a desperate lunge for the gun, I shot him in the shoulder. The second bullet knocked him on his spine.
I stood up and backed well away from him.
“Who do you work for?” I asked.
Through one of the brothel windows I could see that a red Range Rover had pulled up outside. Men getting out. Bollocks. No time for twenty questions.
“Ammo,” I said.
He pointed to his jacket pocket. I reached in and pulled out a bag full of assorted .38 shells. Old, new; still, they would do the job.
“Handcuff key?”
“Other pocket.”
I reached in and took out the key.
“Don’t kill me,” he pleaded.
“This is your lucky day, pal,” I said and ran back up the foyer steps and along the corridor, kicking open doors until I found a room with a girl inside.
Mousy little brunette taking a break.
“Is there a back way out of here?” I asked her.
“What?”
I put the gun on her forehead.
“Is there a back way out of here?” I asked again.
Running. Those stars again. My eyes were definitely fucked up. Couldn’t see properly. I rubbed them. Big red birds sitting around a black mark in the road. As I got close they turned into kids in Man. United shirts.
I looked back.
No one behind me.
“Over here, mister,” a voice said, and a tiny hand tugged me down a narrow lane. Dogs barking. Papers. Cardboard boxes. Beer cans. Bottles. Narrow streets. An outdoor toilet. Smell of bacon fat. Curtains of gray slate, yards of washing.
“This way,” the voice said.
Finally I stopped seeing the stars. But Jesus, I’d have to get to a doctor for that.
We went into a court between some back-to-backs and then across a yard full of burned-out cars. In front of us was an open space where a block of flats had once stood and now was derelict. Kids playing in the cement, women talking. Caravans. Trailer homes.
“You’re safe now, mister,” the voice said. The kid was a boy of about thirteen. A dark-haired wee mucker with a scar on his face below the ear. He was wearing a patched sweater, dirty plimsolls, and trousers miles too big for him. Clearly he was a Gypsy kid, or a traveler, if you wanted to be politically correct about it.
“Who ya running from? The poliss?” the kid asked when he saw that I had my breath back.
“Sort of.”
“Aye, thought so. I just seen this eejit running and I thought the poliss are after him. That’s why I done come after ya, show ya a wee route.”
“Thanks.”
The kid looked at the handcuff still attached to my left wrist. It was also still holding a silenced revolver, but the boy didn’t give a shit about the gun.
“Did ya make a break for it? Outta the car?”
“Aye. Sure,” I said. I found the key, took the handcuffs off, and gave them to him.
“Did ya have that key made? How did ya get out of those things?” he asked.
“You ever heard of Houdini?”
“Nope.”
I drank in air, safetied the pistol, and shoved it down the front of my trousers.
“Ya want me to get ya a drink or something?” the kid asked.
“No. Thanks.”
“Are ya heading back?”
“Yes.”
“Where to?”
“Belfast,” I found myself saying. “I’m going to Belfast to get some answers.”
The boy was looking at me funny now. Squinting as the sun came out and then smirking as it went back behind the clouds. I stretched my shoulders where they hurt and reached in my pocket. I found a twenty-euro note.
“Buy yourself some candy,” I said.
“I will,” the kid said, with a trace of ungracious defiance, as if he was just begging me to tell him to say thank you, in which case he would be ready to tell me to fuck away off. But I wasn’t falling for it. I looked at the wee lad and found myself breaking into a grin.
“Have you any brothers or sisters?” I asked.
“Jesus, you’ve no idea, mister.”
“Give them a share of the candy.”
“I will,” the kid promised.
“Give you another twenty if you could russle me up a T-shirt, this one’s fucked.”
The kid nodded, walked across the
I stood up and backed well away from him.
“Who do you work for?” I asked.
Through one of the brothel windows I could see that a red Range Rover had pulled up outside. Men getting out. Bollocks. No time for twenty questions.
“Ammo,” I said.
He pointed to his jacket pocket. I reached in and pulled out a bag full of assorted .38 shells. Old, new; still, they would do the job.
“Handcuff key?”
“Other pocket.”
I reached in and took out the key.
“Don’t kill me,” he pleaded.
“This is your lucky day, pal,” I said and ran back up the foyer steps and along the corridor, kicking open doors until I found a room with a girl inside.
Mousy little brunette taking a break.
“Is there a back way out of here?” I asked her.
“What?”
I put the gun on her forehead.
“Is there a back way out of here?” I asked again.
Running. Those stars again. My eyes were definitely fucked up. Couldn’t see properly. I rubbed them. Big red birds sitting around a black mark in the road. As I got close they turned into kids in Man. United shirts.
I looked back.
No one behind me.
“Over here, mister,” a voice said, and a tiny hand tugged me down a narrow lane. Dogs barking. Papers. Cardboard boxes. Beer cans. Bottles. Narrow streets. An outdoor toilet. Smell of bacon fat. Curtains of gray slate, yards of washing.
“This way,” the voice said.
Finally I stopped seeing the stars. But Jesus, I’d have to get to a doctor for that.
We went into a court between some back-to-backs and then across a yard full of burned-out cars. In front of us was an open space where a block of flats had once stood and now was derelict. Kids playing in the cement, women talking. Caravans. Trailer homes.
“You’re safe now, mister,” the voice said. The kid was a boy of about thirteen. A dark-haired wee mucker with a scar on his face below the ear. He was wearing a patched sweater, dirty plimsolls, and trousers miles too big for him. Clearly he was a Gypsy kid, or a traveler, if you wanted to be politically correct about it.
“Who ya running from? The poliss?” the kid asked when he saw that I had my breath back.
“Sort of.”
“Aye, thought so. I just seen this eejit running and I thought the poliss are after him. That’s why I done come after ya, show ya a wee route.”
“Thanks.”
The kid looked at the handcuff still attached to my left wrist. It was also still holding a silenced revolver, but the boy didn’t give a shit about the gun.
“Did ya make a break for it? Outta the car?”
“Aye. Sure,” I said. I found the key, took the handcuffs off, and gave them to him.
“Did ya have that key made? How did ya get out of those things?” he asked.
“You ever heard of Houdini?”
“Nope.”
I drank in air, safetied the pistol, and shoved it down the front of my trousers.
“Ya want me to get ya a drink or something?” the kid asked.
“No. Thanks.”
“Are ya heading back?”
“Yes.”
“Where to?”
“Belfast,” I found myself saying. “I’m going to Belfast to get some answers.”
The boy was looking at me funny now. Squinting as the sun came out and then smirking as it went back behind the clouds. I stretched my shoulders where they hurt and reached in my pocket. I found a twenty-euro note.
“Buy yourself some candy,” I said.
“I will,” the kid said, with a trace of ungracious defiance, as if he was just begging me to tell him to say thank you, in which case he would be ready to tell me to fuck away off. But I wasn’t falling for it. I looked at the wee lad and found myself breaking into a grin.
“Have you any brothers or sisters?” I asked.
“Jesus, you’ve no idea, mister.”
“Give them a share of the candy.”
“I will,” the kid promised.
“Give you another twenty if you could russle me up a T-shirt, this one’s fucked.”
The kid nodded, walked across the
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