by Les Wood
The wailing noise went on and Boag realised the sound wasn’t in his head but was coming from the klaxons mounted on the walls. ‘Ha, ha, ya pricks,’ Leggett shouted above the clamour. ‘Let’s see what youse are gonnae do now.’
He threw another switch and a new explosion burst from behind them. The door leading to the security office blew back on its hinges and flames jumped from the small pile of kindling Boag had left there earlier. The fire crackled and sparked for a few seconds before the overhead sprinkler system kicked in, showering freezing water onto their heads. Leggett looked up in surprise and Boag made a lunging grab for the control box.
‘Aw no ye don’t,’ Leggett said, easily sidestepping the wheeling thrashings of Boag’s arms. He brought his knee up and caught Boag in the groin, sending him crashing to the floor. Leggett gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘Who the fuck do ye think ye are ya cunt?’ He kicked at Boag’s head and Boag felt his cheekbone yield under Leggett’s boot. Boag struggled onto his trembling elbows, his eyes swirling blindly in their sockets, before collapsing, unconscious once more, to the floor.
***
‘Tosser,’ Leggett said, pushing wet hair back from his face. The sprinklers were continuing to flood the sales area, a relentless torrent from a gantry of pipework set into the ceiling far above. His clothes were soaking and the floor was beginning to puddle and pool. Despite this, he noticed the small fire at the door showed no sign of going out. On the contrary, it blazed merrily, sheltered from the downpour by the overhang of the lintel above. Already a secondary fire had sprung up in the corridor beyond, this one rather more substantial than the original.
Leggett smiled. This was great fun. He looked around the shop; man, but there must have been thousands of pounds worth of damage already. The place was drenched, and everything sparkled in the rain falling from the ceiling – the fancy coats and jackets, the dresses, the expensive watches; all ruined. He glanced up to where one of the overhead walkways joined the upper gallery. A thin plume of black smoke snaked from a set of glass doors, behind which a yellow-red glow flickered and danced. He allowed himself a giggle. Just a tiny one. Nobody was around to hear after all. He examined the control box in his hand. The asymmetry of the three thrown switches annoyed him. It just didn’t look right. Or so he convinced himself.
Flick, flickety-flick he sang to himself, his fingernail brushing, teasing the remaining switches, clicking against the little metal toggles. He pulled his hand away and quickly stuck his thumb in his mouth, biting down hard to prevent a fit of uncontrolled sniggering. Oh, but this was just too good. Of all the revenge scenarios he had envisaged this surpassed even his wildest imaginings. Whatever the bastards were up to in this poncy shop – and he had seen enough to suggest it must be something pretty damned big – he now held in his hand the means to royally fuck them up. Oh aye. And not just destroy their careful little plans, but quite possibly destroy those tossers into the bargain. Wherever the rest of them had buggered off to, these wee bomb devices the Boagster was in charge of were the dog’s bollocks, weehoo, the perfect thing to wreck their stupid plan.
He couldn’t contain himself any longer – the five remaining switches on the control panel stood to attention beside their fallen comrades, goading him. He bit down onto his lower lip, his eyes flashing with greedy anticipation, and flicked over the rest of the switches one by one.
Explosions rocked the building, the sound of shattering glass echoing in distant upstairs corridors carrying over the incessant grainy sirens of the alarms. With each successive blast Leggett’s grin grew wider. A grin which was instantly wiped off his face as he flipped the last switch and the final detonator rig exploded on the display counter where Boag had left it.
The blast was mild in relative terms, but it was enough to throw Leggett six feet backwards, send him crashing against a fluted marble column. The wind was knocked from him and he fell to his knees amongst the glass and metal remains of the display unit. He looked up to see silk scarves drifting lazily through the air like slow-motion birds. Some of the scarves were ablaze, and Leggett struggled to focus as he watched two of them land and drape across the shoulders of one of the mannequins, setting fire to the pink shirt it wore. Soon the whole figure was in flames, regardless of the water falling from the sprinklers, an inhuman torch standing in a curious pose of exaggerated elegance. Mama, mama, thought Leggett, this was better than the movies. He felt exhilarated despite the pain in his lower back where he had slammed into the pillar. Further fires had broken out on the upper levels and a dense rope of black smoke was coiling down one of the high stairways with an oily slowness.
Leggett got to his feet, energised by the thought the others were up there somewhere. Trapped, or panicked, running from room to room, blindly seeking the way out. Man, oh man, this was something he had to see. Especially that shit-eater Kyle. Leggett hoped that bastard was roasting like a fucking pig on a spit right now. He stepped over Boag’s unconscious form, and ran towards the nearest stairway.
***
Conscience.
McKinnon had no place for it in her moral repertoire. It belonged with other woolly concepts such as empathy and pity in the mental garbage bin marked SENTIMENTALITY.
She had not time to deal with any of that crap right now. Something had clearly gone wrong. Whether it was an accident with the explosives or something else, she didn’t know and didn’t care, but when the first blast rumbled from the depths of the building her commitment and allegiance to Boddice and his half-arsed heist had evaporated instantly. It was all part of the deal, McKinnon’s standard modus operandum – payment, in full, up front (and, as Boddice knew from past experience, she didn’t come cheap), with the complete understanding that if things went arse over tit she was out of there. No questions asked. No retributions. No refunds. She would simply disappear. Boddice had been happy enough to accommodate her; the times she had worked for him before had been fruitful, and he’d seen no reason to refuse her conditions this time, even with the high price tag. He made a song and dance about the amount of money she was asking for, though she knew fine well it was, if not easily, then certainly tolerably, affordable for him. Besides, if this whole diamond thing came off, he would be beyond caring about money.
All that was academic now, however. McKinnon had already begun to make her way to the second-floor fire escape, the team’s planned escape route, when the second explosion went off and the alarms and sprinklers came on. Part of her mind, still in security officer mode, made a note of the fact that nothing had happened after the first blast. That wasn’t good. The T&N empire would not be pleased with that little lapse in the building’s automatic emergency procedures. She smiled; that wasn’t going to be her problem any more.
She reached the door to the fire escape and that word swam up into her mind again.
Conscience.
What she was about to do would cost the lives of the men still inside the store: Kyle and the twin somewhere in the walls of the building itself, and Boag… well, who knew what had become of Boag? Those explosives were his responsibility. It sounded as if he’d fucked up.
As if to confirm her feelings, a further set of explosions shook the building. She opened the door to the fire escape and a swirl of cool air blew into her face.
She dragged her hands through her soaking hair and flicked the water onto the floor. Ahead of her, a metal staircase ran down to the alley at the rear of the store. Above the door, a green illuminated sign with a picture of a running man bathed the stairway in a sickly light. This doorway was now the only way out of the building. The other exits were likely blocked by fires now that the other detonators had gone off. No point in feeling sorry for those left inside. They couldn’t be allowed to get out alive. If the police nabbed them they would blab about her role in all of this. She would be compromised.
McKinnon closed the fire-escape door. The release bars slid into place on the other side. Preparation was all, exploring every possibility for things that could go w
rong, contingencies devised. This particular one had been top of the list. Once she knew of Boddice’s proposal to steal the diamond and how he planned to carry it out, she recognised the high probability it would fail. Trusting fuckwits to carry off such an involved scheme was madness. The fact they had actually got this far surprised her. Nevertheless, she had anticipated every eventuality and had made sure she was prepared. Attached to the metal railing of the stairway she had left two cycle cable locks – high-quality, expensive ones. She unlocked them and looped each through the handles of the fire-escape doors in a double figure of eight. She fastened the ends of each cable into their respective locks, making sure they were tight and secure. She tested the doors against them. They held fast.
McKinnon descended quickly to the alley and walked out into the street. She glanced behind her once, looking up at the fire-escape door – a blank square beneath the green exit sign.
She drew her wet coat around her.
Fuck conscience.
***
As soon as he got to the junction with Hope Street, John knew something was wrong.
A growing feeling of unease had crept up on him as he sat on the steps outside the hotel, a worry that he should have heard something by now – a text message at least – but there had been nothing. Unable to stand the tension any longer, he’d made the decision to go to the store for a look. John knew he’d done enough for the night back at the party. He even felt a slight pang of regret for what he’d done to Corrigan’s missus; she was an innocent party in the whole affair after all, didn’t deserve to have some idiot’s walloper flapping in front of her face. Still, it was a necessary evil; no-one was going to forget him and what he’d done in a hurry. Mission accomplished.
He’d made a point of catching the eye of a crowd of guys from the audio and hi-fi department who were having a smoke outside and offered some slurred excuse about not feeling too good, needing to stretch his legs, get some exercise to clear his head. They sent him on his way with a couple of hearty slaps on the back from the ones who hadn’t seen what he’d done and disapproving grunts from those who had.
Hope Street was almost deserted as John rounded the corner, a few late-night stragglers making their way to Central Station or looking for a kebab shop. He leaned against a traffic signal at the pedestrian crossing and squinted towards the glowing Bubble suspended above the intersection with Argyle Street. A distant but distinct bang sounded from the bottom end of the street. John frowned; what the fuck was that? A flurry of pigeons flew up from nearby window ledges and a couple kissing at a bus stop broke off and turned to look towards the sound for a few seconds before getting stuck back into each other.
John picked up his pace and jogged towards the store. That didn’t sound right. Not right at all. His sense of foreboding ramped up a few notches. As he got closer, a second blast came from somewhere high above followed by the shrill crash of falling glass as a window blew out on the store’s third floor. A girl on the opposite side of the street screamed and ran into the doorway of a shop. The wailing of alarm sirens rose and fell in the still night air and blue lights strobed from metal boxes beneath the first floor balcony. The passengers on a bus waiting at a stop crowded to the windows, looking up at the dark façade of the building to see what had happened. John broke into a run and sped down to the store entrance. He skidded to a halt at the main door, almost losing his footing on the slippery pavement. The spotlights in the window displays and those surrounding the main door flickered once and went out, and the street suddenly became darker.
John tried the doors, knowing they would be locked, but pulling hard nonetheless. He stood back, aware that a small crowd had grouped on the road behind him. He ignored them and began searching for another way in.
The explosions meant something had gone wrong with the robbery and the guys inside would be making their getaway via the second-floor fire escape; if that was the case, it was best for John not to get involved.
But he had a feeling deep in his gut that the plan had now gone to hell in a handbarrow, an intuition something much more serious had happened. He had to get into the store. No use going round to the back. He didn’t have time for that now. No, a more direct approach was needed.
He wheeled round and the people behind him, a middle-aged couple, a railway worker and two or three drunks, backed off a few steps. John crossed the road to a rubbish bin sitting at the edge of the pavement. He opened the little door on the side of the bin and dragged out the metal inner container. He dumped the contents onto the street and crossed back to the store, carrying the metal box above his head.
‘Heh, what’re ye gonnae do with that?’ asked an old guy in a check jacket with matching bunnet.
John ignored him and carried on walking, pushing through the small crowd. In the distance, beyond the crest of the hill at the top of Hope Street, a police siren could be heard. A girl in the crowd was filming the scene on her mobile phone, panning from the ground to the top floors of the store. John grabbed the phone from her hand and threw it onto the road.
‘Hey!’ the girl shouted. ‘My phone!’
‘What’s your problem pal?’ asked a burly guy with a shaved head, moving towards him. ‘Where do you get off flingin that poor lassie’s phone into the… Whoa!’
He was cut short by John launching the metal bin over his head and into the large plate glass window of the shopfront. The bin bounced back from the glass and clattered onto the pavement, leaving the window unharmed.
The guy with the shaved head glared at him. ‘Are you off yer nut, pal?’
John paid him no attention. He picked up the bin from the pavement and made to swing it back onto the window when there was another set of explosions – five of them in rapid succession. John dropped to one knee and reflexively raised an arm to shield himself, though no debris fell. Several people in the crowd screamed. Everyone except John ran back across the street to safety, huddling behind a parked van.
The last explosion was close, and the concussion from the blast rocked the whole store front, sending the contents of the window displays flying against the glass and causing the window itself to bow outwards momentarily before it snapped back into position in its frame. Through the wailing of the alarms John heard a thin crackling sound. He looked up at the window. A hairline fracture had started at the bottom right-hand corner of the glass and was now inching slowly upwards, moving diagonally across the window, creaking and splintering as it went.
John wasted no time. He grabbed the bin and hurled it at the window. It struck midway along the fracture line which shot upwards with a loud crack. The glass hung in place for a fraction of a second before separating into two large triangular sections which slid from the window frame in slow motion, smashing to the ground as John dodged to the side. He jumped into the window display, vaulting over a collapsed plasma screen television and surround-sound speaker system.
The plasterboard wall at the rear of the display had been blown out by the blast. John kicked through the tatters of its remains and scrambled into the store. He was confronted by a confusion of smoke and flames, water and debris, noise and chaos. The familiar layout of the shop had been thrown into a jumbled, rain-soaked shambles. He was quickly becoming drenched by the overhead sprinklers yet, despite the volume of water being sprayed over the shop, he could see several fires blazing brightly throughout the ground floor and smoke belching from a number of doors and passageways on the upper floors.
John shot a glance upwards to the walkway leading to the entrance to the Bubble. It looked clear, no evidence of fire or damage. He waited for a few seconds to see if the others might emerge from the doorway, running to the escape point on the second floor.
John was about to cup his hands to his mouth to shout Campbell’s name when a sudden bolt of searing, snapping pain shot up his right leg, causing him to buckle at the knees and crumple to the floor in agony. What the fuck was that? He folded into a foetal position on the wet carpet, clutching his leg and f
ighting the urge to scream at the top of his lungs.
Almost as abruptly as it had arrived the pain started to disappear, melting away like mist in a breeze. He got to his feet and gingerly put his weight on his right leg. It was fine.
John bent to rub his hand along his leg, feeling for any sign of injury, all the time staring wildly about the sales floor. There was nothing – his leg was perfectly okay, no indication that anything had happened to it.
He had only ever experienced something similar once before, many years ago, when he and Campbell were just boys, walking home from school on his own, his guts had erupted into sudden excruciating pain for no apparent reason. No reason except that Campbell, who was at home in bed, had developed acute appendicitis that very same day.
He knew now that things were far from alright. Very far indeed.
***
As soon as the alarms started, Campbell pulled the box from the safe and opened it. He had no time to register the purple darkness of the diamond lying in the white velvet folds of the container; he simply grabbed it and stuffed it into his pocket, quickly replacing it in the box with the fake one. A heavy clunking sound came from the adjacent room, causing the floor to shudder; the sound of huge bolts slamming into place, sealing the doors to the outer room and entombing Campbell and Kyle inside.
