Gun (3 page)

"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."