Suddenly the shopkeeper, a small Korean man with half-moon glasses, was standing in front of him.
‘What you want?’ he asked. It was only then that Alex noticed the man was clutching a broom.
‘Drink,’ he said. ‘Just want a drink. Tequila.’
‘No tequila!’ shouted the man, waving his broom angrily. ‘You go!’
‘What about gin?’
‘No drink!’ barked the man, prodding Alex with the end of his broom. ‘I call police.’
‘Just a half-bottle,’ said Alex, almost pleading now. It looked as though the old man had taken against him for some reason and he really wanted that gin.‘Look, I have money ...’ He reached into his pocket for his wallet and instead pulled out the water pistol.
The shopkeeper jumped backwards as if electrified. ‘Police!’ he yelled, running towards the door. ‘Call police!’
Alex looked down at his hand, the misunderstanding slowly dawning on him. ‘Oh no, this is just a toy . . .’ he said, tripping over a pile of newspapers and crashing into a shelf of baked beans.
‘There he is!’ shouted the shopkeeper. ‘He smash up store!’
Next to the old man was another figure, wearing all black, talking into a radio.
‘Stay calm, sir,’ said the policeman, walking forward. But Alex wasn’t waiting. He ran towards the back of the shop, crashing through a door. All he could think was that he had to get away. It was some sort of storeroom: stacks of cardboard boxes, pallets of tins covered in clear plastic. He ran towards a door at the rear. It was locked. He looked around. There were no windows.
‘Let me out, you fuckers!’ he shouted.
Outside he could hear the wail of police sirens.
‘Oh shit, oh shit,’ he said, running back and slamming the storeroom door, bolting it closed. He’d read about people getting shot by armed police. He leant against the door and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. Who to call? Who could help? His heart was hammering, and sweat was rolling down his face, despite the coldness of the storeroom. Outside he could hear shouts and heavy footsteps. He picked up the phone and scrolled to a number he hadn’t used for years.
‘Miles. You have to help me.’ Alex spoke quickly, his voice trembling.
‘Go on,’ said Miles. Calm, unflappable. The police were banging on the door now.
Alex quickly explained. ‘What should I do?’
‘OK, I’m in New York,’ said Miles. ‘But I’ll call my lawyer, he’s in London. His name in Michael Marshall. He will find you and I promise you he will fix this.’
‘Thanks, Miles, thank you, thank you.’
‘A friend in need and all that,’ said Miles.
The door lurched inwards. ‘Miles, they’re kicking the door in, what should I do now? Miles, help me.’
‘Stay calm, Alex. Don’t do anything stupid. Michael will come and find you. Leave it to me. Oh, and Alex?’
‘What?’
‘I’d get away from that door.’
Just as Alex moved out of the way, the wood splintered and flew inwards, rapidly followed by three policemen. Alex started sobbing. He drew the water pistol and pushed it against his temple.
‘Stop there or I’ll shoot,’ he cried as a policeman wrestled him to the ground and cuffed his hands behind him.
‘I only wanted a drink,’ he whimpered. And then he blacked out.
59
May 2009