9

Richie sat on the Metro, one of the double seats on the side, a copy of the free newspaper in his lap to cover up most of the blood, as well as the bag with the gun in it. He stared through the gap in the bodies at his reflection in the opposite window. Saw the concrete give way to night, the train pulling out from Byker and heading out towards the coast.

He shifted his gaze, squinted at the Metro map above the doors. Counted the stops until he had to get off.

Six.

Chilly Road. Walkergate. Wallsend. Hadrian Road. Howdon. Percy Main.

Then he had to get off the train. Which meant he'd have to start thinking about movement when he got to Howdon. He'd have to psyche himself up, really concentrate, because since he managed to barge his way into this seat at Monument, the last thing he wanted to do was leave it. The train was packed, too, full of people who wanted to nip in there if he so much as flinched. If he could've moved to check his watch, it would have been about five o'clock, he reckoned. It was dark and cold outside, and he couldn't look anywhere on this train without seeing a suit or skirt. The fuckers had tried to guilt him into moving seats instead of taking up two on his own, but their first glimpse of blood was enough to cut that short. Now they were just avoiding eye contact and willing him to move.

Not that Richie really noticed. He was too busy thinking. Wondering if he'd make it to The Well without bleeding out on the Metro. Wondering if he'd be caught before that happened, some civic-minded cunt with a mobile calling him out because he didn't fit the bill of something they wanted to look at on their way home from work.

No, that couldn't happen. And he was pretty sure he'd be alright between town and Goose's house. If he spent hours wandering the Leam looking for a bus stop and nothing happened to him then, it shouldn't happen now he was close to home turf. Now he just had to figure out what he was going to do when he got to Goose's.

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.