Gun Dog Read Online Free PDF Page B

wearing the peaked Burberry cap that’s like a uniform to them, and the others are wearing dark sweatshirts. The hoods are pulled up so that they don’t have faces from where I’m looking. I shiver, because these hooded kids remind me of that time when I was beaten and robbed, not far from where Roddy Thompson bled to death earlier today. Those kids were dressed just like that, although I doubt that this is the same crew.
    I can just about hear the murmuring of their voices. Not the drunken loutish bellowing and fooling around you might expect, so I’m sure that they’re transactingbusiness. That can only mean drugs or weapons. Skunk, E, speed, heroin, crack, meth and God knows what else. Or it could be a gun that’s being traded. You can imagine why I’d think that, right? And yes, my mind slips back home to my room and the plastic bag under my bed, and the cold black Ruger that lies there.
    Actually, it’s more likely to be drugs than guns. Despite what the newspapers shriek and what the television gets all weepy over, it’s not true to say that there’s an epidemic of guns out on the streets. You read the papers and you’d think that every kid either has a gun or could get one cheaply in minutes if needed, but the truth is that guns are still hard to come by for most people. If you’re a member of a crew and your crew is part of the drug distribution chain, it’s possible that one can be borrowed if a little frightening or enforcing is necessary. Anyone who wants to be tooled up will carry a blade though. Knives are immediate. It was a knife that did for Roddy Thompson. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if he’d been carrying the Ruger he’d given me to hide.
    Suddenly, I realise that the murmuring from the group in the playground has stopped. It’s as quiet as the grave. And I realise that I’m looking at them and that all of them are looking at me. Jeez, that was stupid, letting my mind wander like that so that I didn’t realise that I was looking over at them. I’m scared now, and feeling prickly as the adrenaline courses through me in preparation.
    â€˜What the fuck you lookin’ at?’
    Fight or flight. I remember it from a science lesson in school. That’s what adrenaline prepares you for. That’s its job, to give you extra speed and strength and sharpen your reflexes for fight or flight. Well, I don’t even have to think. It’s flight for me.
    I kick off and start to run and Andy is only half a stride behind me. Adrenaline’s cool like that; it can pulse into your system in half a heartbeat. Neither me nor Andy say anything. Can’t talk, all energy needed for flight. I can see through the gloom like it’s daylight and all I can hear is thepounding of our feet on the path, and the pounding of the feet of the boys following us in the distance. No shouting, no foul insults from the gang behind us – they’re as intent on catching us as we are on getting away. Christ, this is serious. This is scary. We’re running parallel with the trees that line the inside of the railings, the boundary of The Gardens. This is thick privet so that we can only see flickering lights from the cars on the main road beyond. The gate is about three hundred metres away and I’m wondering if we can get out before they catch us.
    One thing I do know is that we just have to get out onto the streets, where it’s lighter, where there is traffic, where there might be people. Not that I think that any of that would bother this lot if they caught us out there. But they might be inclined to be more restrained and to back off earlier in front of witnesses. In the safe anonymity of the darkness here in The Gardens, who knows what they might be capable of. Roddy Thompson bled to death earlier today. Roddy Thompson. Big Roddy. And this is just me and Andy.
    I glance behind, just to see if they’re gaining on us, but all