Little Dramas
A Collection of Short Stories
By Glenn McGoldrick
Text copyright @2017
Glenn McGoldrick
All Rights Reserved
For my family and friends
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A young burglar is surprised to be apprehended, and even more surprised to be assigned an extra task…
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Contents
A Little Drama
Six Down
A Deal
Elms
A Letter
Moving On
No Good Deed
St Thomas
A Little Drama
“You! Don’t make a move. Stand over there by the till. Next to him.”
He was looking at me when he said this. Well, I was the only one in the shop, apart from the shopkeeper - and the hostage.
I didn’t move.
“Did you hear what I said?” he asked me.
“Well,” I said. “You told me not to make a move.”
“Don’t be a smart-arse! Get over there by the till. Now! Or else she gets hurt.” He gestured towards the girl he held as he said this. He had his left arm around her throat, and with his right hand he held a knife to her back.
“And don’t you do anything stupid either, matey,” he said to the shopkeeper. “Just do what I say, and nobody gets hurt.”
I walked round the counter, and stood by the shopkeeper. He didn’t look like he was going to do anything stupid. He didn’t look like he was going to do anything at all. He looked a little stunned.
“What’s this all about?” I asked the guy.
“It’s pretty simple, really. I take the money from the till, and then I get out of here. Either of you two do anything stupid, and she gets it.”
“Oh,” I said. “Right.”
“Right. Now you know what this is you can shut up with the questions. I’ll do the talking. Got it?”
He stared at me while he waited for my answer. The girl stared at me, too. She seemed quite tense. She also looked a little impatient; like this was all a great inconvenience to her. They say people respond differently in crisis situations.
“Got it,” I said. “Understood. Affirmative.”
The girl rolled her eyes. She’s pretty cool about this, I thought. She’s got a knife to her back, and she’s more concerned about my flippant attitude!
“Come on, mister. Just do what he says. Please!”
“Shut up, you, as well,” he told her. Then he looked at the shopkeeper. “You! Granddad! I want you to take the money from the till, and place it on the counter in front of you. Just the notes. No coins. Nice and slow. Got it?”
The shopkeeper didn’t respond, so I nudged him with my elbow.
“Erm … yes, OK,” he said. “But there’s not much money inside.”
“Never mind that,” the guy said. “Just open that till, nice and slow. And take the money out.”
A little bell rang when the till drawer sprang open; it sounded very loud in that small shop. The shopkeeper started to sweep banknotes from the drawer to his open hand, but I wouldn’t describe it as a fluid motion. Both his hands were shaking.
I bet this doesn’t happen to him every day, I thought.
The shopkeeper held the cash out, towards the guy. “Here. That’s all of it.”
“Stop waving it around, and put it down on the counter,” the guy said.
The shopkeeper placed the money on the counter. It didn’t look like much; maybe two hundred pounds. Maybe he left some in the drawer, I thought.
“Now your turn,” he said to the girl. “Reach out with your right hand, and pick up the cash from the counter. Slowly.”
The girl gave a little nod of her head, and then with a steady hand she picked up the cash from the counter.
“Keep tight hold of that cash, girl. And come with me. We’re gonna slowly back up to the door. Let’s go.”
They started slowly backing towards the door. They watched us both intently as they moved away. The guy kept looking back over his shoulder to make sure they didn’t fall.
I heard a sigh of relief from the shopkeeper next to me. I guess he just wanted it to be over.
When they got to the door, the guy let go of the girl. She didn’t run away. She stood beside him, and started to laugh. He said to the girl: “Let’s go!”
The girl just shook her head, incredulously. “Idiots,” she said.
Then they both ran out the door.
Six Down
“Sir. We’ve got movement.”
Detective Inspector Hilton rubbed his eyes and said, “Must have dozed off, Cooper.”
“Yes, sir. There’s a man over by the newsagent.”
Hilton followed Cooper’s gaze, and saw a man stood at the mouth of an alley that ran between a newsagent and a takeaway that hadn’t opened yet; he was six feet tall and slim, around the age of sixty.
“How long’s he been there?”
“Just arrived, sir.”
The man peered into the alley, and then turned around to have a good look at his surroundings. He walked a few paces into the alley, lifted the lid on a recycling bin and pulled out a small black holdall. Bag in hand, he walked back to the street.
“Looks like he’s leaving,” said Hilton.
“Why didn’t he look inside the bag, sir?”
“Because he knows what’s inside.”
“He thinks he knows.”
Hilton looked at his younger colleague, and said, “Very good, Cooper.” Then he picked up a walkie-talkie from the dashboard. “Harley. Wilson. Follow him. Don’t get too close. And keep in touch.”
“We’re on it, sir,” came the reply.
“Right, Cooper,” said Hilton, “let’s go to the van.”
Hilton knocked on the back doors of a transit van. A youthful face peeked out from the curtain and opened a door; the face belonged to Ross, who was in charge of surveillance.
Ross took a seat in front of a computer keyboard and two monitors, with Hilton and Cooper standing either side of him.
“Did you get him picking up the bag?” asked Hilton.
“Yes, sir.”
“And have you been through the bank’s overnight tape?”
“They don’t use tape any more, sir,” replied Ross. “It’s all digital now.”
“Have you been through it?”
“Yes, sir. There’s one motorcycle courier, just after ten. Doesn’t remove his helmet, so we can’t see his face.”
“Anybody else?”
“There’s only one more.”
“Show me.”
Ross pressed a couple of keys, and on the left-hand screen they watched twenty seconds’ footage of a man posting something in the bank’s overnight mailbox.
“That’s all there is?” asked Hilton.
“Yes, sir.”
“What time was that?”
“Just before midnight.”
“Show me the guy who just picked up the bag.”
Ross tapped a key, and on the right-hand screen an image appeared of the man in the alley.
“That’s our man, sir!” said Cooper.
Hilton looked carefully at both screens. “Ross?”
“Well, the picture quality’s not great on the bank surveillance-”
“Is it the same man?” prompted Hilton.
“Yes, I think it is.”
“I think so, too,” said Hilton. He rubbed a part of his head where hair used to grow, then turned to Cooper. “Check with Harley and Wilson. Find out where this guy’s leading
them.”
“Just over here,” said Hilton.
Cooper pulled the car to the side of a quiet street, and the stocky man who was stood there climbed in the back seat.
Hilton turned to speak to the new arrival. “Which house is it, Harley?”
Harley pointed a finger at a semi-detached bungalow. “That one, sir. Red door.”
“He’s still in there?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been here. Wilson’s got the back.”
“And who’s our guy?”
“Robert McGrath. Aged sixty-two. Retired shopkeeper. Lives with his wife Linda. She’s sixty-one.”
“Record?”
“Nothing, sir. He’s clean.”
“What’ll we do, sir?” asked Cooper.
“I think we’d better go talk to Mr McGrath.”
Cooper nodded his head.
“Harley, you stay out here and keep near the radio. And tell the Bomb Squad boys to sit tight. I doubt we’ll need them, but you never know.”
“Yes, sir,” said Harley.
“Right. Let’s go, Cooper.”
Hilton and Cooper sat on a sofa in Robert McGrath’s living room, and the suspect sat on an armchair facing them.
“What’s this all about?” McGrath asked.
“You picked up a bag near the newsagents,” Hilton said.
“Did I?”
“We just watched you do it.”
“Well, I saw the bag on the floor. Picked it up.”
“It was in a recycling bin. How did you know it was in there?”
McGrath shrugged. “I found it on the floor.”
“Have you looked inside the bag?”
“No,” said McGrath, shaking his head. “I was waiting for my wife to take her afternoon nap. She’s just gone to lie down now.”
“Did you write a letter to the bank demanding one hundred thousand pounds?”
“What!”
Hilton spoke slowly and deliberately. “Did you write a letter to the bank, threatening to detonate a bomb if they didn’t pay you one hundred thousand pounds?”
“No! That’s absurd.”
Hilton stared at McGrath for a few seconds. Cooper leaned forward, picking up a newspaper from the coffee table; it had been folded open on the puzzles page, which he studied carefully.
“What did you post in the bank’s overnight mail box?” Hilton asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re on camera.”
“It wasn’t me.”
Cooper asked, “Do you like doing crosswords, Mr McGrath?”
“What? Er…yes. I do.”
“I see you’ve not finished this one,” Cooper said, tapping a finger on the page.
“I’ll finish it later.”
“I like doing them too. When I get the time.”
“Cooper,” said Hilton, “shall we continue?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry. I was just admiring Mr McGrath’s handwriting. It’s very distinctive.” He handed the newspaper to Hilton. “Especially the Ts.”
Hilton studied the crossword, nodding his head. “You’re right.” He removed an envelope from his jacket pocket, then opened the note it contained.
“Those Ts are the same,” Hilton said, then smiled at McGrath. “You wrote this note.”
McGrath looked from one to the other, slowly, and then nodded his head.
“But there are no bombs. Right?”
McGrath let out a long sigh and rubbed his forehead. “There are no bombs. I wouldn’t hurt people. I’ve got a gambling problem. And my wife’s sick. She…”
Hilton and Cooper watched Mr McGrath climb into the back seat of a police car, escorted by a constable.
“I suppose we should get to the station, sir,” Cooper said.
“Yes, we better had.”
They got in their car, Cooper at the wheel.
“Good catch on that crossword, Cooper,” said Hilton. “Very sharp.”
Cooper blushed a little. “Thank you, sir.”
“But tell me – do you really like doing crosswords?”
“Not so much, sir.”
After tying up loose ends with Mr McGrath and filing the necessary paperwork, they left the station just before six. They sat on a bench just outside the main entrance, and Hilton lit a cigarette.
Cooper watched the sunset, ran a hand through his hair, and said, “What do you think will happen to him, sir?”
“Prison, I imagine,” Hilton said.
“Bloody hell. At his age?”
“Yes, Cooper. Look what he’s done.”
“Yes, sir, I suppose you’re right.”
“Come on, lad, don’t go soft on me.”
“But what about his wife, sir? Being sick and all?”
“Well, do we know that she’s sick?” Hilton took a long drag. “Maybe it’s just an excuse. I don’t know. I’m sure we’ll find out in due course.”
“Yeah, I reckon that…”
“What?”
“Well, sir, even if she is sick – it doesn’t really justify it. Does it?”
“No, Cooper, it doesn’t. So forget about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” said Hilton, finishing his smoke. “Now let’s go to the pub before it gets too crowded.”
“My round again is it, sir?”
A Deal
Tracey and her son stand by the parked car, assessing the damage. She kneels down, running her hand over the wheel arch.
“He’s not going to like this,” she says. “We’d better go inside.”
They head into the kitchen, and take a seat at the table.
“Charlie,” she says, “what the hell were you thinking?”
“I was just gonna go for a drive.”
“A drive? You don’t even have a licence!”
“I know, but I’m taking lessons.”
“You’ve only had five, son. You’re still learning. Where were you going to drive to?”
“I dunno,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Just over the tradey.”
“The trading estate? Who with?”
“No one. Just me.”
“Why the trading estate?”
“The roads are quiet,” he says. “Not much traffic about.”
“You haven’t taken your dad’s car up there before, have you?”
“No, I haven’t,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve been up there on my lessons.”
“And what happened, exactly?” she asks. “You just hit the fence post when you reversed?”
He nods his head.
“So you didn’t even go anywhere?”
“No.”
“You didn’t even get off the drive?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Unbelievable!”
“Oh, give me a break, mum. I didn’t mean to crash it, you know.”
“I know that, son. But what happens if you hit something?” she asks. “Or someone.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Charlie. You’re only eighteen. Don’t screw your life up by doing something stupid.”
He sighs and buries his face in his hands.
Tracey leans forward, placing her hand on his knee. “It’s all right, son. Just promise me you’ll never take the car again.”
“OK.” He rubs his eyes. “I promise.”
Tracey leans back in her chair and lets out a sigh. “I don’t want to be too hard on you, son. But it’s a dangerous thing to do. Not to mention illegal.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“Right, then – what are we going to tell your dad?”
“He’s gonna go mad.”
“I should think he will.”
“I’ll be grounded. And what if he stops my lessons?”
“Well, I don’t know what he’ll do. He’s not going to be happy, that’s for sure.”
“And he said he’d help me buy a car, once I’ve passed my test. But he won’t now, will he?”
“I don’t know, son. But
…”
“What?”
“I might have an idea. Why don’t you make us both a coffee while I have a think about it?”
Tracey blows the surface of her coffee, and takes a sip. “I did it,” she says.
“What?” Charlie asks.
“We’ll tell your dad that I dented the car.”
His face lights up. “Yes! Brilliant!”
“I thought you might like that.”
“But why, mum? Why say you did it?”
“The lesser of two evils.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your dad won’t be happy, and I can’t say I’d blame him,” she explained. “And you don’t want to be grounded, right?”
“No.”
“And you want him to help you buy a car when you pass your test?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“So, I’ll tell him I did it.”
“But, then he’s gonna be mad at you.”
“Yes, for a little while. And he’ll probably say something stupid about women drivers. But that’ll be it.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “If you tell him you did it, the atmosphere round here will be awful. It’s better my way.”
“Yeah, mum, that’s brilliant!” He gives her a hug.
She laughs. “OK, OK. Take it easy, Evel Knievel.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Take a seat.”
He sits down again.
“You’re not getting off that easy.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ll be doing chores for the next month.”
“Oh.”
“Whatever I tell you needs doing.”
He shrugs. “OK. When will you tell him?”
“Not tonight, not after he’s had a drink. I’ll tell him in the morning.”
“But he’ll see it when he comes back from the pub.”
She shakes her head. “No, no way. He’ll pass this side of the car when he comes home.”
“Yeah, you’re right. And it’ll be dark.”
“Don’t worry, he won’t see it tonight. And I’ll tell him that I did it in the morning.”
“OK.”
“Right, then - let’s get our story straight.”
Little Dramas Page 1
