It’s not totally late so the streets aren’t empty. There’s the odd car about here and there, and people I recognise but don’t really know, going about their business. Again, there’s flickering light from televisions and it’s just an ordinary average night on our estate.
In the distance I hear high revving engines and screeching tyres. That can only be joyriders – kids in a stolen car. I’m listening out and there it is, the police siren. So they’re in hot pursuit through the crowded narrow streets of our estate. The screeching tyres and high revving engines are getting closer. I’m watching out in the direction they’re coming from. And now here they are. That was quick, and I can see the hot hatchback coming careering towards me, lurching between the parked cars to either side, hitting some of them as the driver fights for control. And there, not far behind, is the police car, complete with blue flashing lights and wailing sirens. Without even realising it, I’m standing as far back on the pavement as I can. It’s not like these high-speed chases haven’t ended with innocent people maimed or killed in the past. Actually, that’s happened often enough to be frightening. I smile at the irony; that the only time we seem to see a police presence on our estate is when they are in hot pursuit like this and run the risk of endangering life and property every bit as much as the yobs they’re chasing. But even I acknowledge that it must be a tough call for the police; they’re damned if they don’t go after kids in a stolen car, and damned if they do and there’s an accident. Just a pity they don’t put as much effort into making these streets safe for the likes of Uncle Jack and Aunty Margaret.
The screeching tyres and the revving engines and wailing sirens are already a distant echo as I continue my aimless wander. I’m already on the edge of the estate where it gives way to a couple of country roads that will eventually take you up to the high moorlands. There’s an embankment with some steps leading down into an underpass that takes you under the brightly lit dual carriageway cutting its curving way past the town centre and linking up with the motorway. I’m amazed at how busy the dual carriageway is. Where are all these people going? On the far side, the underpass brings you out onto a darkened industrial estate. From there, even darker roads will eventually lead you onto ever brighter and busier roads until eventually you’ll be in the town centre.
I’m already in the underpass and heading for the far side with the muted trucks and cars rumbling overhead when I realise that I would never usually walk down here at night. But I’m not the least bit tense. My hands are in the pockets of my jacket and my right hand is loosely holding my Ruger. What could possibly happen to me?
I’m sauntering through the deserted access roads of the industrial estate, and I’m vaguely heading towards the town centre when I come to the canal bridge. I look down at the inky black water, still as glass, and the unlit towpath that runs alongside. The canal runs right through the heart of the city, between the derelict and deserted and run-down factory buildings with their crumbling brick walls and dirty cracked and broken windows. The only light down there on that towpath comes when the canal goes under a bridge and the light from the street-lamps lining the road above spill down and spread for a few metres to either side.
Even here I feel cool and loose. Yeah, that’s right; I’m walking along the canal towpath. You hear stories about junkies and vagrants and God knows what congregating under the darkened bridges of the canal, but I can’t say I feel wary of anything. Why should I? I’m walking with my hands in my pockets just like Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver and I have 9mm centre-fire double action semi-automatic protection in my pocket. The only thing that nags at the back of my mind to worry me a little bit is the thought that perhaps a part of me wants something to happen. I slide that thought quickly out of reach.
It’s funny down here by the canal. You can hear cars and stuff, but they don’t seem real, like you’re listening to a background soundtrack that’s totally unrelated to where you are. I stop and arch my head back to look up at the sky. Beyond the black silhouettes of the crumbling factories, the sky is glowing orange from the lights in the town centre. None of it seems real at all. And I’m so alone down here that I feel like I’m in my own little kingdom.
I don’t know for sure how long I spend down there, but it’s gone midnight before I’m back on the familiar streets of the estate. Mum and Dad won’t be worrying. I’ve been out late before with Andy. Mum will probably be awake though until I get in. She tells me that she doesn’t sleep until I’m home and I believe her. I suppose it’s selfish of me to have stayed out so late knowing that, but I haven’t done it on purpose. It just didn’t cross my mind – which is exactly what selfish means. I’m not going to beat myself up about it though.
The way I’m coming back onto the estate, there’s this row of shops that I have to pass. They’re set back from the road, and a couple of them are boarded up, but there’s a kebab shop there that will be closed now, and a little mini supermarket which we call the vacuum shop because it carries hardly any stock. Anyway, as I approach, I see a group of four kids in hooded sweatshirts and baggy combat pants lounging about in front of these shops. I can’t recognise them from here, and normally I’d be wary of them, but I’m not tonight. You know why.
So I’m walking towards them casually and they start to move so that they are going to be blocking my path. At this point, I’m amazingly calm. I wouldn’t normally be, I know, but I am now. So calm that I’m even noticing that I’m calm.
‘Where you been man?’
I’m stopped in front of this group now and I recognise the kid that’s talking. He’s from my school but a couple of years below me. He’d be in Sean’s year.
‘Nowhere. Just out walking.’
I’m still calm and my hands are in my pockets. Two of the kids are smoking spliffs and grinning. The kid who had spoken reaches inside his sweatshirt and my hand tightens around the grip of my Ruger. And I’m still calm.
‘So, what you got?’
I could have guessed that this was going to happen. The kid has a knife and it’s not far from my throat and could even slash my face easily enough.
‘I’ve got money, and a phone.’
You know, I nearly blow it by laughing out loud. I think I want to laugh at my rotten acting, trying to sound intimidated and compliant. Because I sure as hell don’t feel that way at all. I’m making a big deal about getting something out of my jacket pocket. I seem to be struggling, but it’s part of my act.
Suddenly my hand is free and I’ve taken a quick step back at the same time as I thrust out my right arm. I’ve knocked the hand holding the knife away from me and I’m looking down the gunsights along the top of the Ruger, and right into the kid’s eyes. I can weigh it all up like I’m some kind of psychologist. He’s angry and he’s confused and he’s wondering if the gun is real. And all this in a second.
‘Drop it.’
The words are mine. And they are not angry and they are not excited. But I hear in my own voice an authority that I’ve never heard before.
‘Fuck, he got a rod.’
‘That a wicked iron, man.’
Two of the other kids but I’m ignoring them.
‘Drop it or I blow your head clean off.’
I can’t understand why my voice is so calm, why I’m not swearing and screaming. But something about my calm voice is getting through to the kid in front of me. I see his eyes flicker for a moment while he’s weighing up this situation, but soon enough the knife clatters to the ground.
I take a step forward and jam the gun barrel hard into this kid’s face so that he staggers back. I hear the sound of footsteps running away. His friends have deserted him.
‘On your knees.’
The kid is trembling, but he remains standing.
‘Don’t shoot me.’
I ram the gun into his mouth so that for a moment I wonder if I’ve broken his teeth.
‘On your knees.’
This time, he goes to the ground, the barrel of the Ruger s
till hard against his gums. I look down and see the blood around his lips like a clown’s make-up. And with a ridiculous flash of awareness, I realise I’m just emulating what I’ve seen on TV and in movies. I don’t really know what I’m doing or what I should do next.
‘OK, so what you got?’
I’m mimicking his voice to humiliate him. Amazingly, when he reaches into his pocket, he pulls out a roll of notes. And yes, of course I take the money from him. It’s not theft when you steal from a thief, is it?
It’s only when I’m nearly home that I start to tremble. I feel excited and exhilarated. That’s the adrenaline still coursing through me. I wasn’t quite Travis Bickle back there, and I didn’t even fire a shot. But I’m pretty sure I know how Travis Bickle felt.
CHAPTER 13
Scratching the itch
I haven’t slept. I’m not tired though, and I know what’s kept me awake. I’ve been lying there in bed all night, holding the Ruger in my hand. I’ve run through so many scenarios, with me and my gun at the centre of the action, that I reckon I could write a good movie script. But there’s one thing more than ever that I’m aching to do. I want to pull the trigger. I want to see what it feels like. I want to know what sound it makes and if it kicks. Several times in the night I found my index finger just starting to squeeze at the trigger. Of course I was always able to stop myself; I haven’t gone crazy.
So I’ve wagged off school today. You won’t believe this, but I feel a little bit guilty about that. Still, I’ll easily pick up on what I’ve missed, and it’s only going to be this one day. I’ve come out here to the woodland a few miles outside of town. It’s quite a big area of pine trees with lots of pathways where people walk their dogs and even ride horses. At the weekends, especially in the summer, there are lots of people around. But now, in the autumn on a Thursday, it’s empty. At least I’ve not seen anyone. There’s just the sound of dogs barking way off in the distance to suggest that there might be someone out here, giving the animals some exercise and a welcome break from the backyard. But, like I say, I’ve seen no one.
I’ve been traipsing between the trees, far from the pathways, for over an hour. I want to get to somewhere lonely. You know full well why I’m here. I’m going to fire the Ruger. I have an urge to feel it come alive in my hand. It’s almost like I think that the very act of squeezing the trigger will do just that; breathe some life into it. And do you notice how I talk about squeezing the trigger? That’s something I’ve read about; when you fire a gun, you apply progressive pressure to the trigger, you don’t just jerk at it. If you want to be accurate, that is. When you first fire the Ruger, it takes fourteen pounds of pressure on the trigger to cock the hammer. And five pounds of pressure to fire it. That’s what I’ve read. I have absolutely no idea what fourteen pounds of pressure feels like. Or five pounds. That’s what I’m here to find out though. It’s an itch that I absolutely have to scratch.
I come out of the tree line and into a pretty large clearing. The ground is rust-coloured with fallen pine needles and somewhat springy because of them too. It’s almost silent here, and with the trees all around and a low grey sky above, it’s like being in a box, like you’re somehow removed from the world at large. If I listen carefully, I can hear a backdrop of constant car noise, but it’s so way off in the distance that it doesn’t really intrude on the quiet in this place.
Like I said, this clearing is pretty big, and there’s a sort of small lake in it, about a hundred metres or so across. It’s actually quite spooky, because a kid died in this lake last year. Well actually, when I say died, I should say he was killed. It was in the holidays last summer. Loads of kids come into these woods to play, and one day, some kids were here, and there was some kind of argument about a stolen bike or something, and one kid was thrown into the lake. And when this kid tried to climb out, the other kids threw rocks at him and stuff and stopped him. And, eventually, he went under the water and drowned. We’re talking about kids who are about twelve years old here. I don’t know them, because they’re not from my estate and they don’t go to my school, but I know that it’s a true story because it was in the papers. But not on the front pages. It was nowhere near sensational enough for that.
So, like I said, it feels spooky here by this lake. And that’s even despite the fact that I’m carrying the Ruger in my pocket. Let’s face it, a gun is no use against a ghost. And you can stop sniggering; you wouldn’t find it funny if you were out here alone, I’m telling you. This place does feel strange.
So I’m back in among the trees and I’ve walked well away from that lake. It might as well be here as anywhere. I take the Ruger out of my pocket and the synthetic black grip rests against the palm of my right hand while my fingers curl loosely around it. My index finger rests alongside the trigger guard and does not touch the trigger at all. I hold the gun out in front of me, my feet are planted shoulder width apart and my knees are slightly bent. The handle of the gun is resting against the palm of my outstretched left hand for stability, just like I’ve read in articles on the internet, and have seen in movies and on television. I’m looking straight along the top of the barrel. The polymer frame is glistening black. I’m aiming at the trunk of a tree about twenty feet away as I slip my finger inside the trigger guard. I begin to squeeze, slowly. Nothing’s happening. I think I’m a bit tense waiting for the bang, not knowing what to expect. I continue to squeeze. Surely that’s fourteen – BANG!
Actually, it doesn’t bang, not in the way that a firework bangs, or guns in old movies bang. It’s loud enough, sure, but it’s a metallic sound that dominates, the sound of the slider knocked back to eject the spent cartridge and pick up the next round from the magazine, loading it into the chamber.
I look at the tree in front of me. I can see where the bullet has hit it, but it’s way higher than I’d been aiming. The recoil from the gun was not as strong as I’d been expecting, but I hadn’t been ready for when the shot was going to come. When it had, it had taken me by surprise, and I’d let the Ruger jump in my hand. I’ll be more prepared next time.
I take aim again, but now it’s already cocked; it’s only going to take five pounds of pressure on the trigger to fire it this time. I hold it a little bit tighter, plant the base of the handle a little firmer in the palm of my left hand. I begin to squeeze the trigger. BANG! That’s better. Much lower, but it’s pulled to the left a little. One more shot, I’m thinking, just to get the measure of it, and I’ll call it a day. Now don’t go thinking that I’m packing in early because firing the gun is unnerving me or something. That’s far from being true. It’s actually given me a hard-on, if you want the actual truth. Big Roddy had said that having a gun is what made you something. Well last night, with that kid kneeling terrified at my feet and with the blood from his gums all over the end of the barrel of my Ruger, I’d started to realise just what Roddy had meant. But here, now, actually pulling the trigger, feeling and hearing the gunshot, it’s the most exciting feeling imaginable. So no, don’t go thinking I’m packing in because I’m soft; I’m going to call it a day because I only have fifteen rounds of ammunition. And how the hell would I go about getting any more? I just don’t want to waste it. Actually, right now I only have thirteen rounds. And that will soon be twelve.
I’m aiming at where a patch of bark has been torn away by my last shot. Breathe out, hold, squeeze – BANG! Not bad, even if I do say so myself. Two inches right and about an inch above where I’d wanted it to go. The websites all talk about balance and how much play there is in the trigger when they’re reviewing guns. I don’t really know how to judge those things, but something must be right with this Ruger P95, because I am an absolute novice and I can already put a bullet pretty much where I want it to go. A lot of that must be down to the gun, not any skill on my part.
I look down to where the spent cartridge cases have been ejected. I pick them up, noticing the small indentation on the base of each of them where the firing pin has hit them. I put them in my jack
et pocket along with the Ruger. All in all, I’m feeling rather pleased with myself.
CHAPTER 14
You talkin’ to me?
Coming out of the woods I’m feeling good. I’ve got my Ruger in my pocket of course, and my hands tucked in. I’m trying to walk like Travis Bickle from that old movie I mentioned earlier, Taxi Driver. I’m looking down but I’m relaxed and afraid of nothing.
From the woodland, there are two ways to get home. The long way takes you into the town centre and then down past the canal, onto the industrial park and under the dual carriageway. The quick way takes you through the concrete labyrinth of run-down flats where I was beaten up and robbed once upon a time. Where Big Roddy was stabbed and bled to death just a few short days ago. Normally, it would be a no-brainer; despite the fact that it would add an extra half hour to my journey time, I would always head for the town centre. Of course, you know where I’m headed today though. Another no-brainer, really.
I see it, the Concrete Canyon, long before I reach it; the grey concrete slabs from a distance looking like fallen monoliths at Stonehenge. But I feel no apprehension at all. I just carry on down the paths at the edges of the fields, making my way towards it. And before you know it, I’m there, stepping into it. There are patches of tended grass surrounding this high-rise monstrosity. The council plants trees every now and then, but they are slashed and stripped or uprooted within days. I can see the poor ruined saplings, no taller than me, but broken and bent where dimwits have split their slender trunks. And the areas of grass are covered with litter and debris, much of it from where dogs or urban foxes have ripped into refuse sacks left out near to the overflowing bins. It all adds to the oppressive atmosphere so that it’s hard to believe that there are actually people living here in the midst of all this. It’s something for me to consider whenever I lament the rough nature of my own estate.
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