Scot Free

“Ye know this isnae any good tae us don’t ye.”

The tentative blue-grey of the early morning light had begun to stream in through the uncurtained window, illuminating a scene of confusion and futile, barely-contained rage.

“How no’? It’s twenty thousand dollars!”

“Aye dollars. The hell are we gonnae dae wi' twenty thousand dollars in Scotland ya fanny?”

“We’ll get them converted won’t we? At a bureau de change.”

“A bureau de change? A fuckin’ bureau de change? You want tae walk intae a bureau de change wi’ twenty-bloody- thousand dollars and be like ‘aye pal, ah’ve came back fae ma holidays wi’ twenty grand in cash, gonnae just change it 'er fir us?’ Oh aye, nuhin’ suspicious there is there.”

“Wull, we could dae it in shifts, different places an’ that.”

The stack of notes made a Thwip sound as Connor slapped Martin over the head with it before holding it an inch from his companion’s face.

“Marked. Fuckin’. Bills. Dick,” each word punctuated by a shake of the stack, “and Big Cam’s no’ gonnae touch foreign cash, the nervy bastard, it’s too complicated fur ‘im.”

“Wull how d'ye know they’re marked?”

Connor raised the stack again for a second before relinquishing and letting his arm go slack. “That’s a risk ye want tae take aye? It wis in his safe, he knew it wis there, ye think he wouldnae’ve had it marked?”

Martin didn’t reply. His eyes wandered from Connor’s accusatory face to the chipped, graffiti-clad walls of their ‘hideout’ – actually just Connor’s brother’s girlfriend’s flat, perpetually abandoned unless there was a party going on – and he put his thinking face on.

This was not the first time something like this had happened. Not by a long shot. The two men were the most skilled thieves in Glasgow, perhaps all of Scotland. Connor was unmatched in planning robberies; he had an uncanny sense for people’s schedules and security, knew instinctively where valuables would be kept, and could guess passwords and codes with preternatural accuracy. Likewise Martin, born without fingerprints, possessing extraordinary dexterity and uncommonly light-footed, was the ideal partner in crime.

Together they had never failed a job. And yet somehow, even after all these years, they were still awaiting a single success.

They could steal anything from anywhere, and it was never, ever what they expected it to be. The Mondrian had been a forgery; the jewel pear was an actual pear; the Gone With the Wind master film reel was irreparably damaged. After some time they simplified, but nothing changed: laptops were broken, wallets and cash boxes empty, credit cards maxed out, Tibetan mastiffs actually mongrels.

This was the one: the no-brainer, the sure thing, the end of their losing streak. The mark was a banker, lived locally and was a gambler. They knew exactly where he’d be. Connor had clocked his Wednesday habit - pub, club, casino. He had only a basic alarm system with a four digit code; Connor had narrowed it down to only two or three possibilities. The safe was expensive but still a consumer model, no problem whatsoever. Cash would be loose inside - a fat stack, at least ten thousand pounds, maybe more. Martin worked quickly and in the dark; open, grab, get out. No gloating, no time-wasting, no tracks, no evidence.

Even by their standards this was a silky smooth operation; fast, clean and flawless. Forget painless, this was pure pleasure, poetry in motion. Martin almost strutted out of there.

Every detail was accounted for. They would pay the money to Big Cam Gleeson, the dodgy bookie they’d gotten involved with during their ill-fated thoroughbred theft (that had left them having to work out what to do with a lame racehorse), and 'win' it back on his tragically unlucky boxer nephew. And after that - the highlife. Or an extremely good holiday at the very least.

And yet. Here they were back at the hideout, the work done, their reward waiting. And as the two of them picked open Martin’s bag like a Christmas stocking to finally inspect their prize, out came this ultimate insult: unspendable money. Twenty Thousand dollars of unspendable money.

Martin, ever the optimist, was not ready to go down without a fight, and still had hope for a win. “Here, could we no’ launder it some other way? Cam’s no’ the only way tae dae it,”

“Ye know how tae launder money dae ye? Where’ve ye been hidin’ that secret skill then? Prick,” Connor had not calmed down yet.

“Connor mate, ye’re no’ bein very nice tae me. It’s no’ my fault.”

Connor’s scowl quivered for a second, then collapsed. “You’re right, sorry brother, ah'm just pure ragin’ wi’ this. How the hell does this keep on happenin’?” He gestured over to the Big Cupboard, the straining door losing its battle against the weight of their bad luck; a pouch of fake rubies had spilled out onto the floor. Martin followed Connor’s hand with weary eyes, and glanced at the corner of the room, where the case of vinyl records that it turned out had never belonged to Liam Howlett sat, glumly collecting dust.

“Connor mate,” Martin struggled through the words, “I think it’s time we talked about it.”

The dawn sunrise that had been illuminating Connor’s eyes suddenly drained out of the room. He took a step towards Martin and raised his finger. “Am ah gonnae have tae say it again Martin?” Martin took a step back, “Ah told ye ah never wanted tae have tae say it again. We are NOT talking about it.”

Martin took a breath. “Connor, we have tae talk about it, we cannae ignore it anymair,”

Connor’s hand shot into the air, bicep loaded like a torpedo. For a second the tension shook his entire body, until he slammed the stack of marked cash into the floor with a deeply unsatisfying Thmp and slumped his shoulders practically to his knees. “It’s no’ real mate, it cannae be.”

“We never should huv stolen that doll man, I told ye.”

Connor straightened up now, “There’s nae such thing as curses Martin, it’s no’ real.”

“But that woman said - “

“Ah don’t gie a rat's arse whit she said Martin, or how scary she looked, or how many of our dreams she shows up in; curses arenae real and that’s that,” Connor stormed over to the coffee table and picked up his bible - a small black notebook in which was written every plan for every heist they’d ever pulled, all the way back to when they were teenagers. The once-slim book was swollen with information. Connor’s plans were so intricately detailed, never a step missed, that it seemed impossible it hadn’t been completely filled up years ago, and yet somehow there was always a new page; a beautiful blank slate on which to plot the next venture. “We jist need a new plan,” he muttered as he rifled through the pages, “a better one. We’ll get it next time, Ah’ll work out suhin’ great, suhin’ that’ll…” he trailed off.

Silence.

“Connor? Whit’s happnin’?”

Connor turned slowly, his body and face locked in place. He opened and closed his mouth, but no sound escaped. With what seemed to be an enormous effort, he raised the notebook in his hand and opened it out in front of Martin’s face.

Martin looked in horror at the plan on the page: this plan - the Twenty Thousand Dollar Plan - was written on the very last page of the book.

This realisation was clearly the last straw for Connor. He visibly crumbled, his lip trembling, his eyes shining now not with determination or anger, but tears. “Martin mate whit are we gonnae do?” he sobbed, “we’re cursed, we're actually cursed man, whit are we gonnae do?” his panic was almost shaking the room.

“Calm down pal, it’s alright.”

“How’s it alright?” Connor was pacing the room now, slapping the notebook against his hand, “we’ll never win, we’ll never get it right,” He suddenly beelined for Martin and grabbed him by the shoulders, his eyes flashing in terror, “You were right mate, ah’ve no’ been wanting tae admit it but we’re cursed, ah’ve led ye down a dark path, ah’m so sorry…”

Martin’s hand made a Thwap sound as he slapped Connor across the cheek.

“Calm down mate! We’ll work this out. You led me naewhere, we’re in this together.”

Connor let go of Martin’s shoulders and put his hand to his cheek. “Aye, aye you’re right. Thanks pal.”

“We still know where she lives don’t we? We jist need to go an’ see her, get her tae break the curse, and then we’ll be golden, we can finally start gettin’ whit we deserve.”

“She’ll no dae it, remember? She said we’d have to pay her back what we stole, and we cannae.”

Connor was right. For all the endless piles of stolen detritus still inhabiting the flat, the doll they had stolen was the only thing they had disposed of; tossed nonchalantly into a bin lorry one dark winter morning.

There was another silence, broken by the gentle pat of Martin’s hand on his partner’s arm. His smile was brighter than the sunlight in the window.

“We cannae give her the doll back,” he began merrily as he strolled over to where Connor had been pacing, “and aw the stuff we have around here is worthless, but...” he stooped to the floor and then turned to face Connor, a gleam in both his eyes and a fat stack of cash in his hand, “do ye think she’d take twenty thousand dollars?”