No More Heroes Read Online Free PDF Page B

panic, slap it against my leg.
    Cold sweat on the back of my neck.
    Concentrate.
    I don’t want to drop one and have to go scrabbling on the carpet to get it back, especially if it goes into the puke. Drop a codeine in there, talk about a dilemma.
    So I keep the ritual going, don’t think about the vomit on the floor or my brother or my father, just the slow transfer from bag to bottle. The label’s started to wear off the plastic, the prescription’s barely legible, but this little brown bottle represents a legitimacy that Greg’s plastic baggies don’t. It makes me feel better, too. This way, the stuff I’m taking, it’s still prescription medicine. I just don’t get it on prescription.
    I save the last two pills, hold them in the middle of a sweaty palm. Slap myself in the mouth and wash the pills with some water before I swallow. I lean against the kitchen counter, take deep breaths, wait to see if my stomach’s going to be a good boy and let the codeine digest. A small gurgle just above my belt, and I think I’m going to be okay.
    I give it to the count of ten to be on the safe side, then grab a cloth and the washing-up bowl, get to work on the puke.

7
    The sound of progress also happens to be the sound of Galaxy FM, and the summer morning brings out the best in the Lads’ Club renovations.
    I get out of the car, walk to the double doors. Someone’s propped them open with a couple of fire extinguishers. Sunlight glitters across new paint and a slight breeze pushes plaster dust out onto the street, crap dance music thumping hard after it. The smell of the paint hits me as soon as I step inside the place, gets right up into my sinuses. Paulo’s painters are hard at work, which is weird, because I haven’t seen them do anything in the last month.
    Paulo’s standing in the middle of the club, the calm eye of the storm. He sips from a Starbucks cup in his hand. Things must be looking up if he’s gone to the coffee shop for his morning brew. That, or the kettle’s still packed.
    “You look busy.”
    He turns and grins when he sees me. “Callum.”
    “You want to move those fire extinguishers, mind. Inspector’ll have a fit if he sees that.”
    “Health and Safety’ll have one if I don’t. We’d have this lot passing out from the fumes. Besides, inspector’s been around already.”
    “And?”
    “Right little wanker.”
    “The whole ’fire kills in minutes, smoke kills in seconds’ bit?”
    “Had pictures of burnt-up dollies, Cal. Made me sick.”
    “Apart from that, how’s it going?”
    “It’s going,” he says. “And that’s all that counts.”
    “How long till you open?”
    “Way it’s going, Friday. That’s what we’re aiming for, anyway.”
    “Thought there was more work to do.”
    “Nah, it’s mostly smoke damage, so it’s a lick of paint — primer, another coat, whatever that bloke said to me before — and then we just need to move the new equipment in.”
    I look at him. “You’re replacing everything?”
    “All the stuff that was in here, it’s black, Cal. Had to junk it or punt it on. Even if I could bring it back, I wouldn’t want all that old shite making the place look untidy.” Paulo moves away from me, opening his arms, a kid about to show off his imaginary new toys. “Let me give you the guided tour.”
    “If you feel you have to.”
    “You don’t have a choice,” he says, and gestures towards the middle of the gym with his coffee. “Ready?”
    “As I’ll ever be.”
    “Right, two new rings over here — a nineteen-foot championship AIBA one and a sixteen-footer. Can’t be big enough. You’ve seen the lads coming in here, they’re fuckin’ monsters. Must be something in the water. We’re also going to have another floor ring, like fourteen foot, for training purposes.”
    “Hang on a second, should I be taking notes?”
    “Yeah, there’ll be a test later, so pay attention. A line of speedballs down the right side there, then the heavy bags