Gun (7 page)

Everything
Becka
told him, it was one hundred percent on the fucking nail. And he only now started to get it into his head that there wasn't a future with Goose. The man didn't remember Richie's previous job, didn't even twitch when Richie mentioned it, so it didn't matter what he did, because Richie wasn't going to be anything but a fucking skivvy. Just like
Becka
said.
And just like he'd always be unless he did something about it.

And he definitely did something about it. He looked
down,
saw a picture of a blonde Amy
Winehouse
on the front of the free newspaper. She looked all bedraggled and distraught, hustled to court to see her bloke, and Richie thought,
you think you've got problems, love
.

He had the gun. That should be enough for Goose. The bloke didn't have a rep for caring about his employees, but he should be happy enough with his gun. And as Richie thought about it now, he reckoned that there was no reason he shouldn't be able to just walk out of the place. It wasn't like Richie was going to get another job, especially after the time it took to sort this one out. And then he got to thinking that this stupid fucking errand was a blessing in disguise. He wouldn't have thought about jacking it in if it hadn't been for this nightmare of a day, and now he was. It was probably a sign that he should've been doing something better with his life, just like
Becka
wanted him to.

The train slowed and Richie looked out the window.
Wallsend
.
Three to go.

A thick crowd of commuters got off the Metro. Richie nodded to himself, catching a full reflection of
himself
in the window. He was pale, and while he hoped it was just the light in the carriage, he knew it wasn't. A brief look down at his
hoodie
under the paper confirmed it. He was still bleeding, so much he'd stained the seat between his legs.

His hand was a mess, his fingers already broken by the car window, the skin torn on chunks of glass. But when Brandon started grinding Richie's
bones, that
was the last of it. Now it didn't even feel like Richie had a right hand – just a huge mass of pain on the end of his right arm now. He knew he shouldn't be going to Goose's place right now, not if he wanted to get out of this without any lasting damage. He knew he should've got his arse down to the hospital. But then he figured he'd made it this far, so what the fuck.

Now he started to have second thoughts. He could feel the energy leeching out of him as he sat there.
Feeling his brain get locked in one thought.
He looked up the
carriage,
saw a baby in a pushchair. The baby had a tuft of ginger hair in a tiny bunch on the top of its head, and was staring intently at Richie.

Richie blinked. The baby jerked in the pushchair. Then he looked at the rubber floor of the train.

When he looked up again, he turned back to the baby, but it was gone. Now he didn't know where the train was. He didn't catch the last stop. Part of him panicked, thought he'd missed his stop. He twisted around in his seat to look out of the window, see if he could catch any landmarks. The free paper slipped from his lap to the floor, and the ache in his side flared into searing pain. Richie doubled up, sucking breath through his teeth.

If he missed his stop, he wasn't sure he'd be able to get back to The Well. Because that would mean changing, hanging round the Metro stop until the next train, and Richie wasn't sure he had that kind of time left.

He felt the train start to slow, and bobbed his head at the window, trying to see beyond the reflection of the lights in here. He shifted in his seat, his cheek almost to the window, trying to see up ahead.

It was his stop. He breathed out quickly and a dart of pain shot through his ribs.

When Richie turned back, the woman sitting opposite was staring at Richie's
hoodie
with her mouth a perfect little O. He looked down, noticed that the bloodstain had spread up to the middle of his chest.

"Are you alright?" she said.

Richie tried to laugh, but it came out wrong, sounded like a cat with a hairball. He still managed a smile, shaking his head slowly from side to side as he grabbed onto the handrail. The
Macky
-D's bag was pinched between thumb and forefinger. It swayed too much for Richie's nerves, so he leaned his shoulder against the rail, got a better grip on the bag.

"Aye," he said. "I'm just
fuckin
' dandy, like."

The train lurched to a stop. There was the hiss of doors, then the clatter as they opened. Richie pushed himself from the rail and walked out onto the platform. A voice behind him told him to stand clear of the doors, please. Then the train glided out of the station.

Richie watched the Metro leave. Then he turned to look at the estate.

It wasn't a long walk to Goose's house, but Richie knew it'd feel like miles.

He fumbled for a tab, the last one in the pack, lit it,
then
headed for the concrete steps that took him down to the road.

10

Richie was surprised to notice that Goose's house hadn't changed in the slightest since this morning. It felt like so much had happened to him, it should've happened elsewhere, too. But then life wasn't that fucking fair, was it?

He leaned on the doorbell, and the big bastard they called Noel answered the door. This bloke was one of Goose's lads, one of the
Gallaghers
, did Goose's dirty work and did it with fucking relish. But Richie wasn't intimidated. He grinned.

"
Y'alright
?" said Noel.
Then, seeing all the blood as he got closer.
"Jesus
fuckin
' Christ, man, you can't come round here looking like that."

"
It's
nowt
," said Richie. "It's dried.
Just an accident, anyway.
Goose told us to pick something up for him, like. I got it here."

He held up the
Macky
-D's bag. Noel frowned.

"He told you to get him a
Macky
-D's?"

"It's from Al.
On the
Leam
."

Noel looked out at the street,
then
held the door open for Richie. "Get inside. If you
fuckin
' pass out, we're dumping you somewhere, you know that. Can't be having ambulances round here. Bring the
fuckin
' polis with '
em
now, don't they?"

Richie stumbled into the house, using the wall as a guide as he headed for the front room. There was the smell of cooking in the air, like someone had been boiling vegetables. When Richie got to the front room, he saw Goose sitting with a Sunday dinner on the tray in front of him – roast beef, gravy,
roasties
, peas, carrots and what looked like cabbage. He wondered what fucking day it was now. Thought it was a weekday, but Goose's meal just threw him right off. Goose had a fork halfway to his mouth when he saw Richie and stopped.

"The
fuck are
you doing in here like that?" he said, putting the fork down.

Richie held out the
Macky
-D's bag.
"Got your gun.
Went and saw Florida Al."

"He
do
that to you?"

Richie shook his head. "Nah, that's a different story."

"You want to tell it?"

"You want the
fuckin
' gun or not?"

Goose nodded to Noel, who took the bag off Richie. Noel held the bag at the bottom and peered inside.

"Aye, there's your gun," said Noel. He pulled out the weapon with one hand, crumpling the bag up with the other. He handed the gun to Goose, grip first.

"He
give
you any shit?" said Goose.

Richie leaned against the door jamb. He thought about the question, and then shook his head again. "Al didn't do
nowt
but make us look at gay porn."

Noel laughed. It was a sound that came from his gut.

"Aye," said Goose, "he'll do that, right enough. And you paid him and everything went alright?"

"Yeah, aye, everything went
tickety
-boo at Al's place."

Goose twirled a finger at Richie. "So what happened then?"

"Little accident," said Richie.

"Little?"

"
Nowt
special."

"Looks like you're going to keel over," said Goose.

"How much did we say?"

"For what?"

"For delivery."
Richie found it hard to focus now. The dim light in the room was a contrast from the train, and it was doing his head in. Things in his direct vision were crystal clear, then blurry as fuck. It was like a bad drunk all the time. He licked his dry lips.
"For the gun."

"What about the bullets?" said
Goose.

Richie didn't say anything.

"He
try
to short you on them?"

Richie looked at the bloke in the wheelchair through narrowed eyes. It was about the only way he could keep looking at him. He wondered if Goose had been tipped already.
If this was some kind of trap.

Finally, Richie breathed out, attempted a shrug. "I don't know. I didn't check."

"What'd I tell you?"

"I know what you told us."

"I said check for
fuckin
' bullets, didn't I?"

"And you never told us how I was supposed to do that."

Goose worked his mouth. He cracked open the revolver.
Frowned.
"That
fuckin
' bastard."

"What is it?" said Noel.

"He's taking the piss, that fat old poof. Seen what he's done here? He's only loaded the gun but one, hasn't he?
Fuckin
'
bastard'll
short you one bullet, save a pound and tell you
who's
boss. Tell you, that flabby arse bandit's going to get his one day, I swear to
fuckin
' God."

"How much did we say?" said Richie again, this time
louder.

"Noel, give him a fifty or something, will you?"

Noel's face was pinched as he went into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out an orange and handed it to Richie. Richie looked at the note, wrinkled and smudged with something that he didn't want to think about. He nodded slowly to himself. This was what it was all about, eh?
Fifty fucking quid to replace a right hand.

"Got more work for you if you want it," said Goose, but Richie was already shaking his head.

"Don't want it," he said.

"Don't want it?
Fuckin
' hell, this morning you
was
demanding
a job."

Richie pushed himself off the door jamb, held out his left hand to steady
himself
.

"Now look at him," said Goose, tucking the Magnum down the side of his chair. "He spends one day on the
Leam
and he's a
fuckin
' wreck. Here, son, you get yourself seen to and I'll give you a bell later on in the week, see if I can't hook you up with something lucrative, eh?"

Richie moved into the hall, still shaking his head. "Don't bother."

"Here, hang on a sec, I didn't tell you that you could go. So don't you
fuckin
' dare think you can leave just
yet.
"

Richie stopped in the dark hallway. He stared at the pattern on the carpet.

"It was Al that shorted us, wasn't it?" said Goose.

"Aye," said Richie.

"Wouldn't be that you got yourself a
fuckin
' gun and lost your mind out there, would it?"

"
Dunno
what you mean."

"You do. There's one bullet missing."

"I know that.
Now."

"Just need to make sure you're not playing funny buggers with us."

"And I told you," said Richie, without a word of a lie. "I don't know how to open the
fuckin
' gun. That's why I didn't notice one empty." He turned slightly. "Appreciate you trying to hook us up an' that, but I really need to go. I don't feel good."

Noel was looking at Richie like he was all ready to bring the car round front and shove him in the boot. Goose paused, then said, "Go on. Go home. See your bird or whatever."

"Could be a bloke," said Noel. "You never know. Al might've turned him."

"Only thing Al ever turned was a
fuckin
' stomach. Go on, son."

Richie turned back to the front door. He fumbled with the latch,
then
stepped out into the front yard. The door closed behind him, but he could still hear Goose saying, "That little fucker left a big red smear on the wall."

It was even colder now than it was before, the wind like a slap to the face, reaching under his
hoodie
and biting like snakes. He started walking to the end of the path. Looked behind him to make sure nobody was watching him as he leaned on the gate, shuffled through. Then he continued up the street, walked until Goose's house was out of sight, and pulled out the mobile. He hadn't asked for it back. Probably forgot.