Subaru wagon, and the dogs are jumping in as he says this.
‘Just getting out in the fresh air is good. And they love being out and about.’
He’s nodding at the dogs as he slides the shotgun, still in its canvas carry-bag, into the back of the car.
I look at the dogs, just before the tailgate shuts to close them in. The spaniels are gun dogs. They’ve been bred to retrieve and trained to fetch shot game without eating or damaging it. Powerful jaws that can be very gentle.
Gun dogs. I find myself thinking about that as Alan slides into the driver’s seat of the Subaru, closing the door carefully behind him, still respectful of the hour, of his neighbours. Surely it’s wrong to call the dogs by that name. The dogs are only acting in accordance with their nature. Surely it’s the people who carry the guns who are really the gun dogs.
Ruger P95
Calibre: 9mm
Capacity: 15 rounds
Rifling: 6 grooves, 1:10
Rifling of six grooves refers to the number of narrow slots cut in spirals along the inside of the barrel. 1:10 means that the rifling goes through one full rotation every ten inches – not that the Ruger has a ten inch barrel. Rifling keeps the bullet straight and accurate when it’s fired.
Calibre 9mm means that the diameter of the inside of the barrel – and therefore the ammunition needed – is 9mm. That’s a powerful round. And it carries fifteen such rounds in a fully-loaded magazine. The magazine is a metal box that slots into the base of the handle. I’ve heard the wannabe
Gangstas
at school talking about guns – as if they’d ever been near one – and saying that such and such a gun carries a twelve round clip or a ten round clip or whatever.I now know for certain that they’re talking crap. A clip is a disposable device that lets you speed-load a magazine.
The Ruger P95 in my hooded sweatshirt pocket carries a fifteen round magazine and it’s fully loaded.
Alan’s car pulls away from the kerb and I watch it as he accelerates gently down the road. The dogs are standing in the rear of the wagon, looking at me out of the window. I look back at them as I slide my hand into my pocket and my fingertips caress the polymer frame of the Ruger. Nah, they are not gun dogs. But maybe I am.
CHAPTER 8
Normal rules no longer apply
It has started to drizzle with rain. Not enough to worry about, but enough for me to see the tiny droplets coating the fleece of my hooded sweatshirt. My hands are in the pockets and the fingertips of my right hand are absently caressing the cool polymer frame of the Ruger P95. I don’t want to think about why the gun is in my pocket.
I’m standing on the pavement opposite Uncle Jack and Aunty Margaret’s house. I’m still sad about what I saw last night. But I’m not weepy now. Actually, I’m numb. I want to know what exactly went on last night and why Uncle Jack has been arrested.I’m looking over at the house, where the curtains are drawn because it’s still pretty dark. It doesn’t look as though anyone is up in the house because no electric light escapes the inevitable curtain gaps.
Every now and again, my gaze wanders to the side of the house and I have to look away quickly. I can’t bear to look upon the battered little Nissan. It makes my fingers tighten on the cold object in my pocket. So I look at the house, and while I’m still feeling sad and angry and ashamed at my impotence last night, somehow looking at the house is more bearable.
I notice a twitch at the curtain. Someone in the house is awake. Whoever it is can’t help but have seen me standing here. Not that I’m trying to hide. And it’s not many seconds later that I see the front door slowly open. The hallway is dark behind, with no lights switched on. But there’s a figure in the doorway, a woman dressed, and not speaking, not beckoning. Just looking at me looking at her. It’s Aunty Margaret.
We stand like this, facing each other like melancholic gunslingers, for a few seconds that feel
‘Just getting out in the fresh air is good. And they love being out and about.’
He’s nodding at the dogs as he slides the shotgun, still in its canvas carry-bag, into the back of the car.
I look at the dogs, just before the tailgate shuts to close them in. The spaniels are gun dogs. They’ve been bred to retrieve and trained to fetch shot game without eating or damaging it. Powerful jaws that can be very gentle.
Gun dogs. I find myself thinking about that as Alan slides into the driver’s seat of the Subaru, closing the door carefully behind him, still respectful of the hour, of his neighbours. Surely it’s wrong to call the dogs by that name. The dogs are only acting in accordance with their nature. Surely it’s the people who carry the guns who are really the gun dogs.
Ruger P95
Calibre: 9mm
Capacity: 15 rounds
Rifling: 6 grooves, 1:10
Rifling of six grooves refers to the number of narrow slots cut in spirals along the inside of the barrel. 1:10 means that the rifling goes through one full rotation every ten inches – not that the Ruger has a ten inch barrel. Rifling keeps the bullet straight and accurate when it’s fired.
Calibre 9mm means that the diameter of the inside of the barrel – and therefore the ammunition needed – is 9mm. That’s a powerful round. And it carries fifteen such rounds in a fully-loaded magazine. The magazine is a metal box that slots into the base of the handle. I’ve heard the wannabe
Gangstas
at school talking about guns – as if they’d ever been near one – and saying that such and such a gun carries a twelve round clip or a ten round clip or whatever.I now know for certain that they’re talking crap. A clip is a disposable device that lets you speed-load a magazine.
The Ruger P95 in my hooded sweatshirt pocket carries a fifteen round magazine and it’s fully loaded.
Alan’s car pulls away from the kerb and I watch it as he accelerates gently down the road. The dogs are standing in the rear of the wagon, looking at me out of the window. I look back at them as I slide my hand into my pocket and my fingertips caress the polymer frame of the Ruger. Nah, they are not gun dogs. But maybe I am.
CHAPTER 8
Normal rules no longer apply
It has started to drizzle with rain. Not enough to worry about, but enough for me to see the tiny droplets coating the fleece of my hooded sweatshirt. My hands are in the pockets and the fingertips of my right hand are absently caressing the cool polymer frame of the Ruger P95. I don’t want to think about why the gun is in my pocket.
I’m standing on the pavement opposite Uncle Jack and Aunty Margaret’s house. I’m still sad about what I saw last night. But I’m not weepy now. Actually, I’m numb. I want to know what exactly went on last night and why Uncle Jack has been arrested.I’m looking over at the house, where the curtains are drawn because it’s still pretty dark. It doesn’t look as though anyone is up in the house because no electric light escapes the inevitable curtain gaps.
Every now and again, my gaze wanders to the side of the house and I have to look away quickly. I can’t bear to look upon the battered little Nissan. It makes my fingers tighten on the cold object in my pocket. So I look at the house, and while I’m still feeling sad and angry and ashamed at my impotence last night, somehow looking at the house is more bearable.
I notice a twitch at the curtain. Someone in the house is awake. Whoever it is can’t help but have seen me standing here. Not that I’m trying to hide. And it’s not many seconds later that I see the front door slowly open. The hallway is dark behind, with no lights switched on. But there’s a figure in the doorway, a woman dressed, and not speaking, not beckoning. Just looking at me looking at her. It’s Aunty Margaret.
We stand like this, facing each other like melancholic gunslingers, for a few seconds that feel
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