-Queensryche
ONE
He knew he was going to die.
Knew it.
He didn't think he might. Didn't wonder if he would.
Brian Ellis knew he was going to die.
The barrel of the shotgun was less than a foot from his face. It poked through the shattered remains of the safety glass partition, so close he could smell the oil and cordite from the yawning muzzle.
From that muzzle seconds earlier had come a thunderous blast which had ripped through the toughened glass as if it had been spun sugar.
It had been at that point that Brian Ellis had filled his pants. He stood there now, reeking. Standing there with a dark stain spreading across the front and back of his trousers. He couldn't think, couldn't move. All he was aware of was the sickening warmth around his lower body coated in his own excreta.
And he was aware that he would die.
He wanted to scream. Wanted to be sick. Wanted to pray. Wanted to bellow at the top of his lungs that he was only twenty-three and he didn't want to die.
The barrel of the Spas wavered closer to him and he began shaking uncontrollably.
Alarm bells were ringing; somewhere else in the bank a child was crying. A baby. Someone was sobbing. Someone was moaning.
Brian heard the sounds but none registered in his mind.
All that registered was the sure and certain conviction that he would soon be dead.
The alarm had gone off automatically as soon as the safety glass had been blasted away. There had been no furtive attempts by one of the other cashiers to find the alarm button that linked the bank directly with Vine Street police station. There'd been no need. Besides, this wasn't a film where the cashiers and customers stood around calmly (if somewhat worried) while tills were rifled, lives were threatened and then masked men ran from the bank into the arms of the law, who had arrived in the nick of time after being alerted by that single, secret alarm. How comforting was fiction.
The man who stood in front of Brian Ellis wasn't wearing a mask; he hadn't warned everyone to be quiet, hadn't told them that if they did as they were told no one would be hurt.
He had walked straight through the door of the Midland Bank in the Haymarket, pulled a Spas automatic shotgun from inside his coat and opened fire. First he shot a woman who had been standing close to the door counting money before she pushed it into her purse. She now lay in a bloodied heap, her limbs tangled like those of a puppet with cut strings. Her handbag and its contents were strewn across the marbled floor, some five pound notes having come to rest in a puddle of her blood.
Scarcely had the sound of the first shot died away than the gunman had fired again, into the counter glass. It had exploded inwards, showering those behind it with fragments of needle sharp crystal. One of the other cashiers had suffered a badly cut face. It was her moans that Brian could hear as she tried to pull a thin fragment of glass from one corner of her eye.
The child he could hear crying was in a pram at the other end of the counter. The mother was crying softly too.
His mind shrieked it again.
The gunman was looking at him, as if he had recognised him. A vague recollection of a face seen in a crowd. His face was calm, his eyes narrowed. These were not the staring eyes of a madman. There was deliberation in his movements. He appeared unfazed by the strident ringing of the alarm bells that continued to fill the bank.
'Give me the money,' the man said calmly, his eyes never leaving Brian's.
But Brian couldn't move.
'Now,' the man snapped, pushing the barrel of the shotgun closer to the cashier's face.
Despite its earlier lapse, his bladder managed to bring forth more. Brian felt more fluid running down his leg, soaking into his trousers.
He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes.
'The money,' rasped the gunman through clenched teeth.
The child was still crying.
'Shut that fucking kid up,' snarled the man without turning his head. He actually poked the barrel of the Spas against Brian's cheek.
Sirens.
The sirens were blaring from the direction of Piccadilly. They would be here in a matter of moments.
The alarms continued to screech. The baby was still crying. And the sirens came closer.
A look of mild annoyance passed fleetingly across the gunman's face. He took a step back.
He fired once, the barrel only six inches away from Brian's face. The report was massive, drowning out all the other sounds for a moment as the discharge tore most of the cashier's head off. He remained upright for a second, blood spouting from what remained of his cranium, then he pitched forward, sprawling over the counter.
If God had heard Brian's prayers he had chosen to ignore them.
The gunman turned and headed for the door. As he reached it he paused and looked at the woman with the pram.
The child was still crying.
He looked at her, then at the pram, then he fired twice.
Both blasts struck the pram, ripping through it.
He pushed the door and walked out into the street.
Those passing saw the shotgun; some screamed, some ran. Some just froze.
A police car, blue lights spinning madly, sirens screaming, came roaring around the corner into the Haymarket. The gunman gritted his teeth and looked behind him. The traffic lights were on red.
The traffic was at a halt.
He tossed the Spas to one side, digging inside his jacket for a pistol. Pulling the Smith and Wesson 9mm automatic free, he ran towards a motorcyclist who was idly revving his engine, watching the lights, waiting for them to change. Exhaust fumes poured from the pipe of the 850cc Bonneville.
The lights were still on red.
The police car drew closer.
The gunman shot the motorcyclist once in the back of the neck, pushing his body from the bike, gripping the powerful machine by the handlebars to prevent it toppling over. He swung himself onto the seat, twisted the throttle and roared off, the back wheel spinning madly on the slippery road before gaining purchase.
He swung left into Panton Street.
The police car followed.
