Read Gun for Free Online Page B

He was pretty sure he had blood on his face, and he knew for a stone-cold that there was a big red wet patch coming through the bottom of his hoodie . Richie reckoned he probably looked like he was gut-shot. His right sleeve hung useless, and there was the bump of his crooked arm under the hoodie . On top of that, he heard the spat-spat-spat of his blood hitting the floor. This lad in front of him probably wondered who was going to clean it up, and whether it was a health and safety issue. Because this scared lad didn't know that Richie wasn't positive, did he? The way Richie must've looked right now – pale, drawn, skinny as grass – there was every possibility that the lad behind the counter already figured him for a smackhead . And career smackheads aren't known for their impeccable health.
    "You deaf, mate?"
    "Huh?" said the lad.
    "Says I want a milkshake and chips."
    "Right," said the lad. "Eat in or –"
    "Take out. Give us a shitload of napkins an' all, will you?"
    The lad looked like he was about to heave a sigh of relief. Richie reckoned he even caught a smile on the lad's face as he told Richie how much it was. He already knew; he had the right money ready, paying with his left hand. He watched the lad grab one of the paper sacks and set Richie's milkshake going as he went for the chips.
    That sack was what Richie really wanted. Everything else was a bonus, a way of keeping his energy levels up, because it felt like he was bleeding hard. But there was a gun weighing the back of his trackies down and he really wanted to hold that thing at arm's length.
    So he was uncomfortable, made worse by feeling like he's the centre of attention in here. Used to be, this was a normal Macky -D's, but now they've gutted the place, thrown lime green on a couple of walls, giant photo-murals of pebbles or some shit on the others. All the tables and chairs that were previously bolted to the floor were gone now, replaced with brown pleather half-booths. Richie reckoned it looked more fair trade than fast food. Trying to fool the wankers , most likely.
    And the wankers were out in force today. Most of them ghouls, giving Richie sidelongs because of the spreading stain. Part of him wanted to kick off, force them into minding their own fucking business, but he knew kicking off wouldn't help matters. First sign of care in the community, there'd be fingers tapping nine on mobiles all through the place. And Christ, if Richie cracked up now, the fucking polis'd be on him like the Fat Lad on his Big Mac. Maybe even quicker than that – Richie thought he remembered seeing a couple of uniforms walking up Northumberland Street a few minutes ago. But he couldn't be sure of much, not with the blood loss fucking with his head.
    He needed to maintain. And even if this lad behind the counter was taking his sweet time coming up with a simple order, there was no sense in losing his rag.
    "There y'are ," said the lad.
    Richie looked up, saw the bag. He tried a smile on for size. From the look on the lad's face, the smile had the desired effect.
    Aye, everyone was happy now that Richie was on his way out the door, even if he was leaving a staggered blood trail behind him.
    Soon as he was outside, he strode across Northumberland Street, swerving through the cross-stream of people who barely look at him, and heading for the long, sloped alley that ran up the side of Marks and Sparks. The alley led to an entrance to Eldon Square that nobody used, but it was lined with alcoved shutters. When Richie reckoned he was safe, he leaned against the wall, turned in towards it. He breathed out, and his head started to spin. Too much exertion crossing the road, got his heart pumping too fast.
    He had to remember – his heart pumped too fast, he'd bleed out quicker; too slow, and he'd pass out. Had to maintain a balance if he was going to make it out of this.
    He kept breathing. Slow and sure. Waiting for the dizziness to pass. His eyes closed.
    Then he pulled open