Castling

To say Jack writes for a living is perhaps misleading. To say he scavenges the mind’s recesses for unlikely, if palatable, ways of relaying meticulously detailed carnage is certainly fairer.

Similarly, one could
in truth depict him as a games journalist, film critic and technology analyst. A copy editor. A freelancer. That said, bolting on the prefix ‘cheeky’ for each term would work wonders for the statement’s overall accuracy.

Castling marks his first foray into th
e world of published fiction. Clinging true to the adage ‘write what you know’, it’s a series seething with sardonic jibes, emotional immaturity and inventive mayhem.

To understate
, and somewhat drastically, Jack really hopes you enjoy it.

1.

Head thumping,
Rook trudged past aisles of frozen vegetables. Phone in hand, he thumbed his way through its Inbox. His text had indeed delivered. He had the report to prove it.

Eighteen degrees in the shade
, his long fingers idly traced the freezers’ cool rubber lining. Molly hadn’t responded to his SMS in half an hour, which seemed a little incongruous given how charming he presumed himself to be.

“Meh” Rook grunted
with mustered nonchalance. It was unconvincing. Though two long decades had passed since he’d been a thirteen year old boy, the attention of pretty girls was a narcotic yet to lose its kick.

Speaking of which...

The dull thump inside his skull promoted itself to full blown ache. Rook was in desperate need of a fix and its lure fairly hastened his gait. A few jogged steps and he found himself before a door, fogged with condensation. Thick digits snatched at the handle and yanked it clear.

“Come
here to me, you frozen sonofa... bitch...”

Empty.

He stood a moment, jaws slackened with cruel irony. The ice-cream section of the self professed
Convenience Store
was
conveniently
out of stock. Understandably, Rook took this as a personal affront.

And i
t was all he could do not to burn the place to the ground.

Assuming
they’re not out of lighters too!

Feeling the
unmistakable tremor against his thigh, he dragged his mobile free, eager for the distraction brought on by Molly’s wry flirtation. Apparently his service provider had an offer on international calls over the Bank Holiday Weekend.

“You’re doing this to punish me, aren’t you?!” Rook
snarled, eyes narrow, yellow rimmed pupils cast skyward.

The ache became piercing, and relocated to his temples. Rolling
hunched shoulders, Rook bounced his forehead off the freezer’s plexi-glass.

Endurance
ruptured for but a moment, fury crept in. He reckoned there should be public health warnings on the dangers of trying his patience. Still, he consoled himself with the knowledge his predicament couldn’t possibly deteriorate further.

A
trio of sharp pops sundered that illusion.

Oh, awesome.

Gunshots. Probably just a handgun. And originating at the supermarket. About seventy yards up the road.

Aggravated, Rook threw
his arms, his head shaking in weary resignation,

“You
’re pushing it now!”

He
knew better than to get involved. This wasn’t his concern, hadn’t been for seven months. England had people for this sort of problem. Respectable people. Calm people. If not better than him, then certainly nicer.

Rook
knew what he
should
do. Turn on his heels and walk. Jump on a tube, march home and stick his head in the freezer. Besides, he had only just started his new job. And, unlike his previous employ, it called for subtlety, for delicacy. It called for a low profile.

He couldn’t
think of anyone less qualified to do it.

Rook
didn’t even
want
to intervene. His gut rumbled, his skull screamed and it was his first day off in twelve.

But
... They probably have ice-cream in that Tesco...

So
he never really had a choice in the matter.

*

H
aving rapped on the clear glass pane, Rook reclined against the locked door and waited. Shuffling footsteps answered.

A man, perhaps ten years his junior,
clothed in a needlessly baggy hoodie and far too skinny jeans, cranked the key in its lock. The door swung open and the cool barrel of a gun was promptly pressed to Rook’s throbbing head.

He struggled to recall an instance wherein having a weapon levelled at his skull felt as soothing.

“You brain-dead?” Skinny Jeans postured.

“Getting there
. Have you got any ice-cream?”

“
You wot?”

Rook’s eyebrow arched at the
confusion, “Uh, which part’s tripping you up?”

Insulted
, Skinny Jeans bunched a fistful of the arrogant stranger’s navy jacket and cocked the weapon’s hammer,

“You a pig?!”

“Does anyone
ever
say yes to that?”

A predictably tense moment followed, where
in Skinny Jeans contemplated pulling the trigger and Rook pretended to give a damn.

“Actually
, they don’t” the young hood revealed, withdrawing his firearm from the man’s brainpan.

“Might be worth rephrasing then. Can I come in?”

“You come in, you aint leaving
again!”

Rook snorted,
shouldering his way past Skinny Jeans,

“Why would I leave? The ice-cream’
s in here.”

Ushered through at gunpoint, h
e caught glimpses of the other two geniuses hoping to make their fortune holding the staff of a local supermarket to ransom. One was even shorter and younger than Skinny Jeans, brandishing his polished handgun as a communicative aid.

The other
snared Rook’s attentions, undivided: Two metres of taut, bulging grey flesh. A respirator obscured the nose, mouth and bottom jaw. Orange gloop pumped intravenously into the giant’s bare neck, shoulders and spine. Bunched tubing tapered into a sophisticated harness strapped across the hoodlum‘s puffed chest.

It was not the kind of
tech street gangs merely stumble across.

Wide
eyes flashed in his direction. Three inches shorter and maybe fifty pounds lighter, Rook was almost relieved when Skinny Jeans shoved him forward, towards the other hostages.

Inclining
his head to the two men on the floor (one shook, clasping his knees while the other chilled his bruised cheek with a can) Rook strode over them, kneeling beside an anxious store clerk.

“Tell me you have ice-cre
am.”

“What?” the pale woman barked
. Scrambling to her feet, she backed up, glancing clumsily against a confectionary stand. A deluge of chocolate rained down.

“Maybe it’s the way I’m saying it...”
Rook mumbled, scratching the back of his head.

“Uh, yeah, we have some.
Aisle four,” pointing she added, “just over there, toward the back.”

Rook’s right hand reached out, snatching the
coated handles of a wire basket. His left gestured,

“Lead the way.”

Approaching the store’s rear, and making a large assumption as to her captors’ earshot, the young shop assistant shrieked,

“What were you thinking!?
”

“
I may need some context here.... Alison” he replied, reading at her name tag.

“Who
volunteers
to be a hostage?!”

Rook shrugged.

“
What were you thinking... unless you’re, you know, unless you’re one of
them
?”

“You know, of all the Tesco employees I’ve had the
pleasure of chatting with, you are, by some measure, the most cryptic.”

He
halted before a fully stocked freezer. A giddy yelp escaped him. Alison rolled her eyes and latched onto his arm, fingers digging with mortal urgency, mouth downturned in a gaunt plea.

“Are you here to save us? Christ, please be here to save us!”

Unfortunately for the frightened clerk, Rook was miles away. He tore into the nearest box of choc-ices. Pinching the plastic wrapping with eager fingers, he stuffed his mouth. The relief was instantaneous, a sugar fix easily worth risking a bullet to the face for.

Finishing
it with a second wolfish bite he turned to the young woman, cheeks bulging,

“Do I lookmpf like I’m here to savemph anyone?”

Not entirely ins
ensitive to the wrinkles of discontent crumpling her face, Rook rattled the box, offering a chocolate coated olive branch. She swatted it away,

“Don’t have much of an appetite at the moment, funnily enough!”

“What’s that got to do with it?” Digging through a mountain of Vanilla, tossing aside bricks of Raspberry Ripple, he eventually yanked free a two litre tub of Cookie Dough. “There’s always room for desert.”

His basket
crammed, his migraine subsiding, Rook beamed. Creamy residue outlined a toothy grin. Alison flinched; the severity of her station became clear; locked in her place of work with a trio of armed thugs and a madman.

Noticing her discomfort, the
tall, slim addict opted for a distracting tangent,

“
And where might one find the cutlery, Alison?”

Pouting, s
he led him to an adjacent aisle, jerked a thumb towards the shining silverware. Her head shook in disappointment as he swiped a serving spoon. Turning away she entirely missed him pocket a steak knife.

Basket looped over one
shoulder, Rook tore the lid from a pint of caramel swirl and begrudgingly passed it to the panicked woman. He promised it would take the edge off. She seemed oddly reluctant to take his word for it, adding,

“Hey, are you going to pay for all this, yeah?”

Rook took a moment to respond, the spoon still in his mouth, its contents burning his molars. He swallowed, pulling the cutlery from his face and wiping with the back of a rough hand,

“You are a credit to your workforce, you know that!?

No, I actually wasn’t planning on paying for it, Alison, what given our circumstance; the one with the hostages, shooters, and juiced up troll not thirty feet to our left.”

“
W-Well,” the ashen prisoner stammered, brushing blonde strands from her face, “Well, maybe we can come to an arrangement...”

“Like
buy one get one free?”

Hands j
ammed in her pockets, Alison cowered between her bunched shoulders,

“Help us and you can clear
out the freezers for all I care” she whispered, convinced even her most self-assured voice would crack.

“Who is it you think I am, love?”
Rook asked suspiciously, deliberately lengthening each syllable.

“Please.”
She appealed.

“But I didn’t bring my c
lubcard.”

“Please!”
She begged, voice finally cracking.

Half a year out of practice, Rook had still hoped himself the equal of a seventeen year old girl. Looking into her wide, terrified eyes, he stood
very much mistaken.

He just prayed the over-muscled juicer
would prove less challenging.

“
Ah, sod it then! Here,” he growled, handing Alison his basket, “go and bag these. And just.... just keep your bloody heads down.”