Mark Fraser: Day Two Hundred and Sixty Six – I Lied

Posted on September 23, 2011 by


I said I was going to stop writing fiction for a bit. Well that “bit” is over and what follows is my first attempt at fiction for a while.

I figured I should start writing some stuff now that I’m studying Creative Writing at uni.

Also it’s written entirely in Glaswegian/lallans/synthetic Scots.

December 26th, 2010

“Aw fuck. Aw FUCK!”
“Shit. Ye ‘hink he’s seen us?”
Through the holes in his balaclava ah could see Ronnie’s eyes dartin’ aboot. Noo, by and large he generally looks pretty panicked – he’s just goat wan ey they faces that always look scared o’ somethin’ – but at this particular conjecture, he wis legitimately pantin’ his shants.
“Right. Ah know yer in here, ya coupla sods. If ye come oot Ah’ll no phone the polis, and we’ll jist call it even.” The security gaird wis wis swingin’ his torch aboot the joint like a lightsabre, ready tae tae cut baith us pricks doon the second it touched us. Ah wisnae fur gettin’ caught. No the night – no ever.
“Aw fuck” Ronnie whispered “Mate, fuck this. Ah telt ye this wis a stupid idea. Ah’m sure ye could borrow an amp fae somewan. S’no like theft wis yer only option. Ah’m oota here.”
Ah grabbed um by his troosers as he tried tae staun up; this cunt was goin’ nowhere,
“Aye? N’ go where? The exits’ back there behind Darth fat arse. N’ besides, these cunts kin afford it wi the amount ey money they make. Much you ‘hink hauf these geetars cost it stock price? Everyhin’s inflated tae fuck in these music shoaps.”
Ronnie poked his heed roond the counter tae eye up the situation. It was as grim as ah hud described.
“Eh. Shit. Aye. Well…” Ah could see he was tremblin’. So wis ah, but no oota fear ye understand; cuz ey the adrenaline.
“Aye. Well. Exactly. Gies a minute tae hink.”
Ah took a swatch ower the counter; the security gaird was walking doon the aisle adjacent tae the counter like a fat fuckin’ fluorescent Santa. He even jingled when he walked,
“Here!” a quick whisper from Ronnie demanded ma attention. So ah gave um it,
“Ah ‘hink we should just head tae the front ey the shoap, tan the windae wi somethin’, climb oot it and boot it doon the street. Ye hink?”
“Tae be honest mate, it’s a shite idea. Ah’m no leavin’ here wi oot somethin’. That’s a fact, so it is.”
“Aye? Well yer oan yer ain then. Am aff.”
Afore ah could say anyhin Ronnie was makin’ a beeline fur the front ey the shoap, hoofin’ it like he was bein’ chased by a lion. Sure enough the security gaird clocked um, swung his Christmas lightsabre doon the aisle an’ tried tae mobilize his arse intae a pacey wobble while Ronnie bolted like a startled gazelle. Ah put ma heed ower the counter n ah could see um bombin’ it in ma direction so naturally ah stuck ma foot out an’ as just as he goat clear ey the counter he caught it an went flyin’ like lime green Santa Claus, sans reindeer, takin’ oot a whole row ey geetars. Turned oot it wis the perfect diversion cuznae amount ey Jedi skills wur gonnae stoap me, ah coud tell ye that fur nothin’. Ronnie hud failed tae notice, ‘n wis promptly wielding an amp it shoulder height, ready tae pan the front windae.
“Haw! Ronnie! Mon!” a shouted ower it him. He dropped the amp and looked roond, seen that the gaird wis currently indisposed with a geetar or two wrapped roond his heed and ran ower,
“Nice work Jackie boy! Ye hink the chances ir that he’s phont the polis already?”
“Pretty high, Ronnie. Pretty fuckin’ high indeed.”
“The fuck we gonnae dae? This fuckin’ hing’s gonnae be on CCTV!”
Ronnie sat doon oan the flair again. Ah hudnae contemplated it, ah must admit, but he wis right; this whole catalogue of errors wis gonnae make a pretty fuckin’ fine entry in tae the Strathclyde Metropolitan Police’s very ain incompetent burglars edition of You’ve Been Framed.
“Ach nane ey yer shite. We’ve kept oor faces n covered n that. We’ll be fine.”
“Mate, ah ‘hink ah can hear sirens.” Ronnie wis trembling again. His adrenaline hud given ower tae pure fear. In reality, there wurnae any sirens approaching. Yet. But that wis a situation that wis sure tae be rectified in the near future.
“Right. Wir no gonnae get an amp oot ey here the night. Too heavy. Grab wan ey they PRS geetars an’ ah’ll grab this Les Paul ‘ere – lighter ‘n easier tae transport.”
“Aye, awright. But what aboot an amp? Wir aff oan tour in less than a week!”
“Fuck it man. Ah’ll punt these on ebay or sommat. Fuck knows. Ah’ll figure it oot. The next time a walk in here ah’ll be a financially solvent individual, free fae the burden ey tour poverty. Ready tae make a purchase oan a nice new-“ something wis up. Ronnie wis gawpin’ at the windae lookin’ pretty fuckin’ edgy. Ah turned roon tae see what he was lookin’ it ‘n there’s two polis shinin’ their torches in the windae. They’ve no seen us yet, thank fuck, cuz there’s a causal nonchalance aboot their movement. Wan ey thum tried the door but tae nae avail. Sy this point me ‘n Ronnie are oan the deck, prone. Ronnie wispers tae us,
“Mate. We’re fucked.”
“Aye awright, chill oot ya bam. Oan three ah want ye tae jump up, grab a geetar n gie it the Usain Bolt oot the back door, awright? We’re gettin’ oot eh this pal. As punk rock as getting jailed a few days afore a tour is, ah really don’t want tae be sent doon for robbery. Right, ye ready?”
“Aye” naw, he wisnae ‘n neither wis ah, but Ronnie wis nae in a position tae argue n frankly, oot of aw the fuckin’ insane plans ah’v ever hud, this wis definitely no wan ey ma favourites. We wur oot eh options. We hud tae get oot eh here pronto.
“Right. Three, two, wan…GO! FUCKIN’ GO, RONNIE!”
It wis almost as if ah could see in slow motion: the attitude ey the polis changed fae that ey paper pushing bobbys just casually dain’ their roonds, tae that ey a coupla bloodhounds that’d just goat a whiff ey some fresh meat at the realisation that there wir in fact a couple eh chancers in the very shoap they wur scoutin’ oot, so ah grabbed a geetar n Ronnie done them same. We run intae the labyrinthine stock room ‘n negotiate the musical equipment like some kind ey jailbird Kypton Factor – ye fuck this up, it’s 6 months in Bar L. No question. Ah boot open the back door n we leg it doon the street. Eifter a block, me ‘n Ronnie part ways. We both know where tae meet, ah just hope we fuckin’ get there.

Posted in: Mark Fraser