stakes. "Look, I ken ye're lyin', awright? We've had information. We ken they're in there. Insurance Bonds, fae Scottish Widows. They come through here the last Monday o' every month. So fuckin' get them or I'll fuckin' blow ye away." The girl had tears in her eyes and was struggling to keep her voice steady. "I swear to God, I've never heard of any . . . Insurance Bonds coming through here. In fact I don't think I've ever heard of Insurance Bonds full stop." "Look, don't gie's it. Last Monday o' every month. Scottish Widows. It should say it on the parcel." "But this isn't a sorting office. The only parcels coming through here are the ones folk are sending. They go straight in the slots over there, or in the basket through-by. Please, I'm not lying. You can come through and look." "I fuckin' will an' aw," he said, walking around to the counter's access door. "An' if ye're lyin' I'll fuckin' mark ye, hen. I'll no be a minute, Tommy," he assured. "Insurance Bonds?" one of the tellers asked of a colleague. "Naw, I've never heard of them either." "Wouldnae come through here anyway, would they?" queried another. "D'you think they've got the right place?" "Fuckin' shut it yous," Tommy ordered again. "We've had information. We ken whit we're daein' so sit nice an' it'll aw be by wi' soon, right?" Parlabane sighed again. Insurance Bonds. Jesus Christ almighty. It just got better and better. "What's an Insurance Bond, Tommy?" he asked calmly. "I tell't yous aw tae shut it. I ken whit Insurance Bonds are, right?" Parlabane made a zipping gesture across his mouth. There was a suspicion growing inside his head. It had germinated early on in the proceedings, but the last few moments had poured on the Baby Bio and it was seriously starting to sprout. They sat in silence, apart from the occasional yelp from the crusties' skinny dog. Tommy's eyes looked wide and jumpy through the holes in his ski-mask. "Fuck!" came a furious, low growl from the back office. "Fuckin' Jesus fuckin' fuck!" The girl stumbled nervously out to join the hostage party, followed by Jyzer, whose woolly mask could not conceal that he was little at peace with himself. "So, d'ye get them?" Tommy asked. Jyzer took a slow breath to calm his rage. It didn't quite make it. "Naw I never fuckin' got them ya stupit cunt. Fuckin' Scottish Widows must've changed the delivery day or somehin'." "Aye, awright, dinnae take it oot on me." "Well stop askin' fuckin' stupit questions." "But what are we gaunny dae?" "Shut up, I'm tryin' tae think." Parlabane looked to the front of the shop. One of the uniforms was pointing into the shop and talking to someone out of sight down the mall. Three men in matching kevlar semmits filed into place in front of the sports shop opposite, taking up crouching positions and raising automatic rifles. Parlabane swallowed. Not everyone was going to be home in time for tea, he feared. "Giros!" Jyzer announced. He turned to the teller who had most recently joined the ranks of the illegally detained. "Giro money. Pensions nawrat. Hand it ower." "I don't think that should be your number one priority right now," Parlabane said, pointing at the front window. "Who asked . . . aw fuck." Jyzer took a step back, like that extra two feet would put him out of a bullet's projectile range. "This is the police," announced a hailer-enhanced screech. Whatever it said next was lost as Jyzer finally showed a spark of dynamism. "Right," he stated. "Staun up, aw yous. An' line up across the shoap, facin' away fae the windae. That's it." They got to their feet unsteadily, most of them turning their heads to cast an eye upon the assembly outside. Jyzer and Tommy stepped behind their human shield, out of the police marksmen's sights. "Terrific," muttered one of the crusties. "Now we're the filling in a gun sandwich." "Noo, go an' get us aw the cash in the shop," he commanded the teller, handing her the sports bag that already contained their wallet harvest. "We have all exits covered," resumed the loud hailer. "Please put down your weapons, release your hostages and come out with your hands on your heads." "Come on," said Parlabane tiredly. "Do what the man asked. He said please, after all." "You think we're fuckin' stupit, don't ye?" Jyzer observed, accurately. "Smart-arsed cunt," he added, hitting a second bullseye. "Well, maybe you'll prove me wrong by explaining how you were ever planning to get out of here, with or without your, ahem, Insurance Bonds." "Stop windin' him up, mate," warned the crusty who had earlier proffered the highly constructive wallet suggestion. "I'm not winding him up. I'm just curious to know the secrets of how true professionals work." "Want me tae slap the cunt, Jyzer?" Tommy offered. "Just keep the heid and keep your hauns on the gun, Tommy. Dinnae let him distract ye. He's up to somethin', this cunt." A telephone started ringing on the other side of the counter as the teller returned with the sports bag, presumably now containing cash and very possibly a dye-charge, seeing as Jyzer had made Mistake Number Fuck-knows by leaving her alone to fill the thing. "Get that," Jyzer commanded. "No you," he added, as Tommy made to reach for the receiver. "It's for you," she said. "The police." He gestured to her to rejoin the human shield, taking hold of the bag as she passed, then picked up the phone. Tommy stayed in place, sweeping the gun back and forth along his line of vision like it was a searchlight. The crusties' skinny dog ambled lazily over to him, yawned once and began half-heartedly shagging his leg. "Get tae fuck, ya wee shite," he hissed, kicking out at it to shake the thing off, his eye relaying between his prisoners and his foot. "Fuckin' dirty wee bastard." "TOMMY!" Jyzer barked, placing a hand over the mouthpiece, "will ye fuckin' keep it doon - I'm on the phone here." "Aye, awright. Fuck's sake," whined Tommy, hurt. Jyzer shook his head and took his hand off the blue plastic. "Sorry, what were ye sayin'?" he resumed. "Naw, naw. You listen. Fuckin' just shut it an' listen ya polis cunt." The Morningside contingent tutted in stereo either side of Parlabane. "Before we even have this conversation, I want to be lookin' oot that front windae an' seein' nae polis, right. Nane. Get them away fae the front o' the shop then phone us back." He slammed down the handset with an obvious satisfaction. Parlabane suspected the sense of accomplishment would be short-lived, but was admittedly impressed at this first sign of Jyzer having any idea what he was doing. In fact, he had noted with some surprise that neither of the pair had shown much sign of panic at the arrival of the ARU, and started to wonder whether their grossly conspicuous entrance had been less of an obvious blunder than he had first assumed. Jesus, these heid-the-baws couldn't have a plan, could they? He looked back over his shoulder, Jyzer and Tommy peering between the arrayed hostages. The marksmen got to their feet and moved out of sight left and right, as if exiting a stage. Parlabane figured it a safe bet they'd be returning for the fifth act. The phone rang again. "Right. Very good. Well done. Noo here's what we want. Naw, naw, shut it. We aw ken what you want: you want the hostages oot an' us in the cells so's ye can boot fuck oot us. Well, the bad news is you cannae have baith, right? So there's gaunny have to be a wee compromise. You can have maist o' the hostages in exchange for a helicopter. We want it on the roof o' the St James Centre in hauf an 'oor. We'll be takin' wan hostage wi' us, an' we'll tell the pilot where we're gaun wance we're on board." He slammed the phone down again. "A helicopter?" Parlabane asked. "What, has Fife no' got an extradition treaty?" "Fuckin' shut it." "Another rapier-like come-back." "Right," Jyzer declared, suddenly pointing his shotgun at the pregnant woman. "Step forward missus, ye're comin' wi' us." "No her, Jyzer," Tommy dissented. "She's dead fat. She'll be slow." "She's no fat, she's fuckin' pregnant, ya n'arse. The polis'll no mess aboot if we've got a gun tae a pregnant burd's heid." The pregnant woman began to whimper, tears running from terrified eyes. She put a hand out and grabbed Parlabane's shoulder to steady herself. "Not a good idea, guys," he stated. The phone began ringing again. "I thought I tell't you tae shut it," Jyzer said, thrusting the gun into Parlabane's face. "Look at her," he demanded, staring into Jyzer's eyes. "She's ready to burst. Do you want her goin' into labour during your dramatic getaway?" Jyzer looked at the woman, sweating, tearful, and imposingly up the stick. "Know somethin'?" he declared. "You're absolutely right. We'll take you instead." Parlabane, who was firmly of the belief that no good deed ever goes unpunished, had been expecting this. He shrugged, put his parcel down and took a step forward, trying not to dwell on the potential indignity of surviving several professional attempts on his life only to be plugged by some shambolic half-wit down the post office. Bugger it. Just as long as getting killed there didn't mean you went to Post Office Hell. Jyzer picked up the phone again while Tommy gestured Parlabane to walk ahead of him through to the area behind the counters. The skinny dog gave another yawn as they passed, then trotted over to Jyzer and began humping his shin, its pink tongue lolling out of the right-hand side of its mouth.. "Naw, naw. We'll let the last hostage go wance we've arrived at . . .AYIAH! Get tae fuck ya clatty wee cunt . . . naw, no you, officer. Dug was tryin' tae shag me leg." Jyzer eyed the crusty who was holding the other end of the string. "Heh Swampy, that thing touches me again an' I splatter its baws aw ower this flair, awright? Naw, no you officer. Aye that's right, aw the hostages. Once we're up an' away, we cannae shoot them, right? So they're aw yours - but no' until we're up an' away. An' we're no comin' up until the chopper's there. If we come up the stairs an' there's fuck-all, it's gaunny be a fuckin' bloodbath, right? Cause ye'll no have gie'd us any choices - we'll have to shoot oor way oot. Noo, next time this phone rings it better be tae say wur transport's arrived." He put the phone down again. "Are we gettin' a helicopter, Jyzer?" Tommy asked. "Don't be a fuckin' eejit, Tommy. They're just stringin' us alang, same as we're stringin' them alang. C'mon." They backed into the passage leading to behind the counters, Tommy keeping a gun on Parlabane, Jyzer still training his on the hostages. "Nane o' yous move," he called out, stopping at the door that led into the storeroom at the rear of the counters. "We'll be watchin'. Stay where yous are. You might no' see us, but we'll still see you. Dinnae try anythin'. Just cause ye cannae see us doesnae mean we're no there." "I'm sure they bought that," Parlabane said, nodding, as they retreated into the store-room. "I don't think it would have crossed their minds at all that you might not be watching them. I mean, if you'd overstated your case it might have raised suspicions, but . . ." "Fuckin' shut it," grunted Jyzer, nicking back and popping his head round the door to check his prisoners weren't making a swift but orderly exit. "More Wildean badinage. Do you mind if I write some of these come-backs down?" "You'll no' sound so smart talkin' through a burst nose, smart cunt, so I'd fuckin' wrap it if I was you." "And if you burst my nose you'll be leaving a nice fresh trail of blood along your escape route; that's if you fuckin' clowns have got an escape route." "We've got mair ay a plan than you think, smart cunt." "Course you have. You're fuckin' professionals. Tell me again about these Insurance Bonds . . ." Jyzer back-handed Parlabane across the jaw, which was very much what he'd been hoping for. Unfortunately the blow came on the wrong side, so he had to execute a largely unconvincing 180-degree stumble before getting to his intended effect, which was to fall down heavily against the door so that it slammed loudly with his back propped hard against it. Despite Parlabane's abysmally obvious pirouette, it still took Jyzer a few moments to suss the potential problem, by which time the sound of breaking glass was filling the air as the police broke into the front shop and began ushering the hostages out. "Fuckin' cunt. Fuckin' cunt." Jyzer kicked viciously at Parlabane until eventually he rolled clear, then threw the door open to see his prisoners fleeing and the armed cops kneeling down to take aim. He slammed it shut again and pushed a table up against it, then backed into the room, indicating to Parlabane to crawl over against the wall to his right. Jyzer knelt down a few feet away, the gun pointing halfway between his prisoner and the door, his eyes shuttling between both targets. "We've still got a hostage in here," he shouted. "Any o' yous cunts tries this door and we'll do 'im, right? We still want that fuckin' helicopter." "Okay, okay, everybody stay calm," appealed a voice from the other side of the door. "Everybody just calm down. I'm pulling my marksmen back to outside the shop, so don't panic and do something we'll all regret." "I wouldnae regret shootin' you, ya cunt," Jyzer hissed at Parlabane, who just smiled. "Sorry Jyzer, but in case you've no' worked it out, the last thing you can do is shoot me - I'm your only hostage. Soon as I'm out of the equation, it's you versus the bullets. That's unless you professionals can take out a team of trained marksmen with your stove-pipes there." Frustration was writ large in Jyzer's eyes. He clearly wished he could blow Parlabane away, or at the very least, finally silence him with a telling one-liner. He settled for: "Fuckin' shut it." Then he called out to the cops. "We're aw calm in here. Yous keep calm an' aw. An' get on wi' gettin' that helicopter." Tommy was hectically hunting through drawers and cupboards, having tried the handle on the only other door in the room. "I cannae find the keys, Jyzer," he gasped in a loud whisper. "Well they've got tae be here somewhere. Keep lookin'." "Couldn't possibly be on the person of one of your erstwhile hostages?" Parlabane suggested. "Aw fuck," Tommy sighed. "Keep at it Tommy, there'll be another set somewhere. Dinnae listen tae that cunt." "What were you wanting from the stationery cupboard, anyway?" Parlabane asked. "Checking there's no eh, Insurance Bonds mixed in wi' the dug-licence application forms?" "Would ye fuckin' shut it aboot the bonds. They were meant tae be here. Scottish Widows changed the delivery. They're worth thousands. Nae ID needed. Good as money." "That's right, they're transgotiable," Tommy contributed. "Shut it Tommy, that's no the word. Keep lookin'. An' as for you, big-mooth, that's no' any stationery cupboard. Behind that door's the thing that's gaunny make you eat every wan o' your smart-cunt words." "What, proof that Madonna's got talent?" "Naw. That door leads tae the underground railway. Belongs tae the Post Office, for sendin' stuff back and forward. Runs fae here doon tae the main sortin' depot at Brunswick Road, which is where we've got a motor waitin'. They'll still be coverin' the exits up here while we're poppin' up haufway doon Leith Walk. And wance we're there, you'll have outlived your usefulness, 'lived' bein' the main word. Aye, ye're no so smart, noo, are ye?" Parlabane shook his head, squatting on the floor against the wall. "Underground railway?" he asked, grinning.. "Aye." "I've got two words for you, Jyzer: Insurance Bonds." "An' I've got two words for you: fuckin' shut it. Tommy, have ye fun' thae keys yet?" "Sorry Jyzer. I don't think there' a spare set." "Fuck it," Jyzer said, getting to his feet. "You watch him Tommy." Jyzer walked over to the locked door and pointed his shotgun at the metal handle. "No don't do that!" Parlabane shouted, too late. Jyzer pulled his trigger and blasted the handle, then reeled away from the still-locked door, bent double and groaning. "AAAAYAAA FUCKIN' BASTARD!" he screamed, falling to the floor, blood appearing from the dozens of tiny wounds where the pellets had ricocheted off the solid metal and back into his thighs, hands, wrists, abdomen and groin. "STAY OOT!" Tommy shouted to the cops behind the door. "STAY OOT. The hostage is awright. Just a wee accident in here. Just everybody keep steady, right?" "Let's hear the hostage," called the cop. "Let's hear his voice." Tommy, looking increasingly like the least steady person on Earth, waved the gun at Parlabane and nodded, prompting him to reply. "I'm here," Parlabane shouted. "You okay, sir?" "Do you really want me to answer that?" "I mean are you hurt?" "No. But Jyzer here just learned a valuable lesson about the magic of the movies." "What?" "That's enough," Tommy interrupted. scuttling over to check on his writhing companion. "What's the score wi' that helicopter?" he called. "I think an air ambulance might be more appropriate," Parlabane said. "Fuckin' shut it," Tommy hissed. It was the only part of Jyzer's role he had been so far able to assimilate. "It's over, Tommy," Parlabane said quietly. "Your pal's in a bad way, there's polis everywhere, and I'm afraid you're three hundred miles from the nearest underground postal railway, which is in London." "It's no'. There's wan here. We've had information." "Is everybody okay in there?" asked the policeman. "STAY OOT!" Tommy warned again, his voice starting to tremble. "The situation's no' changed. Stay oot." Jyzer continued to moan in the corner, convulsed also by the occasional cough. "There's no such things as Insurance Bonds, Tommy," Parlabane told him. "Shut it. There is." "Where did you get this 'information'?" "That's ma business." "Did you pay for it? Is someone on a percentage?" "Naw. Aye. The second wan." "Never done anything like this before, have you?" Jyzer moaned again, eyes closed against the pain.. Tommy shook his head. He was starting to look scared, like he needed his Mammy to take him home. "Somebody put you up to it? Somebody force you?" "Naw," he said defensively. "We were offered this. Hand-picked. He gied us the information, an' we'd tae gie him forty percent o' the cally efterwards." "You been inside before? Recently" "Aye. Oot six weeks. Baith ay us." "And I take it you weren't inside for armed robbery." He shook his head again. Parlabane nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his compact little mobile phone. "Whit ye daein'? Put that doon." "Just let me call the cops outside, okay? Save us shoutin' through the wall the whole time." "Aye awright." He dialled the number for Gayfield Square, explained the situation and asked to be patched through to the main man on-site. "Are you sure you're all right, sir?" the cop in charge asked. "What's your name? Do you need us to get a message to someone?" "I'm fine. My name's Jack Parlabane. Yes, that Jack Parlabane, and spare me the might-have-knowns. I didn't try to get myself into this, it just happened. Now, Tommy here's not quite ready to end this, I don't think. But I was wondering whether you might want to scale down the ARU involvement out there. I've got a feeling you'll be needing them elsewhere fairly imminently." "Too late," the cop informed him. "Somebody hit the Royal Bank at the west end of George St about fifteen minutes ago while we were scratching our arses back here. By the time any of our lot got there it was all in the past tense. We've been had." "You're not the only ones." "What was that?" Tommy asked. "Bank robbery, Tommy," he told him "A proper one. Carried out less than a mile from here while the police Armed Response Unit were holding their dicks outside a post office. Now who do you think could have been behind that? Same guy gave you 'the information' maybe?" "But . . . but . . . we . . " "You were right about being hand-picked, Tommy. And you can both take some satisfaction from the fact that you carried out the plan exactly as intended. Unfortunately, you were intended to fuck up. What were the instructions? Grab the mysterious Insurance Bonds, create a hostage situation, keep the polis occupied, then escape via the magical underground railway? And were you given a specific date and time, perhaps?" There was confusion in Tommy's eyes, but on the whole resignation was starting to replace defiance. Jyzer gave a last mournful splutter and passed out. "Don't suppose you want to score a few points with the boys in blue by telling them who set you up so they can get on to his tail?" "Mair than ma life's worth." "Fair enough. But it's still over, Tommy. Jyzer needs medical attention. The wounds might be superficial, but then again they might not. Come on. Put the gun down." Tommy looked across at the unconscious Jyzer surrounded by bloodstains on the beige carpet, then at the locked door, then back at his hostage. "Ach, fuck it," he rasped angrily, knuckles whitening as he gripped the gun tighter. Parlabane took an involuntary breath, his eyes locked on Tommy's. "The cunt's name was McKay," he said with a sigh. "Erchie McKay. Met him inside. He got oot last month, same as us." Tommy put the shotgun down on the floor and slid it across to Parlabane. "Just make sure they catch the bastart." At eight-thirty that evening, the nightly performance of "Whoops Checkov" was abandoned after a number of powerful stink-bombs were thrown through the door of the auditorium by an unidentified male. It was, the unidentified male admitted to the woman driving his getaway car, childish and puerile, but then so is much of the Fringe.