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painful.
     Richie shrugged out of the car, hit the ground in a sitting position. His right hand lay pulped on the tarmac. He couldn't move it. The blood had stained the sleeve of his hoodie . Richie looked up at the gang of Brandon's mates. Or acquaintances, seeing as Richie recognised them all from the pub. The landlord with the shaved head seemed to have lost ten years, looking at Richie like a scared kid. Richie brought the gun up, aimed at the landlord.
    "Hang on a sec, mate, it's alright. It's okay. We're all fine here, right?"
    Richie felt like crying, but he kept breathing hard so he wouldn't. He drew a bead on the landlord and for a second his finger tightened around the trigger. Not enough to fire.
    "Fuck off," he said to the blokes gathered round. "Go on."
    Richie kicked at the tarmac, pushed himself up to his feet, his right arm hanging by his side. He kept the gun trained on the men as they backed off to the pub. There was blood in his mouth. He tried to summon up some gob and spat the mixture at the ground.
    Brandon wasn't going anywhere. Laid out on his back, one of his legs tucked under him, the other straight out. A mess where his right eye socket used to be. Blood streaked out behind him on the ground. When Richie saw that, his left hand started shaking again and he started breathing through his teeth. It was impossible to breathe through his nose. The smell out here was too bad.
    Richie wiped his mouth with the back of his gun hand. Wouldn't be long now, someone would've called the polis, and the fucking Armed Response would be on its way. As if a five-year mandatory for carrying this bastard gun wasn't bad enough, he now had a fucking murder charge to think about.
    And he was thinking about it too much. The ache from his hand clouded his brain, the shock of what had just happened doubly so. He closed his eyes for a moment, thought he was going to drop out, then caught himself.
    He had to move. He had to get out of here. A fucking dead body and a smoking gun. Somewhere out there on the estate, he thought he could hear sirens.
    Christ, they were quick.
    Richie eased his hand into the hoodie , let it lay against the inside of the sweatshirt and looked around for a landmark he recognised.
    Failing that, and hearing the sirens louder now that his ears had popped, Richie ran as fast as he could in the first direction he could think of.
    He glanced up at the sky. It was already getting dark.
     

 
     
    8
     
    He didn't want to chuck an eppy in the middle of the Macky -D's, but if that fat bastard in front of him didn't get his arse shifted quick-smart, Richie was going to use what little strength he had left to put a boot up his ring. He'd been alternating his stare between the two-inch roll of back flab that poked out from under the fat lad's toon strip and the angry, pulsing zit on the back of his neck. Meanwhile, Porky fucking Pig was hemming and hawing about whether to have a second meal, and Richie wasn't getting any healthier.
    "How," said Richie.
    Fat Lad didn't react.
    "You," said Richie.
    Still nothing.
    "How, ya fat cunt. I'm talking to you."
    Fat Lad started to turn around. It took a while because he was playing it like a hard man.
    "You want to move this along?" said Richie. "Some of us got places to be."
    Fat Lad looked like he was about to say something. Then he got a proper eyeful of Richie and he worked his mouth. Reckoned maybe that the one super-size was enough for now. Fat Lad dropped his gaze to the floor, then nodded, grabbed his tray and shuffled off. Didn't say anything. Didn't need to – his face said it all. And when Richie moved up to the counter, he reckoned that face must be fucking catching, because the Macky -D's employee had the same expression, like someone just dumped a load in his kecks .
    " Ehm , give us a large strawberry milkshake there, please mate. And some chips an' all."
    The lad behind the counter didn't move. Staring at Richie, and he knew there was plenty to stare at.