Just Like in the Movies

f**k, but it hurt! I’d always wondered what it’d be like to get shot in the arm. I mean—I know that sounds bizarre, but you know what I mean, don’t you? In a Hollywood-movie kind of way. I had visions of clutching at the wound, pinning the bleeding shreds of skin together, my eyes showing pain but still watching for danger, my teeth gritted and my face hard-set in its expression. I’d drag my superbly athletic, masculine body along dark corridors, with no sound except the clatter of my boots on the hard floor and the harsh panting of my breath against the silent whirr of distant, strangely malevolent machinery. But always finding the exit in the end—bursting out into sunlight and into the arms of the rescue forces. Cynical cops would cheer; my co-star would gasp, having been the last person to hold out only the faintest of hope for my survival, and exclaim at my incredible and indomitable ability to beat the odds. My co-star. Right… All I knew was that, in reality, it hurt. It hurt one huge great hell of a lot, and I couldn’t seem to stop the bleeding. I sat slumped against the wall, and I didn’t seem to have a lot of energy in my superbly athletic, masculine legs to get me up and running again. And I really did think I should be doing that. Running away. Even in the worst films, the villain didn’t stop at one shot, did he? What was worse, I didn’t know how the rest of the team was faring—let’s face it, I didn’t know if I was in at the end of the story or just opening up the whole can of blood-spattered worms in the first reel. I hadn’t given it sufficient thought in the first place. “But you’re so brave,” my co-star would say. “God, Bailey, we’d given you up for dead! I never thought you’d talk him around—I never thought you’d get out before he let loose the whole damned arsenal and blew up the bank.” “It’s my job,” I’d modestly say. “As a negotiator, I’ve been trained to go into potentially dangerous situations. For heaven’s sake, don’t make a fuss! Let me set off for home with just your handkerchief as a bandage, and maybe you’ll have supper with me later on…” Right. I nearly laughed aloud, but luckily I thought better of it. It looked like I was hallucinating now. Okay, so negotiation was my job, but I was pretty new to the whole thing. I had a few more months to complete in training, even on the fast track—as I was—and I was only meant to be back-up for the main negotiator, the infamous and impressive Drew Fletcher. I wasn’t sure what had made me follow him in, against the advice of the police cordon outside the bank. I just thought the guy inside didn’t look that dangerous. To me, he looked mad, and he looked hungry, and I could sort of remember a time I felt like that, too. I thought I could probably find some common ground there, talk him out in a while. Fletcher had flashed his unique brand of death glare at me when I appeared at his shoulder. Hmmm… The thought of that glare still gave me the shivers, even though the whole of my left side felt pretty cold just now. It wouldn’t be like that in the movie, would it? “Thank God you’re here, Bailey,” he’d murmur, breathlessly. “Only you can find the way into his twisted, tortured mind. You can take the lead in this mission—let me back you up. Save the terrified hostages, Bailey.” Well, to be honest, there weren’t any hostages. Fletcher had already negotiated them out. He’d gone in to talk to Mad, Hungry Guy in the bank—on his own—and also got him to surrender his weapons. That consisted of a box of old firearms that had straw stuck in the hinges and looked like it’d been salvaged from a farmer’s barn, but it had been placed out of harm’s way by now. Mad, Hungry Guy was still bleating for his million dollars and his personal helicopter out of the country, but I knew the police snipers were already closing in. Looked like Fletcher had it all covered. Then the police cameras had caught Mad, Hungry Guy’s full face, and even through the blurry quality I’d noticed a gleam in his eye that was also rather familiar—the gleam of insanity; the glint of volatility. Guess I moved in those circles once. Call it my misspent youth. I felt nausea that was all too real, and some switch inside my body decided to change the blood in my veins to iced water. That’s when I lurched forward and started my very swift, very rash approach towards the bank. Of course Fletcher was aware of any residual danger, I thought. Of course he’d be alert to the fact this guy might still be unpredictable. But I kept on walking despite the shouts of the team behind me and the furious crackling of the two-way radio. Fletcher, I thought. Of course he’d know everything there was to know about these situations… I don’t know why I doubted it in the first place. Fletcher, after all, was a master. He was my mentor. He wrote the book on proactive procedure, and he breathed and slept tactical negotiation. He could talk a bird down from the tree; he could sell ice to an Eskimo. He’d taken issue with the Prime Minister; he’d crossed swords with MI5. And now he trained raw recruits like me to crash in after him and f**k things up. Well, okay, but that’s why I went in, in the first place, right? Because of him. Fletcher. Yeah, he wrote the book—but I’ve lived it. Some gut feeling made me think he might need help, and there was no chapter in the training manual on that subject. My gut feeling helped me see Mad, Hungry Guy’s hidden handgun just a fraction before Fletcher did. What followed was so not like the movies, I doubted I’d ever go to a blockbuster feature again, not even for the giant-sized popcorn and cola. Fletcher may have been calling to me to watch out for myself, though in hindsight, I think the only thing I actually heard him murmur was, “Get back, you moron.” I probably misheard because of the roaring in my ears. Or the panicky, scary thudding of my heart. I didn’t stop to ask—I just leaped in front of him and went to take the Mad, Hungry Guy down.