It had not been a good day for Patrick and, as things were looking, it was only getting worse.
Mornings had never been his friend, he just simply didn't seem to get them. Some folk jumped from bed, fresh and happy, but for Patrick it was an ordeal. Slowly pulling himself from beneath the sheets, he would sit on the edge of the bed and look about the room, considering if it was worth dragging himself to the bathroom, or simply falling back into slumber.
Today had been worse than most, as his neighbour, a lovely Latvian man, who rarely caused a problem, had been celebrating a national holiday. He and his friends had been singing Latvian folk songs until 6am and now they had burrowed into Patrick's brain and he found himself muttering them as he left the house.
Tumsas māte, miglas māte līgo, līgo,
Aiz ezera velējāsi līgo.
Dun bauzīte, čukst vālīte līgo, līgo,
Ievelk mani niedrājāi līgo.
Worse though than rhythmic Latvian lyrics, before he went to work he had to face the almost impossibly bureaucratic HSOS bank. It was the same bank that he had used for nearly a decade, not through choice, but because it was near impossible to transfer his money to anyone else.
Today, he was being compelled to bring his ID to a branch of HSOS to prove his identity, as they had once again frozen his accounts, just as they had a week ago and three months before that. Perhaps, he mused, the sullen woman behind the counter was secretly in love with him, but she had a funny way of showing it if she was. For sure it wasn't being done for his safety or the protection of his money, as the letters he received insisted.
Arriving just a few moments before they opened at 9am, he stood in the queue, waiting behind half a dozen similarly angry looking customers, several of whom he saw were also clutching forms of ID. It made him feel just a little better that he wasn't being singled out.
Six minutes after opening time had passed, the doors parted and he and the others shuffled forward and formed another orderly queue inside the strangely warm bank. Did they make it this warm on purpose, or somehow by accident was it just a few degrees above comfortable? Over the next fourteen minutes, various workers looked like they were going to open windows to serve the queue, but it was not until 9:21 that one finally did so and the first customer was able to begin their argument.
He was going to be very late. Patrick had warned his boss, but this was going to be an epic lateness. A lateness where he would stroll in as others got their second cup of coffee. A lateness that would mean no biscuits left in the break room. A lateness that meant the worst of the day's jobs would be left on his desk and he would be subjected to a sullen sarcasm from his manager. A lateness that he would need to work extra hours for and he hated doing that. Just perfect.
"GET THE FUCK DOWN ON THE FLOOR AND LIE STILL"
The man third in line had pulled what appeared to be a gun from his pocked and much to the astonishment and perhaps mild approval of the queue, he was pointing it towards the bank teller. It was only when he fired it into the ceiling that the rest of the customers got the idea and actually dove for the floor and Patrick joined them, a little perplexed as to why his little local bank was being robbed.
Was this a TV show, or perhaps some bizarre prank? He half hoped it was, and determined to be brave in case it was being filmed. Then his other half suddenly realised he was terrified and decided to try and make him wet himself. Only the fact that he always had a pee before he left the house meant that he avoided wet trousers.
The bank teller sat, her face as passive and useless as always, as the robber paced back and forth. "Come on, give it to me, give it to me NOW" He whined, whipping his gun back and forth.
The teller stretched out her hands and before she spoke, Patrick just knew what she was going to say. "What can I help you with today sir?"
The line must have been hypnotically induced in her, as no normal human would have responded thusly to such stimulae, but to the robber it almost seemed to work as a trigger, as he was finally able to explain himself, if with a little astonishment
"The... the money woman, I need the damn money. All of it! Put it in the bag and let's go!!"
Again, Patrick could feel what she was going to say, as she craned her neck forward and looked from side to side. "Bag?"
The robber danced back as if he too needed to pee. "Shit. SHIT. I forget a fucking bag." He jabbed the gun forward. "I need a bag too then."
The woman sighed, a sigh of many years of customer service. "We don't have bags sir. We're a bank, not a supermarket."
The robber looked on in astonishment. "O...okay, just money, give me MONEY!"
She reached down and for a moment I wondered if she was going to pull out a gun too, but instead she had been hiding a significant sack, which she now lay on the counter. It clunked as she set it down and she began to pull out rolls of coins.
"Coins?" The robber grabbed one roll. "These are pennies are you fucking insane?"
The woman looked up, but continued methodically stacking them on the counter. "I'll get to the rest in a moment sir."
The robber stepped back, defeated by her sheer mindless devotion to her routine and simply watched on as over the next few minutes the woman built up a stack of what must have been nearly five or six quid worth of coins. Nearly twenty minutes had passed since this had all begun.
Patrick began to wonder if the police shouldn't have been there by then, but the small voice in his head once again knew the truth. The bloody teller hadn't been told to contact them, or press the button she had for emergencies and so she hadn't. She wasn't trying to delay him, she just didn't know how to work any better.
Patrick coughed and raised a hand and the gun flipped around and pointed to him. "Uh, sorry, look I don't want to interrupt, but if we don't make some progress I think we'll be here all day."
The robber looked at him and in desperation gestured for Patrick to get up. He moved up and over to the teller and tried to think of a way to get through to her. "Look, if you don't hurry up he's going to kill you. You'll never see your family again!"
She looked up, pausing before she answered. "Not married". She resumed her stacking.
"You'll, uh, never go for a walk, see the sea, experience love, or life again!" This time she didn't even move, but continued her slow motions.
Patrick peered over at her desk, looking for anything that might help, but just one thing was there. "You'll never smoke again." Her hand paused. "You like smoking, right? Well, if he was to kill you, or even just smack you in the throat with the gun, you'd probably never smoke again."
She looked down. "My Newports" she whispered huskily.
Patrick warmed to the theme. "No first ciggy in the morning, nor one at night, or even after coffee. One smack in the throat and it's all gone."
The robber leaned in. "Is that true, could one blow do that?"
Patrick nodded. "Sure, sure, of course."
"Uuuuh, how?"
For a moment Patrick wondered how things had got so far, but at this point it hardly seemed to matter. The day was fucked, the bank was being robbed incredibly inefficiently and he had enough.
"Look, we're not getting anywhere, give it here." He held out his hand for the gun and after a moment the robber handed it over, perhaps sensing that Patrick was already doing a better job than he was.
Patrick considered his options and turned back to the teller. She'd picked up her packet of cigarettes and was cradling it gently. He'd pushed her too far and she had shut down.
Instead of asking again, he leaned over, pushed the till release and as it opened, grabbed the big bundles of notes. Looking about, he pulled a purse from the arm of a nearby woman and stuffed it full before finally appraising the situation.
It was at this moment that it occurred to Patrick that the bank had been robbed, the robber had given over his gun and now Patrick had both. This morning had really gotten out of control, but he'd managed to handle the situation and got everything sorted in less than five minutes. He was a little proud of himself.
He saw himself running out the door, living life on the lam, but... that wasn't him; after all, he had a job to get to that he was very late for. He handed the gun and money to the robber, who looked at him gratefully and ran from the bank. Murmurs around the room started and someone at the far side began to clap a little, but Patrick didn't care and didn't acknowledge it.
Turning back to the woman, he laid his ID on the counter and smiled. "Hello, I need to get my account unfrozen."
She glanced down and set her Newports back on the desk, then looked at the documents he'd brought. "We don't accept drivers licenses any more, new policy, as of last week." She pushed it to one side and looked behind him. "Next."