Читать книгу The Big Smoke - Jason Nahrung - Страница 11

Kevin unbuttoned his overcoat, bought from an op shop to replace the hoodie that didn't hang low enough to cover his weaponry. He felt ridiculous, as light as the material was; the heat of day still simmered on the footpath. He'd seen plenty of white collars in suit jackets, a few swampies in trench coats, but he couldn't shrug off the feeling he was sticking out like a sore thumb in his long coat on a summer's evening.

He paused, checking himself in the glass of a Chinese travel agency's window, finding his dim reflection amid the posters for holidays and phone cards. Where would he like to go? Who would he like to call? He checked the heavy belt at his waist: the long tube of the Staker, the holster with the automatic, the pouches of extra mags — all stolen from Hunter.

Who the fuck was he; the wild colonial boy?

The tattoo shop was two doors away. He studied the street, the sky, the buildings. Something niggled at him. Some sense of familiarity. A prickling of the nape, an itch between the shoulder blades.

Traffic on the main street made a constant growl, interspersed by the roars of accelerating trucks and bikes and occasional honking horns. A few people strolled the footpaths, but none paid him any attention.

Kevin approached the tattoo shop, one hand on the pistol. A buzzer sounded as he opened the door. As it closed, he heard the drone of a tattoo gun at work.

A trendy couple flicked through designs where the young bucks had sat last night.

Jen, the assistant, stood behind the counter, fingers flicking nervously at a tattoo magazine, chewing gum like a cow in a hurry.

'Is he here?' he asked.

Jen shook her head and told him to take a seat. He stayed standing as she came out from behind the counter and stuck a piece of paper — a dragon, maybe — to the front window.

'Won't be long,' she said, and went out the back.

He heard Jen talk to someone; a name, Flash, carrying clear enough — and then she returned to the counter, teasing her hair, inspecting her nails, chewing ruthlessly. Ignoring him completely.

A shadow hunched in a hoodie appeared at the window, peering in.

Kevin's grip tightened on the pistol.

The door buzzed open. The hoodie entered, revealed to be a hooded army jacket with bulging pockets. A suspicious gaze stared out from under the peak; she checked him out, made eye contact with Jen and checked him out again before walking to within mumbling distance.

'You the bumpkin lookin' for the Needle, are ya?' The voice was gravelled, but it was definitely a girl under that shapeless outfit of lumpy cloth and baggy pants thrust into lace-up purple-red boots.

'Maybe. Who are you?'

'Greaser. We need to go. Out the back.'

Jen made a small O with her lips as the door opened.

The buzzer sounded one long note. A twenty-something chap stood in the entrance, reeking of Brylcreem and cigarettes, in tight jeans and pointy shoes and a bowling shirt with a dancing skeleton on the chest, slicked back hair, sunglasses.

He stepped forward, silencing the door buzzer, and pulled a mighty big pistol from behind his back.

'You shouldn't be this side of the river, Slick,' Greaser said, voice quavering.

I just need the mechanic,' he said. 'I'm guessing that's you.' He pointed the handgun at Kevin.

Jen hunched against the wall, eyes wide. The two kids in the chair shrank down, arms around each other.

'No one needs to get hurt,' Slick said.

A man's voice from the back of the room: 'What the fuck's this?'

Slick's gun moved toward the interruption and Kevin drew, his action masked by Greaser. He pulled the girl to one side as he raised his automatic and just beat Slick to the trigger. The gun bucked, just the once. Slick went down, a splash of lumpy blood spraying the door. The trendy girl screamed, knees up, hands in front of her face. Her boyfriend stared, face flecked with gore, as he cowered, shouting, 'Don't shoot, don't shoot'.

Kevin pointed the gun at Greaser. 'You set me up?'

'No, not me. I just gotta take you to the Needle.'

'Hey,' said the tattooist again; pointing a shotgun at Kevin.

Ears ringing, nose filled with gunpowder and blood scent, muscles quivering, Kevin waited to see what the man would do.

'Fuck off, the both of you.'

'Out the back,' Greaser said.

The tattooist opened the counter so they could flee. He grabbed Greaser's arm, whirling her to face him. 'The Needle better make this right.'

'Sure — sure, Flash.'

The door buzzed as the young couple ran out.

The tattooist released Greaser and pulled a mobile phone from his pocket.

'Well, fuck off, then!'

Kevin followed Greaser into an alley at the rear of the shop. No one was around. He holstered the pistol and draped his coat across it. 'Which way?' and Greaser pointed, Down the end, then back into the Valley.'

'Lead the way, mate.'

They were maybe halfway down the alley when a vintage Caddy pulled into the far end, headlights on high beam. It charged toward them.

Kevin pulled Greaser behind a clutter of bins and boxes. 'Friends of yours?'

'Viscounts,' she said. 'Johnny Slick's mates. He was the fanger you just iced. They won't be happy.'

'Tell me quick: where do I find the Needle?'

'You don't. He finds you.'

Damn, but he had no choice. He pushed Greaser against the wall, reefed her collar aside and bit into her throat. She howled and kicked and punched.

'Get off, get off!' And then, 'Stop! Stop! God, please stop.'

Her blood poured into him, gout after gout as he sucked it down. Her life gushed through him, so hot, so fast: the Needle, elusive flashes, but Kevin couldn't focus, couldn't filter. His hunger was paramount, greed vanquishing all else. He had to stop.

Had.

To.

Stop.

'Hey,' someone shouted. Three rockabillies were pointing handguns at him.

'Sorry,' he told Greaser as she slumped, hands to the wound. 'I had no choice.' Keep telling yourself that, he thought. He eased her against the wall and slipped his sneakers off.

'You're comin' with us,' a rockabilly said, all Brylcreem and big lapels.

Kevin jumped to the wall. Fingers and toes found purchase in the cracks. He clung there for a heartbeat, like a frog, and then he scrambled jerkily up the bricks.

No one reacted until he was almost at the top, when a ganger shouted, 'Bring him down, you bloody morons,' and started firing.

Kevin hauled himself over the lip of the roof, bullets sparking around him. He lay there for a moment, checking that he hadn't been hit, his body sizzling with Greaser's blood.

'Where'd he go?' he heard the ganger ask.

'Where's Johnny?' another said, and the third told them not to worry about Johnny, 'the others are sorting it'.

A man shouted, 'Freeze! Freeze, the whole fucking lot of you. VS Security!'

Shouts followed, then running footsteps. Shots rang out. Doors slammed. Glass shattered. The Cadillac sped away.

The man swore, and this time, Kevin recognised the voice; Hunter. He didn't risk a look though.

Hunter said, 'Did you see which way the Snipe went?' and a woman said no, she hadn't. There were more shots and Hunter said, 'Now we're screwed.'