buttons.
Paul snapped his hand back. “Hey! No need for that.”
She was done with the pussyfooting. “Did you give John the gun?”
“How do you know about the gun?”
“Did you give it to him?”
“I didn’t force it on him. He asked me for the thing. It’s not my fault he got lifted.”
“And I suppose it’s not your fault that Brian’s the way he is?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? There’s nothing wrong with Brian.”
“There’s less wrong with him now, but he’s been your doormat for years.”
“Aye, says you who’s known him five minutes.” Paul tilted his head slightly, looked beyond Rachel and out the driver-side window. “SHITE!”
Rachel jerked in her seat. The Subaru swerved slightly. She righted their course as her heart vibrated.
“What?” she asked.
Paul pointed out the window. “Mad Mickey. Jesus, what’s he doing here?”
Rachel followed Paul’s line of sight and looked out her window. A crusty white hippy in green fatigues and a big gorilla-type in a suit loitered outside the Country Fried Chicken. They checked out passers-by in a less than subtle manner and generally looked menacing. Rachel felt a sly smile spread across her face. She pushed in the cigarette lighter.
“Why are you slowing down?” Paul asked. “They’ll see us.”
“No they won’t.”
She rapped her knuckles on the window.
Tinted.
Rachel stopped the car and reached into the backseat.
“What are you doing? Drive.”
She patted her hand along the leather seat then reached down into the foot well. There . Her hand wrapped around the cool steel of the steering wheel lock her daddy had bought but rarely used.
“Wait just a second,” Rachel said.
“For what?”
The cigarette lighter popped. Paul looked to it then Rachel; tried to figure things out. With her free hand, Rachel snatched the lighter from its socket and shoved it into the side of Paul’s neck. He screamed. She hefted the steering wheel lock. Working in the confined space, she butted him with a spear-like jab. His eyes rolled back and his neck went rubbery. Rachel reached across his lap and pulled the passenger door handle. She shoved him out onto the kerb then leant on the horn.
Across the street, the hippy and the big guy zeroed in on the source of the blaring noise. Rachel wound down her tinted window, waved at the two men and drove forward a few yards to reveal Paul as he struggled to get to his feet.
“There he is!” The hippy’s gravely voice was loud and excitable. “Come on!”
He sprinted towards Paul, closely followed by the big man in the suit. Rachel whooped as she sank her toes down on the pedal and peeled off down the street.
Unwelcome Guest
Brian dropped a bulging canvas bag on the living room floor. It thwacked off the laminate flooring and sent fluffy balls of dust skittering in all directions. He regarded the bag for a second, unimpressed. All his worldly possessions, jammed into such a small space.
Brian’s head snapped up at the sound of tyres screeching at the front of the house. He went to the window. A car had skidded to a halt and come to rest broad side at the mouth of Brian’s driveway. A burly skinhead clambered out of the car. He consulted a small piece of paper, squinted at the number on Brian’s door and ran towards the house. Brian gasped as the skinhead barrelled into the front door. The wooden doorframe creaked and cracked. Another thump and wood splintered. Brian ran to the kitchen.
Brian grappled with the back door handle. The door held solid.
“Where the fuck’s the key?”
He spotted it, hanging on a hook on the wall. Paul’s idea. Nobody’s more security conscious than a burglar. Brian lunged for it. Fumbled. Cursed as it fell. All the while the booming at the front door continued. Brian scooped up the keys. The front door gave. Bounced off the wall.
The skinhead stormed in.
He tramped through the living room and spotted Brian in the kitchen through the open
Paul snapped his hand back. “Hey! No need for that.”
She was done with the pussyfooting. “Did you give John the gun?”
“How do you know about the gun?”
“Did you give it to him?”
“I didn’t force it on him. He asked me for the thing. It’s not my fault he got lifted.”
“And I suppose it’s not your fault that Brian’s the way he is?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? There’s nothing wrong with Brian.”
“There’s less wrong with him now, but he’s been your doormat for years.”
“Aye, says you who’s known him five minutes.” Paul tilted his head slightly, looked beyond Rachel and out the driver-side window. “SHITE!”
Rachel jerked in her seat. The Subaru swerved slightly. She righted their course as her heart vibrated.
“What?” she asked.
Paul pointed out the window. “Mad Mickey. Jesus, what’s he doing here?”
Rachel followed Paul’s line of sight and looked out her window. A crusty white hippy in green fatigues and a big gorilla-type in a suit loitered outside the Country Fried Chicken. They checked out passers-by in a less than subtle manner and generally looked menacing. Rachel felt a sly smile spread across her face. She pushed in the cigarette lighter.
“Why are you slowing down?” Paul asked. “They’ll see us.”
“No they won’t.”
She rapped her knuckles on the window.
Tinted.
Rachel stopped the car and reached into the backseat.
“What are you doing? Drive.”
She patted her hand along the leather seat then reached down into the foot well. There . Her hand wrapped around the cool steel of the steering wheel lock her daddy had bought but rarely used.
“Wait just a second,” Rachel said.
“For what?”
The cigarette lighter popped. Paul looked to it then Rachel; tried to figure things out. With her free hand, Rachel snatched the lighter from its socket and shoved it into the side of Paul’s neck. He screamed. She hefted the steering wheel lock. Working in the confined space, she butted him with a spear-like jab. His eyes rolled back and his neck went rubbery. Rachel reached across his lap and pulled the passenger door handle. She shoved him out onto the kerb then leant on the horn.
Across the street, the hippy and the big guy zeroed in on the source of the blaring noise. Rachel wound down her tinted window, waved at the two men and drove forward a few yards to reveal Paul as he struggled to get to his feet.
“There he is!” The hippy’s gravely voice was loud and excitable. “Come on!”
He sprinted towards Paul, closely followed by the big man in the suit. Rachel whooped as she sank her toes down on the pedal and peeled off down the street.
Unwelcome Guest
Brian dropped a bulging canvas bag on the living room floor. It thwacked off the laminate flooring and sent fluffy balls of dust skittering in all directions. He regarded the bag for a second, unimpressed. All his worldly possessions, jammed into such a small space.
Brian’s head snapped up at the sound of tyres screeching at the front of the house. He went to the window. A car had skidded to a halt and come to rest broad side at the mouth of Brian’s driveway. A burly skinhead clambered out of the car. He consulted a small piece of paper, squinted at the number on Brian’s door and ran towards the house. Brian gasped as the skinhead barrelled into the front door. The wooden doorframe creaked and cracked. Another thump and wood splintered. Brian ran to the kitchen.
Brian grappled with the back door handle. The door held solid.
“Where the fuck’s the key?”
He spotted it, hanging on a hook on the wall. Paul’s idea. Nobody’s more security conscious than a burglar. Brian lunged for it. Fumbled. Cursed as it fell. All the while the booming at the front door continued. Brian scooped up the keys. The front door gave. Bounced off the wall.
The skinhead stormed in.
He tramped through the living room and spotted Brian in the kitchen through the open
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