The Incident of a Gunman

A musty smell, a buzz of people and a ringing bell greeted me as I opened the door and stepped inside the pub

I LOCKED the door of my car, pocketed the key and started walking towards the Black Swan. It was a pub that was situated at the edge of the town, facing the hills. It was owned by Almecho, also my very good friend. The pub was usually alive on weekends.
And today was Friday. Before entering the pub, I glanced at a board hanging beside the door. It was a tradition at the Black Swan to serve a new and special dish every Sunday. As I looked at the special item of that day my jaws dropped and my eyes nearly popped out. For, on the board it read: “Skewered Shark Liver.” 

Skewered shark livers? Whœver would want to eat that? A musty smell, a buzz of people and a ringing bell greeted me as I opened the door and stepped inside the pub. I heard someone shout my name as I looked around the crowd. Towards the eastern corner sat five of my buddies: Peter, Adrian, Paul, Charlie and Michael. Peter was waving at me. I made my way to them through a jungle of people and clouds of smoke. Finally reaching them, I sat down on a stool beside Charlie and turned towards the bartender. “The usual please,” I said to which I added, a little hesitatingly, “And the special.” The bartender looked at me and nodded. “In a minute,” he said. I turned my attention towards my friends who were talking busily. “So, what are you guys talking about?” I asked. “Nothing much, just joking around,” Peter answered. I noticed that he was eating something I’d never seen before in the pub. “Hey Peter. That the special?” I asked. He nodded, unable to speak because of his full mouth. He chewed disgustingly like a child and swallowed it. “So, how’s it?” I asked once he was finished. “Don’t worry,” he said putting down his glass of juice, “You won’t die. At least it’s better than those fried rabbit kidneys from last week anyway. And it’s a little oily.” I winced at the mention of fried rabbit kidneys. That had been last week’s special. Only I and Peter had dared to eat them. However disgusting they may have looked or smelled, they were horribly good (when Almecho said ‘special’, he meant it) but we had been unable to convince the rest of the pub otherwise. As said, my orders arrived in exactly one minute. 

I forked a piece and, squinting, placed it in my mouth. It was amazing! The piece seemed to simply melt in my mouth like a piece of chocolate and the taste diffused inside my mouth. Like Peter had said it was oily but heck! It tasted just great. Very soon I had emptied the plate and ordered two more. They never arrived. At the moment, the door burst open and a masked man clutching a revolver in hand stormed in. “Nobody moves!” he exclaimed. That was useless actually, since most of us had already frozen in fear or surprise or both. I expected a scream to erupt any moment. Then I remembered that the pub was usually devoid of women. What would they be doing here anyway? I could sense movement behind me. The gunman fired immediately; the sound was deafening. Slowly, everyone in the pub turned around. There stood one of the young waiters, shaking uncontrollably and looking as if he was about to pee any moment. Inches away from his head, in the wall, was a miniature crater where the bullet had hit. “That was only a warning shot,” the gunman said coldly. “Next time I won’t miss.” Moving the gun in an arc, he walked up to the cashier. He thrust out his bag to the terrified cashier and said, “Fill it!” The cashier was immediately punching buttons on the cash register. For a moment, I thought that maybe he was an alibi to the gunman. But one look at the cashier’s face told that I was wrong. He was sweating just as much as any of us. “Quick! Quick!” the gunman muttered. “The register dœsn’t open!” the cashier said in an exasperated tone. 

“What?” the gunman asked incredulously. “The register,” the cashier said, pointing to it, “Dœs not open.” “Give it to me then!” the gunman snarled. The cashier raised the cash register until it was level with the gunman’s face. “It is supposed to open when you press this button,” the cashier said and as he did so, he pressed the button. The drawer suddenly sprang open, catching the gunman unaware. It hit him on the nose, right on the bridge. He howled in pain and let go of the gun as he reached up with his hand to massage his wounded nose. Charlie was already in action. A marine, he jumped from where he sat to the gunman bringing him down on the ground with himself. Charlie stood up with his arms hooked under the gunman’s shoulder and clasped tightly behind the gunman’s neck. As the hunter turned hunted thrashed around blindly, I grabbed the plate next to me, ran to the struggling figure and smashed it into the struggler’s face. This time, the gunman gave out a bloodcurdling scream. His nose was bleeding profusely and so was his forehead. The pub was in an uproar. Many of them had fled as soon as Charlie had grabbed the gunman in his shoulder-lock. Peter was hurriedly unloading the bullets of the gun lest (as he explained later) it should go off accidentally by a kick from a terrified customer. The cashier was on the phone, talking with the police. His whole body was shaking violently, probably as a result of the heroic and risky action he had just undertaken. By the time the police arrived, the gunman had been unmasked, bound and tied to a chair. 

Despite his helpless condition, he thrashed about wildly as if he could resist arrest merely by showing how dangerous he was. Charlie’s face had been flushed when he had made the lunge for the gunman, now it was blood red (he had anger management issues). Without any warning, he grabbed a bottle (Almecho later told us that it was an authentic French wine, nearly fifty years old and really expensive) on a table beside him and threw it at the gunman. The bottle exploded, the glass shattered and the contents splattered everywhere when it hit the head of the gunman. But most importantly, the gunman was quiet now; he had gone unconscious. After the police had left with the mad gunman, it took an hour to clean the pub. Most of the people who had fled did not return that day. There were only a few of them, six of us, the workers, bartender and the cashier. The cashier was the hero of that day (also Charlie but it was the cashier who had initially disarmed the gunman, however unusual the process). 

“What’s your name kid?” Charlie had asked. “It’s Ayano, sir.” 

“Well Ayano, that was very brave of you.” “It was…just an accident—-” 

“I’m a marine boy. You can’t fool me. I saw the determination on your face. Really, that was very brave of you.” “Thank you, sir.” Night was approaching. The pub was now almost empty. Almost. There were still the six of us, the bartender and Ayano. Usually, night was supposed to be the main time for people to enjoy themselves in the pub. But that day was just not a normal day. “So,” Paul said slowly, “That was quite a jump back there Charlie. From here to the gunman…umm…I’d say about ten feet or so. Ten feet! In one leap! That should be world record!” “Stop flattering me. You know I ain’t gonna pay your bill.” “Oh come on!” “I’m serious,” Charlie said with a devilish smile. 

“Remember: there ain’t no free lunch.” “Ok, stop it with the philosophy crap. I was joking anyways. I am a lawyer and I can pay for myself.” The air with which Paul said it made us all burst into laughter. As we settled down, I looked at my watch and saw that it was already almost midnight. Time sure flew by when I was with these five fellas. “Hey, where you going?” Peter asked after seeing me preparing to leave. “I’ve had enough for the day, what with the robber and all,” I replied. “Sure you’re not down with dysentery after eating all that cholestrol laden stuff?”Michael asked. All of them laughed at that. “Whatever,” I muttered as I walked out the door of the pub. My clock pinged. Midnight. A day was over. An eventful day too.

That was useless actually, since most of us had already frozen in fear or surprise or both. I expected a scream to erupt any moment.

-  PRISHANK S THAPA