Stonemouth

One of the dogs drops instantly like a thrown fur coat, like something utterly lifeless, just collapsing. The other seems to jerk, startled by the sound or hit, then takes another couple of bouncing, uncertain steps towards Fraser, who screams something and keeps firing at it. Its head flicks back like something hinging open and it falls too, tumbling in a loose tangle of long hairy limbs. Jel’s screaming, Ellie’s screaming behind me, closer now. And Phelpie is moving, throwing himself at Fraser. Who turns and shoots him, right in the head, and Phelpie drops and just spreads himself on the sand in an X, unmoving.

I’m staring at Phelpie, so I miss the instant when Fraser tries to shoot me. The first I know of it is when I hear him screaming, ‘Aw, fuck!’ in a really high, anguished voice, as he points the gun at me again and it just clicks and clicks.

‘Fraser!’ Ellie screams, close behind me.

I turn and see her, only a few running strides away, not looking like she’s going to stop when she gets to me. Jesus, she’s aiming for Fraser. I move — finally — while Fraser digs into a back pocket of his jeans and pulls out a second ammunition clip. He’s holding the gun up; the empty clip exits the bottom of the handle, starting to fall to the sand as I throw myself at him.

I don’t know why I do a rugby tackle. I’ve never even fucking played rugby, but I throw myself at his knees, cracking into them with my right shoulder and wrapping both arms round his legs as he falls, both of us shouting, then I realise what a stupid move this was because he still has his hands free with the gun in one hand and the clip in the other, and so I let go and sort of kick forward with one knee to stop myself going flat out and grab at the hand that’s got the gun as Fraser’s shoulders hit the sand.

Something cracks against the side of my head, ringing my head like a bell, but some part of my brain isn’t having this and just takes a tighter and tighter grip of the hand with the gun. There’s a blur of movement and another terrific whack on the side of my head and then a scream and a flash of something pale, just to one side, and suddenly Fraser’s whipping backwards with a cracking sound and he’s gone limp and I’m falling down on top of him, still holding the gun hand, feeling the cold weight of the gun itself through lengths of my fingers while my head sings and the waves roar louder. There’s a phone ringing somewhere near my ear, a dog is whimpering and I think I can hear sirens.

That phone ringing near my head will be Ellie’s phone calling Fraser, probably. That was my cunning plan to distract him: phone him from Ellie’s phone. Well, that really worked, didn’t it?

Jeez, I think, as the roaring noise grows even louder and I get the start of tunnel vision, I might still be about to die and I’m being sarcastic with myself. Clever move, Stewart. Damn, there I go again…

Then things go a bit blurry for a moment or two.

When I’m able to sit up again I’m right beside Fraser, who is trying to roll off his back, and failing. There’s what looks like a lot of fresh blood coming from his mouth, and a couple of teeth, shockingly white, lying on the scuffed sand next to him. Ellie is standing near by, holding the gun and the spare clip. She throws the clip north, the gun south. The empty weapon bounces and somersaults along the sand.

Jel and Ryan are at Phelpie’s side, kneeling. Blood so thick it looks black is seeping out of his head, matting his hair and pooling around his face, half buried in the sand.

Ellie looks pale. She’s trembling. ‘You okay?’ she asks, limping over to me, wincing with each step.

I put my hand to my head. There’s blood. ‘Um, yeah,’ I say. I look over at Ferg, still curled up on his side. ‘He shot Ferg,’ I say.

‘Sit on Fraser,’ Ellie says, limping past me, heading for Ferg. ‘Sit on his chest.’

‘You okay?’ I ask.

I can definitely hear sirens now. I sit on Fraser’s chest. He grunts, tries to fend me off, arms flailing weakly. His nose looks broken too and blood is flowing and spitting from his mouth. His jaw, his whole lower face looks…wrong.

‘Kicked him too hard,’ Ellie mutters, touching the undamaged side of my head with her cold, shaking fingers as she passes.

Fraser starts moaning and making choking, bubbling sounds.

The whimpering sound from one of the dogs stops.

By Phelpie’s body, Jel, on her knees, puts back her head and howls.

TUESDAY MORNING

19

She drives me to the station.

It’s Tuesday morning but it’s not the following day, it’s a week later.

Phelpie was dead almost before he hit the sand; because of the angles involved — him head down, lunging at Fraser — the round went in through the top of his forehead and down into his brainstem, eventually lodging in the top of his spine.

Ferg is alive and getting better. The bullet went through a rib, then hit his liver, which is, apparently, ‘a fucking big enough target’.

Ellie slightly sprained her ankle when she heel-kicked Fraser in the mouth and nose.