The Bullet Trick by Louise Welsh Read Free Book Online Page B

a gunshot crack that sounded across the street. I saw him lie still, felt a sickening realisation, then stepped towards him. My move was reflected across the road in the bright lights beyond the plate glass. In the mirror world of colour and warmth a girl stood up, pointing towards me. A man followed her aim, shook his head and raised his pint to his mouth.
     
    I took a step towards the boy, leaned forward to feel his pulse, then heard a shout. The silhouettes of two policemen stood outlined against the bright lights of Argyle Street. Suddenly I was on my feet and running, my boots clattering against the pavement. I glanced behind me just before I turned the corner, hoping I’d see the junky move, but seeing only one of the police bending over him and the other one haring towards me. I outran him so easily I guessed he wasn’t putting his whole effort into the chase.
     
    For a week and a half I stuck to my room, only venturing down to the licensed grocers at the foot of the close for essentials. I lived on morning rolls, ham and crisps, washed down with milk or strong lager occasionally braced with blended whisky. The Evening Times was my oracle. I forced my way through drownings and arson, robberies and knifings. I knew of every murder and act of violence reported in the city. I dreaded sight of my crime, but was never relieved to find it absent.
     
    Eventually the walls of my room started their old trick, shifting until they took on the proportions of a coffin. I decided there’d be more space in prison and ventured out, as nervous of a hand on my shoulder as a teenage shoplifter on their first spree.
     
    It was a week before I saw him. A pathetic figure slumped in an Argyle Street doorway, the grey remnants of a hospital dressing still stuck to his head. He didn’t give me a glance until I shoved a tenner into his hand, then the look he gave me was pure love.
     

London
     
    BILL’S OFFICE WAS three storeys up, at the top of the building. I gave a sharp rap at the door and Sam unlocked it, grinning. Bill was talking in a low voice to someone on the telephone. He motioned me inside and pointed towards a chair, still talking to whoever was on the end of the line. Sam locked the door behind me. I sat at one side of the desk, Bill at the other, one of his endless chain of cigarettes smouldering in the ashtray beside him. Sam leaned against the wall behind Bill, looking pleased with himself.
     
    The office had probably last been decorated sometime around the coronation. There were hints of how the place had looked then in the bright rectangles around the walls where pictures had once hung. The wallpaper had been plain white intersected by regal bands of red flock. But the flock had darkened with age. It was balding in places, scored and chipped in others, and the once-white background had developed the faint toffee tint that old men and paper take on after decades of soaking up nicotine. The carpet had been chosen to match the walls, a plain red pile that had been good and might still be OK if someone took the time to run a Hoover around. Bill’s desk looked like you could take to sea in it, a grand mahogany structure too big for the small space. Bill had either recently been turned over or he was serious about moving. The room was pretty much stripped. What was left was a guddle of cardboard boxes, slouching half-full bin bags and discarded files. An empty safe yawned behind the desk. High above Bill on a set of almost cleared shelves was propped a picture of the young Queen Elizabeth in full sparkle mode, looking glam and only half horse.
     
    Bill’s voice was soft and serious.
     
    'Yeah, just tell them I’ve had to go out. Unavoidable circumstances.' He put the cigarette to his lips. 'Everyone paid, everyone happy?' He paused, listening to the person on the other end of the line. 'Well, Crowther will take care of them. Just wait till the last have gone and lock the door behind you. Nah, don’t worry ’bout