Gun Dog (8 page)

I haven’t slept. I’m not tired though, and I know what’s kept me awake. I’ve been lying there in bed all night, holding the Ruger in my hand. I’ve run through so many scenarios, with me and my gun at the centre of the action, that I reckon I could write a good movie script. But there’s one thing more than ever that I’m aching to do. I want to pull the trigger. I want to see what it feels like. I want to know what sound it makes and if it kicks. Several times in the night I found my index finger just starting to squeeze at the trigger. Of course I was always able to stop myself; I haven’t gone crazy.

So I’ve wagged off school today. You won’t believe this, but I feel a little bit guilty about that. Still, I’ll easily pick up on what I’ve missed, and it’s only going to be this one day. I’ve come out here to the woodland a few miles outside of town. It’s quite a big area of pine trees with lots of pathways where people walk their dogs and even ride horses. At the weekends, especially in the summer, there are lots of people around. But now, in the autumn on a Thursday, it’s empty. At least I’ve not seen anyone. There’s just the sound of dogs barking way off in the distance to suggest that there might be someone out here, giving the animals some exercise and a welcome break from the backyard. But, like I say, I’ve seen no one.

I’ve been traipsing between the trees, far from the pathways, for over an hour. I want to get to somewhere lonely. You know full well why I’m here. I’m going to fire the Ruger. I have an urge to feel it come alive in my hand. It’s almost like I think that the very act of squeezing the trigger will do just that; breathe some life into it. And do you notice how I talk about
squeezing
the
trigger? That’s something I’ve read about; when you fire a gun, you apply progressive pressure to the trigger, you don’t just jerk at it. If you want to be accurate, that is. When you first fire the Ruger, it takes fourteen pounds of pressure on the trigger to cock the hammer. And five pounds of pressure to fire it. That’s what I’ve read. I have absolutely no idea what fourteen pounds of pressure feels like. Or five pounds. That’s what I’m here to find out though. It’s an itch that I absolutely have to scratch.

I come out of the tree line and into a pretty large clearing. The ground is rust-coloured with fallen pine needles and somewhat springy because of them too. It’s almost silent here, and with the trees all around and a low grey sky above, it’s like being in a box, like you’re somehow removed from the world at large. If I listen carefully, I can hear a backdrop of constant car noise, but it’s so way off in the distance that it doesn’t really intrude on the quiet in this place.

Like I said, this clearing is pretty big, and there’s a sort of small lake in it, about
a hundred metres or so across. It’s actually quite spooky, because a kid died in this lake last year. Well actually, when I say died, I should say he was killed. It was in the holidays last summer. Loads of kids come into these woods to play, and one day, some kids were here, and there was some kind of argument about a stolen bike or something, and one kid was thrown into the lake. And when this kid tried to climb out, the other kids threw rocks at him and stuff and stopped him. And, eventually, he went under the water and drowned. We’re talking about kids who are about twelve years old here. I don’t know them, because they’re not from my estate and they don’t go to my school, but I know that it’s a true story because it was in the papers. But not on the front pages. It was nowhere near sensational enough for that.

So, like I said, it feels spooky here by this lake. And that’s even despite the fact that I’m carrying the Ruger in my pocket. Let’s face it, a gun is no use against a ghost. And you can stop sniggering; you wouldn’t find it funny if you were out here alone, I’m telling you. This place does feel strange.

So I’m back in among the trees and I’ve walked well away from that lake. It might as well be here as anywhere. I take the Ruger out of my pocket and the synthetic black grip rests against the palm of my right hand while my fingers curl loosely around it. My index finger rests alongside the trigger guard and does not touch the trigger at all. I hold the gun out in front of me, my feet are planted shoulder width apart and my knees are slightly bent. The handle of the gun is resting against the palm of my outstretched left hand for stability, just like I’ve read in articles on the internet, and have seen in movies and on television. I’m looking straight along the top of the barrel. The polymer frame is glistening black. I’m aiming at the trunk of a tree about twenty feet away as I slip my finger inside the trigger guard. I begin to squeeze, slowly. Nothing’s happening. I think I’m a bit tense waiting for the bang, not knowing what to expect. I continue to squeeze. Surely that’s fourteen – BANG!

Actually, it doesn’t bang, not in the way that a firework bangs, or guns in old
movies bang. It’s loud enough, sure, but it’s a metallic sound that dominates, the sound of the slider knocked back to eject the spent cartridge and pick up the next round from the magazine, loading it into the chamber.

I look at the tree in front of me. I can see where the bullet has hit it, but it’s way higher than I’d been aiming. The recoil from the gun was not as strong as I’d been expecting, but I hadn’t been ready for when the shot was going to come. When it had, it had taken me by surprise, and I’d let the Ruger jump in my hand. I’ll be more prepared next time.

I take aim again, but now it’s already cocked; it’s only going to take five pounds of pressure on the trigger to fire it this time. I hold it a little bit tighter, plant the base of the handle a little firmer in the palm of my left hand. I begin to squeeze the trigger. BANG! That’s better. Much lower, but it’s pulled to the left a little. One more shot, I’m thinking, just to get the measure of it, and I’ll call it a day. Now don’t go thinking that I’m packing in early because firing the gun is
unnerving me or something. That’s far from being true. It’s actually given me a
hard-on
, if you want the actual truth. Big Roddy had said that having a gun is what made you something. Well last night, with that kid kneeling terrified at my feet and with the blood from his gums all over the end of the barrel of my Ruger, I’d started to realise just what Roddy had meant. But here, now, actually pulling the trigger, feeling and hearing the gunshot, it’s the most exciting feeling imaginable. So no, don’t go thinking I’m packing in because I’m soft; I’m going to call it a day because I only have fifteen rounds of ammunition. And how the hell would I go about getting any more? I just don’t want to waste it. Actually, right now I only have thirteen rounds. And that will soon be twelve.

I’m aiming at where a patch of bark has been torn away by my last shot. Breathe out, hold, squeeze – BANG! Not bad, even if I do say so myself. Two inches right and about an inch above where I’d wanted it to go. The websites all talk about balance and how much play there is in the trigger when
they’re reviewing guns. I don’t really know how to judge those things, but something must be right with this Ruger P95, because I am an absolute novice and I can already put a bullet pretty much where I want it to go. A lot of that must be down to the gun, not any skill on my part.

I look down to where the spent cartridge cases have been ejected. I pick them up, noticing the small indentation on the base of each of them where the firing pin has hit them. I put them in my jacket pocket along with the Ruger. All in all, I’m feeling rather pleased with myself.

Coming out of the woods I'm feeling good. I've got my Ruger in my pocket of course, and my hands tucked in. I'm trying to walk like Travis Bickle from that old movie I mentioned earlier,
Taxi Driver
. I'm looking down but I'm relaxed and afraid of nothing.

From the woodland, there are two ways to get home. The long way takes you into the town centre and then down past the canal, onto the industrial park and under the dual carriageway. The quick way takes you through the concrete labyrinth of
run-down
flats where I was beaten up and robbed once upon a time. Where Big Roddy
was stabbed and bled to death just a few short days ago. Normally, it would be a
no-brainer
; despite the fact that it would add an extra half hour to my journey time, I would always head for the town centre. Of course, you know where I'm headed today though. Another no-brainer, really.

I see it, the Concrete Canyon, long before I reach it; the grey concrete slabs from a distance looking like fallen monoliths at Stonehenge. But I feel no apprehension at all. I just carry on down the paths at the edges of the fields, making my way towards it. And before you know it, I'm there, stepping into it. There are patches of tended grass surrounding this high-rise monstrosity. The council plants trees every now and then, but they are slashed and stripped or uprooted within days. I can see the poor ruined saplings, no taller than me, but broken and bent where dimwits have split their slender trunks. And the areas of grass are covered with litter and debris, much of it from where dogs or urban foxes have ripped into refuse sacks left out near to the overflowing bins. It all adds to the
oppressive atmosphere so that it's hard to believe that there are actually people living here in the midst of all this. It's something for me to consider whenever I lament the rough nature of my own estate.

I'm walking across a square of grey flagstones, a pedestrian area between two of the high-rises. Above me are walkways. To my right there is a row of boarded-up shops, covered in graffiti and protected behind strong rusty steel railings. Who the hell would want to run a business here? It seems unnaturally quiet and oppressive to me. Oppressive. That's the word that keeps coming to me. Oppressive.

There are few people about – just a couple of prematurely-aged girls standing next to a pram and a pushchair. These girls will be teenagers, but they look older and rougher and dirtier than girls should. They are fat and greasy and don't care, and you can see their tattoos. Do I have to mention that they are smoking? I can't help but think what dead end lives these girls must lead. Lives without hope. No dream
of university in Brighton for them. All of a sudden I realise just how lucky I am.

On my right there is a large gap between two buildings. Beyond this gap is the entrance to a multi-storey car park. No sane person would ever park a car in there. All the levels are dark, even in daylight, and I can see rusty burned-out wrecks on the ground floor level. This is what happens to cars that the joy-riders from this estate steal.

‘Oi, fuck off!'

The words echo in this empty Concrete Canyon. I look up, trying to see who is doing the shouting. On a walkway five floors up, I see a malevolent face peering down and focusing on me. The little bastard can't be more than ten years old. Already he is as territorial as a dog. One of the myriad feral scum that are whelped in this hell hole. The way that the grey concrete of the buildings seems to merge with the low grey clouds overhead makes this place feel more alien and oppressive than you can possibly imagine. Oppressive.

Over to my left, a fair way away, I can see three boys. One of them is Sammy Williams. The other two I also recognise. They'd been outside the school yesterday afternoon, just down the road from the school gates. They'd been the ones supplying Sammy with whatever God forsaken substances he'd been moving onto the kids who'd been keen to take the samples.

I don't know if I'm reckless or stupid or both, but I stop and stand watching them for a while. They don't notice me. One of the older boys turns quickly and the door of the flat behind him, covered in a sheet of rusty steel, opens smartly, just a little bit to allow him access, then just as quickly shuts behind him. Sammy and the other boy are just lounging about. I don't even know if they're talking. Then the steel covered door opens again and the boy who'd gone in comes out. Sammy hands something over so fast that it seems like sleight of hand. The boy hands over a plastic bag. Sammy examines it for a moment then slips it into the pocket of his grey polar-fleece jacket. I'm wondering if that's why Big Roddy was
killed here. Was that what he was doing here in the first place? Was Big Roddy getting involved in the distribution of some chemical crap or other when it all went sour on him? Is Sammy Williams now picking up where Big Roddy left off? Is this why Big Roddy had got himself the Ruger in the first place? My Ruger.

I realise that I've been standing here just staring for longer than is wise, even with the Ruger in my pocket for protection. Fact is, in this place I'm guessing that there's a lot more firepower available than I'm carrying. And, more to the point, there are the kind of scum here that wouldn't hesitate to shoot, just on a whim. I'm cursing myself now for being stupid enough to come through here in the first place. The Ruger has given me a false sense of immortality. It comes as a shock to realise that I'm only too mortal after all.

Sammy still has his back to me. But one of those older boys is looking past Sammy. He seems to be looking in my direction. Is he looking at me? I'm sure that he is. Oh fuck,
he is, he's looking at me. I'm scared, I'm like a rabbit in headlights on a country road and I'm frozen to the spot. The boy staring at me raises his arm very slowly and extends it in my direction. With his hand and fingers, he makes an imitation gun pointing right at me, and mimics firing a shot. Even from this distance I can tell that he's not smiling and that his eyes are blank and soulless. Sammy turns his head to see what this boy has been pointing at, and notices me. He just shakes his head, like he's saying how stupid I am just being here. I can't help but agree, and this breaks the spell. I turn and carry on walking, hurrying to the road beyond this horrible place with its horrible memories – which have all come flooding back.

Before I get to the road, I pass the place where Big Roddy bled to death. There's still a dark stain on the concrete from his blood, and a few bunches of already decayed and dirty flowers, but I don't stop to inspect any of it. I just want to get home.

The rest of the way home, I didn't feel like Travis Bickle at all. I stopped in at the video store and rented a copy of that movie,
Taxi Driver
, on DVD. I've watched it twice already, preferring that to going into school for the afternoon and having to make an excuse for the morning. I played it on my computer in my room.

It's tea time now, and I'm standing in front of my long dressing table mirror with my shirt off. My Ruger is held loose in my right hand. Very suddenly, I thrust out my arm and the Ruger is pointing at my image in the mirror. I'm nodding my head almost imperceptibly, mocking my reflection.

‘I'm faster than you, you scum. I saw you coming.'

Yeah, I know how ridiculous this is; I'm acting out a scene from the movie, where Travis Bickle is standing in front of a mirror practising a quick-draw. Travis is wearing an army jacket and he has a spring-loaded mechanical device inside the sleeve that automatically delivers the gun into his
hand quicker than you can see. I don't have any of this, but I can point the Ruger and say the words. It's all about attitude.

‘I'm standing here. You make your move.'

The Ruger is pointing right into my face very suddenly. I'm fast. I really am. I drop my hand to my side. And now I'm looking right into my own eyes, and it's like my reflection really is a different person.

‘You talkin' to me?'

Pause.

‘You talkin' to me?'

I look around, theatrically.

‘Then who the hell else are you talking to? You talkin' to me? Well, I'm the only one here. Who the fuck do you think
you're
talking to?'

I hear footsteps thumping up the stairs so I hastily hide the Ruger away. I know
that it's my brother Sean, and it's no surprise that he just bursts into my room without knocking. I'm already sitting at the computer by then, pretending to read something on the screen.

‘Hey bro! You weren't at school today.'

I ignore him.

‘Couple of kids was talkin'. Sayin' you was out last night carryin' a wicked piece of tin. They say you turned a kid over.'

I'm still ignoring him.

‘I said it couldn't be you. Unless you'd clobbered the kid with a book or something.'

I turn around at this and look him straight in the eye, pointing my fingers like they're an imitation gun.

‘You talkin' to me?'