The voice came from his shoulder, sounding like Bob Dylan's ghost had caught him up here in this dirty close or he had crossed over to join it in half-lit purgatory. Turned out neither were the case. It was a passerby, a dredlocked man wearing a t-shirt and parachute pants who wasn't bothered by the rain and carried no umbrella and wore no hat, a true anomaly on Edinburgh streets.
Approaching the woman and verifying with a nudge of his boot that she was unconscious, the man said, "We better move this."
Rob lost the strength in his hand and dropped the pistol. It clattered to the flagged stones and commenced to steaming as rain pummeled the barrel.
They dragged the body deeper into the alley, the stranger hoisting her shoulders and leading the way while Rob carried her feet.
"We'll split whatever's she's got, eh?" said the stranger, smiling with with a mouthful of bronze-capped teeth. He looked like a tiger. As he rifled the woman's pockets, a low moan issued from her.
"Hey," he exclaimed, leaping up as if stung, "she hain't got no wound. You're a lousy shot, brother." And with that he was off into the storm without looking back.
Rob sighed. Even his marksmanship was a subject of public ridicule.
Collecting the gun -it was his wife's, after all- he beat it before the woman woke up and offered advice on how to better mug a victim next time. Wisdom like that he didn't need.
TO BE CONTINUED
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