Double Barrelled Date

When you're looking down the barrel of a gun, things become a little
clearer, especially when you're not the one holding it. I can see dirty
fingernails gripped tightly on the stock, sweaty palms slide and
re-adjust almost continually. I'm vaguely aware of people running for
cover in my peripheral vision and beyond. It's gonna take hours to
clean this mess up. I notice the rough, hacked edge of the sawn off.
It's slightly rusty. These guns have been passed around for years, from
lag to lag from father to son. This gun would, even at a modest guess,
been pointed at half a dozen garage attendants, at least two bank
clerks if not managers, probably eight newsagents and almost certainly
seen off a few rogue drug dealers. This gun has history; I almost
recognise it myself. Moving along the amputated barrel, past the stock
and onto its current employer, a small blue, badly drawn tattoo creases
between his thumb and his index finger. The black sweatshirt is not new
and baubles of fluff line the sleeve around the wrist. They probably
line the waistband, I had a sweatshirt like that once and we used to
sell a little machine that would remove them. They were ?14.99 but they
weren't popular and I sold them to my brother. My assailant is not a
big man and this worries me I must admit. Big men, with big muscles do
not, as a rule, rob convenience stores. Big men with big muscles can
always get work and do a lot of work without complaint and so have no
need of robbing convenience stores. This man on the other hand is of
medium build and his breasts and gut imply that he is a drinker, which
also concerns me. Men who rob convenience stores and drink are likely
to have to have done both in the same evening, not necessarily in that
order. This leads to confusion, miscalculation, accidents and general
sloppiness. I like to respect an armed robber. Often I hope they'll get
away. When they've left I'll turn and to my brother and we'll have a
tenner on whether they'll get away or not. I have won the last four
times. This sounds glib, but we're insured and it takes balls to hold
up a convenience store, big fucking balls. I do not have a shotgun or a
baseball bat behind my counter, I don't want to hurt anyone. Besides,
these men are desperate, desperate enough to threaten murder for ?100
to ?200. As I say, I'm insured and they clearly need more than I do.
One time I didn't even call the police. I'd recognised the bloke, he'd
recently lost his job and was struggling to feed his family and had
recently sold his dog to my cousin. The irony was that if he'd have
begged in the street, asked me straight out, I'd have refused. But then
he showed me his big fucking balls and held me up. I even threw in an
extra ?50 to see him through Xmas. I still see him occasionally and he
knows I know, but he's sorted himself out now. I expect he may even pay
me back one day. Today's reverse customer stares blankly at me through
his army issue balaclava. I can almost make out a pulse throbbing in
the bloodshot of his eyes. A first timer, he's going to expect me to do
all the work. He's not athletic enough to climb the counter and beat
me, for which I am thankful. I have often thought that you should need
a licence to own or buy a balaclava. I mean, they were not exactly
essential fashion accessories last time I checked. His lips are chapped
and his teeth are stained yellow and I hope he doesn't ask for
cigarettes on top of the cash since I will have to turn my back and
besides it will hinder his getaway. He is doing OK up until this point.
He has walked in calmly and picked a time when there is relatively few
customers in my shop and he's managed not to discharge his weapon or
hurt anyone. It's near closing time and it would be correct of him to
assume that there would be a reasonable amount of cash in the register.
There is, as it happens, roughly ?150 in tens, fives and assorted
change. Twenties, I keep under the register. He raises the muzzle
slightly as encouragement for me to hand over whatever he expects me to
give him and I smile and nod. The cash register opens with a ping and I
start to remove some notes rather deliberately and slowly. I want to
hear his voice, I want to know what he is like and what his thoughts
are on this situation and that is when he makes his first mistake. I'm
not sure of the exact slur but the familiar tones of "blah, blah, blah,
you fucking paki, blah, blah, blah" surely came from his mouth. As I've
said before, I like to respect an armed robber who does his job
properly and above all treats me with respect in return. I know he
doesn't want to shoot me, he wants to rob me and shooting me only makes
things more difficult for us both. When the going gets tough, cowards
get weird and this is when you need to be on your toes as a member of
the public thinks they can take the slag with a cucumber and a tin of
red kidney beans. Act before they act I say, and this situation is
moving closer to a random moment with every passing CCTV frame.
Casually I pour the contents of the cash register over the counter onto
the floor. Coins roll in all directions and notes flutter aimlessly
amongst the racks of crisps, chocolate bars and other savoury items in
baskets in front of the counter. There is an added moment of
awkwardness, adding to the awkward situation we are already faced with.
He looks startled as if to say, "What did you do that for?" like a
child says to a destructive playmate. He looks around for an answer to
his question but there is none. I stand back and shrug my
shoulders.
"Take it, it's all yours," I say.

We are at a turning point in our story. I have just thrown a register
full of money over the counter and onto the disinfected floor of my
shop. A clever move on my part? You can be the judge of that, but bear
in mind that often a random act of genius or intelligence can prompt
and equal and opposite reaction of mindless violence. For the record I
regret it, the question is, will I live to? Let's see.

It seems a while now since throwing the money. So long in fact that it
is as if we have forgotten whose move it is, even though it is quite
clearly his. I glance towards the window as if to signal that, one,
that's where you should be going and two, do it quickly because someone
will be along soon. I'm not sure, he's taken the hint. He can't quite
believe he has been cheated so unfairly. He was the one on the front
foot when he came in. He had the power, he had the gun for fucks sake.
He asks me for a bag, I coolly look at my watch and ask if he's sure.
He says he's sure and I give him the bag. He turns to his left and
throws the bag to the floor and tells someone I can't see to fill it
with the strewn cash. I hear the sound of snivelling, it's the same
sound my wife made at Titanic. I dare not peer beyond the counter, he
may strike me or hurt me. As soon as he has his money he will be away.
He asks for the return of the bag, which he duly receives with perhaps
60-70\% of his haul. He backs out of the shop clutching his swag under
his arm. This is a difficult time. It's like saying farewell to
visiting relatives knowing they face a tricky reversing manoeuvre out
of your drive. I'm sure we'll see him again soon, either on TV as a
photofit or as a corpse. Fucking amateurs.