Gun Dog Read online

‘Yo’s wasting yo life, bro.’

  He’s gone and his door is shut behind him before I can reply and really, to tell the truth, I’m glad. In my room I take the books out of my bag and lay them on my bed. I leave the gun in there. Where am I going to hide it? If this was a movie, I’d have a lockable metal box in which I keep my diary, or some such shit. But this is real and I don’t keep a diary. The solution is much simpler than it would be in any movie. My bed is in a corner of my room and butts up to two walls. I’m just going to put that gun in a plastic bag and shove it right into the corner, under my bed. No one will ever find it there. And it is only for a day or so.

  I don’t normally throw the bolt on my door, but that’s exactly what I do now. Because in truth, now I’m safely here in my room, the gun is beginning to fascinate me. I take it out of the canvas bag and I weigh it in my hand and just look at it. I turn it over, I feel its weight. I smell it. The gun oil is somehow sweet. I fancy that I’m smelling for gunshot residue like on CSI, but I wouldn’t recognise it even if it was present. It’s terrible to admit this, but I’m even wondering if it’s been fired. I’m sure that it must have been. And I wonder if anyone has been shot with this particular gun.

  I sit at my computer with the gun on my lap. I’m surfing the net because I want to know what type of gun it is. How crazy is that? Actually, I find it quite quickly on an American gun dealer’s website. I hold the gun in front of me and compare it with the picture on the screen. No question about it, I’m holding a Ruger P95 9mm automatic. And I discover that it carries a fifteen round magazine. I’m becoming quite the expert, in just a few minutes.

  The gun is held in two hands, the way I’ve seen them hold handguns on television and in the movies. I’m squinting down the gunsight along the top of the barrel, and the strange thing is, I do feel powerful holding it and pointing it.

  Bang bang bang on my door.

  ‘Steven, your tea’s ready.’

  I swear that I squeal and the gun skitters out of my hands and clatters to the floor beneath my desk.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be right down.’

  I hope my voice isn’t too muffled. I don’t want Mum trying the door and wondering why it’s bolted. I find the fallen gun and now I wrap it in a plastic bag. I can feel my heart racing as I squirm under the bed and push the package into the far corner. I run my fingers through my hair to straighten it before unbolting my door and heading – still trembling with shock – for the stairs. Bloody guns.

  CHAPTER 3

  You wouldn’t want to be a teacher

  I’m at school. I’m sitting in a classroom next to my best friend Andy Hartnell. It’s geography; not my favourite subject, but it’s OK. And the teacher is Ms Augustine, and you know what? I’ll admit this – I quite fancy her. She’s in her late twenties, I’d say, and she has this long blonde hair that she sometimes wears in a pony tail – like today. And she smiles a lot, which is when I fancy her the most.

  This class is pretty well behaved, I’d say. I mean there’s talking and fooling around, and passing notes and throwing paper at each other. But none of it is malicious. And when Ms Augustine turns round and asks for quiet, well, she actually gets it. For a little while at least. I know from what I read in the papers that older people would say that even this class is out of control, but I can tell you what it’s like in classes where they just don’t give a damn. There are classes in this very school where kids are walking around, swearing at each other, shouting across at each other, and even fighting. Not all the time, but it goes on. I’m just glad I don’t have any classes like that. I mean, what chance have you got of learning anything when the kids are just jerking around like that? I know, I know; I’m meant to find that kind of stuff OK. But you might be surprised by how many of us just want to do well enough here so that we can move on. I’m not the only one. University, remember? It’s all I think of. And if I can’t learn, then I won’t get there.

  I don’t know what I actually want to be when I’m older and out of here. I’ve thought perhaps of being a lawyer, like Catherine. But really I have no idea. Maybe a journalist. One thing is for sure though. I don’t want to be a teacher. I’ve seen what happens when a teacher tries to take control of a class. You know, like the classes I’ve just been on about. I’ve seen the swearing and the abuse. I’ve seen the taunting. And I’ve seen the beatings.

  This school is actually not so bad. There are schools far worse than this. But let me tell you some of the things that have happened right here, just this year. First off – and I’d like you to understand that this was a class of thirteen and fourteen year olds – there was what happened to Mr Kowalski. He was trying to teach maths through the usual noise and shouting, when one kid got up and walked across the classroom and punched another lad right in the face where he was sitting. Mr Kowalski tried to intervene and told the first boy to get out of the classroom. That sounds like a pathetic response, but it’s about all that a teacher can do, no matter what happens. Teachers are not allowed to touch us at all, no matter what. And we all know that too. It’s our ‘human rights’ isn’t it? It’s the law. A teacher touches any of us and we don’t want them to, then it’s a quick call to the police and it’s the teacher who will end up suspended. We all know that. Teachers and kids alike. Anyway, this boy in Mr Kowalski’s class just turned to him and asked who was going to make him get out. And with everyone watching, the boy threw a book that hit Mr Kowalski in the face. Mr Kowalski told him to leave the class once again, but the boy walked right up to him and punched him in the face. Seriously, a thirteen-year-old kid did this. And the boy kept punching and punching, with Mr Kowalski just trying to defend himself and not hitting back, until Mr Kowalski was on the floor. Then the boy just spat on him and walked out. Mr Kowalski never came back after that. But the boy is still here. He was excluded for a week; a week out in the streets and then he was allowed back. I know that this is a true story because my brother Sean is in that class and he was actually there that day.

  And like I say, despite such major incidents, this is far from being the worst school in the area. Mostly it’s just niggling disruptive behaviour. Sometimes there’s a competition to see how quickly you can make this other teacher, Mrs Conway, cry. It can be funny. She’s stupid letting herself get upset so easily. But it’s enough to make my mind up for me. Nah, I could never be a teacher. Never.

  Anyway, back to this class, and there goes the bell. Ms Augustine lives to teach another day. I hang back while the others pour out of the classroom. I hold the door open for Ms Augustine, like I always do, and she smiles and says thank you, like she always does. I don’t know what her perfume is, but I do like it.

  Now it’s break time, so I go outside. There’s a place around the back of the school where you can pretty much be certain no teacher is going to disturb you. Why the hell would they want to when they can stay in the staffroom and have a quiet life? So anyway, that’s where I head. When I get there, Sammy Williams is there with a couple of other boys from his class who I don’t really know but recognise. Sammy nods to me and I notice those cold black eyes of his beneath the peak of his Burberry cap. I nod back and reach into the inside pocket of my jacket. I take out a packet of cigarettes and silently offer one to Sammy. Sammy shakes his head. I offer one to the two other boys, but one of them pulls his hand from behind his back and waves a huge spliff in front of my nose.

  ‘Wanna try this with us?’

  Sammy’s voice is low and slow, so it seems like he’s tried enough already.

  ‘It’s really good skunk.’

  I shrug and put my cigarettes away. The boy with the spliff hands it over to me and turns away. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk to me. Sammy is holding out a disposable lighter, so I touch the end of the spliff to the flame and suck. The smoke is hot, much hotter than cigarette smoke, but the taste is sweet as I drag it deep into my lungs. It really is good skunk.

  Now, normally, I wouldn’t expect Sammy Williams to be offering me a smoke of sku
nk. We don’t exactly mix. On the other hand, we’ve known each other all our lives. Sammy lives in the next street down from me and his brother was in Catherine’s class when she was at this very school. They even went out together for a while. Their paths have parted since. Sammy’s brother is in prison. I’ve told you where Catherine is. But I’m guessing that the real reason that I’m being given more than just the time of day here is because of the favour I’m doing for Big Roddy. Because I’m hiding that gun. And because Sammy knows that I can be trusted to do it.

  ‘You should have had that bird last night.’

  I’m passing the spliff to the boy who had given it to me, so I have to turn to Sammy.

  ‘She was well up for it. We all had her. Some of us more than once.’

  Sammy is grinning beneath his dead eyes so that it’s clear that he certainly had more than his share.

  ‘Bet she was dripping all the way home.’

  One of the other boys sniggers and Sammy sniggers too. Then he starts to laugh.

  ‘Who was she anyway?’

  I have to say something, if only to stop that stupid spliff-laughter.

  Sammy just shrugs.

  ‘Dunno. Just some slapper who was in the mall next to the station. She wanted to hang, so we let her chill with us so long as she’d screw us all.’

  I don’t want to ask anything more. It is all too depressing. All the same, I can’t help thinking that perhaps I’d missed out. And then our heads all turn at once, towards the school gates, like we’ve all had some sixth sense experience. The school gates are a couple of hundred yards away and what we can see is an agitated gang of kids around the gates, and then one or two running off in different directions. And most of all we can see the kid who is running towards us.

  As this kid gets nearer we can see that it is Rob Harrison. He’s a few years younger than us and really far too fat to be comfortable running like this. Pretty soon he’s slid to a halt in front of us and he’s gasping and wheezing fit to puke. Sammy grabs him and slams him against the wall.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Eventually the fat kid is able to blurt out something marginally coherent.

  ‘It’s big Roddy Thompson. He’s been beat up and stabbed.’ He pants, ‘They’ve killed him.’

  Sammy still has hold of the kid’s jacket lapel and throws him to the ground where he lies, still panting and gasping for breath.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  You can tell that Sammy is unsure though, the way he’s watching the agitated kids up by the school gate. Next thing, Sammy is making his way up there and the other two boys follow him. I stand where I am and watch them go. On the ground, Rob Harrison is starting to breathe easier.

  ‘It is true you know.’

  I look down at him, taking my cigarette packet out of my jacket again. I light a cigarette as the fat kid holds out a hand for me to help him to his feet. I just blank him and walk away like he doesn’t exist.

  In a way, I sort of know that it can’t be true, that Big Roddy can’t be dead. All the same, I bet you know what I’m thinking about. That’s right, the slick black Ruger P95 wrapped in a plastic bag under my bed. Is it mine now? Or will Sammy or any one of the others claim it? I’d have to give it up if one of them asked for it.

  I’m no angel as I’m sure you’re gathering, but I’m not going to make enemies for no reason. The streets on our estate can be more dangerous than you’d ever imagine. I smile as I wonder what the hell I think I’m going to do with a gun in the first place. It’s all stupid anyway. Big Roddy’s not dead. It’s just rumour. Happens all the time.

  I finish my smoke as I walk back to the main school building. The rest of the day is just going to drag, I know. I just want to get home to the Ruger.

  CHAPTER 4

  A lovely boy who wouldn’t harm anyone

  Big Roddy is dead. No point me saying that I can hardly believe it or any of that crap, because I can.

  I’m sitting in the living room at home with Mum and Dad and Sean, and all four of us have trays on our laps. We always eat in the living room, watching TV. Anyway, there’s a local news programme on the TV and it’s all about Big Roddy. I recognise where the cameras are showing us. It’s a grey concrete precinct of soulless flats where people live. We call it the Concrete Canyon, and it looks depressing on TV, a jumble of graffiti-covered walls and dark abysmal walkways linking square slabs of dismal apartments. And I know from experience that it’s even worse seeing it for real.

  This seventies-built ghetto is a few miles from here on the outskirts of the other side of town. I’ve been there because a girl I liked used to live there. The second time I went to visit her, I had the crap beaten out of me when I was walking to the bus stop to go home. It was dark and I had to go along one of the walkways, and then down an unlit stairwell. That’s where they jumped me. They left me bleeding and bruised and they stole my phone and my iPod. I can remember them telling me to steer clear of their turf.

  I can also remember Dad phoning the police when I got home. I can remember him going spare when he realised they weren’t going to send a car around to see us right away. That was when Dad first realised what I or any other kid could have told him ages before; that the police have given up on crime. They don’t want to know. They’ve definitely given up on the streets in estates like ours. And they’d never venture into the desolate Concrete Canyon that we’re seeing on the screen now, where Big Roddy bled to death.

  The blue and white police tape blocking off the exact place where Roddy snuffed it stands out against the grey of the concrete. I’m looking to see if I can spot blood on the paving stones, but the camera is too far away to see properly. What you can see though, is that already there are little bunches of flowers and a couple of stupid cuddly toys. What the hell is it with people, for fuck’s sake? What a nation of feeble professional mourners we seem to have become.

  Listen, they’re interviewing some woman from our estate now.

  ‘He was a lovely boy. He wouldn’t harm anyone. He had his whole life ahead of him.’

  Other women standing nearby are nodding their agreement.

  ‘He was a bit cheeky, like, but he wasn’t a bad lad. I hope they catch who did it and lock them away forever.’

  ‘I used to work with his mum, like. I don’t know how she’ll cope with this.’

  This interview is taking place outside Roddy’s house, but these aren’t family members. I’m guessing that they’re neighbours just dying to be on TV. And of course they live close by, so they won’t let the truth intrude upon their words.

  He was a bit cheeky, like, but he wasn’t a bad lad. Christ almighty, these are neighbours so they just had to have known! Big Roddy was a loutish, violent, cunning, dirty bastard who would piss on their cars and carried three ASBOs on his sleeve like sergeant’s stripes.

  ‘Ha ha ha ha ha – what a load of bullshit!’ Sean’s only saying what I’m thinking.

  ‘Show a bit of respect – the lad’s dead.’

  Sometimes I think that Dad is stuck in a time warp. Who cares that an asshole like Roddy Thompson is dead? Lucky for us that we live at this end of this particular street. It’s not so bad here and we’re fortunate that groups of kids haven’t chosen to hang out here. Probably because we’re a well lit and relatively busy road. Dad might not be so respectful if Roddy and his friends had been spending their nights outside our front gate. Bad enough that, even as it is, he has to clear up empty fast food cartons and sweet wrappers and plastic drink bottles and stuff from the garden from time to time.

  ‘I feel sorry for his poor mother.’

  Jeez Mum, get real. This woman is a foul-mouthed drunk who will pup out a replacement bastard in no time.

  I’ve finished my tea, so I get up and take my tray into the kitchen. I even think that I could wash my plate, even as I’m putting it in the sink. But I don’t wash it of course; Mum will do the dishes later.

  I go up to my room. While I’m waiting for my computer
to boot, I’m thinking about the gun under my bed. For some reason, it seems kind of disrespectful to want to hold it so soon after Roddy has been killed. It’s a stupid thing to say, I know. But all the same, I leave it where it is.

  I have homework to do. Something I have to write about King Lear. Actually, I quite like Shakespeare. Once you get behind the poncey language, the stories are really quite good. Ms McNeil who teaches us English has handed out these books with the story of King Lear written in dumb stupid language so that we’ll understand it. I’d find it insulting if I stopped to think about it. But the thing is, it means that anything we have to write for this class can be kept simple. Suits my lazy streak, I have to say. Anyway, I want to get this done and out of the way. It’s Friday and Andy’s coming around later and we’re going out somewhere. Dunno where yet. I’ll wait and I’ll see what he suggests. We’ll probably end up going to see a film though. He’s been going on about this new Jason Bourne film for ages. Wonder what type of gun Jason Bourne uses?

  CHAPTER 5

  It’s a jungle out there

  It’s not yet dark and I’m out on the street just outside my house with Andy. I was right – about him wanting to go see the latest Jason Bourne movie that is. It means a trip to the retail park on the far side of town and a visit to the multiplex, and it means spending money. But that’s OK; I want to see this movie too. It’s funny, but it’s like I’m going to be taking a professional interest. As though, now I’m hiding the Ruger, I have something in common with Jason Bourne. Well actually, now I think of it, it’s not funny at all. Just weird. Forget that thought. Thank goodness I resisted the mad urge I had to bring the Ruger with me.

  We have to walk a fair way to the bus stop. But we can take a short cut through The Gardens – an area of shrubs and trees and grass with a square playground area of red shale in the middle. Sounds lovely, doesn’t it? It isn’t.