Shooting Sweets

The corner shop was just beginning to close up. The shop assistant, Alison Smith, had taken in the shop signs and tidied up the leaves and rubbish at the entrance. Her boss, Declan Berry, was at home, adjacent the dairy. He had invested in two-way radios for him and her, to commuicate with, while he was at home.

However, Alison, was oblivious to what kind of business her boss did, outside of hours.

“It’s nearly closing time,” her radio went off. Alison rolled her eyes, as if she didn’t know. She had already started counting the till, cash-dropping the major notes, putting the coins back into their small zip-lock bags.

A bang outside on the footpath alerted her and she peered out the shop window, behind the Coke advertisements hanging over the bars. A youngish-looking man sat on the rubbish bin puffing away like a chimney. The sun had already gone down and the beautiful transition between evening and night was upon them. Alison stuffed the musty-looking brown bank bag with the coins and rolled-up ten and five-dollar notes. She stored it into the safe, closing the door and securing it with her pin.

“Almost done, Alison?”

Alison reached for the radio. “Yes Declan.”

“Ah, there you are!” his sarcasm was blatant.

“Yes, here I am,” returned Alison. “I know you’re not the type to pay OT.”

“Doors locked?”

“Almost,” Alison said, rolling her eyes again. She pulled the key off the hook and walked briskly over to the doors where she stood for a bit, compelled to watch the poor sod, sitting on the rubbish bin outside. He was in Alison’s year at high school, year-thirteen. They call him Scooter but his real name is Scott Hardie. He’s a little shit but still maintains education, so can’t really judge him on that.

“Scooter, you all good?” Alison called from the door.

He turned around, cocked his eyebrow while his ciggie drooped in the corner of his mouth.

“Alison?” he called out, taking his cigarette out of his mouth. “Churr, you work there?”

The true hori, that he is, thought Alison. She acknowledged him, then left him to his cancerous stick and slid the door shut, proceeding to lock it.

“You okay?” buzzed the radio.

Alison replied, “Yes Declan. I just saw someone I knew and checking if he was alright.”

“Who?”

“Dude from school.”

This radio communication was annoying. Alison wondered if it was just another lazy way of talking when he should just come out from his office and talk to her face-to-face. He was only a couple of metres away, if that.

“Who’s this dude?”

But Alison never answered the question. The sliding door was rammed with the dark silver car, sitting in the middle of the store. The sliding door, the outside roofing and the rubbish bin with Scooter on it, had ended up in the store. Scooter was squished between the milk fridges and the bumper of the car. He appeared to not be moving.

Alison froze in shock, while Declan was screaming from the radio.

“Where is he?” the man growled.

“Who?”

“The dickhead that owns this shit shop,” the man said, reversing into the shop door more. The shop continued to crumble.

“Declan!” Alison screamed into the radio.

“Cute, the fat asshole has a radio to communicate between the store and his office,” the man said, sarcastically. “I bet you don’t know what he gets up too, when you’re asleep, eh lass?”

Alison started returning to normality when she saw her boss surface. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“What’re you doing?” he cried.

“Fucking up what you owe me,” the male said, nonchalantly. “I bet this hoe doesn’t know what you get up too, eh?”

“Shut up!”

“What do you do, Declan?”

“Nothing,” he shrugged her off. “What’re you doing? You owe me thousands in damages.”

“No,” pointed the intruder. “You owe me thousands. You’re a dipshit, you screwed me over by stealing that stash. I know it was you.”

“You have no proof,” Declan said, as he went up to the man. “Until you have proof, I suggest you take your shit bomb with you and piss off.”

“I’ll get you Declan!” the man said, and he reversed out of the shop, down the stairs and pissed off.

Meanwhile, Shooter remained in a crumpled mess on the shop floor. The whole interior of the shop was a mess. Declan was on the phone talking to someone and Alison was left to decipher what the hell just happened.

Alison rushed to Shooter’s aid, feeling for a pulse or searching for a sign that Shooter might be alive but things looked grim. She pulled out her mobile and dialled one-one-one. Declan told his call to hold on.

“What’re you doing?” he demanded.

“Ringing the emergency services,” she scowled.

“You can’t!” he begged. “I will sort him out, go home. You’ve seen too much already.”

“He’s a mate!”

“How much do you want?” he said, juggling his phone and wallet. He pulled out three crisp one-hundred-dollar notes.

“You’re hushing me with money?” she shrieked.

“For now, please? Let me sort out this situation and I’ll take him to the hospital,” Declan said, pleading in his voice.

The sad thing was though, Shooter wasn’t going to make it to the hospital in time and given the impact of the car that crashed into the bin, then shop, had killed him on impact.

Declan much rather save his ass rather than Shooter’s short opportunity of staying alive.

“Take the money, Alison. I’ll sort you out later, you’ve seen too much already,” begged Declan.

Alison hesitated for a bit then reached over and took the three hundred dollars. She went behind the counter, took her belongings and left out the back. She couldn’t believe she had just left one of her school mates to die in her workplace, let alone, uncover her boss’s dirty tactics. God knows what he gets up too. For some reason, she needed to investigate.

Once she was home, she was going to start her investigations, surrounding Declan Berry and Scott Hardie. For some ungodly reason, she had a strong sense that Shooter was part of this elaborate plan.