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The Bullet and The Rose	By : MrsSaruman Category: S through Z > Snatch Views: 1780 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Snatch, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Prologue
- 2-One
- 3-Two
- 4-16 December 1998
- 5-Three
- 6-Four
- 7-Five
- 2
- 3
- 4
Two

I�m tired.� There�s too much going on outside and it
makes my head hurt.� Apparently some
bloke fell asleep at the wheel and hit some old lady and her two kids.� I don�t know if anyone died.� I don�t really care.� I didn�t know them, and although I want to
go out and look at the carnage and the blood, I can�t.� I have a shop to run.� It seems this shop has become my life.� I tend it lovingly, each product placed with
care and dusted daily.� The floors are
clean, the carpets swept, and the glass without smears or fingerprints.� The storeroom is organized; the other
storeroom even more so.� I even live
upstairs.� When I started this shop five
years ago, I had vast dreams of something called a �social life� and some
degree of professional success.�
Instead, I was landed with a ton of work, varying income, and no time
for vacations in Majorca or anywhere for that matter.� It�s gotten better, of course.�
Now I live pretty well; I always want more but then again, who
doesn�t?� I don�t know a single person
who can honestly say without any doubt that they are satisfied with where they
are.� It�s part of the human
condition.� No matter how much we have,
we always want more.� Nothing ever
satiates our greed.
The chime over the door
sounds.� I raise my eyes and squint.
She�s probably about fifty-five and well off; she walks with the casual ease of
the rich.� She is shaking her head.� I let her be for a moment.� I�m sure if she needs anything immediately
she won�t hesitate to ask.� Those kinds
never do.� She pokes around the window
displays for a while, looking at a few antique lamps and a Victorian-era chair,
but soon turns to me.� I had half
expected this eventually, but most people look around for at least five minutes
before engaging me in conversation.� I�m
a background observer, and I like that.
�Excuse me?� she asks, an American
accent thick in her mouth.
I look up, but don�t answer.� I don�t really like Americans.
�Can I use your phone?��
I ask, �Is it local?�
She nods her head at me.� �Yes, my cell phone doesn�t have reception
over here, and wouldn�t you just know that something like this would
happen.� I need to call my husband and
just tell him about this.� You
English do drive crazy.� I mean-�
�It�s behind the counter.� I don�t want your story.�� I leave her gaping after me as I walk around
her and head back to the storeroom behind the counter.� The regular storeroom.� I hear her shoes� sharp report on the floor
as she makes her way behind the counter and the dull dial tone as she raises
the cradle of the phone to her ear.� I
hate those people.� Their arrogance
blinds them; this woman was calling to animatedly tell her husband about an
accident she had just seen.� An accident
in which three people had died.�
Contrary as it may seem to my profession, I do have an idea of the value
of human life.� What happened outside
was a tragedy.� Two innocent children
killed and a woman dead.� I don�t know
about her innocence; you seem to lose that these days after you hit
fifteen.� Maybe younger.� But death is an inevitable part of life, you
have to accept that, and today was not my day to die.� So why should I worry over three people I didn�t even know?� It�s sad, but still useless to mourn.� If you live like that, you�ll go through
life feeling sorry for every poor soul and it�ll drag your own down.� I realized that when I lost my father.
I look up.� The woman is still talking.� I flash her an evil glare and she cuts it
short, hanging up just as the door chime rings again.� I poke my head out onto the sales floor.� There is a man there; men rarely come into
my shop to buy kosher goods.� I raise a
finger to let him know I�ll be with him in a moment and extract myself from the
crystal strands I had been untangling.�
They would eventually go on some elaborate chandelier, but first I had
to straighten string after string of those prismatic beads.
I dust my hands and raise an
eyebrow.� Talk is not needed.
�Are you Shopgirl?� he asks.
�I�m one of �em,� I reply,
indicating the woman still nosing around inside my store.� American she may be, but caution should
still be used.
�Ah, yes.� I was wondering if you saw what happened outside.� I�m a reporter for BBC news, and we�re
thinking of doing a story.�
The woman�s ears had pricked up and
she hurries over towards us.� �I saw it
all!� she says melodramatically.� �I was
right there!�
The man turns to her sadly.� �I�m sorry, love, I�m sure you have a wonderful
story, but we�re looking for someone more local.�� There is acid in his tone, and I do my best
to hold back a smile.� This woman
deserves it.� She says nothing but
instead storms out with a look of injured pride on her face.
I chuckle and shake my head.� �Damn tourists.�� The man smiles back at me.�
�I�m Shopgirl.� How can I help
you?�
He lowers his voice.� �My wife sent me out to buy roses and I
don�t know this area.� Is there a
florist nearby?�
It sounded inane, I know, but
always caution.� I don�t really want to
spend the next years of my life in Broadhurst or the like.� That scares me to death, and it would be the
death of my mother.� I think part of it
is I just don�t want to hear her say �I told you so.�
�There�s one down the street.�
�Will they deliver?�
�They could if you paid them
right.�� I wink at him.� The knife strapped to my ankle itches as I
go to lock the door.� �It�s upstairs, if
you�ll just give me a minute we�ll be on our way.�� I stick a note on the door that reads �Gone for Coffee,� and
beckon the stranger to follow me.
I indicate he should go first, and
he smiles at me.� This man has been in
the game for a while; I see it all over his face.� This one has murdered.�
He�s moderately tall, at least from my height-challenged vantage, and a
little husky.� From what I can tell,
it�s all muscle.� This man could be a
dangerous one; good thing I wasn�t facing him down.� He could probably break me in half with his bare hands, but then
again, that�s why I carry.� So I won�t
have to worry about being broke in half.�
�It�s to your left,� I say as he reaches the top of the stairs.�
We are standing in a tiny square
facing down a strong wooden door.� I
found it one day at a flea market, and it turned out to be 17^th
century and Indian, so I kept it for myself.�
On the other side is my apartment.�
It took me three years to get it furnished how I wanted it; for six
months I lived with it almost empty.�
It�s a mixture of good old-fashioned furniture leaning towards Victorian
and modern amenities like stainless steel and black appliances.� I�m a picky one, I am.
The man opens the door.� Sunlight streams in through thinly-curtained
windows and bounces off a chandelier.�
This is my home.� I smile, as I
do almost every time I see my house in the daylight.� The yellow light from the late morning sun cuts wide swaths on a
warm hardwood floor and tan walls; a vase of red roses sits on the counter by
the kitchen.� It�s a very warm, calm
place.� It�s a welcome change from the
chaos of the outside world and my daily life.�
�This is a nice place you got
here,� the man says, looking around.
�Thanks,� I answer.� �Just keep walking.� It�s that door you see at the far end of the
room.�� I point, and he nods.
We continue walking, his shoes
clicking on my floor.� Sometimes I
wonder about these people that come through my door, what they have done and
where they are going.� Everyone has
stories; God knows I have a few as well.�
I sigh as I follow this hulk of a man through my house.� He opens the door of my office and looks back
at me.� I detect a twinkle in his
eye.� I make my way around him and pull
my ring of keys out of my pocket.� The
closet door looks inconspicuous, just another storage space, and that�s how I�d
like to keep it.� I shove the key into
the lock, grunting as I turn it.� The
door likes to stick, and I pray that it won�t do so today.� I�m in luck.� As I turn the knob, the door swings effortlessly open and I
grin.� Flipping the light switch, I
stand back and spread my arms wide.�
�Feast your eyes,� I say.
I can tell he is impressed.� Guns line shelves on the walls; at the back
of the room I have chemicals for bombs and buckets of ammo.� He nods.
�Not bad,� he whispers under his
breath; I�m not sure if I�m supposed to catch it or not.
�Feel free to look around, and
choose something you like.� I�ve got
lots.�� I grin at him, and he smiles
back.� I want to laugh.� Most people bond over things like, I don�t
know, coffee and cigarettes, and here we are, grinning over things that will
kill someone.� Or will most likely kill
someone; the people who come to me aren�t looking for something to hunt animals
with.� The man begins to browse, picking
along the shelves like he was selecting the best tomato in a pile.� I wait, leaning against the door and
watching him with my eyes half closed.�
He is methodical and slow, and for some reason that scares the hell out
of me.�
After a good fifteen minutes of
searching he holds up something and says, �This is perfect.�� I squint, recognizing the Ruger KP944 he
holds in his hand.�
Perfect indeed, I
think.� �Take some ammo, too,� I hear
myself saying.� �It�s over there, on the
other side of the room.�� I point.�
He searches for another few
minutes, finds what he wants, and shakes the box at me.� I keep grinning like an idiot and grab a
paper bag.� I hold out my hand and he
puts the gun in it.� I slide the clip
loose, make sure it�s unloaded, and put it back.� The slide clicks back easily, and I dry-fire.� �Looks good to me,� I say as I wrap the gun
in innocuous looking tissue paper and stick both it and the ammo into the
bag.� �I�ll give it to you for six
hundred pounds, and that�s because I�m being generous.�
His eyes narrow at me.� I refuse to go lower; by all rights it
should be much more expensive than that.�
He seems to realize that, and he nods.�
The money exchanges hands, as does the weapon.� I make sure the door to my storeroom is locked before I turn back
to man.� On our way out, I tell him to
wait as I run into the kitchen and grab a mug.�
I should at least make it look like I went for coffee.
As I follow him down the stairs, my
mind wanders.� I think about my mother
again, the rich American, and the auto accident outside my store.� As I unlock the front door to the shop to
show the man out, he grabs my wrist.� My
hand darts down to my ankle automatically, but he shakes his head.� My hand itches to grab the knife, but I
slowly straighten, my eyes hardening as I stare into his.
�Thank you,� he says, bowing his
head a little.� �If you ever need
anything, let me know.�� He taps the side
of his nose, letting me know he�s got some of the white angel for sale.� �Stop by the Fountainhead Pub and ask for
Sly.�� At that he lets my wrist go and
steps out onto the street, the bag tucked under his arm.� I can almost swear I hear him whistling.�
I move back as a customer for my legal venture comes through
the door.� I nod to her as I
surreptitiously tuck the money into a pocket.�
As long as I get paid�I think and sigh.
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The Bullet and The Rose

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