Gun Read online

  "Pint of Carling," said Richie.

  The skinny man didn't move. "How old are you?"

  "You what?"

  "You heard."

  "I'm eighteen, mate."

  "Just turned, is it?"

  "Nah." Richie looked at the bloke with dead eyes as he bluffed it. "Closer to nineteen, you want to know, like."

  "That right?" said the landlord. He breathed in and smiled it out. "This is a member's club, son."

  "It's a pub. Now give us a pint of Carling before I put your fuckin' teeth out."

  The landlord bared those teeth as if he'd tasted something rotten. It looked like an invitation to Richie. Then he looked behind Richie and blinked.

  "Your man's not in yet." Richie smiled.

  The landlord brought his focus to the lad at his bar. "The fuck happened to your face?"

  "The fuck happened to yours?"

  The landlord's eyes narrowed to a double squint. Richie raised one hand and grinned as wide as he could with the swelling.

  "I'm just having you on, mate," he said. "I'm here to talk to Brandon."

  "Brandon."

  "Aye. Me and him, we got a little business."

  "Kind of business?"

  "Nowt bad. Nowt illegal. And we'll take it outside."

  "Good," said the landlord. "I don't want your blood on me nice new carpet."

  Richie glanced down. The carpet wasn't nice or new. In fact, he was positive that was where the dog smell was coming from.

  "He's not here," said the landlord.

  "I know he's not here. I said that. I want a pint while I'm waiting, mind. If it's not too much trouble."

  The landlord thought about saying something – Richie could see it flicker in his face – but then shook it out of his head. He went to the pumps, set a Carling to pour. Richie dug in his pocket, brought out a twenty and slapped it on the bar. "What whisky you got? I can't see from here."

  "Bell's or Grouse."

  "Any brandy?"

  "Nah."

  "Then give us a Grouse, double, no ice." He nodded at the note. "You keep the change an' all."

  When the landlord slid the Grouse and pint in front of Richie, he looked around the place for somewhere to sit. Took him a while to find somewhere with a decent view of the entrance and the car park, and he knew it could change in a minute flat. People were as territorial as wolves in this place and might've marked that territory in the same way judging from the smell of the nook Richie found. He just hoped that some old bugger wouldn't get mouthy if he saw Richie in his seat.

  Halfway down the pint, Richie noticed that his hands had finally stopped trembling. He set them both flat on the table in front of him, looked like he was about to conduct a one-man séance, then balled them up into fists. Looked again – still no shakes. He looked out of the window. That was lucky. He'd kept his hands hidden most of the time he'd talked to the landlord, but he wouldn't be able to hide the shakes from Brandon.

  That was if the bugger ever turned up. Richie started to gnaw on the inside of his mouth, glancing across at the landlord. Because if that bloke over there was clock-watching, then it meant that Brandon wasn't the type of bloke to stumble in late. Which meant there could be something wrong already.

  He knew he shouldn't be thinking like this already, but it was habit. The old saying – pessimists are rarely disappointed. In Richie's case, he reckoned if he saw the worst in the situation, it minimised the surprise when life chucked shit at him. He looked into his pint, reckoned that he'd give Brandon until the end of the beer to turn up, then he'd try to get the bloke's address off the landlord. In the meantime, he had to sit tight, play it calm and collected.

  It was difficult. If he sat alone in silence, he had a tendency to think. And when he thought, he reckoned he should be at the dole office right now, keeping that promise to Becka. She wasn't even the type to guilt him into going, but she'd gotten fucking responsible while he was inside, hinting at the kind of life she wanted to have. At first, Richie reckoned she'd seen one too many Jeremy Kyles and had the straight scared into her, but Becka kept on. She didn't nag. Didn't need to. She told him what she wanted like it was an achievable dream. Respectability, not in the house-in-the-suburbs kind of way, not really. More in the boyfriend's-not-in-the-nick vein.

  "I want you around," she said.

  "I am around," he told her.

  "Aye, until you do something daft and get yourself caught."

  He tried it on with the charm, said, "Wey, I'll just not get caught next time."

  "Nah," she said. "I don't want that."

  "Becka –"

  "I can't take that, Richie. I need promises, and I need 'em kept, alright?"

  "I can promise."

  "And kept, I said." She did one of her big sighs at that, like that tart in the big frilly dress from that pure long film they watched the Sunday before he went in. Everything was so fucking tiring. "I need someone who's going to be around, someone who's not going to jail, like, at a second's notice."

  And Richie said, "Alright."

  "You promise?" she said.

  "Yeah, aye."

  "'Cause I'll hold you to it."

  He noticed the tears about to come, so he said, "Aye, I promise."

  They went into a hug. Richie felt her shaking against his chest. For a second, he wondered if she was laughing, and then wondered what the fuck he'd just agreed to. He moved away and saw the tears running down her face. He frowned, asked her what the matter was. She shook her head, smiling, then went back to his chest.

  His chest ached now, the memory turned her hug into a headbutt. Richie rubbed his cheek and stared out of the window, seeing nothing. The way she looked at him after he promised, the way she started talking about moving somewhere else, somewhere Richie could get himself a proper job, all this talk of settling down. It made his gut twitch.

  And Richie said, "How, hang on a sec, we can't move anywhere, can we? I'm still on licence."

  "We can work round that," she said. "Reckon the probation'll be happy you're moving away from the reason you got put inside. Besides, we'll need to be in a decent area, lots of parks an' that. Like, a family area."

  It was all falling into place now. And he wondered how the fuck he'd managed to miss it. Too caught up in trying to find paying work, most likely, but when he thought about it now, she wasn't being too fucking coy about it, was she? The lass was either pregnant or wanting to get there. And Richie'd promised no more dodgy jobs, as good as he promised to fucking marry her.

  "Fuck," he said now. An old guy at the next table turned his paper bag face Richie's way, his mouth working. "Nah, man. Not you."

  Richie leaned forward on the table, put his head in his hands and stared straight down into his barely fizzing pint. If he'd known sooner, he wouldn't have gone to Goose. He would've got himself down the dole and signed on. Would've took the first job they gave him and worked it till he broke.

  And now where was he? Some shitty pub miles away from home, waiting on a bloke who had a gun he needed. A fucking gun. Richie never saw a real live gun before in his life until today. Knew some of the lads further up the food chain wore the vests and carried something in their cars, but Richie'd never come into full contact with them. Now in the course of a single morning, he'd bought and lost one.

  This was the way he kept promises, was it?

  He caught movement, looked up and saw a brown Cavalier rolling into the car park. A big bloke behind the wheel, almost took up the front two seats by himself. He killed the engine, then struggled to get out of the car. Then Richie noticed that he wasn't just a big bloke, but a big fat bloke. Muscle underneath all that, mind. Not like Florida Al. If anyone looked like a bouncer, it was this bloke.

  Richie watched Brandon stride towards the front of the pub, then downed his Grouse. It burned going down and Richie wanted to cough it out, but he held firm. Brandon pushed into the pub, and the landlord called him over. Richie heard the landlord say something about "the lad in th
e corner", and Brandon say, "Oh aye?"

  Richie hunkered up around his pint, breathing slow, pushing thoughts of Becka and the possible bairn out of his head.

  "You wanted to talk to us, son?" said Brandon.

  Richie turned in his seat, looked up at the bouncer. From this angle, the gadgie was a fucking mountain.

  "Aye," he said. "Probably best we do it outside, like."

  And he finished his pint, got out of his seat, and tried not to limp as he led the way.

  6

  Brandon thought about it for a long time, looking up at the grey sky, his lips bunched. Then he looked down at Richie.

  "Nah," he said.

  Richie opened his arms, tried to smile. "Howeh, I'm just trying to offer you a fuckin' deal here, mate."

  "How's it I'm your fuckin' mate?" Brandon's mouth hung open. "I don't know you, but you're all acting pally like you fuckin' know us, like. I never seen you before in my life. And now you're talking about a dangerous fuckin' weapon. A gun, was it?"

  "Air pistol."

  "Right, air pistol."

  "Converted."

  "That's it. Now why would I buy something like that?" Brandon rolled his shoulders back. "Like I need a fuckin' gun, I got enough going for me."

  Richie nodded. "Aye, I know. But I also know you bought a gun from a charva lad this morning."

  "Nah."

  "He told us you did."

  "Oh aye? What's his name then?"

  Richie blinked at Brandon, felt his face burn up. Course he didn't know the lad's name. Should've found that out, shouldn't he? Fuck's sake. Took one beating and his head was all over the fucking place. Richie grinned the embarrassment out of his system, waiting to lose the blush as he stared at the tarmac. "Don't matter what his name was, Brandon, does it?"

  "Aye, it does. You don't know his fuckin' name, you're making all this up."

  "I know your name."

  "So?"

  "Where d'you reckon I got it from?"

  "The fuck am I supposed to know?"

  "From the lad who sold you the gun. The Magnum."

  "Oh, it's a fuckin' Magnum now, is it?" Brandon's face only half broke into something that could pass for amusement. This bloke couldn't lie for shit. "See, now you got all confused. Because before it was just a converted air pistol, now it's a fuckin' Magnum? Seriously, I don't know what you're talking about, mate. But I do know, you keep talking to us with that fuckin' tone, we're going to have issues."

  "Why's that?"

  "I don't need a gun."

  "But you got one."

  "There y'are again with the tone."

  "How, fuckin' look at yourself, man. You're lying through your teeth. I know you bought a gun this morning, I was going to offer to buy it back off you, but the way I'm thinking now, fuck it, I'll let Goose pick it up himself."

  "Goose? Haddaway and shite, man."

  "Nah, I'm telling you. I'm working for –"

  "For a goose," said Brandon. "Right. You're out your fuckin' box, marra."

  Richie stared at the bouncer. Aye, this bloke didn't have the first fucking clue who he was dealing with. And part of Richie wanted to let it lie, sic Goose or whoever Goose sent – probably the heavyweights everyone called the Gallaghers on account of their unibrows– get down here and bray fuck out of Brandon The Bouncer. He was a proper doorknob, this one, with his number two on his head, puffer jacket, signets on one hand, wedding ring on the other.

  "You married?" said Richie.

  "Fuck kind of question's that?"

  He jerked his head. "Noticed the ring."

  Brandon bristled slightly. Looked like he was expecting a fight, waiting for the inevitable your-missus-is-a-fucking-hooer slight. When there didn't appear to be one coming, Brandon glanced down at the ring and said, "Aye, I'm married, like."

  "Any kids?"

  "Fuck off."

  "I'm just asking."

  "Why?"

  "Because," said Richie. "This bloke I'm working for, the bloke whose gun you have, he'll send some lads down here to get it back –"

  "Oh aye, right."

  "Aye. I'm not one of them lads, either. I'm just a courier. All I did was buy the gun and I'm bringing it to him. I'm not a fighter. Only need to look at us to know that. But my point is, them lads that Goose sends down, they won't just stop with you. Your wife'll get her face mashed up, maybe get a wrist broke into the bargain. I don't know what else. Depends on who's sent. And if you've got kids –"

  Brandon put a hand on Richie then, shoved him in the shoulder. There was power behind the move. Richie nearly went on his arse. He held up both hands.

  "Wait a second –"

  "You threatening us, you little cunt?"

  "No, you listen to us, you'll know I'm not. Look at us. You think I'm the kind of lad who'd threaten someone like you? I'm not going to risk it, am I? Only thing that I'm interested in is getting the gun back. I've got money, you can have your money back, full fuckin' refund. But I need that gun."

  Brandon ran his tongue under his bottom lip, breathing through his nose. Richie could tell this wasn't what he'd planned for the afternoon. What Brandon wanted was an excuse to kick off. He couldn't rightly batter the shit out of Richie without Richie kicking off first, though. Some kind of bouncer's code, the way Brandon was used to dealing with people. All this logic shite was doing his brain in. Thing was, even as a chill breeze picked up and numbed the aching bruises on his face, Richie was optimistic. Even willing to offer the cash he had on him. Anything to get out of this as peacefully as possible.

  Then Brandon shook his head. "Nah, I don't think so."

  "What?"

  "I heard what you said. Appreciate your concern. But I reckon, whoever the fuck this Goose gadgie is, he can come down here and do whatever. I got mates who'll step up if it comes to it."

  Richie half-smiled, couldn't believe it. Wanted to give this bloke examples he'd listen to. If Goose's lads came down to the Leam, it wouldn't be a fucking West Side Story face-off, it would be this Brandon bloke squealing through the blood in his mouth in the middle of the night. "I don't think you get it."

  "I get it," said Brandon. "You're working for some half-arse hard man from where, like, north of the fuckin' river, right?"

  "He's not half-arsed," said Richie.

  "Aye, well, whatever the fuck you want to tell us, I think I'm going to keep hold of what I bought."

  Richie's smile went full beam as he reached for his tabs. He stuck one in his mouth and lit it. "I thought you didn't have it."

  "Nah, mate, you're the one doesn't have it. And you're not getting it, neither, so do yourself a fuckin' favour and fuck off, alright? Get back to fuckin' school. Some of us have got real work to do."

  Richie blew smoke. "Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

  "Means I've got a real job. Not skivvying for some cunt." Brandon slapped the chest of his puffer jacket. "I'm legit, mate."

  "Aye," said Richie, nodding.

  "Now fuck off."

  Brandon didn't put hands on him again, but he made out as if he was going to, which flinched Richie back a step. Then Brandon turned back to The Admiral, his hands tucked deep into his puffer. Richie took the tab from his mouth, watching the bouncer return to his post. Brandon stopped at the double doors, pushed one of them open and shouted something inside. Then he assumed the usual position outside the pub.

  Richie kept watching him. He smoked the rest of his tab, then started walking towards the pub. His eyes never left Brandon, who started to look more irritated the closer Richie got. Wondering what the fuck this lad had to say to him, probably thinking that he'd already said it all and getting angry that he'd have to repeat himself. When Richie got to the double doors, Brandon stuck out a hand. "I don't think so."

  "Why not?"

  "Landlord doesn't want you in there. You're under age."

  "It was you I wanted to talk to."

  "And we talked. You got nowt to say to us."

  "Give us the gun."r />
  Brandon laughed and spit fell over his lip. He wiped it away and said, "Go on, mate. Off you go."

  "I'm not asking anymore. I'm not even offering you your money back. I'm telling you. Give us the gun back."

  Brandon leaned forward, got right in Richie's face. He could smell the mixture of chewing gum and gin on the bouncer's breath as he said, "Fuck. Off."

  Richie swung. Clocked the bouncer on the side of the head, right in the ear, threw him off balance, but didn't do much damage. Didn't matter. Richie lunged for Brandon, planted both hands on the man's torso, and shoved him hard against the double doors. Brandon didn't get a chance to right himself, and his weight carried him through the doors. As he hit the carpet, the doors clattered shut.

  The noise was like a starter's pistol. Richie turned to the car park, started running.

  He hadn't felt anything under that jacket. Nothing that could've been a gun, anyway.

  Which meant the gun was probably still in the bastard's shit-brown Cavalier.

  As he approached the car, he looked around for a half-brick, something to put through the window. Nothing in sight – The Admiral's landlord kept the car park spotless. Probably sick of having his windows put out by drunks. Richie glanced that way now, saw movement inside the pub.

  Brandon gearing up to beat the shit out of him.

  No time. Richie pulled the sleeve of his hoodie over his right hand and weighed up the driver's side window.

  7

  As soon as Richie put his hand through the window, he remembered that he should have used his elbow. Pain jolted from his knuckles up his forearm. When he tried to pull the hand free, something dug in and held him in place. He felt something tear, saw blood blossom on the hoodie's sleeve and fought to stay conscious. He'd already dropped out once today. He didn't fancy hitting the deck again, especially considering the commotion in The Admiral.

  Richie panicked, wrenched his hand through the shattered window, the end of his sleeve sopping with blood, the sound of glass pebbles skittering across the ground, and a thick nausea rising slowly in his gut. He reached in with his left, unlocked the driver's door and bent over to get a better look. He flipped open the glove compartment, swept out the crap Brandon kept in there – gum, maps, petrol receipts, old and unmarked cassettes. It spilled onto the passenger seat, dropped onto the floor of the car.