didn't say anything.
"He try to short you on them?"
Richie looked at the bloke in the wheelchair through narrowed eyes. It was about the only way he could keep looking at him. He wondered if Goose had been tipped already. If this was some kind of trap.
Finally, Richie breathed out, attempted a shrug. "I don't know. I didn't check."
"What'd I tell you?"
"I know what you told us."
"I said check for fuckin ' bullets, didn't I?"
"And you never told us how I was supposed to do that."
Goose worked his mouth. He cracked open the revolver. Frowned. "That fuckin ' bastard."
"What is it?" said Noel.
"He's taking the piss, that fat old poof. Seen what he's done here? He's only loaded the gun but one, hasn't he? Fuckin ' bastard'll short you one bullet, save a pound and tell you who's boss. Tell you, that flabby arse bandit's going to get his one day, I swear to fuckin ' God."
"How much did we say?" said Richie again, this time louder.
"Noel, give him a fifty or something, will you?"
Noel's face was pinched as he went into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out an orange and handed it to Richie. Richie looked at the note, wrinkled and smudged with something that he didn't want to think about. He nodded slowly to himself. This was what it was all about, eh? Fifty fucking quid to replace a right hand.
"Got more work for you if you want it," said Goose, but Richie was already shaking his head.
"Don't want it," he said.
"Don't want it? Fuckin ' hell, this morning you was demanding a job."
Richie pushed himself off the door jamb, held out his left hand to steady himself .
"Now look at him," said Goose, tucking the Magnum down the side of his chair. "He spends one day on the Leam and he's a fuckin ' wreck. Here, son, you get yourself seen to and I'll give you a bell later on in the week, see if I can't hook you up with something lucrative, eh?"
Richie moved into the hall, still shaking his head. "Don't bother."
"Here, hang on a sec, I didn't tell you that you could go. So don't you fuckin ' dare think you can leave just yet. "
Richie stopped in the dark hallway. He stared at the pattern on the carpet.
"It was Al that shorted us, wasn't it?" said Goose.
"Aye," said Richie.
"Wouldn't be that you got yourself a fuckin ' gun and lost your mind out there, would it?"
" Dunno what you mean."
"You do. There's one bullet missing."
"I know that. Now."
"Just need to make sure you're not playing funny buggers with us."
"And I told you," said Richie, without a word of a lie. "I don't know how to open the fuckin ' gun. That's why I didn't notice one empty." He turned slightly. "Appreciate you trying to hook us up an' that, but I really need to go. I don't feel good."
Noel was looking at Richie like he was all ready to bring the car round front and shove him in the boot. Goose paused, then said, "Go on. Go home. See your bird or whatever."
"Could be a bloke," said Noel. "You never know. Al might've turned him."
"Only thing Al ever turned was a fuckin ' stomach. Go on, son."
Richie turned back to the front door. He fumbled with the latch, then stepped out into the front yard. The door closed behind him, but he could still hear Goose saying, "That little fucker left a big red smear on the wall."
It was even colder now than it was before, the wind like a slap to the face, reaching under his hoodie and biting like snakes. He started walking to the end of the path. Looked behind him to make sure nobody was watching him as he leaned on the gate, shuffled through. Then he continued up the street, walked until Goose's house was out of sight, and pulled out the mobile. He hadn't asked for it back. Probably forgot.
Richie was pretty sure there were minutes left on the phone. Not that he really needed them for the call he was about to make – it was a Freephone number.
He didn't call the police. They taped all their calls. Plus, they always wanted to know who it was on the other end of the line. There was never any privacy with the
"He try to short you on them?"
Richie looked at the bloke in the wheelchair through narrowed eyes. It was about the only way he could keep looking at him. He wondered if Goose had been tipped already. If this was some kind of trap.
Finally, Richie breathed out, attempted a shrug. "I don't know. I didn't check."
"What'd I tell you?"
"I know what you told us."
"I said check for fuckin ' bullets, didn't I?"
"And you never told us how I was supposed to do that."
Goose worked his mouth. He cracked open the revolver. Frowned. "That fuckin ' bastard."
"What is it?" said Noel.
"He's taking the piss, that fat old poof. Seen what he's done here? He's only loaded the gun but one, hasn't he? Fuckin ' bastard'll short you one bullet, save a pound and tell you who's boss. Tell you, that flabby arse bandit's going to get his one day, I swear to fuckin ' God."
"How much did we say?" said Richie again, this time louder.
"Noel, give him a fifty or something, will you?"
Noel's face was pinched as he went into the back pocket of his jeans, pulled out an orange and handed it to Richie. Richie looked at the note, wrinkled and smudged with something that he didn't want to think about. He nodded slowly to himself. This was what it was all about, eh? Fifty fucking quid to replace a right hand.
"Got more work for you if you want it," said Goose, but Richie was already shaking his head.
"Don't want it," he said.
"Don't want it? Fuckin ' hell, this morning you was demanding a job."
Richie pushed himself off the door jamb, held out his left hand to steady himself .
"Now look at him," said Goose, tucking the Magnum down the side of his chair. "He spends one day on the Leam and he's a fuckin ' wreck. Here, son, you get yourself seen to and I'll give you a bell later on in the week, see if I can't hook you up with something lucrative, eh?"
Richie moved into the hall, still shaking his head. "Don't bother."
"Here, hang on a sec, I didn't tell you that you could go. So don't you fuckin ' dare think you can leave just yet. "
Richie stopped in the dark hallway. He stared at the pattern on the carpet.
"It was Al that shorted us, wasn't it?" said Goose.
"Aye," said Richie.
"Wouldn't be that you got yourself a fuckin ' gun and lost your mind out there, would it?"
" Dunno what you mean."
"You do. There's one bullet missing."
"I know that. Now."
"Just need to make sure you're not playing funny buggers with us."
"And I told you," said Richie, without a word of a lie. "I don't know how to open the fuckin ' gun. That's why I didn't notice one empty." He turned slightly. "Appreciate you trying to hook us up an' that, but I really need to go. I don't feel good."
Noel was looking at Richie like he was all ready to bring the car round front and shove him in the boot. Goose paused, then said, "Go on. Go home. See your bird or whatever."
"Could be a bloke," said Noel. "You never know. Al might've turned him."
"Only thing Al ever turned was a fuckin ' stomach. Go on, son."
Richie turned back to the front door. He fumbled with the latch, then stepped out into the front yard. The door closed behind him, but he could still hear Goose saying, "That little fucker left a big red smear on the wall."
It was even colder now than it was before, the wind like a slap to the face, reaching under his hoodie and biting like snakes. He started walking to the end of the path. Looked behind him to make sure nobody was watching him as he leaned on the gate, shuffled through. Then he continued up the street, walked until Goose's house was out of sight, and pulled out the mobile. He hadn't asked for it back. Probably forgot.
Richie was pretty sure there were minutes left on the phone. Not that he really needed them for the call he was about to make – it was a Freephone number.
He didn't call the police. They taped all their calls. Plus, they always wanted to know who it was on the other end of the line. There was never any privacy with the
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