5. Sep, 2020

'Dilemma'

There were two ways of looking at it.  Either, ‘there’s nothing I can do about it,’ or ‘I ought to do something about it’.  It was an age old dilemma in any context.  To turn to the conventional analogy, in a German occupied country during the Second World War, should you have joined any of the local resistance movements? Would you have done that if you could have done?  Or would you have thought, well, there’s nothing I can do about it, better keep my head down?  

This was only in a small, independent off licence, however, although at present it felt like occupied territory.  Oblivious to the tension in the atmosphere, a red faced gobshite who had just pushed in at the door strutted through, swagger shouldered, half cut and reacting, mistakenly, to everybody turning to look at him, by bursting into a garbled phrase or two of loud, in your face song and pushing his way to the front.  He was welcome to it, but clearly thought he had snatched a victory from the jaws of everybody else’s defeat, since he had left us all standing.

“Twenny Benson, mate!” he guffaw-shouted at the shopkeeper, who didn’t move, apart from swivelling his eyes to the side, as this new arrival continued to bellow out the title phrase of ‘you are the wind beneath my wings’, following this up by sticking his arse out and farting loudly.  Taking the continued silence for successful intimidation, or possibly admiration of sorts, and annoyed by the delay in being served he added, predictably, "You deaf, mate?”

“The question is, are you blind?” said one of those in the middle of the robbery, or whatever this was, holding a knife point beneath our songster’s double chins and shocking him, because he was not that far gone, into silence.  “Lock the door this time,” the knifeman called to one of the two at the back of the shop, both holding knives too.  “And the other question still is...where is it?”

The shopkeeper, who had a young, dark face with very smooth skin but shiningly silver hair and a long silver beard, which gave him an incongruously Merlin like glamour, shrugged his slim shoulders and said,

“You’re early.”

“Oh, no.  We’re bang on time.  Your payment, now, that’s late.”

There had been a few of us already waiting in the shop, having made our late evening booze and snacks choices.

“I’m not paying you,” said the shopkeeper calmly.  

At the back of the shop, one of the stands of goods was immediately pushed over to the floor, smashing bottles for effect.

“Oh, dear.  You seem to have suffered a loss,” said their spokesperson at the front, still holding the knife tip casually at the drunk’s throat.  

“Here, let us go.  This hasn’t got anything to do with us!” somebody behind me said.

I was pleased to realise it wasn’t me who had said it, although the jury was still out on what my own actions might be in a crisis.

“See?  You’re being very inconsiderate to your customers,” said the knifeman. 

He strolled behind the counter and passed a pack of twenty Benson and Hedges to the drunk, transferring the knife to the shopkeeper’s neck instead.  The drunk took the cigarettes, eyeing him warily.

“Thanks,” he muttered, all truculence gone.

“It doesn’t take a lot to put manners on some people, does it?” said Knifeman, looking back at him unpleasantly.  “Now, fuck off.”

“Eh?” said the drunk stupidly.

“I said, fuck off.  All of you.  Go on.”  People started to turn round and make to go to the door but it remained locked and barred by the other two and their big knives.  “There’s something in their way, my friend.  I think they call it a blockage.  You know how to unblock a situation, don’t you?”

Looking defeatedly angry, the shopkeeper said,

“I’ll get it.  Just wait.”

“Oh, don’t worry.  I’ll come along with you,” said Knifeman.  “Two’s company and this is a crowd.”  

He gave a rattling, tar filled laugh at his own feeble joke and followed the shopkeeper into the back of the place, which probably led into the living quarters above.

I had never been into this shop before.  I wouldn’t have done then, if I hadn’t belatedly realised that I’d left the bottle of wine I was bringing to my supper date with friends at home and stopped off for a replacement en route.  The shop was part of a little parade but was the only one open now, the others being daytime outlets and its lights had looked inviting as I drove along.  

“Excuse me,” I found myself saying, with redundant civility, to one of the scruffs on the door, fattish heavies who looked as if they relied on fast food intake by way of protein shakes for body mass, whereas Knifeman had the pared down face bones of the druggie-rough tough.  

“What do you want, love?  Run out of Tenna Lady?”

Good God, I thought, had I visibly got to that age, or were they just being rude?  Who knew?

“I really think you should let us out.  I passed a police car waiting round the corner when I came in,” I told them.

The two laughed.

“Speed trap.  Besides, they’re on our watch.  They’ll see us safe home, like.”

I had heard of police corruption, who hadn’t?  But to be babysitting the protection racketeers, for that’s what this seemed to be?  There had been a car and I was hoping they might have noticed that nobody had been coming out for a while, although people had been coming in.  The off licence windows and doors were covered in bright product advertising, so there wouldn’t be anything to alert the casual observer otherwise.  I let it drop but at least I had said something with a bit more spirit in it than the first person.

Knifeman and the shopkeeper came out of the back again but it seemed they hadn’t quite concluded business satisfactorily.

“You good people need to finish your shopping,” said Knifeman.  “Till’s a bit short.  Cash only, if you’ve got it.  If not, there’s a neat little cash machine just along by.  My buddies will escort you to it with your cards.  Not safe getting cash out alone after dark.  You hear such stories!”

His breath whistled and his voice was coarsened by years of smoking all sorts, the smell of skunk emanating from his sallow skin. There was a menacing, if jaundiced, light in his eyes, a look of sly disdain for the ordinary fools before him.  Under pressure from that look and prompting from a door goon, who came up to urge people to the counter in a mockery of customer service, people began to take their baskets up.  

Knifeman enjoyed taking what money people had out of their wallets, of course, regardless of what amount they had, although he did allow them to keep their intended purchases and the other door goon started a line up of those who would be paying a visit to the cash machine.  Finally, it was my turn.

“I’ve only got this,” I said, of the bottle of Chardonnay I was holding.

“Looks an expensive vintage, that one,” observed the knifeman.  “I hope you can afford it.  Otherwise you’ll have to draw on your reserves.”  He laughed, enjoying this one hugely.  “Wine.  Reserve,” he pointed out, in case I had missed it.

I exchanged a look with the shopkeeper, who was standing quietly by, since there wasn’t anything else he could do.  I could see that he was finding it hard to keep his self control.

“I’ve got cash,” I said.

“Wait,” said Knifeman.  “Now, you others, we’re going to have a nice little walking bus to the cash machine, with my two friends at the front and the back of you.   I’m not greedy, so those who’ve paid up can scoot but I would advise counting to at least ten before you do anything like calling 999.  My friends there are armed, as you may have noticed, and so am I.  I’m staying put with this nice lady and Mr Walmart, here, behind the counter.  Till they come back.  You get me?”

Everyone, in particular the drunk, who had been pretty flush with cash when he arrived, got it.  The surreal little business got underway, some slipping off when the door was opened, others marshalled along to the cash point.  Knifeman had one hand with the knife in it waving about near the silver haired face, while the other he planted on the counter and said,

“Give.”

The bottle I was holding was large, one and a half hefty litres of Australian plonk.  I lifted it up and crashed it as hard as I could on the hand on the counter, while the shopkeeper sprinted with agility behind Knifeman and knocked the weapon up as the thief howled and let go of it.  Some small bones had crunched brokenly in the back of his hand.  I smacked him across the temple with the base of the bottle next and he went down.  The bottle was made of stern stuff but at this point I dropped it and it smashed on the floor, giving up a fruity, yeast and vinegar odour.   It would not, I thought, have been nice to drink.  The shopkeeper and I looked at one another briefly and he gave the ghost of a smile.  I smiled back.  It seemed that I would have joined the resistance after all.

“Now, we run,” he said and we both did, to my car and to call the police on my mobile.

They were indeed, as it turned out, only round the corner, as I had seen earlier and responded very quickly to the alarm.  The shopkeeper and I watched from a distance and I wondered if they could see his silver hair and beard through the dark windscreen, they were so bright, even without the interior light on.

“They’ll have to do something,” he said, “even if they are in his pockets.”

“Do you think they are?”

“Probably,” he said sadly.  “It’s that kind of place.  But thank you.”

“Will you be able to go back safely?”

“Oh, yes,” he said.  “I didn’t do anything, did I?  Just some mad old bint who’d come in for a bottle of wine went rogue.”

“Mad old bint!” I exclaimed, laughing.

“Well, you bloody are, aren’t you?  He could have killed you!” said the magical looking shopkeeper and we both laughed with a kind of hysterical relief.

After a while, he got out of the car and made to go back, since the police were there to ensure safe conduct, which he seemed to feel they would do and I went on to my friends’ house, without any wine but with an excellent and, I felt, heroic tale to tell them over supper and drinks.