The Boss had found the restaurant incredibly dirty. Never had he seen such negligence and inattention, and what he needed was a scapegoat: Brian.
It didn’t matter that Brian had been working for two weeks with no day off. It didn’t matter either that his last night closing shift colleague was a narcissist had who spent infinite minutes observing her reflection in the window, tying and untying her wavy black hair in different kinds of ponytails – which, at the end, they all looked the same – and hiding in the blind spots of the CCTV cameras to check her 10k followers Instagram profile. It didn’t matter at all. “Come in,” the Boss said when Brian knocked on the door. A musty smell, coming from God-knows which corner of the room, filled his nostrils. “Finally, you’re here. Please, make yourself comfortable as we need to have a wee chat.” The supposedly comfortable stool screeched under Brian’s weight. The Boss wheeled on his upholstered armchair and fixed his penetrating blue eyes on him. He clasped his hands and sighed. “Brian, I presume you know why I summoned you.” His formal rhetoric didn’t bode well. “I presume you want to talk.” “Sarcasm isn’t something you should use in such a serious situation,” the Boss replied drily. Brian resisted the increasing urge to cast his eyes to the ceiling. “What’s wrong with you? This is a list of the things that weren’t done properly.” The Boss theatrically unfolded a piece of paper, smoothed it in front of his eyes and fixed his spectacles on the tip of his nose. A few words of his speech grabbed Brian’s attention: coffee grinder, dust, crumbs, and responsibility. “You understand that I have to take action, don’t you?” His lips curled into a fake sympathetic smile. “I want you to think about what you’re doing, instead of thinking about…about…well, about something else. Is that understood?” Brian nodded. He wanted to ask him if he had taken action when somebody hadn’t set the alarm; if he had taken action when somebody had left the tap on, flooding the entire kitchen. He wanted to ask so many questions, but he decided to give up. He wasn’t in the mood to argue. “I’ll be more careful,” Brian sheepishly lied. “I hope so, Brian, I honestly hope you’ll remember that every mistake has to be prevented and immediately corrected,” the Boss said and, waving a hand, added: “Now get back to work. You’ve already had your break.” Brian walked out of the office, thoughts filling his mind, and his Boss resumed typing on the keyboard.
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The Chief had foreseen everything. The arrest, the interrogation, the release for lack of evidence, the new arrest in connection to the robbery. The interrogation again. He also had predicted that the police would interrogate them separately. In different isolated rooms. Nobody knew what the other would say or do.
Keith looked blankly at the flickering light of the white-painted interrogation room. The smell of cheap floor cleaner mixed with sweat and an unusual sour stench suffocated him. But he had to be strong. The plan had been going as the chief predicted. Now his companions and he had only to stay tranquil and follow the Chief’s instruction. Somebody coughed twice, and Keith smiled. The thumping of paces neared, and the surface of the water in the plastic pitcher laid on the table in front of him rippled. Keith fixed his eye on the grey door, and, when it swung open, the silhouettes of two men went through the threshold. Sergeant Davis sat on the metal chair on the other side of the table and stared at Keith. Shadows had appeared beneath his eyes, pointing out his astonishing blue irises. He ran a hand through his oily thick black hair. Wrinkles caused by tiredness and stress marked his face. Constable Miller bore the same dark shadow which, instead, toned with the dark colour of his eyes. He sat next to Davis in silence. “We know how you entered the shop, Keith,” Davis said. “We know how much you were able to take away.” “Six hundred thousand pounds in jewels,” Miller made clear. “And, if you hadn’t heard properly, I said six hundred thousand pounds.” Keith curled his lips in a mocking smirk. “Do you know what will happen if you confess?” Davis asked, then he grabbed a plastic cup next to the pitcher and poured some water in. “You don’t know, do you?” Keith shook his head. I know, he thought. You’ll offer a sentence reduction. “Well, I’ll tell you, mate.” The Sergeant sipped the water. “The judge will reduce your sentence. Think about that, you’re young – you’re twenty, aren’t you? – and you can still start over. You can study, if you want, learn a profession. You can also find a pretty, good girl and get married. Have you ever thought about that?” “No, detective, I’ve never,” Keith replied. “That’s all right, that’s all right. It’s now time to do that,” He then turned to Miller. “How long do you think the sentence might be, Miller?” “I don’t know, Davis, I don’t know.” Miller scratched his chin. “I think conspiracy to rob sentence is double figures.” “That’s what I think, too,” Davis said and looked at Keith. “Say, the sentence is twelve years. It makes sense, doesn’t it?” “It does, Davis, it does.” Miller smiled. “So, think mate, if you cooperate, we can find a way to reduce the sentence. It may be eight years only, or six if you help us.” The Sergeant’s face suddenly turned serious. “Where did your companions and you hide the jewels?” “I don’t know,” Keith replied. “How can you not know?” Davis slammed the palm of his hand on the table. A loud screech echoed in the room, and drops of water fell on the white surface. “I think this happened. Your companions and you wandered around the jewellery for days, probably weeks. You observed the place, studied every movement of customers and staff. You perfectly knew when to operate. You waited for the right evening in which you knew the security guards would have left.” Keith stared at him, expressionless. “You broke in from the back door, but, before doing it, you shot red paint on the outside cameras, then on the inside. It was a very thorough operation. Once you had finished, you had time to shatter the windows and take everything you can. But you had to be fast, of course, you had. The police were coming as the alarm went off. You ran away and hid the loot. Everything perfectly and appropriately calculated.” Davis breathed hard, and his face had blushed. “That was what happened, wasn’t it?” “You better tell us where you hid the jewels, Keith,” Miller said. “As the Sergeant said, if you helped us, the sentence might be more lenient.” “I don’t know what to say, detective,” Keith answered. “I think you have nothing to demonstrate your bizarre, theory.” Davis slammed both hands on the table, and the stack of plastic cups dropped on the side and slowly rolled down the table, hitting the floor. The Sergeant stormed out, followed by Miller. Keith observed them; he heard the policemen muffled voices debating, then the silence came back. Miller coughed twice, and Davis said something. He smiled. The sound of paces echoed in the corridor as the detectives entered the room next to Keith’s. Muffled voice. Sounds of hands slammed on the table. Muffled voices. The sound of paces heading out of the room. Silence. Keith could hear the beat of his heart pounding in his ears. Silence. Then, finally, two coughs. Keith smiled; his companion hadn’t talked. Nine months earlier Keith and his companions looked at the chief. They plan was quite easy. Hit and run. No weapons involved. No violence. No kidnapping. As the Chief had said: “Observe your prey. Understand your prey. Capture your prey.” “The Prisoner’s Dilemma is an impeccable theory,” the Chief said. “If you don’t confess and the others do, you’ll get the maximum of the punishment and the others will walk out free. If you confess and the others don’t, you’ll be free and they will sentence the others. If you blame one another, the sentence will be lenient for all of you.” “So you want us to get punished anyway,” the red-bearded man sat in front of Keith said. “I think this isn’t exactly what we’re looking for.” “It’s not, indeed,” The Chief said, grinning. “Of course it’s not. The key of the Prisoner’s Dilemma is the lack of communication. If you don’t know what your companion does, the most rational thing to do will be to confess, but, as you pointed out, this means you go to prison, anyway. And we don’t want this, do we?” They all shook their head. “If you all don’t confess, you all will walk out free, because none of you confessed.” “I understand the plan, Chief,” Keith said, “but how do we know one of us hasn’t talked?” Keith asked. “If the police question us separately, as you said, we won’t be able to know what’s going on.” “Good point, Keith. That’s why we have to be smart and to cheat,” the Chief said, grinning and turning to the standing man in the corner. “Miller, the police are happy to help us, aren’t they?” Miller, who had watched at the men discussing for all this time, stepped forward. “I’m completely delighted to do what I can to help you all, Chief,” he said and coughed twice. This time the referee blows his whistle; he runs towards the box with his arm stretched, pointing to the centre.
It’s penalty. Two teammates run quickly to the box to give Peter high five. He has been leading the team for all the game, and now he has obtained the penalty. Michael grabs his hand and helps him to stand. I slowly run towards them, as, you know, football players use to do. “It’s penalty. And I don’t want to hear any other protests!” I hear the referee saying to two opponents. “I didn’t even touch him! How can you be so blind?” Number Three, the player who caused the penalty, says. “Ref, I’m sure that…” “Behave! If you don’t want to get booked, calm down, man!” “But…” “The decision is taken: it’s penalty!” the referee explains, surrounded by green and red shirts. “He kicked me, what a stupid!” I turn; Peter stands in front of me with the ball under his arm. “Huh? I saw. It was a bad tackle,” I reply. “It was foul. Besides, he has been mocking for all the match. Then he went mad and kicked me inside the box. The referee, fortunately, saw it.” “A good chance to take the lead,” I say. “It was a bad foul, Rob,” Michael claims. “Peter has been giving a hell of game to their defence.” They chuckle, happily observing the complaining opponents. “Listen up!” Peter exclaims. “We know what kind of match is this one, and we’ve been doing everything to win it. It doesn’t matter if it’ll be because of a penalty or whatever, the derby victory will be ours!” I nod. “It’s the derby! Do you wanna win or let them take the piss on you for the rest of your football career?” I don’t reply. We know it is a rightful penalty, although the Number Three would endlessly deny it. But I don’t like this idea, like ‘they’re our enemy and we absolutely have to win’. It’s football, and it is fun. I play it because I love it. Period. The supporters – approximately three hundred people, which is a good deal for an amatorial game – are on fire. They scream and they cheer; they utter insults and they laugh; they swear and they clap their hands. “Who’s shooting?” Michael asks. “Dunno.” The manager shouts incomprehensible words from the reserves bench. “Look at the old Jim,” Peter says. “He’s overexcited!” “He’ll get a heart attack if he carries on agitating like that!” Michael chuckles. “So, who’s shooting?” I ask this time. “You won’t, for sure,” Peter replies, and I look at him. “No offence, buddy, but I got it and I’ll score it!” “Hey! I’m the best goal scorer of the team! I have to!” Michael grabs the ball and walks straight to the centre of the box. Jim shouts again, but we don’t hear him. I reach Michael. “Who’s shooting?” the referee asks, seeing three of us on the penalty spot. “I wanna shoot!” “No, I’m gonna do that!” Peter snatches the ball back and puts it down. “But, I’m the best scorer! What do you…” “I know you are!” Peter answers Michael. “But I got it and, as I said, I’ll shoot it.” “What if I wanna shoot the penalty?” I say. “You’re out of it, I said! You’re a defender,” Peter smirks. “Only an striker knows how to take advantage of this opportunity.” I shake my head and say nothing more. “Lads, I need only one of you! The others out of the box!” the referee, annoyed by our argument, shouts. “I wanna shoot!” Michael whines and tries to take the ball back. Peter pushes him away. “No, go out of the box!” Our goalkeeper approaches us. “Rob!” he says. “Rob will shoot the penalty.” I look at him. Michael and Peter immediately stop their argument and fiery stare at him. “Who says that?” they ask in unison. “Jim!” he replies and jerks his thumb towards the bench. We all turn; we notice Jim jumping and moving his arms. We struggle to get it, but his mouth is clearly uttering a name: Rob. “All right!” Michael angrily knocks his shoulder against mine and walks out of the box. I know it’s his competitive personality; at the end of the match, he’ll be as friendly and humorous at me as usual. “Jim went mad! He definitely wants to lose the game!” Peter slams the ball on my chest. “Good luck, defender! Don’t forget that, for once, you have to put the ball behind a goalkeeper’s back, not away from him!” I guess it’s his way of encouraging me. “Is you to shoot the penalty?” The referee sighs. “Yes, it’s me,” I nervously smile. The noise from the supporters becomes an anxious and continuous buzz; the eyes of my teammates are focused on me, so those of the opponents. The tension is high. I put down the ball on the white spot and walk a few metres back, then I turn. I don’t look at the goalkeeper; my eyes are fixed on the white and black hexagons ball. What if I miss the penalty? I’ll be mocked for ages, I think. What if I score and my team wins? I’ll be their hero for ages. The referee blows his whistle. I don’t have to think about what will happen. I get closer to the ball. Whatever happens, I love this sport. My left foot stops at the side of the ball. I like football and I know that anytime I play, it’s an endless joy for me! My right leg swings back to kick the ball. Anyhow it goes, I know that I’ll have put all my effort into doing what I love the most: playing football. My leg swings forward, and I kick the ball with all my strengths towards the goal. |