Stonemouth

‘You could have tried calling me, not Ellie,’ I tell her, then slap a hand to my forehead, realising as soon as I’ve said this that of course the rubbish phone is out of power.

‘I did! Your fucking phone’s off!’

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ I’m saying. Then, ‘Wait a minute; Fraser phoned Sue MacAvett a bit ago and she told him we’re on the beach; he does know where we are.’ I glance up and down the beach, up to the Prom. The others, watching silently until this point, maybe frowning a little, are staring at me now.

‘Jesus fuck. Well, get away from there.’

‘Can’t. Ellie’s in swimming.’

‘What? So? Get away. Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Okay, he might be carrying.’

‘What?’ I say, then realise what that word might mean. ‘WHAT?’

‘Christ, look, I can’t — this — this could be getting — I can’t …’ Grier sounds like she’s about to start sobbing, then she stops. I hear her take a quick breath and when her voice resumes it’s calm, clear, urgent. ‘Just get out of there. Off the fucking beach. Leave Ellie. She’ll be fine. Move. I’m phoning the fucking police. Jesus fucking H. Christ I’m phoning the fucking police.’ It’s like she can’t believe it herself. ‘Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—’

Then the phone clicks off.

‘We might need to—’ I start saying to the others, just as Phelpie — not looking at me now but up towards the Prom — says,

‘Uh-oh.’

I follow his gaze just in time to see a big black American pick-up, with a rack of hunting lights right across the top of the cab and gleaming chrome nudge bars, as it smacks into the metal bollards guarding the top of the slipway, riding part-way up the two middle posts as they get knocked back, lifting the vehicle off the ground at the front and stopping it. The noise, of the impact and the screech of buckling, shearing metal, follows a fraction of a second later.

‘Oh my God,’ Jel says, jumping up and starting towards the slipway.

‘Hold on,’ Ryan says, grabbing her by one wrist, stopping her. Jel pulls at her brother’s hand. ‘Ryan, what are you—’

‘That’s Fraser Murston’s wagon,’ Phelpie says.

‘Oh, I’ve got to get this,’ Ferg says, and pulls out his phone, holding it up in front of his face, pointing towards the crash.

I’ve got Ellie’s phone dialling 999.

The oversize pick-up hangs there, impaled, engine roaring distantly, then tips to the right, bouncing down, angled at about thirty degrees, one front wheel still spinning in the air and a load of grey-blue smoke coming from the rear. The engine stops suddenly, stalled.

Still thinking in right-hand drive, I’m surprised to see the left-hand door open part-way, then shut again as gravity takes over. Of course: left-hand drive. Whoever’s trying to get out is trying to open the driver’s door while it’s angled heavily upwards.

We’re all standing up by now. I glance round, to see if Ellie’s visible yet. No sign.

‘What was all that about?’ Jel asks me. She shakes her arm, still in Ryan’s grip. ‘Ryan, let me—’

‘Okay, but don’t—’

‘Not going to.’

‘Fraser’s looking for us,’ I tell her. ‘Well, me.’

Back at the black pick-up, the driver’s side door is thrown open again, looking more of a hatch than a door because of the angle it presents to the sky. Again it slams back down. Then it opens more slowly, and somebody squeezes and wriggles their way out and half jumps, half falls to the ground. Yup, that’s Fraser.

He’s holding something.

I should just run. Lots of beach. The guy is drunk. Okay: drunker than me. The Murston boys are all overweight. I’d outpace him, outlast him.

But just running away, especially with Ellie still in the water, seems cowardly, ignominious. Anyway, if that is a gun, then a lucky shot…and what about the others? Suppose we all just bail? Suppose only Ellie’s left for him to focus his anger on, when she comes cold and dripping from the waves?

‘—ervice do you require?’ says an operator’s voice from Ellie’s phone.

‘Police,’ I tell the guy calmly.

‘Fuck me,’ Phelpie says, ‘is that a fucking shooter he’s got?’

‘What?’ Ferg yelps.

‘Oh my God,’ Jel says.

Ryan takes hold of her hand, and they pull together, holding each other. Fraser Murston staggers a little, avoiding one of the other, undamaged bollards, then comes jogging down the slipway, straight towards us. Jeans and a white shirt, flapping open. You can see some of his chest tats from here. He’s shouting something, but it’s against the wind and lost in the roar of waves behind us. No shoes; he’s barefoot.

‘Stonemouth,’ I say, talking over the Emergency Services operator. ‘There’s a guy with a gun, a handgun, threatening people on the beach at Stonemouth, north end of the Promenade. Just crashed his vehicle. A black pick-up.’

‘—id you say—’

‘Armed. The guy is armed. He has a handgun. Walking towards us now. I’m just going to keep talking if you want to get some cops towards us right now. Stonemouth beach, north end of the Promenade. He’s walking towards us now. Got a handgun.’

‘Gilmour! Gilmour, you fucking cunt!’ Fraser yells, his voice made faint by the wind and waves.