Dreamer in the Dry

Wayne was tense, his heart was pounding. Despite all the planning he was not prepared for his own fight or flight reflexes. His sympathetic nervous system was on edge. He crouched ahead of his two accomplices as he stared across the street watching the familiar ballet unfold. A dark blue BMW had been the last of the small convoy of cars pulling through the bowsers. Its driver had returned to his car with a packet of cigarettes and a Diet Coke. Wayne knew it took between eight and twelve seconds from opening the car door to driving away and had timed his dash across the road. He counted to six before signalling to Neville and Darren to follow as he impatiently flicked his right hand at them. The dash went like clockwork. The three black clad youths in stocking masks made it across the road and scooted smoothly behind the departing BMW without being seen. They bustled through the sliding door of the shop, Wayne in the lead, Darren at his left elbow and Neville on Wayne’s heels. That was their first problem. Neville was right on Wayne’s heels, managing to step heavily on the back of his right sneaker so that Wayne lost his shoe and his footing sending him headlong into a cardboard stand piled high with multi-coloured packets of low cholesterol chips. With their leader sprawled and kicking in a cloud of crisp packets, Darren and Neville faltered. They looked at each other, uncertain whether to proceed with the robbery or bolt back out the door to safety. Darren looked up from Wayne’s struggling backside to see the shop attendant closing the security grille in front of his counter and reaching under the desktop. The attendant was a slim, clean-shaven, thirtyish man with thick glasses. "Harmless", thought Darren, until he saw the unmistakable profile of a shotgun sitting all too comfortably in the man’s hands. Darren pivoted, grabbed the sleeve of Neville’s jacket and ran to the door. The door was set to glide in response to a walking pace approach, not a panicked full-bore run. As a result, instead of propelling Neville through the doorway to safety, Darren managed to slingshot him full pelt into the heavy glass door before its sensors had even registered their movement. Darren himself bounced off the door and felt his knees buckle as he involuntarily backed over the now prostrate Neville and pushed Wayne back into the chip stand, just as he had regained his footing. The attendant had cocked the shotgun while his would-be robbers writhed on the floor. He watched what appeared to be a giant black spider with too many limbs and three heads thrash itself into the shape of three gangly, almost men. One of them reached down to pick up a shoe. They tried to fit through the doorway together fighting each other for space before popping outside. Seeing this just reinforced his belief that his twelve-gauge insurance policy was more effective than the Police call button beside the cash register. Back in the darkened alley, after their reverse dash across the road, Wayne, Darren and Neville took stock. “Fuckwits!” said Wayne.