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."

The lad pulled a sour face, then started emptying his pockets. A nice wad of cash that wasn’t anything to do with Richie, but which might've had something to do with the gun. Then more cash on top of that.

"This your fuckin' job, is it?" said Richie. "The pay's mint."

The lad didn't say anything, kept turning out his pockets. Two lighters, one of them Richie's. His tabs. A mobile. Richie took the lot, then jerked his chin at the lad, said, "Now the shoe."

"Fuck you talking about?"

"Take your fuckin' shoe off. The foot you were kicking us with."

"I'm not taking off nowt."

Richie moved quick, pinned the lad to the wall. He drew back his fist, brought it hard and short into the lad's gut, then stepped back to watch him fold in half, the wind ripped out of him and the Gregg's steak bake he had for breakfast about to follow. Just as the lad went from the wet to dry heaves, Richie planted his foot in the lad's ribcage, feeling something crack against his instep. The lad let out a restrained howl, rolled over onto his side. Richie bent over, grabbed one of the lad's shoes and wrenched it off.

"When I tell you to take your fuckin' shoe off, you take it off," said Richie, hefting the new shoe in his hand.

The lad burbled something on the ground. Richie waited until he was finished and looking his way, then he hurled the shoe as far as he could. It bounced off into a skip. Richie dusted his hands down, pulled out the lad's mobile and dropped it on the ground. Another shrill, fractured noise came out of the lad, getting higher as Richie brought his foot down on the mobile.

"Just in case you decide to call your mates round, eh?" said Richie.

He ground the pieces into the concrete, then turned out of the alley and headed for The Admiral. As he walked, he checked his watch. It was getting on for noon, which meant the place would be open at least.

Good, he thought. He could get a pint down his neck, and his hands were shaking enough to need one.