This story was published in an anthology called Tip Tap Flat in 2012. I was digging through my books today and I figured I might as well post it.
This is the opening chapter of a novel that I put a lot of work into in 2012. At the moment I have around 80000 words of said novel in first draft form. There are a few more chapters to go but I’ve never really felt like going back to them. There’s reasons for that, and for why I don’t really write any more, but those are best left to another day.
I am extremely proud of this story though and since it’s Christmas time, I thought I’d post it.
December 26th, 2010.
“Aw fuck. Aw FUCK!”
“Shit. Ye hink he’s seen us?”
Fae through his balaclava ah could see Ronnie’s eyes dartin aboot efter the security gaird hud spotted us. Noo, by and large he generally looks pretty panicked – he’s just goat wan ey they faces that always look scared eh somethin – but at this particular conjecture, he wis legitimately pantin his shants. The gaird was movin slowly between the aisles and he thought he’d try tae reason wae us,
“Right, ah know yer in here ya coupla sods. If ye come oot Ah’ll no phone the polis and we’ll jist call it even.”
We baith knew he wis full eh shite. He wis swingin his torch aboot the place like a lightsabre, ready tae cut baith us pricks doon the second it touched us. Ah wisnae fur gettin’ caught,
“Aw fuck.” Ronnie whispered
“Mate, fuck this. Ah telt ye this wis a stupid idea. Ah’m sure ye could borrow an amp fae somewan. S’no like theft wis yer only option. Ah’m oota here.”
Ah grabbed him by his troosers as he tried tae staun up; this cunt was gaun naewhere,
“Aye? N go where? The exits’ back there behind Darth fat arse. N besides, these cunts kin afford it wi the amount ey money they make. Much ye hink hauf these geetars cost at stock price? Everyhin’s inflated tae fuck in these music shoaps an they’re insured oot the arse.”
Ronnie poked his heed roond the counter tae eye up the situation and once he realised it wis as grim as Ah hud described, he changed his tune,
“Eh. Shit. Aye. Well…”
Ah could see he was tremblin. So wis ah, but no oota fear ye understand; cuz ey the adrenaline,
“Exactly. Gie’s a minute tae hink.”
Ah took a swatch ere the counter tae see the security gaird walking doon the aisle adjacent tae the counter like a fat fuckin’ fluorescent Santa,
“Here!” a quick whisper from Ronnie demanded ma attention.
“Ah hink we should just head tae the front ey the shoap, tan the windae wi somethin, climb oot it and boot it doon the street. Ye hink?”
“Ah hink that’s a shite idea, tae be honest mate. Ah’m no leavin here wi oot somethin. That’s a fact, so it is.”
“Aye? Well yer oan yer ain then. Am aff.”
Afore ah could say anyhin Ronnie was makin a beeline fur the front ey the shoap, hoofin it doon the aisle like he wis bein chased by a fat lion. An sure enough the security gaird clocked um, swung his lightsabre doon oan him an tried tae mobilize his rotund arse intae a pacey wobble as Ronnie bolted like a startled gazelle. Ah put ma heed ere the counter an ah could see him bombin it in ma direction so naturally ah stuck ma foot oot an as just as he goat clear ey the counter he caught ma shoe an went flyin like lime green Santa Claus, sans reindeer, takin oot a whole row ey geetars. Turned oot it wis the perfect diversion cuz nae amount ey Jedi skills wur gonnae stoap me, ah kin tell ye that fur nothin. Ronnie hud failed tae notice an wis promptly wielding an amp at shoulder height, ready tae pan the front windae so ah shouted ere at him,
“Haw! Ronnie! Mon! The gaird’s suddenly found it in himself tae come roond tae oor way eh thinkin.”
He dropped the amp and looked roond, seen that the gaird wis currently indisposed with a geetar or two wrapped roond his heed and ran ere,
“Nice work Jackie boy! Ye hink the chances ir that he’s phont the polis already?”
“Pretty high, Ronnie. Pretty fuckin high indeed.”
“The fuck we gonnae dae? This fuckin hing’s gonnae be on CCTV!”
Ronnie sat doon oan the flair. Ah hudnae contemplated it, ah must admit, but he wis right; this whole catalogue eh errors wis gonnae make a pretty fuckin’ fine entry in tae the Strathclyde Metropolitan Police’s very ain incompetent burglars edition of ‘You’ve Been Framed’.
“Ach nane ey yer shite. We’ve kept oor faces n covered n that. We’ll be fine.”
“Mate, ah hink ah can hear sirens.”
Ronnie wis trembling again. His adrenaline hud given ower tae pure fear, however in reality there wur nae sirens approaching. Yet. But ah felt sure it wis a situation that wis gonnae be rectified in the near future.
“Right. Wir no gonnae get an amp oot ey here the night. Too heavy. Grab wan ey they PRS geetars an ah’ll grab this Les Paul ere – thur lighter an easier tae transport.”
“Aye, awright. But what aboot an amp? Wir aff oan tour in less than a week.”
“Fuck it man. Ah’ll punt these on ebay or sommat. Fuck knows. Ah’ll figure it oot. The next time ah walk in here ah’ll be a financially solvent individual, free fae the burden eh tour poverty. Ready tae make a purchase oan a nice new amp.”
“Here mate, this is bollocks. How could ye no just buy wan yerself? Get it oan credit or something?”
“Ye hink am made eh money? Noo you listen tae me mate; there is nae way in hell ah’m gonna sign ma life away tae a bank through hire purchase or finance or whitever shite it is they dae rip ye aff wi interest these days.”
“Aye, awright Jack, chill oot. It’s no exactly like the Provy or Bright Hoose or Wonga.com or any eh that shite.”
“Naw, it’s the principle Ronnie. These fuckin shoaps kin afford to lose some gear noo n then. That’s the thing; when the banks are haundin oot bonuses tae cunts that lose money fur a livin, keepin the workin man doon in the process, then it stauns tae reason that the insurance companies that own them urnae short a few qui- och fuck this, ye know the script mate. Ah’m no staunin here in the back eh a guitar shoap doon the Trongate giein ye a lecture when-“
Something wis up. Ah turned roon tae see wit Ronnie wis lookin at an there wis two polis peerin through the windae. They hud nae seen us yet, thank fuck, cuz there wis a causal nonchalance aboot their movement. Wan ey thum tried the door but tae nae avail. By this point me ‘n Ronnie are oan the deck, prone. Ronnie whispers tae us;
“Mate. We’re fucked.”
“Just you calm yerself mate. We’re no fucked yit. Oan three ah want ye tae jump up, grab a geetar n gie it the Usain Bolt oot the back door, awright? We’re gettin oot eh this pal. As punk rock as getting jailed a few days afore a tour is, ah really don’t want tae be sent doon for robbery. If we get caught this close tae the Barras they’re gonnae hink we’re mad junkies lookin to rob some shite. An that’ll fuck oor reputation right up tae. Right, ye ready?”
Naw, he wisnae n neither wis ah, but Ronnie wis nae in a position tae argue n frankly, oot of aw the fuckin insane plans ah’d ever hud this wis definitely no wan eh ma favourites. We wur oot eh options; we hud tae get oot eh there pronto.
“Right. Three, two, wan…GO! FUCKIN’ GO, RONNIE!”
It wis almost as if ah could see in slow motion: the attitude eh the polis changed fae that eh bobbys just casually dain their roonds, tae that eh a coupla bloodhounds that’d just goat a whiff eh some fresh meat at the realisation that there wir in fact a couple eh chancers in the very shoap they wur scoutin oot. So ah grabbed a geetar n Ronnie done the same. We ran intae the labyrinthine stock room n negotiated the musical equipment like some kind ey jailbird Kypton Factor; if ye fuck this up ye don’t just lose yer chance at winnin some shitey trophy, ye’d be loosin yer freedom tae the Sherriff Court, Legal aid, a shitey free lawyer an aboot 6 tae 8 months in Bar L. Nae question. Ah booted open the back door n we legged it doon the street. Efter a block, me n Ronnie parted ways. We baith knew where tae meet, ah was just hopin we fuckin goat there.