by Ray Banks
There it was, a huge cardboard vista in the window of WH Smiths.
... and the wine is bottled poetry ...
Red vines. In the distance, a mountain shimmered in a heat haze. Above it, the bluest sky he’d ever seen. There were more than seven hundred wineries dealing with the kind of grapes, just saying their names made you sound posh and French and sophisticated: Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon ...
It was some advert for a travel guide that came free with a paper Shug would never read otherwise, but it sang to him. It told him that his dreams were closer than ever, reminded him that all this shite so far had been absolutely worth it. All he had to do was pick up some more clothes at the airport, as well as some luggage to put them in. He also had to remember to buy a return ticket else they’d have in him a windowless room all bastard night.
The Red Bull had started its growl. He breathed out through his nose.
Only other thing he needed was that guide. After all, it was fate, wasn’t it? The paper could’ve done anywhere in the world, but they’d picked his dream as theirs.
Shug approached the gated window, looked at the seal that ran around it. Alarmed, probably. Daft to think otherwise. He looked down at the pile of papers under the cardboard advert, the pile of travel guides next to it, then turned around to see if there was anything big enough and heavy enough. There were bins and benches, but they all looked bolted to the floor. Again, daft to think they wouldn’t be. Places like this, they were security conscious. Wasn’t some post office in Bathgate, was it?
Shug pulled the pistol from the back of his jeans. He checked around, but there was nobody walking around in here apart from him. He hefted the gun in his hand, then approached the window again. Ran through the motions in his head first, timing it, the muscles in his hand and arm micro-twitching in their rehearsal.
Then he put the butt of the pistol through the window. Glass rained onto his feet. He knocked shards away, pushed his arm through the hole up to the pit and grabbed one of the travel guides. Then he backed quickly off from the window and walked briskly back towards the entrance to the services, the alarm screeching behind him.
It was cold outside. He breathed deep, slowed down. He looked for the Land Rover.
Saw the police car idling next to it.
Shug kept walking, didn’t break stride. He tucked the travel guide into his jacket pocket, closed it up just in case the wind revealed the pistol in the small of his back. He walked the long way round the car park, kept an eye on the police car. He thought he saw two of them in there, both of them big enough to pose a threat. One of them was busy writing something down.
There were choices here. One of which was lose his fucking mind, which was the one that didn’t so much appeal as demand to be done, especially when the police car moved towards him. Shug stopped at a Cavalier, turned his back on the police. He pretended to fumble around in his pocket for his car keys, then glanced down at the driver’s side window.
Saw the elderly man staring at him. A split-second, and Shug thought it was Charlie, but then the man’s face changed into a stranger’s and started shouting at him from behind the glass. Shug stepped back as the man wound his window down.
“What d’you think you’re playing at?” shouted the man.
Shug looked over his shoulder. The police car was up the other end of the car park, moving slowly. Then the brake lights flared. The car came to a stop.
“Get out of the car,” said Shug.
“You what?”
Shug lunged through the open window, grabbed the old man round the neck and tried to pull him out. The man screamed for help. Shug reached for the pistol, brought up under the man’s quivering chins. The driver’s door opened easily and the man stopped screaming, moving quickly out of the Cavalier and quietly begging to keep what little life he had left. Once the old man was both feet on the ground, Shug shoved him out of the way and moved to the driver’s seat.
He looked up, saw one of the uniforms running towards him. Saw the police car already turned and pointed his way. He pulled the driver’s door shut and stamped on the accelerator. The engine roared and then choked, the Cavalier rolling forwards on a stall. Shug saw the police car turn up ahead, bearing down on him from the front, blocking him off. He put the Cavalier into reverse, suddenly aware of the small noises he was making in the back of his throat.
The engine coughed again, didn’t catch. The Cavalier rolled.
The driver’s door flew open. The uniform put hands on him. Shug let go of the steering wheel, tried to scramble over the gear stick. The uniform grabbed a hold of Shug’s jeans, yanked him back. Shug kicked out, screamed at the copper and twisted round to reach for his gun. Touched bare back instead.
Shug felt himself dragged out of the Cavalier. He saw the other uniform get out of the police car just before he was shoved against the side of the car. He looked down, saw the pistol at his feet but had no way of going for it. The pressure against his back was immense.
“Watch it with this one,” said the car copper. “He’s supposed to be a heid-the-ball.”
“You mental?” said the uniform, grabbing one of Shug’s wrists.
“Course he is. You only need to look at him.”
Shug stared at the copper who’d been driving, and then over his shoulder at the police car that stood with the driver’s door hanging open and the engine running. He was tired, but he couldn’t give up. Not now. He hung his head, felt the steel close around one wrist. Anticipated the uniform coming in for the other hand, and brought his foot down the uniform’s shin to his instep, felt a satisfying crunch as his heel ground bone and then twisted out from the copper’s grip.
Shug feinted to the left, ran right, vaulted the Cavalier’s bonnet and made for the police car.
He shoved at the other copper, but felt his hand catch on something, his body carrying on regardless. Then pain flared in his wrist, something kicked him in the back and the ground reared up to kiss him. He fell hard, the kick turned to solid weight between his shoulder blades and his arm pulled back across his arse. Shug saw the world through fireworks and kicked out, screaming.
“Told you he was a fuckin’ headcase.”
“Hold him. Hold the fucker.”
Shug threw himself around, felt the coppers struggle to keep a hold of him.
“Take the bastard’s legs, Bri. He’s a kicker, this one.”
Too right. Shug showed them what kind of kicker he was. He lashed out with both feet, screaming until his head felt like it was ready to explode.
Then a whip across the backs of his legs. Once. Twice. He yelled with the pain, scrambled up to his knees for a second before another blow brought him crashing to his stomach. Something shifted from his jacket, a weight lost.
“Got the bastard.”
His other arm, pulled up and clicked at the wrist. Something scraped against the tarmac. The Ginsters clawed its way up his throat, but he swallowed it back. He wasn’t going to spew for these two. He tried to kick out again, but the message didn’t reach his legs.
And then he saw the travel guide. It lay open on the tarmac, pages fluttering in the wind. He thought he saw the picture again, the one of the vineyard, and he stared at it, tried to brand it into his memory.
But there was Fiona with tears in her eyes. There was Len and Golly and blood on the lino. There was Ailsa with booze on her breath and a bruise on her cheek. He saw all of this, and the Napa Valley struggled to take, wouldn’t stay in his head long enough to focus on. The pages blew over, back and forth, and soon the image fractured into a million pieces, leaving nothing behind.
Shug felt the blood go from his arms. The floor lurched away from him as the coppers brought him to his feet. His dead legs buckled under his weight, the two uniforms holding him up. The copper who’d brought him to the deck moaned about the state of his trousers. The other copper leaned in nice and close and whispered a dull threat of revenge.
Shug didn’t hear him. He
stared at the travel guide, willing the image back into his head. He was still looking at it when they shoved him into the back of the police car.
But he still couldn’t remember what California looked like.