When I think back to that night, I ask myself if there was anything any of us could have done... anything I could have done... to stop what happened. Sometimes I wrestle with my conscience for hours, reliving what happened step by step, until I finally reach the same conclusion, "no," there wasn't anything I or anyone else could have done. However, once I've satisfied my guilt on this point, I often find myself asking another question, "is it wrong of me to find the most fucked up situation I've ever been involved in... ever will be involved in... the most sexually satisfying moment of my life?" To my shame, the answer to that question is never so comfortable to reach.
As I write this, it's getting on for just over two years since it happened. It was the time of my (now ex) work's Christmas party, and after a stressful year, everyone was looking forward to letting their hair down.
We were a relatively small firm at the time, probably about 100 employees in total, and after a year of having to tighten the coffers quite drastically, it was nice to see my colleagues looking so relaxed. I was even pleasantly surprised by the quality of the hall that had been hired for the evening, which, despite our financial struggles, was a lot more impressive than I'd expected - perhaps the fact that it was on the outskirts of town and a bit isolated had driven the price down somewhat, but, still, I thought Mary in the events team had done a fantastic job. She'd even managed to convince the CEO to stump up some money for the bar in recognition of our hard work.
The event started off with a couple of obligatory speeches, but these were kept relatively short, and it wasn't long before everyone had made their way to the bar area, breaking off in to small groups to chat with friends. There was a good buzz about the place, and as I began my second bottle of beer, I remember looking around the room and smiling at how happy and de-stressed everyone looked. A lot of the women had clearly made a big effort with their appearance, many seemingly having bought a new dress and spent extra time on their hair and makeup, and many of the men appeared to be sporting fresh new haircuts and designer shirts. In fact, thinking back, me and my two closest workmates, Dwayne and Ash, were probably the only ones who hadn't made much of an effort; it's not that we were purposely trying to be different, we'd just realised a while ago that we'd never really polish up to much no matter how hard we tried. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't say any of us were ugly (none of us had a third eye or anything!), but we weren't exactly movie star material either.
As the evening drew on, the music gradually increased in volume, and it wasn't long before a small crowd began to appear on the dance floor. Soon I expected most people would be dancing, a few of the men would probably start showing off infront of the women they not-so-secretly fancied, and Angie from reception would probably end up getting off with Jay from accounting, possibly dragging him off somewhere for a bit more 'fun'. That's how I suspected things would have turned out had Clive Scott not gate-crashed our party.
From attending some of the trial (separate to the times I'd had to give evidence) and reading the newspaper reports that accompanied it, it transpires that, after finishing the last of his stash earlier that day, Scott had left his house intent on finding someone (or something) to rob in order to pay off his dealer and buy some more drugs. He explained that his plan had been to head in to town where he could find some rich looking business types to mug down a side alley. However, whilst driving down the long rural road that lead to the city, his piece of shit car began to splutter, and he was instead forced to turn his attention to an isolated hall he'd passed less than a mile earlier; our hall.
He acknowledged during his trial that he'd contemplated stopping when he first saw the hall, having noticed a well-dressed man standing alone outside smoking a cigarette, but given the size of the debt he'd had with his dealer, he figured that a single score wouldn't be enough and had driven on. It was only when his car started giving signs that it was finally dying on him, that he spun it around and drove back towards the hall, parking about 100 feet or so away in a dark bypass. He figured that, if he were lucky, the cigarette guy would have a good amount of cash on him and keys to a more reliable ride.
Scott left his car and walked up to the hall, map in hand, and approached the man still standing outside.
"Excuse me mate, do you know if this is the right road to get to Oakfield?"
Jim jumped at hearing Scott's voice, completely unware of the man approaching him.
"I don't think it's this road you're after" he said, regaining his composure and taking hold of the map. "I think you should have..."
"GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING WATCH AND EMPTY YOUR POCKETS," snarled Scott, shoving the barrel of a gun in to Jim's ribs.
The blood drained from Jim's face and the map slipped from his fingers, dropping to the floor.
"W-w-what are you doing man... there's no need to do this," he said, trying to make sense of the situation.
"If you don't give me your shit RIGHT NOW, I'll put a hole in your stomach and take it myself..."
Terrified that Scott wasn't bluffing, Jim did as he was told and clumsily unfastened his watch. It wasn't a particularly expensive watch, probably costing a couple of hundred at most, but his wife had given it to him for their first anniversary and he'd had every intention of keeping it for as long as possible.
After momentarily evaluating the watch that had just been handed to him, Scott motioned for Jim to empty his pockets. Again Jim did as he was told and produced a twenty and a pack of chewing gum.
"Is that all you've got???" said an annoyed Scott.
"That's it, honest..." replied Jim, panicking at his mugger's clear frustration.
"What about car keys? How did you get here?"
"M-m-most of us got a cab or car pooled," he said trembling.
Scott pulled the gun up towards Jim's face and held it there for a few seconds. Finally, after contemplating his next move, he demanded, "How many of you are there?"
"About 100 or so..."
"And how many staff?"
"Just... just two behind the bar... and a DJ"
Scott took a moment to think through his options before grabbing Jim's arm.
"Turn around. If you make ONE noise, I'll put a bullet in your back. Got it?"
Jim, almost paralysed with fear, somehow managed to signal with his head that he understood.
Scott wrapped an arm around Jim's neck, stuck the gun in the middle of his back, and pushed him towards the hall. As Jim slowly pushed the door open, warm air and the sound of loud music began spilling out in to the cool night breeze.
As they stepped through the doorway, Scott quickly observed the room; the lights were low and everyone was either dancing or chatting too much to notice what was happening. I certainly didn't see them enter.
Having identified the only other exit he could see, Scott pulled Jim to a complete standstill and locked the door behind him. Releasing his arm from around Jim's neck, but still discretely pressing the gun in to his back, Scott slowly directed his captive towards the door located across the other side of the hall.
With the lights down low and everyone distracted, it was only as they reached their destination that a couple of people began to wonder who the stranger was walking with Jim. However, before they'd even had a chance to fully process their thoughts, Scott had locked the door and pulled the plug on the speakers.
I, like everyone else in the room, instantly turned around confused, even more so as we saw Jim stumble forward and bundle in to a group of women from HR. Before the glass that Jim had knocked out of Debra's hand had even had time to hit the floor and smash in to a thousand pieces, the noise of a gunshot rung out across the room and a bullet flew through the ceiling.
"EVERYONE STAND FUCKING STILL," Scott shouted at the top of his voice.
Instantly an explosion of screams filled the room and most people, including me and my friends, began running for the exit.
Another gunshot echoed through the hall.
