The One Safe Place (43 page)

He hated himself for having let Darren see him panic. He forced himself to sit up straight and gazed at the revolver, which was pointing at his chest. "I didn't bet. You still have to give me my money back."

"Come and get it."

Marshall tensed himself to do so. If he moved slowly there would be no cause for Darren's finger to shift on the trigger. Once Marshall was close enough he could push the gun aside, maybe even take it from him. Darren wouldn't really shoot, he was Marshall's friend, but just suppose he squeezed the trigger without meaning to? How sensitive was it? Marshall couldn't move after all, not while the gun was on him. "I'll let you give it to me," he said, feeling his cheek tug at his mouth.

"That's the idea."

His friend was only playing, Marshall told himself. Only you shouldn't play with guns, and he was suddenly certain that if it was aimed at him much longer it would go off. He wasn't about to plead—he'd humiliated himself enough in front of the other boy—but he had to talk it away from him. "Why do you keep that around the house?"

"Where do you want it kept? In the road?"

The gun wasn't relenting. Maybe Darren thought Marshall's attempt at a conversational tone meant he was planning to grab it. Marshall turned his empty hands up, not too fast, he told himself. "No, I mean why do you have it?"

"Why do you have guns where you come from? To take care of any bugger as shouldn't be in here."

A wave of unexpected grief rose from Marshall's throat to his eyes. "My dad got one," he blurted.

"Got a bugger, did he?"

Darren's voice had turned harsh—because he was embarrassed by Marshall's grief, of course. "No, a gun," Marshall said with a shaky attempt at a laugh. "He shouldn't have without a license, but he thought he needed it."

"Why was that, lad?"

Marshall's ruse wasn't working yet; if anything, Darren's aim looked steadier than ever. "Because some jerk pulled a gun on him in the street over nothing at all," Marshall said, "and when he got sent to jail, this rat sent his family after my dad."

"Good job he had a gun then, eh?"

"No." Another wave of grief was threatening to spill out of Marshall. "He wouldn't have shot anyone. I wish he had. He took the bullets out and tried to make these scum think he hadn't."

Darren flexed his finger and replaced it on the trigger. "He should have got a lesson off my da."

"I wish," Marshall agreed, and tried to think of anything that would stop his eyes from brimming over, then had a thought he couldn't believe he hadn't had sooner. "Are there any in that one?"

"Any bullets? Real bullets, is that? One way to find out, lad."

Darren no longer sounded like a friend. Marshall didn't understand how he could have antagonised him, unless it was any show of emotion Darren couldn't stand. "Sorry," Marshall said, wiping his eyes quickly and hard in the hope the other boy mightn't notice.

"For what?"

"I don't know," Marshall pleaded. "For not trusting you. I mean, I know you aren't going to shoot me. You're my friend."

"You reckon." Darren considered the gun and then Marshall. "Long as I'm your mate, let's play a game. Give you a chance to win some of that money you wanted to win."

"I only wanted my own back."

"Doesn't work like that round here. I thought you were supposed to trust me. You carry on with that and you'll be amazed what you get."

"What kind of game?"

"Bet you guessed. It's been in enough films." Darren pointed the gun at the ceiling and released the cylinder. As he sat down, bullets dropped into his hand. At last, watching them quiver and glisten on the boy's palm, Marshall understood why they were called slugs. When Darren placed the five of them under his chair they crawled about for some moments before subsiding. He swung the cylinder back into place and spun it with the heel of his hand, then sat forward and turned the butt toward Marshall. "Six goes. Three each. You go first."

Marshall's hand hesitated an inch short of the gun. "Have you played before?"

"Course I have, lots of times. And I'm still here, so I don't know what you're shitting your pants for."

"I'm not," Marshall protested, pressing his buttocks together. He glared at his hand to make it stop letting him down, and once it had more or less ceased trembling he took hold of the revolver.

It was larger and heavier than he was prepared for. No wonder Darren had been using both hands. It felt cold and leaden and bulky, and he thought he could smell the metal of it, like the taste of a coin in his mouth. When he extended his finger around the trigger, the presence of the weapon seemed too detailed for him to grasp. The light had grown more artificial, and he saw himself performing on a stage. All the people in the room were watching, no longer a threat to him, just an audience. He turned the gun and pointed it at his forehead.

He felt his wrist twinge and creak. The revolver sagged in his grasp, leaning the trigger against his finger. The mouth of the barrel gaped at him. Its perfect circle seemed capable of hypnotising him; certainly the aching of his wrist had detached itself from him. He had almost forgotten what he was meant to be doing when Darren lost patience. "Come on, lad," he urged.

The trigger was absurdly stiff. Trying to pull it bruised Marshall's finger, and he felt more of a wimp than ever. To Darren he must look as though he was pretending not to be able to squeeze the trigger. He rested the muzzle against his forehead above his right eye, and closed his free hand around the barrel, and dragged at the trigger with all the strength he could focus.

He felt the lever shift reluctantly, felt the mechanism heaving the hammer back. He was about to reach into himself for one last effort when there was a loud impact which shook both the gun and his head. The hammer had fallen on an empty chamber. He lowered the weapon, grabbing his wrist to steady his shivering hand, and released a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. "Oh, that was—"

"Give us it." Darren lurched forward on his chair and grabbed the barrel, twisted it toward him, jabbed his other thumb behind the guard and pressed the trigger. Marshall heard a click, nothing like as loud as the one he himself had triggered. Darren shoved the butt at him. "You again."

Marshall rubbed his hands on the sleeves of his track suit. Most of the weight of the gun seemed to have remained in the palm of his right hand, bruising it. He used his left to take hold of the barrel, and raised his head so as to rest the muzzle more or less comfortably under his chin. He leaned back, propping the butt low on his chest, and closed his stinging hand around the butt and squeezed the trigger as hard as he could.

It shot up through his jaw, vibrating his teeth—the impact did. The breath he expelled through his nose sounded like a shivery laugh. As he let the barrel fall he had to remind himself to point it well away from his friend, in case the weight of the gun pulled the trigger against his finger. Darren didn't appreciate the gesture, or rather, Marshall told himself, he felt unable to acknowledge it. "Get a move on," he demanded. "I'll be asleep before you're done at this rate."

As soon as Marshall let go of the butt Darren seized it, swung the gun toward his scalp and narrowing his eyes, pulled the trigger. His face was a blank mask, and stayed that way as the revolver emitted a click. He thrust the gun at Marshall. "Here you go. Don't hang about."

The fist which Marshall had clenched on his behalf was opening to accept the gun when Marshall clutched at the wrist to delay it. "Wait a minute, Darren. I know it's only a game, but—"

"Summat up, lad?"

"You didn't really point it at yourself just then. Weren't you aiming past yourself?"

"You reckon, do you? You think you can see what's going on around you in the fucking state you're in?" Darren was blustering, and Marshall saw him realise it was obvious he was. He sneered, showing all his teeth, and opened his mouth wider. "All right then, watch this," he snarled, and stuck the barrel in his mouth.

It was real this time. It was going to happen, and Darren didn't care; his eyes were saying so. Marshall saw the hammer strain itself back. "N—" he moaned, terrified for Darren, and made to throw himself at the other boy and snatch the gun out of his mouth. But the hammer sprang, and he shut his eyes, and felt the sound of the revolver like a nail driven into his skull. "How about that then, lad?" Darren said. "Real enough for you?"

Marshall opened his eyes to get rid of the pounding light, but it only spread into the room. "Too real."

"What's up with you? Like you said, it's only a game. Let's see you do what I just did."

Marshall had to, or he would be letting his friend down—that was the meaning in Darren's eyes now. Marshall stretched out his hand for the weapon, and couldn't understand why he was having difficulty until he realised he was still holding onto the wrist. He made himself relinquish his grip, and closed his hand, which was stinging with sweat, around the butt. A trickle of Darren's saliva glistened on the barrel, and he thought of slugs, the five of them nesting together under the other boy's chair. He wiped the muzzle on his sleeve and pointed the gun at his mouth, supporting the butt with both hands. His teeth were clenched, his tongue was pressed so hard against them he could hear it through his skull. He shoved at his tight lips with the muzzle and prised them apart, and the gun banged against his teeth.

Either they got out of the way or they would ache worse. His jaw dropped, and the barrel nudged his tongue, filling his mouth with the taste of metal. If he had to put up with that for long he would be sick. He took a firmer grip on the butt and poked one thumb inside the guard, and felt the trigger shift to make room. It was less stiff than previously, or perhaps he was more used to handling it. He raised his eyes to meet Darren's, and saw his friend urging him to do as he'd done. The ache which had been growing in his wrist flared through his arm, and the gun jerked out of his mouth as he had a thought. "Darren—"

"What fucking now?"

"We're not playing it right. You're supposed to spin the, you know, the middle bit each time."

"Who says?"

"That's what they do in all the movies," Marshall said, feeling he was in one as he spun the cylinder. When it came to a halt the gun felt subtly changed. It occurred to him that he could sense where the weight of the single bullet was. Before, it had been directly under the hammer, and now it was to one side of it—the left, he was practically certain. So there was no reason for him not to turn the gun on himself. He opened his mouth as wide as he'd ever done for a dentist, and tickled the roof of his mouth with the muzzle, and squeezed the trigger. He'd already heard the click in his mind when it became real. "See, I did it," he said, dropping the gun in his lap.

"If you're going to play like that we'll start again."

"All right." Marshall handed him the revolver. "All right, but let's not play for money."

"What else do you want to play for, a fuck?"

"No, I'm serious. I just thought. I'll do six and you don't have to do any, but if I win you have to let me stay until my mom comes to fetch me."

"Fucking hell."

Darren sounded both frustrated and reluctantly admiring. "So is it a deal?" Marshall persisted.

"We'll see what my mam says when she gets home."

Marshall saw that was the best Darren could offer, and it seemed fine to him; surely no nurse would turn him out of the house while he was ill. "Hand it over, then," he said.

Darren made his incredulous face again as he passed him the revolver. Marshall no longer knew what the expression was meant to communicate, but it didn't matter, any more than the sight of the muzzle homing in on him. He took hold of it and swung the butt into his other hand, and spun the cylinder. He let the gun fall against his chest, the muzzle beneath his chin, and bore down on the trigger.

There was a click, as he'd known there would be. Six consecutive shots were beginning to appear rather more ambitious than they had when he'd proposed them, but he needn't worry, because he would be able to sense if the bullet was under the hammer. In any case, he had only five shots to go. He gazed at Darren, the solitary visible member of the audience, while he lowered the gun to his lap and spun the cylinder. When he raised the gun he was sure he could feel it weighing slightly leftward, where the bullet must be. He lifted the barrel under his chin with his free hand. "Two," he said.

Click, of course. The ache in his weakening wrist seemed far more of a problem than anything the gun would do. They fell, and he dealt the cylinder a spin and hoisted the revolver. Still weighted to the left. "Three."

Click, and the ache found his elbow and dropped his forearm so abruptly that the butt bruised his right thigh. He couldn't falter while Darren was watching, waiting for him to give up. A spin of the cylinder made his fingers throb, and the barrel stung them when he closed them around it. Had he remembered to weigh where the bullet was? Yes, on the left again. "Four."

Click, and he winced as the butt clubbed his thigh. This time he used his knuckles against the cylinder, scraping skin off them. He must be achieving the same amount of spin each time—either that or there was some bias in the cylinder, since the weight was to the left still. He held the barrel in his stinging fist and propped them against his chest. "Five," he said, and the click seemed to penetrate every inch of him, because it had struck him that he mightn't be locating the bullet at all, that the gun might not be quite symmetrical. Was anything? He'd kept hold of the barrel so that the gun couldn't thump him yet again, and now he managed to support the gun in mid-air, though his hand wobbled badly, while he spun the cylinder as hard as he could. It whirred to a stop, and he hefted the revolver.

As far as he was able to judge, its balance hadn't changed. He no longer knew where the bullet was, but he had only one shot to go and then he could stay with his friend. He lifted the gun with both hands and poked himself under the chin. The metal circle, which felt huge, dug into his flesh. He couldn't fire until he'd counted, but his tongue was paralysed by the nearness of the muzzle. "Sss," he said, and heard how he must sound to Darren. Contempt for himself made him clench his fist, thumbing the trigger down. "Six," he blurted, convinced that he had to say it before the hammer fell, just as it did.