Bobbie Gillespie took the stairs two a time and then three at a time as he heard a door slamming behind him. His black fringe danced in his eyeline and he flicked his hair back and continued his frenzied ascent of the stairwell. A smiling, broad accent followed him up the stairs.
“There’s no way out Bobbie, it’s just you and me and the roof,” called Brett with a laugh.
Gillespie knew he had at least three storeys on Anderson and he suspected that his overall cardio-vascular fitness was superior to the Suede frontman’s. Granted both men had a long history of recreational drug use but Brett’s heavy smoking surely had to count for something.
Bobbie tried to push the thought out of his mind and plunged onwards up the stairwell. At every floor he would pull at the heavy doors but so far every floor had been locked and the door didn’t move even a millimetre in its frame.
“It’s the roof then Bobbie?” Anderson questioned.
“What’s the point ae thes Brett? What dae ya want?” Bobbie asked leaning over the stairwell and peering into the murky void to see if he could spot the singer as he pursued him.
A shot rang out and Bobbie felt a blast of something on his face and an urgent stinging of his eyes as a brick near his head exploded spraying dust and stones. He blinked out the pieces and set off at a run again.
It’s the roof then, he thought – frantically searching for another means of escape.