Free Jaggy Splinters by Christopher Brookmyre Page A

and do something we’ll all regret.’
    ‘I wouldnae regret shootin’ you, ya cunt,’ Jyzer hissed at Parlabane, who just smiled.
    ‘Sorry Jyzer, but in case you’ve no’ worked it out, the last thing you can do is shoot me – I’m your only hostage. Soon as I’m out of the equation, it’s you versus the bullets. That’s unless you professionals can take out a team of trained marksmen with your stove-pipes there.’
    Frustration was writ large in Jyzer’s eyes. He clearly wished he could blow Parlabane away, or at the very least, finally silence him with a telling one-liner. He settled for: ‘Fuckin’ shut it.’
    Then he called out to the cops. ‘We’re aw calm in here. Yous keep calm an’ aw. An’ get on wi’ gettin’ that helicopter.’
    Tommy was hectically hunting through drawers and cupboards, having tried the handle on the only other door in the room.
    ‘I cannae find the keys, Jyzer,’ he gasped in a loud whisper.
    ‘Well they’ve got tae be here somewhere. Keep lookin’.’
    ‘Couldn’t possibly be on the person of one of your erstwhile hostages?’ Parlabane suggested.
    ‘Aw fuck,’ Tommy sighed.
    ‘Keep at it Tommy, there’ll be another set somewhere. Dinnae listen tae that cunt.’
    ‘What were you wanting from the stationery cupboard, anyway?’
    Parlabane asked. ‘Checking there’s no eh, Insurance Bonds mixed in wi’ the dug-licence application forms?’
    ‘Would ye fuckin’ shut it aboot the bonds. They were meant tae be here. Scottish Widows changed the delivery. They’re worth thousands. Nae ID needed. Good as money.’
    ‘That’s right, they’re transgotiable,’ Tommy contributed.
    ‘Shut it Tommy, that’s no the word. Keep lookin’. An’ as for you, big-mooth, that’s no’ any stationery cupboard. Behind that door’s the thing that’s gaunny make you eat every wan o’ your smart-cunt words.’
    ‘What, proof that Madonna’s got talent?’
    ‘Naw. That door leads tae the underground railway. Belongs tae the Post Office, for sendin’ stuff back and forward. Runs fae here doon tae the main sortin’ depot at Brunswick Road, which is where we’ve got a motor waitin’. They’ll still be coverin’ the exits up here while we’re poppin’ up haufway doon Leith Walk. And wance we’re there, you’ll have outlived your usefulness, ‘lived’ bein’ the main word. Aye, ye’re no so smart, noo, are ye?’
    Parlabane shook his head, squatting on the floor against the wall.
    ‘Underground railway?’ he asked, grinning.
    ‘Aye.’
    ‘I’ve got two words for you, Jyzer: Insurance Bonds.’
    ‘An’ I’ve got two words for you: fuckin’ shut it. Tommy, have ye fun’ thae keys yet?’
    ‘Sorry Jyzer. I don’t think there’ a spare set.’
    ‘Fuck it,’ Jyzer said, getting to his feet. ‘You watch him Tommy.’
    Jyzer walked over to the locked door and pointed his shotgun at the metal handle.
    ‘No don’t do that!’ Parlabane shouted, too late.
    Jyzer pulled his trigger and blasted the handle, then reeled away from the still-locked door, bent double and groaning.
    ‘AAAAYAAA FUCKIN’ BASTARD!’ he screamed, falling to the floor, blood appearing from the dozens of tiny wounds where the pellets had ricocheted off the solid metal and back into his thighs, hands, wrists, abdomen and groin.
    ‘STAY OOT!’ Tommy shouted to the cops behind the door. ‘STAY OOT. The hostage is awright. Just a wee accident in here. Just everybody keep steady, right?’
    ‘Let’s hear the hostage,’ called the cop. ‘Let’s hear his voice.’
    Tommy, looking increasingly like the least steady person on Earth, waved the gun at Parlabane and nodded, prompting him to reply.
    ‘I’m here,’ Parlabane shouted.
    ‘You okay, sir?’
    ‘Do you really want me to answer that?’
    ‘I mean are you hurt?’
    ‘No. But Jyzer here just learned a valuable lesson about the magic of the movies.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘That’s enough,’ Tommy interrupted. scuttling over