Gun Read online

  When he looked back at Al, there was a gun on the coffee table. Richie guessed it was the right one – certainly looked like a Magnum. Al jerked his chins at Richie. "Money."

  Richie removed the banded notes and put them on the table next to the gun. Made a move to pick it up and got Al's thick hand on top of his, pinning him to the table. Richie tried to move, but the big lad had some strength. Still, he didn't want to be bent over in a poof's house any longer than necessary. And it was only necessary for a fraction of a second at the most.

  "Leave the gun for a second. Let me count."

  Richie nodded, then whipped his hand back, straightened up as soon as he could. Watched the fat fuck pull the bands off the money and count each note, his lips moving. When Al finally gave him the nod, Richie had to stop himself lunging for the gun and running out. Instead he lifted the weapon and looked at it.

  "It's loaded, right?"

  Al looked up from the money. "Aw, you don't trust us, do you?"

  Richie shook his head. Thinking he should probably call Goose because this was just the kind of shite he was talking about. But also thinking, fuck it, he could handle one obese arse bandit. He raised the gun and pointed it directly at Al.

  "Now what's that supposed to prove?" said Al.

  "I can't open this thing up," said Richie. "But I can pull a fuckin' trigger nae bother."

  "I get you. And you reckon you can do that before my man Stanley peppers the shite out of you from the kitchen."

  The cracked kitchen door. Right enough, Richie's instincts were spot on about that. They were spot on about this, too. This gun wasn't loaded. If it was, even if Al did have Stanley in the kitchen, he'd still be thinking about his fat arse getting splattered all over that cheap sofa, so there'd still be a twitch or something.

  Richie thought, fuck it, and pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  There was still a jump, a wave running through Al's body caused by a single tiny flinch somewhere under the Aloha. He breathed out through his nose, then he shifted around, pushed aside a cushion and brought out a small plastic bag with six bullets inside. He tossed it onto the coffee table.

  "There," said Al.

  Richie scooped up the bag, stuffed into his pocket. Then he slid the Magnum into the back of his trackies and smiled at Al. "Thanks."

  "You tell Goose to send someone else next time, alright?"

  "Aye, alright."

  Richie sauntered out the room, down the hall and was met at the open front door by the bouncer. The bouncer looked over Richie's shoulder at Florida Al before he got out of Richie's way. When he did, Richie squinted against the light. Behind him, he could hear the grunting of blokes fucking turned right up.

  He walked back the way he came, heading for the bus stop and pulling his trackie bottoms up every five minutes. Reckoned he'd have to do something about the gun. He didn't want to be walking somewhere, lose his pants and the weapon.

  Richie leaned against the side of the bus stop, checked the times. Another hour or so, he'd be back at Goose's place, getting paid. Might be able to get down the dole for the afternoon at this rate. He pulled out his tabs, lit one. When he lifted his head, he saw a gang of charva lads coming his way. Three of them, wearing that same uniform of stripy jumpers and trackie bottoms. One of them had a Berghaus over his jumper. Another one wore a cap, had box-whites on his feet and a hare lip. One of them, a lad with bad acne and worse teeth, saw Richie was smoking.

  "How, mister," he said. "Got a tab?"

  "Aye," said Richie. Reckoned these lads were getting the bus, he'd better give them as many tabs as they wanted, because he didn't want to hear the fucking whinge all the way back to Heworth. Richie held out the tabs. The vocal charva took one, tucked it behind his ear while the others moved around Richie.

  "Got a light, like?"

  Richie blew smoke, gave the lad his Bic. As he did, he felt something at his back. He turned, heard "Fuckin' hell" and saw the lad with the cap holding the dipped grip of the Magnum.

  "How," said Richie. "That's –"

  And Richie's vision exploded into white, pain flaring at the side of his head. He twisted, grabbed at the side of the bus shelter, his arse hitting the lean-seats and slipping. He dug his feet in, tried to keep upright. One hand up to his head, squinting through the explosions in his vision to see the smoking lad with a brick in his hand.

  "The fuck you –"

  The second blow knocked the struts out. Richie hit the ground as the kicking started. He cried out, brought his knees to his chest and tried to stay that way.

  It was hard to dole out a proper meet-your-maker kicking when you were wearing trainers. And as Richie curled under the blow delivered by the smoking charva and his mates, he thanked a God he never really believed in for soft-toed shoes. The kicks still hurt, still battered fuck out of an already aching body, but they didn't tear him up like the boots he'd taken in the past. Whatever happened, however hard they went into him, he knew he'd live through this one, just as long as he stayed balled up and submissive.

  Then, just as the rain of blows turned to a slow drizzle, Richie made the mistake of lifting his head a half-inch. A stray kick caught him in the temple, bounced his head off the road. He grunted as another foot knocked the air out of his lungs and he wrapped himself around the leg.

  One more kick to the head snuffed his conscious mind.

  Then it was flashes in the dark.

  After that, just dark.

  3

  He could hear a baby crying somewhere.

  As he struggled back to the world, he was positive he could hear a baby. He opened his eyes to slits, breathed out and felt his entire body seize up with pain.

  The sound of the baby faded into silence.

  It hadn't been a life-or-death beating, but that didn't mean he was going to run home. He had to take this slow. There was something in his hands. He looked down, saw a large white blob and tried to blink it into focus. He dropped the blob as he put one hand to the ground, spread his fingers and pushed. Lifted up to his knees, felt a strip of pain in his side as he tried to straighten up. Richie breathed out slowly. If his rib wasn't broken, it was bruised to fuck. So he leaned forward, stared at the blob on the ground, one arm supporting him, the other hanging loose by his side. He wanted to cry, but knew that would mean more pain.

  He breathed shallow through his nose. Thinking about those fucking charva cunts, and wondering where the fuck they'd come from. They went right for him like they had the scent, like they'd been told. And right enough, didn't Goose tell him that if Florida Al got the chance to fuck him over, he would?

  Slowly, the white blob came into focus. A trainer, Nike. Would've been box-white if it wasn't for Richie's blood splattered across the instep. He picked up the shoe, held it to his chest as he tried to stand up. He dragged himself up onto one of the bus shelter seats and leaned there for a moment, staring at the chud stuck to the roof.

  He was going to be alright. He just needed to work out what he was going to do next.

  Richie reached into his pocket to check the bullets. Found them gone. Along with everything else.

  He expected the gun to go. He expected whatever money he had on him to go too. But they 'd only gone and taken his tabs, and that felt wrong somehow. Like Richie wasn't fucking human enough to need a tab after he had his arse handed to him. He still had the phone, though. Probably because it was too old, not worth shit.

  Goose told him to phone if there was any bother. Getting robbed struck Richie as bother, right enough, but he didn't dial. Instead, he tucked the phone into his trackie pocket and scanned the rest of the estate. Forgotten the last time he did a job for Goose. Richie was positive that wasn't going to happen again.

  Phoning Goose wasn't going to change his situation. What was he going to say, that he got mugged? Goose would just tell him to go and get the gun back. Probably call him a stupid bastard into the bargain. The only thing that would change was that Goose would know Richie fucked
up instead of suspecting it, and that would be future jobs out of the question. And even though he kept promising Becka that he'd go out there and get himself a proper job, he knew that the nine-to-five wasn't him, and even if he did manage to score some shift work in some grotty little shithole like a Macky-D's or something, he'd be getting a peanut wage for a shitty job. And there was still a part of Richie that held a deep, warm ambition for his life. That if he got in with decent company, he'd be set. And Goose was the only decent company he knew.

  So it wasn't about this job, not really. It was about proving himself. Showing that he could be trusted to use his initiative when it all went to shit.

  He pushed himself off the bus shelter seat, limped a few steps.

  The entire estate looked deserted, but he knew someone must've seen him take his beating. And they did fuck all about it.

  Typical of the Leam, he reckoned.

  He kept walking, trying to minimise his limp. He didn't want to seem too hurt.

  Especially not when he caught up with the little cunt whose shoe he was carrying.

  4

  "You forgot something, Cinders?"

  Richie clamped a hand on the lad's arm and shoved the shoe into his startled face. The lad backed up quick, but only had so far to go before he hit the wall of the youth club.

  This little prick wasn't hard to find - the lip wasn't something he could hide - but it still took hours. Richie had to take frequent breaks as he walked around the estate, ducking into boarded up doorways for a breather, a pause to exercise mind over matter, moving the pain to a dull ache with careful practice. It gave him time to think about how this was going to play out with the shoeless lad. How cool he was going to be, even what he'd say (that Cinders line was practised well in advance).

  But not what he'd do when he saw the lad. Who he found propping up a youth club, smoking one of Richie's tabs and trying to look every inch a gangster. That dropped the moment Richie laid hands on him. And there was this rising tide of disgust when Richie got close up. The lad smelled of market aftershave, even though there was the barest hint of bumfluff on his cheeks. His skin was oily. And there was that stink you only got when you were scared out of your mind.

  Richie rubbed the bottom of the trainer into the lad's face. The lad squirmed and tried to shout.

  "Where is it?" said Richie.

  "Dunno what you're talking about."

  Richie dropped the shoe. Slapped the lad so hard it left a red mark that spread to the rest of the lad's face as he fought back the tears. "Don't fuckin' lie to us, son. You know exactly what I'm talking about. You and your mates, taken to beating the shit out of a bloke at a bus stop. Got more than you fuckin' bargained for, am I right?"

  The lad shook his head over and over. "Wasn't me, man."

  "Wasn't you?"

  "Nah, you must've got us mixed up with someone else."

  "Think I'm fuckin' daft, lad?"

  "Nah."

  "Think I'm a fuckin' spacka or something?"

  "How –"

  "You're the only charva hanging round here with a fuckin' limp. You get me?" Richie pointed at the lad's shoes. "So what happened to your foot?"

  "Nowt," said the lad. "Got nowt to do with you, anyway."

  Richie smacked the lad with his shoe. The lad took a moment to stare at the ground with tears in his eyes. His mouth was tight, lips invisible. Richie hoped to fuck that his mates weren't in the club, hoped that this mouthy little bastard wouldn't cry out for them. He glanced at the doorway of the youth club, then pulled the lad by his sweater round the back, hobbling the whole way. He never let go of that sweater. Knew the moment he did, this lad would rabbit, and Richie was in no state to give chase.

  Richie slammed the lad against the back wall, held him at arm's length. "Well?"

  "How, man, I fuckin' told you."

  "How'd you get the limp?"

  "Got a stone in me shoe."

  "And how'd you get the blood on your trackies?" said Richie, getting close up now. The lad opened his mouth, but Richie interrupted. "Where's the fuckin' gun?"

  "Dunno –"

  "Don't fuckin' lie to us. I'm telling you that right now. Take a second to think this through. You're talking to a gadgie you kicked shit out of and robbed. I'm not in the best of fuckin' moods, so this memory loss shite isn't helping matters, you get me? I know you were there, and I know you robbed us because you're smoking my tabs. Now you also have to know, I wasn't carrying that gun around for protection, was I? If I wanted to use the thing, I would've popped the lot of you. Stands to reason I was carrying it for someone else then, doesn't it?"

  The lad's face was blank.

  "I'll tell you a name. Goose."

  A twitch in the lad's face. Could've been a smile or a grimace, Richie didn't catch it in time.

  "Aye, Goose. It's his gun. I haven't told him yet that he's had his gun nicked by a bunch of charva twats, but if I don't find out where it is, I might have to."

  "Like fuck," said the lad.

  Richie smiled, pulled out the mobile, and showed him the contact list of one. The lad closed his eyes as Richie replaced the mobile.

  "Where is it?"

  The lad's bottom lip threatened to swallow most of his face. Desperately trying not to cry. Obviously knew Goose by reputation, and Richie was impressed that the rep had travelled this far. But then the shitheads of the world tended to know their own. The lad screwed his face up suddenly, showed his bottom teeth and looked up the road. "Sold it."

  "Sold it?"

  The lad nodded.

  "How the fuck did you sell it? It's been like a fuckin' hour."

  "Had a gadgie lined up for one if we ever saw it."

  So it wasn't Richie, he thought. It was anyone they saw coming out of Florida Al's place. It wasn't a conspiracy at all. The thought didn't comfort him as much as he hoped it would.

  "Who?"

  The lad shook his head, breathed out. Said, "There's this bouncer works The Admiral on the afternoons."

  "Got a bouncer working the afternoons?"

  The lad looked up. "You never been in The Admiral."

  "What's his name?"

  "Brandon."

  "Is that first or last?"

  "I dunno," said the lad. "It's all he told us, like."

  "And this is the gadgie who's got the gun. You're sure about that?"

  "Aye. How, I wouldn't lie to you, would I?"

  "Course you fuckin' would. Because you've forgotten that I know where you hang out, and I can come back at any time. In fact, Goose can send people down here looking for you if he wants to. Even if you're not here, I'm sure one of your marras'll be quick to tell them where they can knock you up, what do you think?"

  The lad frowned.

  "Where's The Admiral?"

  The lad gave him directions. It wasn't far.

  "Good." Richie stepped back. The lad didn't move. "Now let's see what you've got in your pockets."

  "I'm telling you, I sold the fuckin' gun. I don't have it, man."

  "I don't doubt that, son. That's not why I'm telling you. Empty your fuckin' pockets. I want the cash you got for it, I want whatever else you got, and most of all I want my fuckin' tabs back."

  The lad pulled a sour face, then started emptying his pockets. A nice wad of cash that wasn’t anything to do with Richie, but which might've had something to do with the gun. Then more cash on top of that.

  "This your fuckin' job, is it?" said Richie. "The pay's mint."

  The lad didn't say anything, kept turning out his pockets. Two lighters, one of them Richie's. His tabs. A mobile. Richie took the lot, then jerked his chin at the lad, said, "Now the shoe."

  "Fuck you talking about?"

  "Take your fuckin' shoe off. The foot you were kicking us with."

  "I'm not taking off nowt."

  Richie moved quick, pinned the lad to the wall. He drew back his fist, brought it hard and short into the lad's gut, then stepped back to watch him fold in half, the wind ripp
ed out of him and the Gregg's steak bake he had for breakfast about to follow. Just as the lad went from the wet to dry heaves, Richie planted his foot in the lad's ribcage, feeling something crack against his instep. The lad let out a restrained howl, rolled over onto his side. Richie bent over, grabbed one of the lad's shoes and wrenched it off.

  "When I tell you to take your fuckin' shoe off, you take it off," said Richie, hefting the new shoe in his hand.

  The lad burbled something on the ground. Richie waited until he was finished and looking his way, then he hurled the shoe as far as he could. It bounced off into a skip. Richie dusted his hands down, pulled out the lad's mobile and dropped it on the ground. Another shrill, fractured noise came out of the lad, getting higher as Richie brought his foot down on the mobile.

  "Just in case you decide to call your mates round, eh?" said Richie.

  He ground the pieces into the concrete, then turned out of the alley and headed for The Admiral. As he walked, he checked his watch. It was getting on for noon, which meant the place would be open at least.

  Good, he thought. He could get a pint down his neck, and his hands were shaking enough to need one.

  5

  Early doors at The Admiral, and this Brandon gadgie still hadn’t bothered his arse to turn up. Didn't matter. Richie could wait for him inside. He'd just have to hope that the charva lad didn’t find some way to warn the bouncer that Richie was coming. Course, Richie wasn't daft – he wasn't about to pick a fight with a bloke who fought on a nightly basis. Not in his condition. Nah, he thought he'd see how well a little gentle persuasion went first.

  Richie pushed through stiff and thin double doors into The Admiral, which didn't look so much like a pub as someone's front room with pretensions. It was already heavily populated, clusters of smoking men ignoring the ban, huddled over thick pints of bitter and flat lager. The entire place stank of dog. Richie went straight for the bar. A stringy pale man with a shaved head stared at him.