The Dead Yard by Adrian McKinty

window with her elbow,

yelled in pain, opened the door, kicked the plastic off the ignition system, sparked the starter,

turned to me, and said:
    "I’m a little bit…um, can you drive?"
    "Ok, honey," I said and drive I did.

    Route 1 out of Revere. Kit distracted, on the mobile phone, trying time and again to call her

dad and her dad’s lawyer and finally getting through to Sonia, whoever Sonia was, explaining what

had happened and asking Sonia to call her back.
    Kit ignoring me completely. Not that I cared—I was focused on not getting us killed in the

hellish evening traffic heading out of the city.
    "Where are we going?" I asked when she finally seemed done with her phone calls.
    "Plum Island."
    "Can we drive there?" I asked, remembering that this was also the name of one of those islands

in Long Island Sound.
    "Of course. Forty-five minutes."
    "Where is it?"
    "Route 1 to 133 to Route 1A, it’s at the mouth of the Merrimack River."
    Kit’s mobile rang.
    "Dad, Daddy, is that you? Oh my God. Ohmygod. Oh my God."
    Apparently it was. Kit started to cry, and I gave her a tissue we’d found in the glove

compartment. She blew her nose. Wiped her eyes.
    "Daddy, where are you?" she asked into the phone.
    Gerry told her and Kit seemed reassured.
    "I’m going back to Newburyport; a nice boy called Sean is driving me, he sort of saved me,

he’s from Ireland."
    Gerry must have been suspicious, because Kit gave me a winning smile.
    "It’s ok, Daddy, I’m totally fine. He’s nice. We’re heading home. What about you, are you

hurt? Did you tell them about your blood pressure?"
    Gerry said something and Kit laughed. She put her hand over the receiver.
    "He’s fine," she told me.
    "Good," I replied.
    Gerry said something else that sent her into hysterics. She put her hand over the mouthpiece

again.
    "He says he’ll be out tonight because he’s got something rarer than a tap-dancing dodo," Kit

explained, the tears gone from her eyes now.
    "What’s that?" I asked.
    "A Massachusetts concealed carry permit," Kit said and chuckled at her father’s unfunny

remark.
    Gerry gave her a few instructions and told her he loved her.
    "I love you too, Dad," Kit said and hung up.
    Kit turned to me and smiled.
    "They’re all ok," she said.
    "Ok, good. I’m glad," I said and gave her a quizzical look.
    "What’s that expression about?" she asked.
    "Well, this may be a perfectly normal event to you but I’m a stranger in these parts, so you

wanna tell me what the fuck happened in there?" I asked.
    "I don’t know, I suppose it was a gang thing," Kit lied.
    "A gang thing? Jesus. Does that happen in Boston a lot?" I asked.
    "No, not really, but sometimes it does. It doesn’t usually come down to violence."
    "How come your dad had a gun?"
    "Oh, he, like, runs a construction company, gets a lot of threats from the mafia and stuff,

he’s allowed. But I don’t think this was anything to do with him. Just wrong place, wrong

time."
    "Well, I must say you’re taking it pretty well, been in anything like this before?" I

asked.
    Kit said nothing but her face was hard and wary.
    "It’s certainly a first time for me," I said, as gentle a probe as I dared.
    "First time for me, too," she said and patted me on the leg. She was being comforting but also

taking the piss. Still, the physical contact was welcome. A lot of attractive women were finding

me extremely tactile these days. That unwashed combination of prison cell, banana plantation,

riot, sunblock, and cheap beer must be an irresistible mix.
    "Terrifying," I said, and Kit nodded. "I mean, Jesus, it was terrible, oh my God, it was

really terrible," I added, hamming it up.
    But Kit was bored with me. She didn’t want to pretend that this was her virgin encounter with

serious violence. She tried to look away. Her lip began to quiver and she looked for her fags.

No, not bored, it was all just too much to deal with right now.
    A good idea to change the