It was the morning of December 26th, 1989—or, as the British insisted on calling it for reasons lost to time, Boxing Day. Across Edinburgh, most citizens stayed in their pyjamas, drinking lukewarm tea and pretending to be fascinated by the news: the trial and execution of Nicolae Ceaușescu, the fallen dictator of the Socialist Republic of Romania; endless commentary about the Berlin Wall's collapse; the U.S. invasion of Panama; and, in the margins, mumbled reports about the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan, Thatcher's latest sermon on duty, and the Royal Family's Christmas message, which was just the Queen politely apologising for existing in a country that couldn't afford heating.
But Billy McNab wasn't waking up to any of that.
His day began with an alarm clock that shrieked like a kettle being murdered. He silenced it with the heel of his hand—an efficient but destructive gesture that sent it flying into a wall, where it disappeared into a pile of beer bottles, fag ends, and used condoms he'd never quite worked up the courage to clean.
Blinking at the cracked ceiling, Billy muttered, "Ah, shite. Here we go again."
The bed creaked beneath him in protest, clearly long past its retirement age. Around him lay a kingdom of filth: a single-pane window furred with ice, carpet the colour of boiled tea, and ash-covered floorboards that could have qualified as an archaeological site of bad decisions. The wallpaper had surrendered sometime during Thatcher's second term, peeling away in despair, though Billy's ancient posters of the Fourth Reich—and a few glossy muscle-man pin-ups—still clung stubbornly to the walls.
They were his daily motivation. In Billy's philosophy, "big" meant "right." Big men skipped queues. Big men didn't have to apologise. Big men didn't do dishes.
He flashed a toothy grin at the moustached man pointing from his poster—"Germany needs you, Billy!"—and for a moment felt almost patriotic, though he'd never been entirely sure which country that was supposed to be.
Out of habit, he brushed a palm over his bald head, admiring the smoothness. Some called him a skinhead; others, simply an arsehole. Both were probably right.
He scratched his stomach—rock-hard abs under a generous layer of pub lager—and rose from bed completely naked, a champion of poverty and zero modesty. The floorboards groaned under his weight, while his scarred, overtrained body gleamed in the freezing light like an idol to anger management gone wrong.
Billy had, by all accounts, three talents:
1. Smoking and drinking simultaneously.
2. Winning pub fights he swore he didn't start.
3. Playing the tank in Dungeons & Dragons, because—as his mates liked to say—he had "main-character rage."
To wake himself up, he performed his traditional morning ritual: one stretch, a deep breath, and a right hook through the bedroom door. The cheap wood gave way with a satisfying crack, scattering splinters into the hallway.
Billy smiled at the sting in his knuckles.
Cheaper than therapy, and twice as effective.
Breakfast was a sandwich on the throne—multitasking in the grand British tradition: eat, contemplate empire, perform ablutions. Then came shaving, showering, and tooth-brushing all at once, a violent water ballet choreographed with a towel that had once been white and now belonged to the Bronze Age.
Wardrobe: black and red, all of it, capped with a long black leather coat that fell past his knees, black boots, black sunglasses, black cap. Billy swore he looked like a Wehrmacht vampire—some heroic Nazi officer cosplay from the discount bin of history. In reality he resembled a third-rate hacker who'd learned fashion from a pirated VHS of The Matrix that hadn't been invented yet. The coat hid his old swastika tattoo—a souvenir from the days he'd learned the hard way that being an angry British skinhead closed more doors than it kicked open. He still wanted to show it—sod what people think—but it was freezing, and even ideology needs a coat.
He'd wanted the army, of course, but like most respectable careers it had wanted nothing to do with him. In Billy's catechism of grievances, he had never done wrong; history had done wrong to Billy. It was a comforting doctrine and, unlike most religions, required no tithes.
Teeth grinding, he grabbed a breakfast beer from the fridge, slammed the flat door behind him, and didn't lock it. There was nothing worth stealing unless Edinburgh had suddenly developed a black market for mildew. He thundered down the stairwell, which smelled—as it always did—of damp toast, puke, piss, and resentment. Outside, Boxing Day air slapped him awake. Overhead, the sky provided the city's favorite colour: wet grey, the shade British history wears when it can't be bothered.
An old woman clip-clopped past with a terrier, pinching her nose and muttering about bums. The dog stopped, saluted his building with both forms of civic participation, received a treat for its patriotism, and trotted off.
"Filthy hag," Billy muttered. The terrier wagged; diplomacy achieved.
He crossed the road without looking, daring the cars to make him rich through grievous bodily compensation. Horns barked, brakes squealed, and the universe—like most of Edinburgh—remained firmly unaroused by Billy McNab's existence.
In St Andrew Square, a man slept under a tree with a cardboard plea: NEED HELP I'M HUNGRY. Billy spat and chuckled, "There—have some water," a Samaritan of the worst parish. He told himself these blokes mugged grannies at night. It made cruelty feel like civic virtue.
If life were fair, he thought, he'd be police—handing out philosophy lessons with his fists. Sadly, the police had rules, and Billy had Billy. His dream reform program was simple: Scotland, but punctual—queues straight, mouths shut, society rearranged "one jaw at a time," like Stalin with better signage.
Instead he had the Royal Bank of Scotland. Inside: marble pillars, gleaming floors, furniture that looked like it charged rent. Working there was a privilege—for everyone except the cleaners and Billy, the security guard who guarded treasure he wasn't allowed to touch. He paused at the black metal gates and admired the building the way a starving man admires a locked bakery.
Five quid an hour to babysit a dragon's hoard. He was meant to be grateful to the manager who'd fished him out of the pub and given him a job when the pavement was eyeing him as a long-term tenant. Billy acknowledged the rescue in theory; in practice, gratitude did not crack the top fifty of his virtues. He wanted more. He wanted cash. He wanted to punch history until it finally paid up.
He had a good ten minutes before his morning shift, he guessed, so he balanced his beer on the edge of one of the bank's metal fence posts and popped it open. As he drank he ran through the grand plan again—proud as you like.
He'd only recently said yes to the Highland Liberation Army—if that's what you called three men in a pub with more slogans than sense. No, this wasn't some polite "Scotland Liberation Army" petitioning for independence; in theory at least it was more extreme. The leader, who his veteran mates from the Falklands called Braveheart because he was apparently a proper psycho, was actually Douglas Alastair Horn. He'd crowned himself messiah and future ruler of Scotland and had promised they'd make history. During their last D&D night, while they fought man-eating fish that walked on tentacles and guarded treasure like a dragon, Douglas had tapped the table and said, "Listen, my brothers—this victory over the Fish Lord Galgazar is the first step. We'll hit the bank. They'll never see it coming. We get arms and armour from that Gaddafi fellow in Libya, then more jobs, more banks, and soon—freedom for Scotland."
Billy had been meant to be the inside man; finally he'd be useful, finally do something badass worthy of a film. Two weeks later, and there was still no word. Braveheart—that bastard—had slipped back into myth and legend like the historic Braveheart, leaving Scotland just when it was getting interesting.
He downed the rest of the beer fast and cursed. "Fuck." With practiced aim he flung the bottle across the street toward the bin by the bus stop. It sailed between cars and smashed gloriously in the rubbish; a few women screamed, an old man laughed and called, "My man." Billy gave him a thumbs up and turned to the bank.
He hesitated. Should he go to work? Maybe he should sign up as a mercenary in Africa, do something that actually meant something. Then he caught his reflection in the bank windows beyond the fence—his "badass, unkillable" reflection—sneering back at him. If the Army had taken him, he could've killed for a cause like Braveheart. If the police had taken him, he could've kept order with a smile and a baton. Instead he held doors open so rich people's coins didn't catch a cold.
Unable to decide, he took out a cigarette and lit it, inhaled once, and muttered, "Best part of the job—this bit right here."
Then he heard it: the big brass lock turning behind the bank doors. He cursed under his breath, flicked the cigarette into the gutter, and stamped it flat until the ember squealed. "Oh, shite—already?"
The doors swung wide and out came Guthrie, head of security—blue overcoat, military posture, face like a cupboard that had forgotten how to smile.
"McNab!" Guthrie barked. "I can see you skulking from the bloody window. Shift starts at eight, not when you finish your fag."
"Aye, aye, I know," Billy said, hands up—guilty but unbothered. "Just havin' one before the grand performance."
Guthrie crossed the step and began to unlock the metallic front gate so Billy could come inside.
"Christ's sake, you smell like alcohol," he said, jingling keys. "You know you could've come through the back like normal people."
"Yeah, was gonna," Billy muttered. "Figured I'd take the scenic route—get a lungful of freedom before I chain myself to the door again."
Guthrie didn't laugh. He never did. He let Billy in, slid the key home, and shut the gate with a click and a clank.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say—just try not to do anything stupid this time, and don't flirt with the women," Guthrie said. "And for God's sake, wash your hands before you touch the logbook, and maybe wash your mouth as well before you breathe on anyone."
"Yessir," Billy said—half salute, half sneer.
Inside, the Royal Bank of Scotland opened into a pale, orderly hush. The ground-floor banking hall stretched long and rectangular, its marble floor gleaming like a frozen loch beneath the flicker of green-shaded lamps. Brass rails lined the counters; rope posts already marked out tomorrow's queues. To the left, the manager's glass-walled office surveyed the hall like a fish tank, papers drifting across the desk like lazy goldfish. To the right, a neat cluster of desks waited for the loan officers and "personal banking" staff—each crowned with a typewriter and a plastic in-tray brimming with pink forms that no one would ever read twice.
Behind the counters, a staff-only door opened onto the strongroom corridor and the side stair. Up that stair, the first floor held the conference rooms, the break room, and the dusty little archive where old files went to die and no one ever mourned them. Down below, past a heavier door and dimmer light, waited the safe-deposit and the vaults which was strictly Guthrie's territory, and the closest thing the building had to hell.
Two guards were already on duty besides Guthrie. Stewart was holed up in the camera room—a humming cave of flickering CRT screens, tangled wires, and the smell of stale coffee. His job was to watch everything, and to make sure MacLeod—doing his slow, faithful laps of the corridors—didn't miss a single corner. If MacLeod forgot to check even one bathroom, Stewart would be in his ear on the radio before he'd finished turning the handle.
The cleaners were divided by territory too. Morag ruled the ground floor—her trolley rattled like a caged ghost as she passed Guthrie and Billy with a nod of mutual exhaustion. The upper floor, where the managers and "important folk" had their offices, belonged to Irene. She was already waging war on a blocked toilet somewhere above, her curses echoing down the stairwell like a pagan hymn.
Billy followed Guthrie through the corridor—the man carried every key like a jailer with a personal grudge. At last they reached the security room, which doubled as their changing room and break hole. Guthrie dropped a red-tag keyring into Billy's palm.
"Get changed fast, then go greet the others. Headcount of who's in today."
He didn't wait for a reply; Guthrie never did. He vanished down the hall to do his own perfectionist patrol, leaving Billy to sigh his way into the room.
Stewart gave him a distracted nod without turning from his monitors.
"Morning," Billy said.
"Mhmm."
Billy opened his locker. Inside: one white shirt, one clip-on tie, a navy jacket, black trousers, leather shoes, a badge, and the cap. No weapon, no radio worth trusting—just his fists and his charm, which wasn't saying much. Dressed and buttoned, he faced the dented mirror. The reflection staring back wasn't so much "security guard" as "funeral usher with delusions of grandeur"—a strange halfway point between office clerk and nightclub bouncer. Still, the look had its uses; apparently, it made the bank feel "professional."
He straightened the tie, pinned the badge, and muttered, "Ready for another day of guarding absolutely nothing."
Then, grabbing the clipboard, he scribbled his name on the shift sheet—proof of life—and headed down the corridor toward the back door to start his first job of the morning: greeting the incoming staff like a very polite prison warden.
Billy planted himself at the staff entrance with a clipboard—the toll gate. "Name, time, department," he said, trying for professional and hitting bouncer-at-a-wedding.
Agnes McCulloch—vaults—08:01. Mid-fifties, wedding band groove on her finger, the kind of tidy grey bob that says five kids, still standing. She gave him her sunny "Morning, love," and—like always—her hand found his bicep as she slid past, a quick squeeze as if checking ripeness. Billy stared straight ahead. Not his age, not his type; pretend nothing happened.
Tick.
Mags Leitch—assistant manager—08:04. Charcoal suit cut sharp, white shirt and a tie, hair cropped short; everything about her said don't call me miss. Billy had never worked out if she was a very tidy man or a very practical woman—and he knew better than to ask. He wrote the name down and avoided deciding. Mags gave him a brisk nod that could have been hello or a warning.
Tick.
Derrick Singh — junior clerk — 08:06.
An Indian immigrant with an egg-shaped head, kind eyes, and a mop of dark hair that never seemed to obey gravity. His English carried that soft, rolling accent Billy always associated with Indian shopkeepers and cricket on the telly.
"Morning, Mr McNab! Tea or just milk today?" he asked brightly.
"Just milk," Billy said.
Derrick grinned. "Milk it is then—drink of the gods, gift of the cows. Excellent choice."
Billy smirked despite himself, ticked the man off, and waved him through.
Next came Elaine and June Kerr — tellers — 08:08.
Twins: same navy cardigans, same neat skirts, same cheerful energy. Two blonde beauties with librarian glasses, one with bright blue eyes (Elaine), the other with paler grey (June). Their voices came in perfect harmony.
"Morning, Billy!"
Tick, tick.
Billy watched them walk down the corridor—perfect rhythm, perfect figures. For a moment he let himself admire the view before the universe punished him with a sudden shape in his path.
Morag, mop in hand, blocked the hall like an angry ship at port.
"Young man, I'm on the ground floor today. Upstairs for Irene. Alright?" she barked, though they'd already covered that twice.
Billy forced a smile, ticked both cleaners off the list, and swallowed his annoyance.
"Aye, got it," he said, through teeth that wanted to bite.
That was the lot for today: four guards, two cleaners, and five real bank employees.
A skeleton crew, since the bank was closed for Boxing Day—but still plenty of "important" work for everyone inside. Everyone except the guards, that is, who never saw any real action.
By eight-fifteen the bank had woken into its domestic racket—kettles hissing, typewriters chattering, the old heating coughing itself awake. Stewart crackled in from the camera room: all quiet, except for pigeons treating the lawn like a public convenience. "McNab—go educate them," he said. So Billy did.
He performed the usual pigeon warfare—claps, shooing, empty threats—then drifted into the small forecourt inside the iron fence and leaned against the glass: cap low, cigarette higher.
Boxing Day 1989 shuffled past on sore feet. A bus wheezed along Princes Street with three anaemic passengers. A boy in a neon windcheater tried to make his skateboard respect him while his dad filmed on a camcorder the size of a shoebox. A woman in a fur hat argued with a phone box until the glass steamed. Even the pigeons huddled like they regretted Christmas.
Billy drew long and slow, watching smoke ladder up the window and vanish into the December air. "Five quid an hour to stand here like a window ornament," he told his reflection. "Well—beats being homeless."
He flicked ash toward the railings and adjusted his cap. Behind him, the bank waited, along with the morning reports he was meant to write by hand like everything else in this place. He tucked the clipboard under his arm—future-Billy's problem—and kept his eyes on the street, guarding nothing in particular and everything in general, perfectly trained for both. Mostly he was scanning for a pretty face to brighten the shift; winter coats did their grim work.
Then the sky opened, the rain coming down hard as if the heavens themselves had decided to deliver a warning. Billy merely tipped his head back and let it wash his face; for a moment the city and its small anxieties fell away and he felt a rare, stupid peace.
Twenty yards down, in the shadowed throat of Multrees Walk by the bus station, a white van eased into the alley and died. The cut was empty at this hour except for the hiss of diesel and the wet smell of stone. Inside, the nine crusaders checked straps and tightened pouches, fingers testing the bite of rifles and the snug of buckles with the careful ritual of men who loved the sound of metal. Sir Egg moved among them like a slow tide, palms on gauntlets, jaw set.
Braveheart sat low in the driver's seat, hood drawn. When he looked back at the men and women behind him his face took on the earnest, fevered light of a preacher about to give a benediction. He had that small actor's knack for turning sentiment into command.
"Remember, brothers and sisters," he said, voice raw with religious fever, "praise the little lord that he has delivered us to this place and time in history so that we can go and slaughter the heretics and the unclean in his holy name! We do the Emperor's work, brothers and sisters! Even now I'm sure he watches us and by the manner of our deaths will we be judged, so let go and be washed into his holy embrace by the blood of the enemy that taints this land! Now follow me and let us rob a bank, Deus vult!"
The crusaders made the sign of the cross with their free hands and answered in a single blunt chorus, "Deus vult!"
Braveheart climbed out into the rain and yanked the van doors open. He pulled his hood lower to hide his face and stepped aside. One by one they slid out—helms catching gutter light, tabards hanging over modern plates, metal clinking against polymer. Their boots hit the cobbles in a dull, steady drum as they arrayed themselves along the alley wall, each of them taking a breath to measure the strange new city around them before Braveheart led them forward.
They hadn't been in this world long enough for its noises to mean anything; this would be their first real test. Beyond the walls of the alley people ran from the rain, scattering under whatever have them shelter from the rain. For a beat as the 9 crusaders and Braveheart paused at the mouth of the alley, the world seemed to hold it's breath. Then with a simple hand gesture they moved, Braveheart in the lead.