One More Fight [EDITING]

2: FLETCHER

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    My hands immediately go up as if I'm a soldier on duty. I've never even been in the army or done anything; that's not me. But right now, my adrenaline is soaring through, forcing me to do as I'm told. Adelaide is against the wall beside me, out of their way.

She hates me, and I have a varying distaste for her, but right now, I would rather she is alive than dead. To hate is to feel emotion. I can't deny that, and I wish I felt nothing.

There are whispers around the bank; the customers and people behind the desks, but I can't make out the words—

"Shut up! Everyone!"

The taller and bulkier guy in black stands further into the bank. He hasn't got a gun out, but as my eyes go down his body, I can see it sticking out of his hoodie pocket.

A gun is something you don't see in Southampton these days. When I've visited London – a lot during publishing and for interviews around the book and whatever – there have been a few armed police, especially after the various stabbings in the past few years around London Bridge.

London Bridge, where I will never go back again. If I can help it, of course. Something Adelaide and I rarely spoke about at the time, because I told her I couldn't. Something that came between us. It pushed me away, and that pushed her away.

Why does all this shit happen to me? I loathe people who say that kind of thing, but I swear all of this ridiculous stuff happens to me.

"Get back!"

Female screams.

Bang.

I leap to the left, shielding Adelaide as a bullet gets fired into the wall opposite us. Luckily, no one is there. Seems like a warning shot, but still.

The copy of my book that the guy was reading, and I signed, is strewn on the floor. How apt.

"What do you want?" one of the male workers yells.

The guy with the gun out laughs from behind his balaclava. He drifts into the middle of the room, pushing over the barrier that forms the outline of the queue for the desks.

"Fletch—"

"Sh," I hiss. "Don't draw attention right now."

She delicately flips her blonde hair behind her back; it's shorter than it used to be but still wavy and angelic against the sombre shit right now.

One of the four men sets his sights on us. He approaches with a knife in hand. It looks like a kitchen knife – or a chef's knife? – you'd spend a fuck ton of money on in John Lewis or something.