"Brookmyre, Christopher - Bampot Central" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brookmyre Christopher)He rewound the action in his head, doing his Billy McNeil replay summary.
Three seconds in, Mistake Number One: Discharging a shotgun into the ceiling to get everyone's attention, like simply the sight of the thing wasn't going to raise any eyebrows. There were several hundred people outside in the shopping mall, and a large police station two hundred yards away at the top of Leith walk. Four seconds in, Mistake Number Two: Charging into the shop and leaving umpteen customers behind you, out of sight, with a clear exit out the front door, through which they rush in a hysterical panic. Seven seconds in, Mistake Number Three: Blowing another hole in the roof, then turning your back on the remaining customers while you chase after extra hostages that you won't need. Eight seconds in, Mistake Number Four: Telling everybody your first names. Ten seconds in, Mistake Number Five: Finding yourself with at least ten customers plus staff as prisoners. One or two is usually plenty. In a moment of inspiration, gunman Tommy began rearranging the queuing cordons and ordered everyone behind the rope. "Stay there an' dinnae move, right?" The customers were uniformly terrified, with the exception of Parlabane, who was just in far too bad a mood to entertain any emotions other than fury and hatred. Decadence is often born of boredom. Nihilism even more often born of a walk through the Old Town in mid-August. "Wouldn't you prefer us to sit down?" he offered, figuring these guys were going to need all the help and advice they could get. "Eh, aye." Jyzer was busy making Mistake Number Six, pointing his weapon at a young teller and ordering her colleagues to stay in their seats, where they could each press their panic buttons just in case the two resounding shotgun blasts hadn't been heard first-hand at Gayfield Square polis emporium. "Jesus Christ," Parlabane sighed, the words slipping out before he could stop himself. "Shut it, you," Tommy barked. "You got a problem, pal?" Yes he did. He had a problem with the fact that the chances of these two eejits shooting someone through incompetence-generated panic were increasing by the second. He considered amelioration the wisest policy right then. "Eh, no problem," he said. "But I was wondering . . . I mean, it's just an idea really, but maybe you should move the staff over here beside us, you know, so there's just one group of hostages to keep an eye on, and your china can get on with posting his airmail or whatever." "Christ, mate," said one of the crusties, "why don't you offer them our bloody wallets as well while you're at it? I mean whose side are you on?" "Fuckin' shut it, you," snapped Tommy. "An' it's no airmail, it's a fuckin' robbery, right?" Parlabane held his hands up and shrugged. Whatever. Jyzer, who by superiority of one synapse was the brains of the outfit, had cottoned on to Parlabane's thinking and gestured the other tellers to file out from behind the counter. Then he ordered Tommy to collect everybody's wallets, proving that he was broad-minded and open to suggestions from any of the |
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