Old Porters

OLD PORTERS

By

Oliver EJ Cousins

One

Roger Watson had never felt so alive, which was ironic because someone was trying to kill him. The iron spike and ash wood handle of a pickaxe flew towards his face, and he ducked just low enough for the tool to swing above his head.

Doing his best not to shriek, the teenager threw himself behind the little desk in the middle of the dark room.

"Back off," the teenager said not all that firmly to the men dressed in a black with tights on their heads. The man with the pickaxe was ready for another swing.

Roger told himself it was not okay to start freaking out. He was just going to have to hit this dude in the face. Last time had not been too bad. Of course it was just one on one then. Now Roger was outnumbered. With his breathing getting more rapid Roger prayed he was not about to have a panic attack. He had only ever had one, about two years ago on a beach at the sight of Kate Howe in a bikini. Or rather at the sight of Kate in a bikini on Ryan Drakeford's lap. He had not known they were dating until then. It had come as a shock. The first steps of a broken heart that had left him miserable for about nine months. The teenager shook his head. Now was not the time to take a trip down memory lane.

A gap of several meters separated Roger, standing by the shattered front door of the bank, from the four thieves who stood by the counter. Even though the five were primarily dressed in black, everything in the room looked toxic green thanks to the glow sticks the thieves had been using to light their way before Roger interrupted approximately fifty seconds ago. He was the kind of guy who could not ignore a door that looked like it had been kicked in. He was especially the kind of guy who could not ignore a door to a bank that looked like it had been kicked in at half past one in the morning. And because he was that kind of guy, for the last few weeks, he had been running around in a home made costume - these days, Roger was a super hero.

Statham, the leader of the thieves, snorted, and then nodded towards the young man behind the little desk. His three minions all started to advance on the interloper, whilst the leader headed back to the safe, the very reason that the men had been called to this bank after hours in the first place.

The tallest of the men wearing tights over their heads threw himself at the small desk in the middle of the room, throwing tiny pens and paying in slips across the grey carpeted floor. He swore a blue streak as he scrambled over the desk. Roger gulped and jumped back. His trainers crunched the cubed glass that littered the grubby carpet. As the thief finally passed the little desk he growled with his arms outstretched in the teenager's direction.

Two words ran through Roger's mind. Hit him. So he did. Knuckles connected with jawbone, and all of a sudden the thief flew through the air, then slammed into the bandit screen above the wood effect bank counter. A cracked imprint, like a ghetto snow angel, remained in the glass, even after the tall man slumped to the floor.

"Damn," Statham muttered, looking at the broken glass from behind the counter. Nothing was ever simple these days. You would think that smashing into a bank and blowing the safe open was easier than hacking accounts. But no, someone had to come along and make things complicated. For the first time it occurred to Statham that this intruder might pose a serious threat to the plan, to the mission. The leader of the thieves clutched the brown leather bag slung over his right shoulder. Maybe he had another use for this tool.

"Everybody chill," Roger said with his hands up, palms facing out. He was not sure if his heart was beating so hard because he was terrified or because he was enjoying this. "I think somebody should check if he is okay."

None of the thieves attempted to check if their limp companion was okay. In fact, the two remaining minions rushed towards the teenager. Because the guy with the pickaxe was busy kicking the remains of the desk out of his way, Roger decided he should turn his attention to the other guy with tights on his head. When he was within grasping range the vigilante kicked the thief in the chest, sending him flying through the already cracked bandit screen.

Statham shielded the bag strapped around him with his body as glass cubes exploded behind the bank counter. He barely even noticed his minion bouncing off the wall above the safe. As far as the leader was concerned, the plan was out the window, there was no way they were getting the cash. All that could be done now was damage limitation. Statham knew he had to protect the boss. If the team were captured at least one would talk to the police. That could not be allowed to happen.

Fist clenched, Roger saw that the guy with the pickaxe was preparing to take another swing. His arms were behind him, leading with his side, ribs un protected. It was probably the perfect time to punch the guy, but the teenager held back. Hitting people was not something that came naturally to him, and he was still forcing himself to think tough.

The thief did not swing the pickaxe, he threw it, maybe out of frustration, or maybe because he slipped on the tiny pens littering the floor. Whatever the reason, the pick left his hands, and he tripped, hitting his head on the carpet as the tool sailed past the teenager.

The pickaxe shattered the middle section of the three floor to ceiling length panes of glass that made up the bank's window onto the high street. The sound of breaking glass rang in Roger's ears and a sharp wind howled through the new hole in the side of the building. The cold reminded Roger that the summer had come and gone.

Turning back towards the counter the teenager thought he was going to come face to face with the final standing thief. Instead he saw that the man with tan tights over his face was still behind the counter, holding a bag that seemed to have a single strap and something heavy inside it - although the teenager could not be one hundred percent sure what he was seeing. Frankly the glow sticks were fading and they were not ideally placed so the room was mostly a dark green blur.

"You think you can arrest me?" Statham said. "You got any idea who I work for?"

Roger's mouth hung open, not that the thief could see it because of the black mask over the teenager's face. "Obviously I'm not the police. Look at me."

Statham did just as was suggested. He looked. The tight black and red costume, the mask with blue goggles covering the kid's eyes, the backpack, and the trainers. It seemed that this guy made his costume entirely from things brought from a sportswear section. It looked highly un-official.

"I don't care who you are," the thief said. "You and I don't mean a thing. We're grains of sand on a beach about to be flooded."

"I don't understand what you're talking about," Roger said slowly. His voice sounded soft, mumbled, even to his ears. How the thief even heard him, the teenager had no idea.

"I may have failed, but the All Father has other disciples. More than you will ever know, and we are all willing to give our lives for the cause."

"I thought you were a bank robber," Roger said.

"I know who I am, I'm a fund raiser. Who are you?" Statham said as he pulled open the brown leather bag.

The teenager shrugged. He was just him. He was that guy in the corner. An out of sight and out of mind guy that people knew of, but did not know.

In the fading light, Roger saw wires and an ignition key inside the bag. He did not have time to ask what that thing was, because the man in the tights turned the key. A bang louder than Roger had ever heard, accompanied by a flash brighter than the sun rocked the room. Shielding his face with his hands Roger almost did not see the wall of flames ballooning out from the spot Statham had occupied.

Instinct working faster than his brain, telling him that there was no way to stop an exploding man, the teenager turned and ran before he even understood that he was running from. He sprinted for what felt like miles before stumbling out of the missing window pane, into the cold, empty darkness of the street.

Hands and knees against the pavement, feeling like he had been pummelled by a thousand flaming fists, Roger started to shake as fire and smoke clawed its way out of the bank. It was probably okay to freak out now.