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tears about to come, so he said, "Aye, I promise."
    They went into a hug. Richie felt her shaking against his chest. For a second, he wondered if she was laughing, and then wondered what the fuck he'd just agreed to. He moved away and saw the tears running down her face. He frowned, asked her what the matter was. She shook her head, smiling, then went back to his chest.
    His chest ached now, the memory turned her hug into a headbutt . Richie rubbed his cheek and stared out of the window, seeing nothing. The way she looked at him after he promised, the way she started talking about moving somewhere else, somewhere Richie could get himself a proper job, all this talk of settling down. It made his gut twitch.
    And Richie said, "How, hang on a sec, we can't move anywhere, can we? I'm still on licence."
    "We can work round that," she said. "Reckon the probation'll be happy you're moving away from the reason you got put inside. Besides, we'll need to be in a decent area, lots of parks an' that. Like, a family area."
    It was all falling into place now. And he wondered how the fuck he'd managed to miss it. Too caught up in trying to find paying work, most likely, but when he thought about it now, she wasn't being too fucking coy about it, was she? The lass was either pregnant or wanting to get there. And Richie'd promised no more dodgy jobs, as good as he promised to fucking marry her.
    "Fuck," he said now. An old guy at the next table turned his paper bag face Richie's way, his mouth working. "Nah, man. Not you."
    Richie leaned forward on the table, put his head in his hands and stared straight down into his barely fizzing pint. If he'd known sooner, he wouldn't have gone to Goose. He would've got himself down the dole and signed on. Would've took the first job they gave him and worked it till he broke.
    And now where was he? Some shitty pub miles away from home, waiting on a bloke who had a gun he needed. A fucking gun. Richie never saw a real live gun before in his life until today. Knew some of the lads further up the food chain wore the vests and carried something in their cars, but Richie'd never come into full contact with them. Now in the course of a single morning, he'd bought and lost one.
    This was the way he kept promises, was it?
    He caught movement, looked up and saw a brown Cavalier rolling into the car park. A big bloke behind the wheel, almost took up the front two seats by himself. He killed the engine, then struggled to get out of the car. Then Richie noticed that he wasn't just a big bloke, but a big fat bloke. Muscle underneath all that, mind. Not like Florida Al. If anyone looked like a bouncer, it was this bloke.
    Richie watched Brandon stride towards the front of the pub, then downed his Grouse. It burned going down and Richie wanted to cough it out, but he held firm. Brandon pushed into the pub, and the landlord called him over. Richie heard the landlord say something about "the lad in the corner", and Brandon say, "Oh aye?"
    Richie hunkered up around his pint, breathing slow, pushing thoughts of Becka and the possible bairn out of his head.
    "You wanted to talk to us, son?" said Brandon.
    Richie turned in his seat, looked up at the bouncer. From this angle, the gadgie was a fucking mountain.
    "Aye," he said. "Probably best we do it outside, like."
    And he finished his pint, got out of his seat, and tried not to limp as he led the way.
     

 
     
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    Brandon thought about it for a long time, looking up at the grey sky, his lips bunched. Then he looked down at Richie.
    "Nah," he said.
    Richie opened his arms, tried to smile. " Howeh , I'm just trying to offer you a fuckin ' deal here, mate."
    "How's it I'm your fuckin ' mate?" Brandon's mouth hung open. "I don't know you, but you're all acting pally like you fuckin ' know us, like. I never seen you before in my life. And now you're talking about a dangerous fuckin ' weapon. A gun, was it?"
    "Air pistol."
    "Right, air pistol."
    "Converted."
    "That's it. Now