Marge put it through the till scanner and pressed the Pay button then headed into the back office.
“Oi come back here, where’s my money?” he jumped out of the chair again, craning his neck to see where she’d gone.
She emerged from back office with a wad of twenties as thick as a brick. She began to count it out in front of him flicking through the notes counting out loud as she went, “twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one hundred,” and so on. It was amazing how quickly you could count out what was for some a year's salary. Marge didn’t have to count the money but she was determined to make him wait as long as possible. She stuffed the cash into a large brown envelope and squeezed it underneath the glass partition. WW tried to snatch it but she wouldn't let go.
"What are you doing, let go.”
"I want you to count it before you go anywhere else, right here in front of me and the CCTV camera."
She pointed to a small Perspex bubble mounted high on the wall that overlooked the customer side of the counter.
"You are kidding me, you make anybody else do that?"
"Company Policy, too many people try to claim they haven’t been paid right,” she pointed to a notice on the glass that stated as much.
He grudgingly nodded and she let go of the packet.
“Oh and don’t even think about pulling the disabled card on me again,” she pointed to the CCTV, “we’ve got it on record that you’re Usain Bolt in disguise.”
Wheelchair Wanker counted his money, taking three times as long as Marge. The other punters edged closer to him, attracted like flies to a turd.
Wheelchair Wanker finished counting and was about to stuff the bunch of notes into his inside coat pocket when the black coated Hoodie pushed through the crowd of onlookers and stuck a gun in Wheelchair Wankers face.
“I’ll have that," the voice muffled now as his scarf had been pulled up just below his eyes.
A gasp of horror came from the punters and Marge instinctively moved to her left and her hands dropped below the counter. The Hoody spotted her as if anticipating her reaction.
"Don't touch the button or he gets it."
"Not really a deterrent," said Marge.
“I’ll take out more than the Cripple, now move,” he waved her back from the counter and away from the panic button that was connected directly to the Police.
The Hoody heard the sound of a flushing toilet and looked up. The Gents door opened releasing a gut-churning stench into the shop, Richard the Turd emerged fastening the belt on his trousers. Sensing something was wrong, he looked up from his pants into the barrel of the gun. He didn’t flinch.
“Get over there with the other losers,” Hoody waved the pistol in the direction of the huddled punters, then turned his attention back to his victim.
"Gimme the cash," he put the gun into Wheelchair Wankers cheek and the shaking man complied, handing over his precious winnings, "and the stash in the armrest."
“That's medicinal, I need it for my condition,” WW pleaded.
“Dead is a condition too,” observed the Hoody with unexpected wit.
Harry looked on from beside Marge in a state of shock. This wasn't what he’d anticipated on his second day at work. Should he do something? What could he do? Big Marge glanced at him as if to say go into the back office, where Harry knew there was a telephone. If he could slip in while the robber was preoccupied, he could call the Police. Marge nodded at him but he didn’t move. Harry was in a dilemma. Should he let the robber take Wheelchair Wanker’s winnings? It would be a kind of divine retribution on the miserable cheating bastard. Or should he do the right and proper thing and call the police?
Marge could see Harry wavering and pulled a face at him that wordlessly told Harry that he only had one option.
Much as Harry was enjoying seeing the miserable cheating charlatan get his comeuppance, he had already made up his mind and as the robber’s attention was firmly on relieving WW of all his goods, he quickly slipped into the back office, picked up the phone and dialled 999.
WW knew that a hole in his wallet was better than a hole in the head. This kid looked edgy and nervous. He probably wouldn’t shoot anyone but could he really take that chance? Hoody pressed the gun hard into WW’s face, making him yelp.
“Don’t make me do it, Bell End,” shouted the youth.
WW opened the armrest and gave up his stash meekly.
The Hoody stuffed the Weed and cash into his coat pocket. "Everyone's a winner, except you," was his parting shot.
He turned away from his quivering victim to make his getaway but Richard the Turd was right in front of him.
"You need to give that back," said Richard calmly.
"Fuck off Tramp," the Hoody lifted his gun but before he could level it at the reckless hero, Richard grabbed the gun and twisted it hard up the youths back making him squeal and drop the weapon.
But Richard wasn’t finished; he grabbed the back of the robber’s neck and smashed his face hard against the reinforced glass over the counter. Big Marge had a great view of the youth’s nose exploding. The gunman slumped to the floor unconscious, blood flooding from his shattered nose onto the grubby blue carpet.
A spontaneous round of applause erupted from the astounded punters.
Harry and Big Marge hurried out from behind the counter.
“Thank you,” said Marge giving Richard a big hug.
“That was very brave,” added Harry.
“Not as brave as you mate. I saw you slip off there to call the Bizzies.”
“That’s rubbish, you faced down a gunman.”
Richard bent to pick up the pistol; he looked it over and handed it to Harry who declined.
“It’s okay, it’s a fake, anyone can see that.”
“I think you were the only one who knew that,” said Marge and the punters nodded in agreement.
Wheelchair Wanker, his composure and legs miraculously recovered was out of his chair retrieving his cash and stash from the prone assailant.
“Bloody hell, look at Lazarus,” observed Nobby the Jobby.
Wheelchair Wanker wasn’t hanging about, he hopped back in his chair and scooted backwards to the door.
"What, I don't even get a thanks a lotto,” shouted Richard after him.
“Good joke,” nodded Harry in appreciation.
But WW never made it out of the shop; two large policemen blocked the entrance.
Five
Harry was preparing tea when Peggy’s key turned in the lock. Harry’s shift finished at 3:00 pm, and she was usually home by 5:30. Today it was chicken and bacon pasta. He knew she would be starving when she came home. She liked to have a small breakfast and a light lunch that usually consisted finishing off the tubs of chocolates that always seemed to be on the desk next to hers in the office. Peggy could be a bit short when she was ‘hangry’, but that's not unusual.
"Hi, how did you get on," the first thing she always did was to ask about him. Sometimes he forgot to ask back, but then he was a man, well that was his excuse anyway.
"Eventful," he said with raised eyebrows that could have stuffed a sofa.
He only said one word but she picked up on the subtext in a flash. Women know when something is wrong, you usually don't even have to say anything, they just know.
"Somebody being a wanker?"
"Wheelchair Wanker,” nodded Harry, he was the one who won seven and a half grand on the Irish lotto."
"No, OMG I don't believe it," she gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek as he turned the heat down on the pasta to stop it boiling over before she did.
"Yes but that's not all.”
Peggy hung her coat over the bannisters in the kitchen that lead up from the back door and sat down at the kitchen table. "Put the kettle on and give me the full story, I want all the details, not just the executive summary."
Twenty minutes later, Harry stood up from the table and cleared the plates. He stacked them in the dishwasher and leaned back against the worktop.<
br />
"Not bad for your second day, like a real-life Crimewatch," Peggy knew Harry hated Crimewatch. It gave him nightmares. He could watch zombie movies or westerns where people get their heads blown off, but showing the CCTV of a thug robbing an off-licence was his sleep gone for the night.
Harry ran the tap and refilled the kettle. They always had a second cup of tea after dinner, hopefully with a piece of cake.
"Perhaps I won't have any nightmares tonight because there was a happy ending," he said putting the tea bags in the cups, decaf green?
She nodded, "Why what do you mean?"
"The hoodie wasn't the only one arrested, apparently Wheelchair Wanker has been on the wanted list for a while. The Benefits Agency was on to him and there was a warrant out for his arrest. One of the Bobbies recognised his name and description."
“That's fantastic," said Peggy.
As Harry put the cup of tea down in front of her his hands shook and he spilt tea on the table.
She took hold of his hand and squeezed it.
He smiled, "Every one a winner.”
About the Author
Johnny Parker is a bit of a latecomer to the writing party, but that means he has a whole goody bag of experience to pour into his writing.
Influenced by British comedy from Boys from the Blackstuff to Only Fools and Horses, Johnny likes to find the humour in real life and balance the funny with the sad.
Labelled a scatterbrain by his 1960’s Headmistress, Johnny has turned the insult into inspiration and has published kids picture books, joke books, a war biography and now a serial comedy based in a betting shop. Not so much writing to market as writing to life.
Success has done a knock and run on Johnny's door, winning an award for a short comedy film and several short story prizes. He’s had a comedy play produced and he even had the Museum of Liverpool Life include his quotes on some of their exhibits.
Johnny’s feature film screenplay Freak House, was one of only a small number of scripts chosen to be critiqued by Hollywood script guru Karl Iglesias at the London Screenwriters Festival. This time next year (Rodney), he might just be a millionaire.
Read more at Johnny Parker’s site.
Every One a WInner Page 4