7

As soon as Richie put his hand through the window, he remembered that he should have used his elbow. Pain jolted from his knuckles up his forearm. When he tried to pull the hand free, something dug in and held him in place. He felt something tear, saw blood blossom on the hoodie's sleeve and fought to stay conscious. He'd already dropped out once today. He didn't fancy hitting the deck again, especially considering the commotion in The Admiral.

Richie panicked, wrenched his hand through the shattered window, the end of his sleeve sopping with blood, the sound of glass pebbles skittering across the ground, and a thick nausea rising slowly in his gut. He reached in with his left, unlocked the driver's door and bent over to get a better look. He flipped open the glove compartment, swept out the crap Brandon kept in there – gum, maps, petrol receipts, old and unmarked cassettes. It spilled onto the passenger seat, dropped onto the floor of the car.

No gun.

Richie turned, looked behind him. He heard shouting, but couldn't focus. Looked like there were people coming out of The Admiral. He could make out the big black puffer jacket, assumed the rest were those mates Brandon was talking about.

Back to the car. Richie looked in the back seat of the Cavalier, sticking his left hand down between the seats and immediately wishing he hadn't when his fingers came back sticky.

It had to be in here somewhere. Unless Brandon bought the gun, dropped it off at home before he came to work on his shift. And if that was the case, then why would he need the gun? A bloke could protect himself a lot easier at home than he could on the doors. Richie had reckoned the reason this bloke bought the gun was as an added equalizer on the job. Christ knew what the kids were like round here, and Richie knew the adults were probably a lot worse. But if he'd stashed the gun somewhere else, then that was Richie fucked. There'd be no way of getting it back then. He'd have to go back to Goose empty-handed, and he didn't want to think about that.

He checked under the back seats. Nothing. Swore under his breath.

Behind him, Brandon was halfway across the car park and about to break into a run. Richie felt under the driver's seat, found nothing but a scrap of what looked like an old porn mag. Then he caught a glimpse of a black shape under the passenger seat. He stretched out his left to grab at it when pain exploded at the back of his head. Richie jerked forward, felt the bottom of the car doorframe jab into his chest. The breath shot out of him.

"Fuckin' thieving cunt."

Brandon put his boot into Richie's gut. The nausea that'd previously sat there now burst up his throat. Richie grabbed onto the metal frame under the passenger seat and spewed onto the driver's side. A moment's recoil from Brandon before he brought his foot down on Richie's bloody hand.

The pain yanked Richie to full consciousness. He screamed, whipped his hand out from under Brandon's foot and dug in, dragged himself across the bottom of the car.

There it was. Under the passenger seat.

Richie grabbed the grip of the Magnum, clattered it against the seat frame and screamed as he brought it out, pointed at Brandon. Felt heavy, could've been loaded, but Richie didn't have time to check. Hoped the sight of it would be enough to make Brandon back the fuck off.

Richie felt his finger close round the trigger. His heart stopped beating, his chest went tight, and he couldn't breathe.

Brandon made a move. "Givvus -"

A loud, dry crack, and Brandon's head snapped backwards in a pink mist. His legs went out from under him and the bouncer hit the ground in a heap.

Then everything was silent apart from the ringing in Richie's ears, the thud of his heart beating double-time and his breath, rasping hard and painful.

 Richie shrugged out of the car, hit the ground in a sitting position. His right hand lay pulped on the tarmac. He couldn't move it. The blood had stained the sleeve of his hoodie. Richie looked up at the gang of Brandon's mates. Or acquaintances, seeing as Richie recognised them all from the pub. The landlord with the shaved head seemed to have lost ten years, looking at Richie like a scared kid. Richie brought the gun up, aimed at the landlord.

"Hang on a sec, mate, it's alright. It's okay. We're all fine here, right?"

Richie felt like crying, but he kept breathing hard so he wouldn't. He drew a bead on the landlord and for a second his finger tightened around the trigger. Not enough to fire.

"Fuck off," he said to the blokes gathered round. "Go on."

Richie kicked at the tarmac, pushed himself up to his feet, his right arm hanging by his side. He kept the gun trained on the men as they backed off to the pub. There was blood in his mouth. He tried to summon up some gob and spat the mixture at the ground.

Brandon wasn't going anywhere. Laid out on his back, one of his legs tucked under him, the other straight out. A mess where his right eye socket used to be. Blood streaked out behind him on the ground. When Richie saw that, his left hand started shaking again and he started breathing through his teeth. It was impossible to breathe through his nose. The smell out here was too bad.

Richie wiped his mouth with the back of his gun hand. Wouldn't be long now, someone would've called the polis, and the fucking Armed Response would be on its way. As if a five-year mandatory for carrying this bastard gun wasn't bad enough, he now had a fucking murder charge to think about.

And he was thinking about it too much. The ache from his hand clouded his brain, the shock of what had just happened doubly so. He closed his eyes for a moment, thought he was going to drop out, then caught himself.

He had to move. He had to get out of here. A fucking dead body and a smoking gun. Somewhere out there on the estate, he thought he could hear sirens.

Christ, they were quick.

Richie eased his hand into the hoodie, let it lay against the inside of the sweatshirt and looked around for a landmark he recognised.

Failing that, and hearing the sirens louder now that his ears had popped, Richie ran as fast as he could in the first direction he could think of.

He glanced up at the sky. It was already getting dark.