The bolt is stiff, the metal sliding between my shaking, sweaty fingers, as I struggle to unlock it.
‘You like to keep a man waiting, you, don’t you, sister?’ He pushes past me into the room and throws the black holdall he’s carrying down onto the bed. The screen on my open laptop is paused on my unflattering mugshot photo and I smack it shut before he sees it. It’s not that I necessarily think that Pete would dob me in to the cops if he found out who I was – after all, he’s hardly on the right side of the law himself, especially if I think what is in the bag, is in the bag. But I don’t know Pete’s situation. I don’t know Pete at all.
‘You can thank me later,’ he says, nodding at the holdall. ‘Go on, open it then, check it, make sure it’s what you’re looking for.’ I unzip it, cautiously. ‘It’s all there,’ he sniffs, ‘the piece,the bullets, and the ID – passport, driver’s licence and a new NI number. You’re good to go, cupcake.’
I perch on the edge of the bed, open the passport. My new name is Alexandra Louise Fisher. I quite like it, it sounds a bit posh. Sadly though, the picture accompanying it is anything but. I’d got the pictures taken in haste at one of those self-serve photo booths at the train station earlier. I realise that no one’s passport photo is particularly flattering, but this one is a real doozy. The new blonde hair looks dry and frazzled, like a straw wig perched on top of my head, and the colour washes me out, like I’ve been dead for a week and dug up. I pick up the gun. I’ve never seen a gun up close before, let alone handled one. It’s cool to the touch and heavier than I expected. I can already sense its power between my fingertips, the weight of life and death hanging in the balance at the squeeze of the trigger.
‘You ever used a gun before, Molly?’ Pete is watching me with vague amusement. I shake my head. ‘Nah, I thought not.’ He comes behind me, presses himself into the small of my back and places an arm around my waist. I try to forget it’s there as I raise my hand and point the weapon at the wall.
‘You’re a left-hander…’ he observes, ‘you should’ve said.’
‘Does it make a difference?’
‘Not if you’re on target,’ he snorts. ‘It’s a semi-auto.’
‘What does that mean…?’
‘It means when you fire a bullet, another one will automatically load for you. BANG, BANG, BANG!’
I flinch in shock, and he laughs, clearly amused.What an asshole.
‘Want me to load it for you?’
I reluctantly nod.
‘Give it here then, cupcake.’ I watch as he cocks the gun, pushes the bullets inside the barrel and flicks it shut. Clearly, one of us has done this before.
‘There’s a spare box of bullets in the bag.’ He nods to it.
‘Thanks, but really I only need two.’
He shoots me a curious glance.
‘Why onlytwobullets?’
‘Ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’
He shrugs.
‘Your business, sister. Just don’t be bringing whatever it is to my door, you understand? This is a respectable establishment. And blood is a real mothertrucker to get out of the sheets. And…’ his voice drops down a notch, hardens slightly, ‘I don’t want the filth sniffing round here neither. Any feds at my front door and there’ll be a bloodbath on your hands, most of it your own, you get me?’
‘Yes,’ – I spin round to face him, the loaded gun still raised in my hand – ‘perfectly.’
‘Whoa! Jesus! Easy there, blondie.’ He leaps backwards, places a hand in front of him. ‘That thing’s loaded! You want to splash my brains all over the walls, do you?’
I think about answering him truthfully.
‘No, of course not, sorry,’ I say, placing it back down onto the bed.
‘So…?’ He looks at me. ‘Do we have a deal?’
I stare down at the gun; its dark, hard metal edges gleaming, menacing.
‘It’s a quality weapon, that one. I could’ve got you a small sawn-off for one-fifty, but something tells me a girl like you might prefer to carry a bit of class, am I right?’
I go over to my tote bag, unzip it.
‘I’ll do the piece for seven-fifty, the ID in total comes to abag of sand, so it’s a round one seven-fifty in total.’
