The Luck of the Devil

I don't usually exhibit my stuff on here, but I thought I'd try you all out on this piece I've just finished:

Pointing a loaded shotgun at another man’s head was something that no longer stirred thought or emotion in Johnny Grant.
“P…please…don’t kill me-” stuttered the plate of human jelly at his feet. Johnny narrowed his eyes slightly, but his expression remained stoical. His victim looked barely old enough to shave more than once a week, yet the opulent apartment in which they stood, was seemingly his.

He knew his type all too well- born into money, a wealthy father paying him through college, feeding him with enough funds to reside in an ostentatious bachelor-pad such as this; and more than likely receiving a fat, ill-deserved student grant too; most of which would feed a cocaine habit, or buy the occasional cheap whore.

He glared derisively; the boy was now omitting a pathetic mewing sound, as though battling to stifle a sob. The superficial creature at his feet was every bit the kind of victim he could happily steal from, without so much as a speck of guilt to scrub from his conscience in the aftermath.

Johnny lowered his weapon, and tucked it safely into his leather jacket. “Give the blubbering a rest will ya! I’m not gonna kill yer,” he growled. Incidentally, he had never taken a human life; the gun he just stowed safely in his jacket had never even been fired- it was merely a prop he used when the need arose.

I must be getting sloppy; he had thought when the boy had walked in and caught him in the act. Ordinarily, he possessed the sleek, surreptitious grace of a passing shadow during routine burglaries; but this time, things had almost gone seriously awry.

Johnny took a menacing step forward, knowing full well how intimidating he could be when his victims allowed him the upper hand. He gripped the boy beneath the chin, and pried him from the floor. “I’m a thief, not a murderer…but breathe a word of this to the police…” He didn’t finish his sentence, but then, he didn’t have to- the look of stark terror in the boy’s watery eyes, and his unintelligible mutterings told Johnny that he fully understood the insinuation. He threw the boy to the plush carpet, and resumed the nights work.

As he began his escape down the darkened stairwell, the shadowy sleekness that had abandoned him earlier, appeared to have returned. He felt at one with the shadows, draped in them as though they were a cloak. His sneakers barely made a sound upon the linoleum flooring, and his senses felt impeccably attuned.

The jewel in the crown of this job was undoubtedly the huge state-of-the-art plasma screen television, covered with a black bin-liner and tucked under his arm; he clung to the trophy as though it were an original copy of the Mona-Lisa.

As he stepped out onto the low-lit backstreet, a moderate wind swept through his long, unkempt hair. The sound of distant traffic whooshed like a flowing river, and luminous light and thumping music spilled from bars and nightclubs.

His head shot from one direction to another, and only when he had ascertained his solitude did he release a deep exhalation. That familiar feeling of satisfaction, which comes hand in hand with a job well done, rose within him as he crept through the shadows. His pace gradually increased, until his footsteps were clearly audible against the concrete…but he had thrown caution to the wind prematurely.

The thief felt his bowels freeze, and his skin erupt with goose-pricks when he heard the high pitched scream of an approaching police siren. Adrenaline filled him like an unhealthy dosage of an invigorating drug and he broke into a sprint.

The thought that the approaching police vehicle was merely passing by, on its way to the scene of an entirely different crime did occur to him, but he knew he could not afford to take any chances; especially when the perfect place to hide out lay right under his nose- The Swan and Attic Pub.

The kind of filthy rock music evocative of motorcycles and grime blared shamelessly throughout the common room of the Swan and Attic; and most of its clientele appeared to have a penchant for both, from what little of them could be discerned in the low-lit room. Veils of smoke and pungent smells (possibly that of perspiration and decay) hung over the room like toxic clouds, but Johnny breathed them in like a man tasting free air for the first time.

“Hey, Johnny!” called the portly bartender, his voice raised enough to cut through the din of the raucous juke-box.

Johnny strode across the filthy wood floor to the bar and shook the man’s hand tightly. “Rob! How ya doin?” he said, “can I interested you in a top-of-the-line plasma screen TV?”

The barman released a guttural laugh, “still flogging knock-off gear I see?”

Johnny slouched against the bar’s grimy surface, “whaddya mean, knock-off?” he said wryly. “You’ll be giving me a bad rep, jumping to conclusions like that.”

Rob laughed again, the sound of rolling thunder. “Hiding out again are we? Waiting until the heat is off…”

“Dunno what you mean,” Johnny replied self-assuredly.

“Sure yer don’t buddy,” Rob shook his head and smirked. “You want the usual?”

Johnny nodded; a pint of bitter from one of the Swan’s pumps tasted as though a rat had been swimming around in the barrel, but he still felt his mouth water as he watched it trickle into the glass. The thief’s gaze, however, was suddenly drawn to a far more aesthetic sight.

Katrina sat alone at a circular table, a lit cigarette nestled between her fingers. In that smooth, tight-fitting white dress, which accentuated her hour-glass figure; the woman was like a dove amongst bedraggled pigeons. Her features looked as though they had been chiselled from a slab of ice, by the most proficient of all sculptors, and her midnight-black hair appeared akin to fine silk.

Johnny had always wondered what business a Goddess such as Katrina might have amongst the wretched mortals of this establishment. One thing he was certain of though: he would give up every one of his ill-gotten gains for just one night with her. Evening after evening, he would make advances on her; and night after night, she would turn him down, threatening to rearrange his face more often than not.

“So Johnny, you hear about that business with the Hagan gang…?” said Rob as he placed the now-settled pint of bitter down on the bar.

The question, however, did not register with the thief; his senses were now ensnared by the resplendent sight across the room. He took his pint, “excuse me, Rob…” he said absent-mindedly with his gaze fixed firmly on Katrina.

She’s alone, what a golden opportunity! He thought as he swaggered across the room toward his goal.

“Hey, Katrina,” he said with a smile, wink and nod. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Yes, Johnny, I do!” she said derisively, refusing to even glance in his direction. “I happen to be waiting for someone…”

He pulled up a chair regardless, “that’s what you tell me every night, but nobody ever shows up…” he tried to sound as smug as he could, despite the fact he knew he was fighting a losing battle to keep his dignity.

“And nobody is better company than the likes of you…you’re bad news, Johnny,” she sneered.

The thief leaned in closer, “and isn’t that what makes me so appealing?” he looked and sounded curt; but a degree of his smugness dissipated when the woman recoiled, and shot him a look which belonged on a cornered tiger.

“Contrary to what you might think, Mr Smug Git; I am not the kind of prepubescent fool who goes weak at the knees whenever a petty criminal like you looks in my direction!” Now her eyes were locked onto his, and they flickered with contempt. “…And I hope there’s nothing valuable wrapped up in that bin-liner you left over by the bar; because it looks like it belongs to those guys now-” a mocking smile passed across her features for a second, but they hardened just as quickly.

Johnny bared his teeth and cursed before flying across the room to chase off the opportunist vultures. “Get the hell away from that-” he barked at the two men, giving the nearest of them a violent shove. The would-be-thieves grumbled hollow threats as they retreated back to the dark depths of the common room.

After surmounting the nearest barstool, he began to check his reclaimed trophy for damages. He peered in into the tear the vultures had made in the bin liner, but his scrutiny abruptly ceased when a cold, resonant voice addressed him.

“Greetings, thief” said the voice, which belonged to figure entirely enveloped in shadow. The sound cut through everything else like a knife, and struck Johnny like a blow from a baseball bat.

An alarm rang inside his head, he’s gotta be police! The thief’s hand instinctively shot for the switchblade, concealed within his leather jacket; but the next sound to emerge from the shadows turned him to stone.

The slow, menacing laugh could not possibly have belonged to a human. “Are you going to cut me, thief?” the voice mocked. The sudden strike of a matchstick illuminated the man’s face for a split second; but that was all that was needed to chill Johnny to the core.

Whereas Katrina, in all of her resplendence, had looked a dove amongst pigeons; this man looked a frightening and majestic bird of prey. His features were sharp enough to shatter mirrors at a glance, and those deep-set eyes seemed to penetrate Johnny’s very soul. His meticulously styled hair was jet-black; the same colour as the pristine suite in which he was garbed.

Johnny felt pole-axed for a split second, but as his wits returned, so did his façade of bravado. “And who the hell are you…?” he snapped, feeling himself turn as rigid as a fence-post.

The arcane man blew out wisps of smoke, before finally stepping into the light; those frightening features were now on full display. “Silence…” the word was somewhere between a hiss and a whisper, but it was somehow amplified ten-fold within Johnny’s head. “Tonight, you shall listen; listen and ask no questions-“

He suddenly felt a deep chill, as though somebody were standing atop of his grave. Something about the deep, dark pools that were the man’s eyes rooted him to the spot, and drained his head of logic. He met the man’s stare, and suddenly felt naked. Johnny knew that somehow, he was an open book to this stranger, one he had read a thousand times. That thought would have evoked stark terror, did he not feel half connected to the scene, like some distant observer or a lucid dreamer.

The sound of the jukebox was gone, as was the ubiquitous chatter from the bar’s inhabitants; all that existed was that cold voice. “Your work pleases me, Johnny Grant,” it said, “and for your dedication to it, you shall be…rewarded.”

What are you, some kind of nut? A distant part of Johnny screamed, but it did not register on a conscious level.

The voice continued, “You desire that woman over there, do you not?” Johnny did not voluntarily turn his head, but all of a sudden his field of vision changed, revealing that of the beautiful Katrina. “Well she shall be yours tonight…hold out your hand-”

Johnny watched himself acquiesce from afar. The man placed two small, white enamel cubes onto his palm, and gave him a malevolent smile. “Such an apt gift for a gambling man like yourself, Johnny Grant,” hissed the man.

“May my dice bring you…good fortune, and aid you in your work,” was the last thing Johnny heard the voice utter, before full consciousness landed on top of him like a falling piano. He fell backwards off his barstool, and onto the damp wooden floor.

The voice and the mysterious stranger it belonged to were gone. The grimy interior of the Swan and Attic slowly materialised around him, and loud music, and the sound of raucous laughter assaulted his ears.

“How many have you had, Johnny-boy?” bellowed Rob the barman, as he pulled him from the floor.

His senses reeled, what in the heck was that? Another acid flashback! he though as he gripped the bar’s surface to right himself. “Jesus…Rob, who was that?” he slurred.

Rob laughed again and thumped him on the back, “no more for you tonight, buddy. Had me worried for a second there; thought you was having some kind of narcoleptic episode or something!” After taking a moment to make certain Johnny had fully returned to planet Earth, Rob resumed his work.

Johnny was confounded; a feeling of alarm began to rise within him…and it hit critical mass when he opened up his right hand and found two blank, enamel dice sitting atop of his palm.

Staring at the objects dumbfounded, he lost control of his breathing and felt his heart-beat veer into overdrive. It was not often that fear found Johnny Grant, but now, it appeared to be making up for lost time.

Unable to comprehend anything of the last ten minutes, he decided that denial was the best course of action. He hurled the dice across the room, as though they were an unplugged grenade, about to go off at any second. After the objects had been disposed of, his breathing gradually began to stabilise, but the disquieting thoughts in his head did not.

One thing Johnny did not know at this moment, was that the dice he had just hurled into a dark corner of the common room, were no longer blank. Upon landing, images had begun to materialise on their faces- one showed that of a woman, whilst the other depicted a heart.

“Jesus, Johnny, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Maybe you should call it a night?” said Rob, who was now vigorously wiping away at the surface of the bar.

“I think…maybe somebody put something in my drink,” he groaned. Yes, that would make sense, said a voice inside his head; then how do you explain those dice? Another answered defiantly.

“Here, drink this,” said the barman, placing a pint glass of iced water before him.

He took up the cold pint glass ready to take a deep swig, but stopped dead when he saw Katrina marching towards him, wear a look of stark madness.

Her eyes burned like fires, but not the cold flames of before; these fires gave off palpable heat. She stopped before him, but did not say a word. Setting down his glass, Johnny said, “I knew you’d come crawling ba…” But before he could complete the remark, Katrina gripped him by the front of his jacket and pulled him towards her.

To his utter astonishment, she kissed him deeply and feverously enough to make his heart race again. She pressed herself hard against him, and the kiss continued unabated.

As they remained locked in their embrace, he heard Robb’s inane laugh once more, followed by a sharp smash as the pair fell back against the bar, knocking his glass to the floor.

They broke apart, and Johnny gasped for breath. A cacophony of questions rang out in his mind as he met Katrina’s fiery stare; but when he opened his mouth to voice them, only an unintelligible stammer came out.

She placed a raised index finger against his lips to silence him. “Just one night Johnny…just one night…that’s all I’ll give you…” she sounded almost hysterical, as though sheer passion was driving her against her will.

The thought that the woman had been experimenting with various, conflicting substances tonight occurred to Johnny; but only a madman would turn down this opportunity. He heard Rob roar with laughter yet again, as the woman took Johnny by the hand, and proceeded to drag him towards the exit. A grin spread out across his features, and he struggled to suppress a mirthful laugh. “Later, Rob,” he called back, “stick that plasma screen in the back, I’ll be in to collect it tomorrow.” The barman responded with a wink and a black-toothed grin.

A moment before the pair left the dreary establishment, something upon the grimy floorboards caught Johnny’s eye. His stomach somersaulted…the dice! Nothing about this evening had made any sense, but now he realised that the answers he sought lay in those enamel cubes. He scooped them up, and zipped them safely away in the pocket of his leather. “Let’s go!” gasped Katrina, pulling him so hard that he practically stumbled over the threshold.

The late autumn wind whipped through the city; a whispered warning of the harsh winter yet to come. The elements, however, always played second fiddle to the sound of roaring traffic in the business district; even during the small hours.

The thick double-glazed windows of Johnny Grant’s second-floor apartment reduced the sound of the road outside, from a raging river to a babbling brook. The building, much like the thief himself, appeared rustic on the outside; a faded negative of what was once a majestic image. Its interior, however, would have rivalled that of any five-star hotel, were it not for the myriad of large cardboard boxes, which lay scattered about each room like graves in a churchyard.

Shadows shifted across the bedroom, where Johnny hovered somewhere between consciousness and slumber. Nameless fears taunted him; fleeting images of tumbling dice, of temptation and damnation, and of death and glory; but he would remember nothing of them afterwards.

A sudden sound, akin to that of a shotgun blast, made his eyes snap open and the rest of him bolt upright. The sound echoed in his mind several times over, and after the final replay, he realised that it was not made by a firearm, but his front door slamming shut…Katrina was gone.

The faint smell of perfume, which hung about the room like so many fading ghosts, provided him with an eerie reminder that this was not just some bizarre dream. It had certainly seemed like one of his wildest, especially the hours of tempestuous sex that had left him scratched, bruised; and even now, thoroughly exhausted.

What happened last night? Who was that freak with those terrifying eyes, and why did his dice draw Katrina like a moth to a burning candle? He clamped his head between his hands as though it were about to explode.

In his weary state, his body pleaded with him to bury his head back into the pillow; but his mind demanded the answers it was denied the previous night.

Rubbing grains of sleep from his bleary eyes, Johnny slid out of the sweat-soaked sheets and into a white vest and worn jeans. His eyes fell upon his leather jacket, hanging from a coat hook on the door. For a moment, he stood statue-still, all his thought bent upon what resided in the pocket of that jacket; he felt the dice calling to him, beckoning him…but he was afraid to go to them.

Taking tentative steps, the kind he took whilst partaking in a burglary, he made his way through the maze of cardboard boxes. With a tremulous hand, he reached into his coat. He felt as though he were reaching into a hornets nest, expecting to be stung at any moment.

He withdrew his hand suddenly, and stared down at the blank clubs on his palm. A feeling of disappointment began to slowly rise in him. He felt nothing as he held the dice, no surge of power, no elation…the items looked woefully banal.

He stared at himself in the mirror. “Am I losing my ****ing mind?” he said aloud, feeling an urge to strike at his reflection. Instead, he sank back down onto the bed, and scoured his mind for a logical explanation…but his search was cut short but a loud pounding sound coming from the hallway. It was followed by a voice, and what it said filled Johnny with stark terror.

“Police! Open up…we have a search warrant.”

Shit!

Johnny’s wits abandoned him; he bolted one way and then the next like a victim of spontaneous combustion. Finally, his legs failed him and he slumped into a heap on the floor. He was a cornered fox, and the hounds were closing in. His apartment was filled wall to wall with stolen goods; it was a goldmine of incriminating evidence, enough put him behind bars for life.

That crazy whore tipped them off no doubt; that he was sure of. The place had been a sanctuary to him for many years until now.

“This is your last warning, Mr Grant,” the words were bellowed so loudly that every syllable was audible, even with two walls in front of their speaker. “Open the door or we will break it down!”

He had his back against the wall, a religious man may well have prayed at this moment; Johnny did not…he rolled the dice.

Almost an hour had elapsed since that pounding on the front door had frozen his blood; but now Johnny felt triumphant, and wore his arrogance like a second skin.

How he had exploded with laughter inside, when the young constable uttered those words to his red-faced sergeant: “We’ve torn the place apart, sir…there’s nothing here.”

The sergeant’s sudden change in countenance was equally priceless. His features instantly moulded into a mask of incredulous contempt; the very same he wore now, as he stared the thief down.

Johnny wanted to scream his gloats into the man’s face. He wanted to lurch forward and cackle at the sergeant, like some insane jack-in-a-box; but decided a wry grin was more dignified.

The small army of uniformed constables began to depart. One by one they moved along the outside corridor and disappeared down the stairwell; shaking their heads in defeat, and muttering inaudible remarks. The stocky sergeant was the last to depart. “You’ll slip up sooner of later, Grant,” he growled. “And when you do, I’m going to make you wish we still administered the death penalty!”

“Get off my property,” Johnny said flatly, flashing a mocking smile.

Swallowing the bitter pill of defeat, the sergeant stormed off out of sight, intentionally shoulder-barging the thief along the way.

Johnny bolted the front door, and freed the laughter that had been thrashing about inside him like a caged animal. The cackle would not have sounded out of place in an insane asylum. He threw his fists in the air in triumph; at that moment, he felt like an immortal.

He had felt impending doom’s icy breath on the back of his neck when the police announced their presence; but somehow, the dice had saved him. His eyes had widened in disbelief when the blank cubes landed and began to sprout images. Back then, the significance of those images had eluded him, but they were clear now.

Like twin mirrors, the dice landed symmetrically- both bearing images of a police officer. The detail was vivid and intricate, from the lines on his face, to the badge in the centre of his helmet; but something was missing…the man depicted had no eyes.

Just as it had with Katrina the previous evening, the impossible had occurred. It was as though the police officers were blind to what was right before them; their perception of reality something entirely different to what really was. One of the constables had even stumbled over a box full of laptop computers that Johnny had recently lifted from a warehouse, yet still he did not see it.

Even now, the thief grinned wolfishly. The uncanny dice he possessed still confounded him, but they no longer filled him with fear. Somehow, they seemed to twist fate in his favour. How, he could not comprehend; but as far as he was concerned, he did not need to. With them he was omnipotent, and that was all he need understand.

He dove into his jacket pocket with alacrity and made a fist around the dice. Endless possibilities entered his mind, each more sordid than the last. As he squeezed them into his palm, his thoughts suddenly shifted to the stranger who had bestowed him with them. His words echoed inside Johnny’s head: “May my dice bring you…good fortune, and aid you in your work.” The menace that these words had held back at the bar was now nothing but a memory. Their echo filled him not with fear, but zeal.

He stared down at the dice in his hand, and felt a smile form that almost touched his ears.

Several weeks later, as winter descended on the city, with it came a crime-wave unlike any on record. Banks, stores and houses alike were hit on a nightly basis; each incidence more baffling than the last.

The local press and authorities knew only one thing for certain- these crimes were all committed by the same person; for he left a calling-card. One side of the card bore an image of two dice and upon the flipside the words: ‘The Diceman’ were emblazoned in gold lettering.

Other than his card, the Diceman left no evidence of his existence behind. It was as though the burglaries and robberies were committed by the wind; but what baffled the police most, was the inability of counter clerks and eyewitnesses to remember a single detail about the incidents in the aftermath.

Despite having consumed enough alcohol to fill a small reservoir, The Diceman felt elated and empowered as he staggered out into the streets. Gracelessly leaving the Swan and Attic behind, he missed the kerb and stumbled out into the road.

He heard laughter sound from over his shoulder. “I hope you’re not going to pass out on us before we make it back to your place, Johnny,” said Tammy, one of two cheap women his dice had ensnared this evening.

Johnny righted himself and grinned widely. “Don’t worry bout me…” he slurred merrily. “You’ll both get what yer deserve-”

The wail of an approaching car-horn, followed by the words, “Get outta the road yer drunken bastard,” startled Johnny, who clattered backwards onto the pavement. Loose change spilled from his pockets and clinked to the ground. The girls laughed again.

Lorna, who had the look of a generic blonde porn-star, gripped him by the arm, a look of mocking concern upon her face. “Think it’s time we called a cab; look at you; you can hardly stand!” she said amidst a fit of giggles.

“Ladies! I’ll be fine…let’s walk,” he stammered, proffering both arms for his trophies to link.

We must look quite a trio, he thought with a smirk, as the three moved clumsily along the street. Clothed in very little, despite the freezing weather, Tammy and Lorna could be quite easily mistaken for prostitutes; whereas Johnny, garbed in a brand-new pinstriped suite and stark white shoes, might have passed for a pimp, where it not for his clumsy, drunken gait.

I could really get used to this! Johnny thought, firing lascivious looks at the women. It had been a productive week for the thief, and tonight’s uninhibited indulgence would surely top things off. He had lost count of the number of places he had hit since winter set in. With the aid of the dice, there was no need for caution or premeditation; just one roll, and everything would fall neatly into place.

Wednesday had certainly proved lucrative- Johnny had paid a leisurely visit to a casino on the outskirts of the city centre. The dice had yielded two pound signs beforehand, and it didn’t take him long to realise what those symbols heralded.

Johnny felt an overpowering desire to touch those enamel cubes. His hand slowly reached for his pocket…but he resisted. Recently, something had occurred to him- he had become obsessed.

Night after night, those dice would tumble in his head, and roll on his mind. He had found precious little sleep of late; and the rest he did find was blighted with nightmares. They called to him by day- a sweet, alluring voice inside his head; pleading for his touch, and whispering promises in his ear. But they were silent now.

“Johnny? You listening to me…?” The sharp tone of Tammy’s question pulled him from his reverie. “It’s starting to rain. We’re not walking any further in this; call a cab will you!” her words were punctuated by rumbling thunder overhead.

“Yeah, yeah; we’ll flank one on the main road up ahead,” he replied dismissively. He could feel the fine rain upon his skin now, like a thousand tiny pin-pricks. “Come on ladies; pick up the pace,” he called back over his shoulder, where Tammy and Lorna stood huddled and stationary. Bloody women! This better be worth it, he thought as they scuttled though the rain, towards the sound of flowing traffic.

Not far behind the Diceman, young Sam Presswell bounded through the backstreets against the rain, kicking up water in his wake. Such haste was necessary, as he was late for his nightshift, but he skidded to a halt when he saw the mess of coins lying in the gutter.

He stooped down to retrieve the treasure. Down in the gutter, where the rain had made tiny rivers, lost change was not all the boy found that night- lying amongst the coins was a set of keys…and two pearly white cubes.

An undeterminable amount of time passed, but Johnny and his scantily-clad companions search for a taxi-cab remained fruitless. With the effects of alcohol in decline, and the effects of torrential rain on the rise; he was beginning to feel extremely disgruntled.

“Pipe down, you pair! I’m gonna phone for a private hire,” barked the Diceman. “Just let me make a…little withdrawal first,” his eyes took in the only illuminated building on the roadside- a twenty-four hour off-licence.

“But, Johnny, we’ll freeze-” said Tammy petulantly.

He was beginning to regret picking up these women. “Listen…just wait here, I’ll be ten seconds,” he said through gritted teeth. A fog of nausea and fatigue was beginning to cloud his senses; the early signs of an upcoming hangover doing nothing to improve his mood.

A bell above the door rang as he entered the off-licence. Johnny shielded his eyes; after the darkness outside, being exposed to so much artificial light all at once felt like staring directly into the sun.

After he had become accustomed to the brightness, he surreptitiously studied his surroundings. The interior of the off-licence was small and shabby. An array of cans and bottles covered the walls and a layer of thick glass divided the room into two sections. A young counter clerk sat behind the glass, perusing a magazine, seemingly unaware of the Diceman’s presence.

Johnny had to stop himself from smiling when his gaze passed over the clerk. He appeared no older that twenty, with a milky complexion and gangling frame. No doubt the kind who would soil themselves when confronted at gunpoint- easy money, thought Johnny, even if I didn’t have my dice.

His hand gingerly slid into his jacket, where his gun was concealed. He took slow steps towards the counter; a wolf on the prowl. “Ten Lambert and Butler, please,” he said flatly.

The young clerk looked up from his magazine and seemed to take a moment to ponder the request before finally reaching for the cigarettes behind him. “Anything else?” he said dully.

“Yeah, all of the money in the till,” replied Johnny coolly. He brandished the gun and pointed it towards the clerk. Very few gears turned inside Johnny’s head. Recent weeks had seen him fall into a routine- he would make his request, he would draw his weapon…then he would roll the dice and everything would fall into place.

The clerk’s eyes took on the width of saucers and his mouth fell open, but he did not oblige Johnny. Terror had rendered him an ice sculpture- but once those dice were in motion, everything would take care of itself.

Johnny’s free hand dipped into his pocket…only to find it empty. Gone was his money, his keys, his dice…and therefore his life.

Terror swept through him like fire in dry grass. The dice, They’re gone! Johnny began to hyperventilate and tremble all over; but how? He was lost in a sea of panic; though now completely sober, he could not bring himself to think straight. The gun shook in his tremulous grasp. For so long he had ridden his luck, and now it had forsaken him.

The young counter clerk could plainly see how unnerved he was, which did not help Johnny’s state of mind. He wanted to yell at the boy, tell him to empty the till else swallow a bullet; but his tongue felt like it had turned to dust. The boy looked poised, watching Johnny intently, as though waiting for the right moment to try…something. He felt his trigger finger twitch.

The boy’s hand suddenly darted; he’s triggered an alarm! The thought caused Johnny to lose his already tenuous grip on sanity. He panicked. The gun that had never been fired went off…bang.

Several hours later, Sam Presswell sat upright on a hospital examination table. His legs swung idly as he gave his statement to the stony-faced Sergeant, who wore a stern and pensive expression as he recorded the details on a notepad.

Sam sat statue-still and listened intently as the Sergeant repeated told him how lucky he was to be alive. The effects of shock rendered him numb, but he absorbed every word. The Sergeant told him how the gun that was used in the attempted robbery was ill-maintained and had shattered the second the man had pulled the trigger. This he had known all along- a vivid image of the robber, twitching and writhing on the floor with a shard of the weapon embedded in his head, played over in his mind, where it would be engraved forever.

The Sergeant went on to explain that the man he had encountered was a notorious criminal named Johnny Edward Grant. A man whom recent evidence had revealed to be the one behind the well publicised ‘Diceman’ crimes.

Sam did not stir throughout the exchange; later, such revelations would leave him a shattered wreck, but for now, he had shock to thank for his stone-like demeanour.

“Thank you for your time, Samuel,” said the Sergeant “If you should remember anything else which may aid us in our enquiry, please get in touch.” He left the room.

Sam waited a moment before reaching into his shirt pocket for the dice. He laid them flat on his palm and studied them blankly for a time. These items had saved his life back at the off-licence- had he not rolled them before that weapon had fired, it would be him in the morgue right now, not Johnny Grant. He began to tremble uncontrollably.

He did not hear the other man enter the room, but the sound his serpentine voice almost stopped his heart:

“Samuel Presswell; I believe you have something which belongs to me…”

THE END

Thought I'd dig this story up as I checked it today to see if anyone had left me feedback and there was none. As far as my work goes, it is not really one of my better efforts but I would still like to get a bit of feedback.