Taking Chances

A Game of Chance
By Jack Shaper

As James Chancy stepped out from his car, he reflected on the night he had had. He had been perfectly on his game, saying what needed to be said, doing what needed to be done. Tonight he could sleep well, knowing that a second date was most definitely in the near future; that she would be waiting for his call. He slammed the door, smiling to himself. He was happy. It had been a while since he had been happy. It had been 18 months since his wife had been taken from him, and he had finally moved out of his house of memory. Only a week ago he had been driven from his home by the nightmares, the ghosts of memory relentlessly stalking his heart. He had moved into this suburban dream house only a few days ago, but he was happy now. Funny isn’t it, how a seemingly endless salvation can be stripped away like a death in the night.

The crisp night air was characteristic of this mid-January winter. He enjoyed this weather; it took away the claustrophobia of a suit in the July heat. Striding through his doorway he was plunged into darkness, the moon snuffed out by a shield of concrete. He felt his way along the wall, feeling the rough paintwork agitating his religiously moisturized flesh. He found a light switch in the darkness. Click…Light!...Pfft…darkness again. The light bulb had burned out. He took his cell phone from his pocket, using the screen light as a torch. The light cast eerie green shadows around the room, flooding his head with flashbacks from horror movies. He laughed to himself, trying to stop his mind wondering into a place of insecurity; trying not to get even a little scared. He may have been wise; letting his mind warn him of impending danger…He may have walked out of that house, not returning until the safety of light had rejoined him. He should have realized that there is nothing scary about being alone in the dark; he should have feared that he wasn’t.

The man had heard the car pull into the driveway; the sound sent him into a temporary state of shellshock. His heart in his throat, he planned his next actions carefully.

Sean Brier was 32. Once a successful banker but now, bored with life and made redundant after an unfortunate run-in with embezzlement, he had turned to crime partly to make ends meet, but mostly to feed the craving for a challenge, and to give him some personal entertainment. The only thing that stopped him becoming perfect at his new found occupation, his art, was his conscience. Upon entering Chancy’s home, he had noticed photos of the man and his mother. It had immediately struck him how alike they looked, they could easily be brothers. And his mother; so old and fragile looking, like a glass figurine precariously placed upon a shelf, ready to fall and shatter with the slightest disturbance. Guilt had hit him like a sucker punch to the gut, but this man had things that could pay off some rather uncomfortable and dangerous debts to owe. So he had continued with his excursion.

His brain was working overtime then, trying to figure out a solution to this seemingly impossible predicament. He had already realized there was no way to exit the building without being seen or caught. And even if he could, there wasn’t much enjoyment in escaping by such normal means was there?

James had walked carefully into the hall, still trying to locate a reasonable source of light. Finding his way around this seemingly foreign house still gave him a headache, and it being dark didn’t compliment the situation greatly. His fingers made contact with a magnificent plastic button. He pushed down and was instantly blinded by the sudden flood of light. He opened his eyes to see hands in front of him, but they were not his own. One arm went around his neck, the other closing around his mouth; silencing his worthless screams for help. In front of his eyes red dots started to form. Clouds filled the very edges of his vision, eventually condensating into the middle. He fell, lastly questioning the familiar smell of gasoline that was infecting his nostrils.

James Chancy awoke to the sound of sirens blaring in the background; blue and red lights illuminating his living room window. He could hear the faint crackling of orange and red flames flickering in the darkness, dancing provocatively behind him. He saw a man sitting across from him. The man smiled at him when he saw he was awake, then held a finger to his lips for silence. James looked down to see handcuffs on his arms, holding him to the chair. He fought with his restraints for a while, soon giving up. His energy hadn’t returned to him yet. He wandered if the man was on the phone with the police, like in all those Hollywood movies he enjoyed so much. Indeed Sean Brier was, with Detective Martin Howcraft to be more specific.

The detective had been woken from his dreams by a most unwelcome sound. The telephone was ringing right next to his ear; he didn’t enjoy that one bit. He picked it up instantly to stop his wife being woken from her peaceful slumber. It was the dreaded voice of his superintendent, telling him to come in immediately. He carefully slipped out of his safe haven, sliding along the floorboards silently. He adorned his suit resentfully, wondering to himself whether 40-something was old enough to retire. He went out of his house, and pulled himself into his car. He drove slowly, just to be spiteful towards his boss.


Detective Howcraft arrived at his office to be given a full briefing. A man had called, claiming to have a hostage in a burning building. The fire department at already been notarized, and were at the scene. They had been given clear instructions not to enter the building until they had been given the go ahead. The detective got back into his car again, and drove to the house. It took him all of five minutes to get there; he had wished he had some more time to just relax before being thrown back into work.

He slid out of his car, walking towards the men in blue. One walked up to him with a telephone, telling him it had a direct link to the home phone. Martin sighed, taking the phone from the officer. Pressing the green button, he heard a dial tone. A man picked up.
“Hello?” Who am I speaking with?” The voice questioned.
“My name is Martin Howcraft, detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. What is it you want sir?”
“Hmm…Does it matter? I watch crime movies; the hostage taker never really gets what he wants. Why will now be any different?”
The detective answered tactfully, “Movies are very different to real life. If what you want is within reason, I’m sure we can work something out.”
“Fair enough…I want safe transport to the airport, and then to be left alone. I want $100,000 organized to be transferred to me before this man goes anywhere. Get in touch with his accountant, and then we can talk.”

The phone went dead. Martin Howcraft sat on the pavement. He pulled a pack of Marlboro Filter out of his pocket, carefully placing one into his mouth. He flicked a spark from his lighter, igniting his cigarette. He took a long drag, pondering the situation. He called an officer over, telling him to find James Chancy’s accountant. ‘This is going to be a long night,’ he though to himself.

Ten minutes later, James Chancy’s accountant was on the phone with the detective. “Is there not a hostage fund we can use instead?” The man reasoned.
“Yes there is, and we will use it. Just get over here so we can get this done. We will get the money back anyway, it’s not like he will really be able to escape this.” He picked up the phone, and called the house, now lit up like a jack-o-lantern.
“Your money will be transferred. What account number can we send the money to?”
“Account number 876451198: American express. When it is done give me a confirmation number and we can all be on our way.”
“Ok…” The detective recited the numbers off to the accountant. He typed vigorously, finally giving him the thumbs up.
“Right…The confirmation number is 446132.”
“Thank you detective, we will speak shortly.”
Sean Brier called the bank, gave them the reference number, and heard the balance. He smiled, ‘perfect,’ he thought. He turned to the man in front of him, fiddling his restraints. “Alright my friend, we are done here. Now we can all move on with lives…”

The detective received a call from the house for the last time, but it most certainly was not the type of call he was expecting.
“Can I talk to you detective?”
“Of course…As you know, we want to get this situation over and done with as soon as humanly possible. And I would rather not be carrying someone out in a body bag, so yes. Please do talk to me.”
There was a moment of silence, then a teary voice uttered, “I’m not going to get out of this am I?”
The detective answered truthfully, “No. When you leave that house, you will be arrested. You will go to jail…But if you just co-operate, the judge will be lenient on you, I can promise you that.”
Martin Howcraft heard the man sniffle, then sob. “I don’t want to go to jail! I…I know what…I know what they do to people in there. I don’t want to go to jail!”
“Look son…you put yourself in this situation. There is no other way out. Accept it and walk out. You don’t want to let that man die, because then you will never see the sun again. Come out and face it.” The detective felt sorry for the man, but he spoke the truth; this man won’t get out of this without penalty. And he wasn’t sorry for that.
He waited for a response…a judgment. Then after a minute or so, he heard breathing again. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience sir…but I don’t think it’s worth it…” Howcraft waited for what we knew was coming. The silence was shattered with the words “Fuck it…” followed by a single gunshot. The phone hit the floor, and the connection was terminated. He was stunned, loosing his composure for a few precious seconds. Then his training and instinct kicked back in, “Go! Get that man out now!” he screamed at the SWAT teams.

They entered the house, breaking down the door with ease. The team was followed by firefighters, trying to barge their way through to control the situation. They all entered the living room at about the same time, and the scene they witnessed shook them to their core. In front of them lay a man, phone in hand, with half his head scattered throughout the room. The corpse was already badly burnt, no possible hope of rescue there. Then they heard clinking chains behind them. They saw a man struggling with his restraints, tears streaming down his face, spluttering from the lack of oxygen and the excess smoke. The leader of the SWAT team undid his handcuffs, and carried him out of the house. He was hurried to an ambulance, where he was given a cup of steaming coffee and a blanket.
“Are you ok Mr. Chancy?” asked one of the paramedics. The man simply nodded, still unable to speak from shock. The paramedic returned to help get the dead man into a body bag, looking very unhappy about it.

Sean Brier smiled to himself as he sipped his stale coffee. “That couldn’t have gone any better,” He thought. It would take them a long time to identify the body inside as that of James Arthur Chancy; long enough at least for Santo have disappeared with $100 000 in hand. He watched a tall, muscular man in a suit walk over and sit down beside him.
“Hello sir, my name is Martin Howcraft. I can’t tell you how glad we all are that you are safe. If there is anything we can do for you, please feel free to ask.”
Sean simply nodded again, still playing the distraught victim of a potential homicidal maniac. He thought the role suited him well.

Silence engulfed the pair, the only sound was the crackling fire in the distance, sending shadows dancing along their faces. Howcraft rose, breaking the silence.
“I really shouldn’t tell you this, but these situations usually end really badly. You are very lucky for this to have gone so well.”
Sean Brier looked up, his eyes reflecting the flames of the relentless destruction. “You have no idea detective.”