The Man I Want To Be
by David D. Sharp
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: A clash of personalities has fatal consequences.
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There's the man I am and there's the man I want to be and the distance between the two seems unconquerable. So I took all the things I hated about myself, all the ugly bits, the words I wish I'd never said, the things that I'll never tell another soul that I've done - I took them all, put them in a box and pushed it all to the bottom of my soul. Without all those flaws and blemishes I thought I could just concentrate on being a better man. Flawless. Perfect.
But down in the shadows, out of the sight and out of mind, the man I didn't want to be continued to fester and evolve. He grew hungry and restless. I don't know where the name Hector No Holds came from. He probably chose it himself.
Gradually, while my attention was diverted, Hector started to sneak out and do things. At first I didn't notice these little excursions, or rather I didn't want to. Large wads of cash would turn up in my wallet or trouser pockets - tatty, creased notes. Sites I didn't recognise would occasionally flash up in the autosuggest bar of my web browser. One afternoon I went to put on a load of washing and shoving my hand into the machine screamed out loud as I felt something cold and wet and furry in amongst the socks and pants. It was a tabby cat, drowned and bashed by the extra long spin cycle. Poor thing must have crept in and gotten the door closed on it by mistake. That's what I told myself as I quietly deposited it into the wheelie bin, quickly placing more bags on top of it.
It had been a Thursday of all days, the day I woke up woozy and oblivious to where the past twelve hours of my life had gone. Uncharacteristically I found myself naked beneath the covers. Naked with the exception of the condom smeared lightly with blood. In my living room a pretty blonde girl was crying. She wore trendy clothes, bangles and high heels - what was a girl like that doing in my living room at all let alone holding her head in her hands and sobbing?
"Go fist yourself you prick!" she erupted, noticing my figure framed in the doorway. Before I could even string together which question to ask first she was up and out of there, the front door slamming behind her.
Feeling like I was being suddenly starved of oxygen I fled to the bathroom and dry heaved a little. When I looked up at the chipped mirror hanging above the sink I didn't see the flushed, wide-eyed reflection I had expected but a confident, grinning version of my own face. He clicked his fingers into a mock gun and winked at me.
That had been the worst occasion, worst that I knew of any way, but at least from that point on I knew that he existed. Knew that he had to be kept at bay. After that I reinforced the bars, so to speak. I stopped drinking, started going to church again. Thought happy thoughts. That seemed to do the trick, he couldn't get out after that. Couldn't get out, but could still rattle his cage, trying to lure me into setting him free once more. Driving home from the store was his usual time for trying his tricks, having waited till I was sufficiently tired, worn down from the day at work and the stream of crawling traffic ahead of me.
"Hey, hey Jamie," he would whisper from the rear view mirror. "What you going to do when you get home tonight Jamie?"
"Nothing - just have dinner and then relax," I'd sigh, trying my best to ignore him.
"You know what you should do? You should let me out. We'd have a right old time the pair of us, come on what do you say? It'll be a laugh."
"No, just be quiet."
"Hey why don't you swing past The Old Crown on your way home, pick up a stick a crack? Then we can kick back, fire up some hardcore smut and chillax."
The lights had gone green again, I put my foot down only to have to slam the brakes back on seconds later. I hated my commute, especially during the dark, featureless evenings of winter.
"Come on what do you say? What are you going to do instead Jamie? Eat beans on toast and play Counter Strike again I bet. Sounds incredible Jamie."
"I am not," I lied. "I thought I might read some more of my book."
"Your book! Ha that's hilarious, you've not even finished the first chapter yet. Is it too difficult? Are there too many big words? You know something Jamie you're really pathetic. We could be out doing so many incredible things and all you ever do is hide away in that dingy, little rented house and do the same thing every night. Why don't you live a little?"
"Shut up Hector."
"Let me out."
"Go away."
Our argument was interrupted by a white van lurching out from a junction to the right, almost ripping off the front of my car. The lardy driver blared his horn then wheeled down his window to give me the finger once he was in front.
"Right let's get him Jamie," ordered Hector No Holds. "Follow him till we're on a quieter road then accelerate right into the back of him. Then he'll stop and we'll get out and he'll be all like 'hey what do you think you're doing' but we'll be all 'eat shit and die you fat mother fucker' as we take out his knee caps with the tyre wrench."
The frustrating thing was that I was as pissed off as Hector, I did want to run that wanker off the road or at the very least hurl some verbal abuse at him but I couldn't allow myself to be angry. If I gave in even a little bit then Hector could take over and then he really would run the white van off the road. So instead I just took a deep breath and tried to block out the barrage of bitter outrage till I reached the safety of home.
"Then we'll lift up the bonnet, stick him under and drop that bad boy down. Crrrunch! Then we'll get some engine oil, I don't know where we'll get it from but we'll work that bit out, and we'll pour that shit down his mouth and in his nostrils. And then, then if he's still breathing we'll start reversing over different bits of his body. Realllly slowly."
As usual there was no parking on Chessington Avenue so I had to drive three more streets until I managed to find a space. And that was when we saw her.
"Hey ain't that Goldilocks?" said Hector No Holds.
"Lizzie," I answered, watching the girl crossing the road further along, highlighted by the street lights. I'd met Lizzie a couple of times, once at a party and then I'd bumped into her again at the cinema. She was nice. She listened to things I said, smiling and asking more questions. It didn't seem like the usual, polite boredom but almost as if she was genuinely enjoying what I had to say. She had this really cute thing where she winced a little as she smiled as if it was painful to do, somehow making the whole event seem even more rewarding. I should have asked if she wanted to go out for dinner or something, the second time at least, but as usual I'd bottled it. Hadn't seen her since.
"Do you think she lives round here?" asked Hector. She turned and waved at a house across the road, at one of the windows a light had come on and a woman waved back. No, just visiting a friend. Pity, if we'd been local to each other then there might have been a better chance of crossing paths again. Just as she pulled her raincoat up around her collar I caught the flash of a gold name badge and a uniform. A blouse with a tartan waistcoat. The HLBoS Bank. Maybe she worked at the branch on the High Street?
It would have been easy to have blamed Hector for my visit to that very branch the following day but it had been all my own idea. Despite having banked exclusively online for the past five years or so I suddenly felt the urge to go open a new account with HLBoS. Maybe they might have better rates. Maybe Lizzie would serve me and we might get chatting. Who knew.
So in the morning I'd gotten up, showered and dressed before scouring my various drawers and piles for what I thought would probably be the necessary paperwork for opening a bank account. Then I'd popped down the road, stopped at the newsagents but didn't buy anything, nipped into the charity shop but didn't buy anything and then headed into the bank.
Inside it was busy, Saturday morning of course. I scanned the three counters but couldn't see Lizzie anywhere. Maybe she was on her break. Maybe she didn't even work a Saturday! Behind me a middle-aged woman coughed impolitely to inform me that I was holding her up. Flustered I joined the second queue. Service was slow, very slow. And every minute spent standing there I felt like more of a moron - I was going to open a brand new bank account because a girl I'd met one and half times might have been working that day. What an idiot. Then it occurred to me that I didn't even know what sort of an account I was going to open. What were the different types again? Current - was that one? Liquid? Fixed interest saver? The folded electricity bill in my hand was getting moist in my sweating grip.
Time to go I decided. Giving my wrist a quick glance I tutted to myself before politely excusing myself from the queue. I was almost certain at least two people had turned to wonder what I was doing, their eyes boring into the back of me. And then I saw the sign for the Toilets. That would do - I could go hide in there for a few minutes and then when I came out, if Lizzie had miraculously appeared I would rejoin her queue. If not I would get the hell out of Dodge.
The Gents was small. A urinal, a sink and a cubicle with a door that looked as if it was about to fall off. I got inside the cubicle and sat with the seat down for awhile, listening to soothing sound of the pipes dripping and the inconsistent click of the extractor fan.
Then from outside I heard the door open then close. Someone else had come in. How long had I been sitting there?! Should I drop my trousers in case this other visitor happened to look under the doorway? Or would that look even more strange? And what if he wanted to use the cubicle and was going to just wait there? I was an idiot. No, wait - the sound of zipper and then definite twinkling. I held my breath and waited till the twinkler had finished his business, washed up and left. Definitely time to go now. I went to unlock the cubicle and then froze. From outside, out in the main bank there had come a deafening bang. Was that a gun? Was that what a gun sounded like?
I sat and tried to listen over the pounding of my own heart. There had been a second bang and then lots of shouting. Some screaming. Somehow after several minutes/hours I sucked up the courage to tip toe out and then peak ever so slowly through the crack of the door leading back into the bank. Lots of people moving around. Someone was crying. I could recognise some of the people that had been waiting in line with me and some of the bank staff. They appeared to be getting onto their knees. And then I saw a shotgun. Yep that was definitely a shotgun. Five men were pacing around, growling and barking orders. They were all armed. Big, dark beards. Turbans.
"We all have bombs strapped to our chests you heathens," snarled one man, though his voice sounded thick and Northern. "You'll all do as we say or we blow this place into tiny bits."
Terrorists. Textbook terrorists. From the sandals to the keffiyehs, it was if they'd been lifted straight from some Hollywood movie or political caricature and dropped here by mistake. While three of them moved amongst the hostages, two were arguing with a quivering man in a suit, presumably the manager. Well what I was going to do now?
Before I had time to think it through I was forced to retreat backwards as one of the armed men broke off and headed towards the toilets. At first I thought I'd been spotted but it was probably more the fact that they had only just considered to check through here. Back in my grimy cubicle I stepped up onto the pan and waited in fear. Surprisingly the man must have checked the Ladies first as several minutes/hours/years later he entered the Gents, the door creaking painfully. Over the top of the cubicle door I could see him but he hadn't noticed me - yet. Young. Pale white skin peeking out from beneath the beard that appeared to have some sort of elastic band attached to it. He gripped a black pistol so tightly it looked as if it might crumble in his hands at any moment.
"Let me out Jamie," whispered Hector. Bugger. He was the last thing I needed right now. I shook my head. "Look at these guys Jamie, they've been watching a rerun of Die Hard or something, decided to try it out for themselves. They're amateurs, they don't even know what religion they're supposed to belong to. Wearing turbans for fuck's sake."
"Not now Hector," I whispered.
The 'terrorist' standing but a few feet in front of me seemed to be staring at his reflection in the mirror. Perhaps he was regretting having agreed to this heist. Perhaps he was haunted by his own Hector.
"Are you even listening to me? I'm saying these guys are idiots, idiots with guns and bombs."
At this I paused. I hadn't even noticed the series of small packages strapped across the man's chest. "Are they real?" I asked.
"Maybe, maybe not. Do you really want to find out? We've not heard any alarms which means the police are already on their way. These guys are going to get holed up in here and they're either going to start shooting people or letting off bombs. We have to do something - we have to stop them. Let me out."
"I can't. You'll hurt people."
"That's exactly why you need to do it Jamie. Who else is going to stop them? That bald guy in the suit? The woman with the kid? You?"
I shook my head. I swore I would never let Hector out again, no matter what. But his logic was sound. How he had suddenly managed to become so strategic and considerate of the greater good was a mystery to me but I knew he was right.
The door before us started to slowly swing open, my skin began to prickle. The man's eyes widened as he saw me perched on the porcelain bowl but before he could raise his weapon Hector had leapt forward and grabbed him.
Scrutts and Bakeman had been arguing about which hostage they would be best shooting to properly motivate the pathetic excuse of a manager into unlocking the vault door for them. It wasn't one of those enormous, round vault doors like you saw in movies - just a normal sized door, steel-reinforced. The room on the other side probably wouldn't be much bigger than a walk-in closet but it would still be more than enough money to get them out of the country and that was all that mattered. They weren't here to become millionaires.
The blubbering bald man in the pinstripe suit dropped his bunch of keys for the third time and Bakeman was about to smack him with the butt of his shotgun when they heard a muffled shot from somewhere behind. Turning they saw Mikial just shrug from where he and Lester stood amongst the hostages. If hadn't been one of them then it must have been Fitzpatrick in the loos, he must have found someone hiding in there. Bakeman motioned for Mikial to go investigate.
The lights in the toilets were off. Mikial lowered his shotgun for a moment to fumble for the light switch. Once the lights had flickered on he couldn't believe his eyes. Young Fitzpatrick was slumped on the floor, his trousers and pants tugged down to expose the smoking pistol that had been rammed up his arse and then, presumably, fired.
"What the - " Cold hands on either side of his head and a sharp twist denied him the rest of the sentence. Or anything else ever again.
The two bank robbers breathed in as the vault door swung up revealing the shelves stacked with towers of notes. Once they'd located the MILF the manager had a bit of a squishy bit for he'd suddenly become a lot more helpful. For the first time in weeks Scrutts allowed himself to hope. With this money all their troubles would be over, he could take Marie and the kids and they could all just disappear and start their lives anew. And best of all - they'd managed it without anyone getting hurt.
"Oi no!" bellowed Bakeman looking back towards the hostages and Scrutts turned in time to see Mikial stride calmly back out of the toilets and raise his shotgun to Lester's head, turning it into a cloud of splinters of skull and pinkish brain matter.
That felt amazing. I couldn't believe how far the bits of his head had travelled, some had even hit the wall on the far side of the room and were now sliding down towards the faded carpet. Brilliant.
The other two were alert now so I aimed and fired at them but the distance was too much for the scattered pellets to do any damage. I clicked the trigger again and remembering both barrels were now empty, I began sprinting towards them. Oh the look on their faces. The look on their faces.
The fat one had the instinct to fire a round at me, the bullet sinking squarely into my left shoulder but I let Jamie take all the pain, my progress towards them unabated. Leaping over the counter and yanking off the fake beard so they could see my gorgeous face, I almost cackled with glee as the taller, scrawny one collapsed back onto his knees, a dark patch appearing around his groin. Fatty was braver and tried to put another bullet in me but with one hand I punched his pistol wide and with the other brought up the spent shotgun into his chin. He went down hard.
"Please stop," I heard him whimper as I lifted him up by the collar, tearing aside his comedy disguise. "Please we didn't mean no harm, just let the police take us."
Sick of his pathetic whimpering I pried open his fat gob with the barrel of the shotgun then pushed it down as far as I could get it, listening as things ripped and broke inside. Satisfied I let his shaking cadaver collapse and considered what I would do the last one. Forget "have-a-go heroes", it was "have-a-go terrorists" that were the real idiots. I pressed down on his chest, feeling the cardboard boxes made to look like explosives, crush under my heel. The cash drawer. Yes one of those heavy, metal cash drawers would make quite a nice impression on his head. I let out a little giggle of excitement but then paused.
In the corner of my eye I had noticed one of those black and white monitors showing CCTV footage of the room. There was my handsome figure in the foreground but it wasn't that which had caught my eye. It was something behind me. A particularly white blotch. I spun about and saw her. Nestled amongst the other whimpering customers and bank staff, was a girl with bright, blonde hair, tartan waistcoat and gold name badge, flecked slightly with droplets of blood. Lizzie.
She had been working today after all. The sockets around her eyes were sunken and red but I knew instantly it hadn't been the bank robbers that caused those tears. It had been me. That sweet, perky face torn with such grief and despair and it was all my doing. My stomach screwed into a tight wad. Was this what regret felt like? Maybe even guilt? In those shimmering, broken eyes I saw reflected the monster I truly was. All the pain I had caused, the suffering I'd handed out so happily and now I had injured someone I truly cared about. I never wanted this.
"I'm so sorry Lizzie," I whispered and became aware of the pistol resting in my hands. Where had that come from?
"This is all your fault," came a voice I recognised intimately but have never encountered it sounding so certain and unwavering. It was Jamie.
Damn it, I'd been so distracted the sneaky devil had managed to slip back out and pick up the weapon without me even noticing. What was he going to do with it I wondered? The answer dawned on me like a cold sweat - he was going to lift that pistol to our temple and blow our collective brains out. He was going to make sure I could never hurt anyone ever again, even though that meant sacrificing himself. That, I realised, was the sort of man I wanted to be. A man that would hurt himself before others. Who would hide away from the world, deny himself company, love and almost every other human emotion just to protect the world from me.
"You're right Jamie - it's the only way to make sure I never hurt anyone again. Let's end this," I agreed.
But the pistol didn't rise as I had expected. Instead I saw it appear, pointed out before me. Why was he aiming it at Lizzie? What on earth was he doing? I tried to move my arms but the door was locked, I was back in the spectator's gallery.
"I wasn't talking to you Hector," said Jamie calmly, walking around the counter, stepping between the kneeling hostages until Lizzie was right in front of him, her terrified, azure eyes peering up at the barrel of the gun. "I was talking to her."
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: A clash of personalities has fatal consequences.
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There's the man I am and there's the man I want to be and the distance between the two seems unconquerable. So I took all the things I hated about myself, all the ugly bits, the words I wish I'd never said, the things that I'll never tell another soul that I've done - I took them all, put them in a box and pushed it all to the bottom of my soul. Without all those flaws and blemishes I thought I could just concentrate on being a better man. Flawless. Perfect.
But down in the shadows, out of the sight and out of mind, the man I didn't want to be continued to fester and evolve. He grew hungry and restless. I don't know where the name Hector No Holds came from. He probably chose it himself.
Gradually, while my attention was diverted, Hector started to sneak out and do things. At first I didn't notice these little excursions, or rather I didn't want to. Large wads of cash would turn up in my wallet or trouser pockets - tatty, creased notes. Sites I didn't recognise would occasionally flash up in the autosuggest bar of my web browser. One afternoon I went to put on a load of washing and shoving my hand into the machine screamed out loud as I felt something cold and wet and furry in amongst the socks and pants. It was a tabby cat, drowned and bashed by the extra long spin cycle. Poor thing must have crept in and gotten the door closed on it by mistake. That's what I told myself as I quietly deposited it into the wheelie bin, quickly placing more bags on top of it.
It had been a Thursday of all days, the day I woke up woozy and oblivious to where the past twelve hours of my life had gone. Uncharacteristically I found myself naked beneath the covers. Naked with the exception of the condom smeared lightly with blood. In my living room a pretty blonde girl was crying. She wore trendy clothes, bangles and high heels - what was a girl like that doing in my living room at all let alone holding her head in her hands and sobbing?
"Go fist yourself you prick!" she erupted, noticing my figure framed in the doorway. Before I could even string together which question to ask first she was up and out of there, the front door slamming behind her.
Feeling like I was being suddenly starved of oxygen I fled to the bathroom and dry heaved a little. When I looked up at the chipped mirror hanging above the sink I didn't see the flushed, wide-eyed reflection I had expected but a confident, grinning version of my own face. He clicked his fingers into a mock gun and winked at me.
That had been the worst occasion, worst that I knew of any way, but at least from that point on I knew that he existed. Knew that he had to be kept at bay. After that I reinforced the bars, so to speak. I stopped drinking, started going to church again. Thought happy thoughts. That seemed to do the trick, he couldn't get out after that. Couldn't get out, but could still rattle his cage, trying to lure me into setting him free once more. Driving home from the store was his usual time for trying his tricks, having waited till I was sufficiently tired, worn down from the day at work and the stream of crawling traffic ahead of me.
"Hey, hey Jamie," he would whisper from the rear view mirror. "What you going to do when you get home tonight Jamie?"
"Nothing - just have dinner and then relax," I'd sigh, trying my best to ignore him.
"You know what you should do? You should let me out. We'd have a right old time the pair of us, come on what do you say? It'll be a laugh."
"No, just be quiet."
"Hey why don't you swing past The Old Crown on your way home, pick up a stick a crack? Then we can kick back, fire up some hardcore smut and chillax."
The lights had gone green again, I put my foot down only to have to slam the brakes back on seconds later. I hated my commute, especially during the dark, featureless evenings of winter.
"Come on what do you say? What are you going to do instead Jamie? Eat beans on toast and play Counter Strike again I bet. Sounds incredible Jamie."
"I am not," I lied. "I thought I might read some more of my book."
"Your book! Ha that's hilarious, you've not even finished the first chapter yet. Is it too difficult? Are there too many big words? You know something Jamie you're really pathetic. We could be out doing so many incredible things and all you ever do is hide away in that dingy, little rented house and do the same thing every night. Why don't you live a little?"
"Shut up Hector."
"Let me out."
"Go away."
Our argument was interrupted by a white van lurching out from a junction to the right, almost ripping off the front of my car. The lardy driver blared his horn then wheeled down his window to give me the finger once he was in front.
"Right let's get him Jamie," ordered Hector No Holds. "Follow him till we're on a quieter road then accelerate right into the back of him. Then he'll stop and we'll get out and he'll be all like 'hey what do you think you're doing' but we'll be all 'eat shit and die you fat mother fucker' as we take out his knee caps with the tyre wrench."
The frustrating thing was that I was as pissed off as Hector, I did want to run that wanker off the road or at the very least hurl some verbal abuse at him but I couldn't allow myself to be angry. If I gave in even a little bit then Hector could take over and then he really would run the white van off the road. So instead I just took a deep breath and tried to block out the barrage of bitter outrage till I reached the safety of home.
"Then we'll lift up the bonnet, stick him under and drop that bad boy down. Crrrunch! Then we'll get some engine oil, I don't know where we'll get it from but we'll work that bit out, and we'll pour that shit down his mouth and in his nostrils. And then, then if he's still breathing we'll start reversing over different bits of his body. Realllly slowly."
As usual there was no parking on Chessington Avenue so I had to drive three more streets until I managed to find a space. And that was when we saw her.
"Hey ain't that Goldilocks?" said Hector No Holds.
"Lizzie," I answered, watching the girl crossing the road further along, highlighted by the street lights. I'd met Lizzie a couple of times, once at a party and then I'd bumped into her again at the cinema. She was nice. She listened to things I said, smiling and asking more questions. It didn't seem like the usual, polite boredom but almost as if she was genuinely enjoying what I had to say. She had this really cute thing where she winced a little as she smiled as if it was painful to do, somehow making the whole event seem even more rewarding. I should have asked if she wanted to go out for dinner or something, the second time at least, but as usual I'd bottled it. Hadn't seen her since.
"Do you think she lives round here?" asked Hector. She turned and waved at a house across the road, at one of the windows a light had come on and a woman waved back. No, just visiting a friend. Pity, if we'd been local to each other then there might have been a better chance of crossing paths again. Just as she pulled her raincoat up around her collar I caught the flash of a gold name badge and a uniform. A blouse with a tartan waistcoat. The HLBoS Bank. Maybe she worked at the branch on the High Street?
It would have been easy to have blamed Hector for my visit to that very branch the following day but it had been all my own idea. Despite having banked exclusively online for the past five years or so I suddenly felt the urge to go open a new account with HLBoS. Maybe they might have better rates. Maybe Lizzie would serve me and we might get chatting. Who knew.
So in the morning I'd gotten up, showered and dressed before scouring my various drawers and piles for what I thought would probably be the necessary paperwork for opening a bank account. Then I'd popped down the road, stopped at the newsagents but didn't buy anything, nipped into the charity shop but didn't buy anything and then headed into the bank.
Inside it was busy, Saturday morning of course. I scanned the three counters but couldn't see Lizzie anywhere. Maybe she was on her break. Maybe she didn't even work a Saturday! Behind me a middle-aged woman coughed impolitely to inform me that I was holding her up. Flustered I joined the second queue. Service was slow, very slow. And every minute spent standing there I felt like more of a moron - I was going to open a brand new bank account because a girl I'd met one and half times might have been working that day. What an idiot. Then it occurred to me that I didn't even know what sort of an account I was going to open. What were the different types again? Current - was that one? Liquid? Fixed interest saver? The folded electricity bill in my hand was getting moist in my sweating grip.
Time to go I decided. Giving my wrist a quick glance I tutted to myself before politely excusing myself from the queue. I was almost certain at least two people had turned to wonder what I was doing, their eyes boring into the back of me. And then I saw the sign for the Toilets. That would do - I could go hide in there for a few minutes and then when I came out, if Lizzie had miraculously appeared I would rejoin her queue. If not I would get the hell out of Dodge.
The Gents was small. A urinal, a sink and a cubicle with a door that looked as if it was about to fall off. I got inside the cubicle and sat with the seat down for awhile, listening to soothing sound of the pipes dripping and the inconsistent click of the extractor fan.
Then from outside I heard the door open then close. Someone else had come in. How long had I been sitting there?! Should I drop my trousers in case this other visitor happened to look under the doorway? Or would that look even more strange? And what if he wanted to use the cubicle and was going to just wait there? I was an idiot. No, wait - the sound of zipper and then definite twinkling. I held my breath and waited till the twinkler had finished his business, washed up and left. Definitely time to go now. I went to unlock the cubicle and then froze. From outside, out in the main bank there had come a deafening bang. Was that a gun? Was that what a gun sounded like?
I sat and tried to listen over the pounding of my own heart. There had been a second bang and then lots of shouting. Some screaming. Somehow after several minutes/hours I sucked up the courage to tip toe out and then peak ever so slowly through the crack of the door leading back into the bank. Lots of people moving around. Someone was crying. I could recognise some of the people that had been waiting in line with me and some of the bank staff. They appeared to be getting onto their knees. And then I saw a shotgun. Yep that was definitely a shotgun. Five men were pacing around, growling and barking orders. They were all armed. Big, dark beards. Turbans.
"We all have bombs strapped to our chests you heathens," snarled one man, though his voice sounded thick and Northern. "You'll all do as we say or we blow this place into tiny bits."
Terrorists. Textbook terrorists. From the sandals to the keffiyehs, it was if they'd been lifted straight from some Hollywood movie or political caricature and dropped here by mistake. While three of them moved amongst the hostages, two were arguing with a quivering man in a suit, presumably the manager. Well what I was going to do now?
Before I had time to think it through I was forced to retreat backwards as one of the armed men broke off and headed towards the toilets. At first I thought I'd been spotted but it was probably more the fact that they had only just considered to check through here. Back in my grimy cubicle I stepped up onto the pan and waited in fear. Surprisingly the man must have checked the Ladies first as several minutes/hours/years later he entered the Gents, the door creaking painfully. Over the top of the cubicle door I could see him but he hadn't noticed me - yet. Young. Pale white skin peeking out from beneath the beard that appeared to have some sort of elastic band attached to it. He gripped a black pistol so tightly it looked as if it might crumble in his hands at any moment.
"Let me out Jamie," whispered Hector. Bugger. He was the last thing I needed right now. I shook my head. "Look at these guys Jamie, they've been watching a rerun of Die Hard or something, decided to try it out for themselves. They're amateurs, they don't even know what religion they're supposed to belong to. Wearing turbans for fuck's sake."
"Not now Hector," I whispered.
The 'terrorist' standing but a few feet in front of me seemed to be staring at his reflection in the mirror. Perhaps he was regretting having agreed to this heist. Perhaps he was haunted by his own Hector.
"Are you even listening to me? I'm saying these guys are idiots, idiots with guns and bombs."
At this I paused. I hadn't even noticed the series of small packages strapped across the man's chest. "Are they real?" I asked.
"Maybe, maybe not. Do you really want to find out? We've not heard any alarms which means the police are already on their way. These guys are going to get holed up in here and they're either going to start shooting people or letting off bombs. We have to do something - we have to stop them. Let me out."
"I can't. You'll hurt people."
"That's exactly why you need to do it Jamie. Who else is going to stop them? That bald guy in the suit? The woman with the kid? You?"
I shook my head. I swore I would never let Hector out again, no matter what. But his logic was sound. How he had suddenly managed to become so strategic and considerate of the greater good was a mystery to me but I knew he was right.
The door before us started to slowly swing open, my skin began to prickle. The man's eyes widened as he saw me perched on the porcelain bowl but before he could raise his weapon Hector had leapt forward and grabbed him.
Scrutts and Bakeman had been arguing about which hostage they would be best shooting to properly motivate the pathetic excuse of a manager into unlocking the vault door for them. It wasn't one of those enormous, round vault doors like you saw in movies - just a normal sized door, steel-reinforced. The room on the other side probably wouldn't be much bigger than a walk-in closet but it would still be more than enough money to get them out of the country and that was all that mattered. They weren't here to become millionaires.
The blubbering bald man in the pinstripe suit dropped his bunch of keys for the third time and Bakeman was about to smack him with the butt of his shotgun when they heard a muffled shot from somewhere behind. Turning they saw Mikial just shrug from where he and Lester stood amongst the hostages. If hadn't been one of them then it must have been Fitzpatrick in the loos, he must have found someone hiding in there. Bakeman motioned for Mikial to go investigate.
The lights in the toilets were off. Mikial lowered his shotgun for a moment to fumble for the light switch. Once the lights had flickered on he couldn't believe his eyes. Young Fitzpatrick was slumped on the floor, his trousers and pants tugged down to expose the smoking pistol that had been rammed up his arse and then, presumably, fired.
"What the - " Cold hands on either side of his head and a sharp twist denied him the rest of the sentence. Or anything else ever again.
The two bank robbers breathed in as the vault door swung up revealing the shelves stacked with towers of notes. Once they'd located the MILF the manager had a bit of a squishy bit for he'd suddenly become a lot more helpful. For the first time in weeks Scrutts allowed himself to hope. With this money all their troubles would be over, he could take Marie and the kids and they could all just disappear and start their lives anew. And best of all - they'd managed it without anyone getting hurt.
"Oi no!" bellowed Bakeman looking back towards the hostages and Scrutts turned in time to see Mikial stride calmly back out of the toilets and raise his shotgun to Lester's head, turning it into a cloud of splinters of skull and pinkish brain matter.
That felt amazing. I couldn't believe how far the bits of his head had travelled, some had even hit the wall on the far side of the room and were now sliding down towards the faded carpet. Brilliant.
The other two were alert now so I aimed and fired at them but the distance was too much for the scattered pellets to do any damage. I clicked the trigger again and remembering both barrels were now empty, I began sprinting towards them. Oh the look on their faces. The look on their faces.
The fat one had the instinct to fire a round at me, the bullet sinking squarely into my left shoulder but I let Jamie take all the pain, my progress towards them unabated. Leaping over the counter and yanking off the fake beard so they could see my gorgeous face, I almost cackled with glee as the taller, scrawny one collapsed back onto his knees, a dark patch appearing around his groin. Fatty was braver and tried to put another bullet in me but with one hand I punched his pistol wide and with the other brought up the spent shotgun into his chin. He went down hard.
"Please stop," I heard him whimper as I lifted him up by the collar, tearing aside his comedy disguise. "Please we didn't mean no harm, just let the police take us."
Sick of his pathetic whimpering I pried open his fat gob with the barrel of the shotgun then pushed it down as far as I could get it, listening as things ripped and broke inside. Satisfied I let his shaking cadaver collapse and considered what I would do the last one. Forget "have-a-go heroes", it was "have-a-go terrorists" that were the real idiots. I pressed down on his chest, feeling the cardboard boxes made to look like explosives, crush under my heel. The cash drawer. Yes one of those heavy, metal cash drawers would make quite a nice impression on his head. I let out a little giggle of excitement but then paused.
In the corner of my eye I had noticed one of those black and white monitors showing CCTV footage of the room. There was my handsome figure in the foreground but it wasn't that which had caught my eye. It was something behind me. A particularly white blotch. I spun about and saw her. Nestled amongst the other whimpering customers and bank staff, was a girl with bright, blonde hair, tartan waistcoat and gold name badge, flecked slightly with droplets of blood. Lizzie.
She had been working today after all. The sockets around her eyes were sunken and red but I knew instantly it hadn't been the bank robbers that caused those tears. It had been me. That sweet, perky face torn with such grief and despair and it was all my doing. My stomach screwed into a tight wad. Was this what regret felt like? Maybe even guilt? In those shimmering, broken eyes I saw reflected the monster I truly was. All the pain I had caused, the suffering I'd handed out so happily and now I had injured someone I truly cared about. I never wanted this.
"I'm so sorry Lizzie," I whispered and became aware of the pistol resting in my hands. Where had that come from?
"This is all your fault," came a voice I recognised intimately but have never encountered it sounding so certain and unwavering. It was Jamie.
Damn it, I'd been so distracted the sneaky devil had managed to slip back out and pick up the weapon without me even noticing. What was he going to do with it I wondered? The answer dawned on me like a cold sweat - he was going to lift that pistol to our temple and blow our collective brains out. He was going to make sure I could never hurt anyone ever again, even though that meant sacrificing himself. That, I realised, was the sort of man I wanted to be. A man that would hurt himself before others. Who would hide away from the world, deny himself company, love and almost every other human emotion just to protect the world from me.
"You're right Jamie - it's the only way to make sure I never hurt anyone again. Let's end this," I agreed.
But the pistol didn't rise as I had expected. Instead I saw it appear, pointed out before me. Why was he aiming it at Lizzie? What on earth was he doing? I tried to move my arms but the door was locked, I was back in the spectator's gallery.
"I wasn't talking to you Hector," said Jamie calmly, walking around the counter, stepping between the kneeling hostages until Lizzie was right in front of him, her terrified, azure eyes peering up at the barrel of the gun. "I was talking to her."
About the Author
David D. Sharp was born in Zimbabwe, but has lived in Scotland most of his life. He is an as yet unpublished author based in the Edinburgh area. He regularly writes short stories, usually with a fantastical twist, and is gradually polishing his epic, steampunk novel.
His website can be found at http://aweeadventure.co.uk.
His website can be found at http://aweeadventure.co.uk.