Bull. Something the matter with the pop, though, because he was still bone-shattered, something cracking under his muscles every time he tried to move. He couldn’t drive until the caffeine kicked in, so he walked around the services until the Napa Valley caught him unawares.
There it was, a huge cardboard vista in the window of WH Smiths.
... and the wine is bottled poetry ...
Red vines. In the distance, a mountain shimmered in a heat haze. Above it, the bluest sky he’d ever seen. There were more than seven hundred wineries dealing with the kind of grapes, just saying their names made you sound posh and French and sophisticated: Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon ...
It was some advert for a travel guide that came free with a paper Shug would never read otherwise, but it sang to him. It told him that his dreams were closer than ever, reminded him that all this shite so far had been absolutely worth it. All he had to do was pick up some more clothes at the airport, as well as some luggage to put them in. He also had to remember to buy a return ticket else they’d have in him a windowless room all bastard night.
The Red Bull had started its growl. He breathed out through his nose.
Only other thing he needed was that guide. After all, it was fate, wasn’t it? The paper could’ve done anywhere in the world, but they’d picked his dream as theirs.
Shug approached the gated window, looked at the seal that ran around it. Alarmed, probably. Daft to think otherwise. He looked down at the pile of papers under the cardboard advert, the pile of travel guides next to it, then turned around to see if there was anything big enough and heavy enough. There were bins and benches, but they all looked bolted to the floor. Again, daft to think they wouldn’t be. Places like this, they were security conscious. Wasn’t some post office in Bathgate, was it?
Shug pulled the pistol from the back of his jeans. He checked around, but there was nobody walking around in here apart from him. He hefted the gun in his hand, then approached the window again. Ran through the motions in his head first, timing it, the muscles in his hand and arm micro-twitching in their rehearsal.
Then he put the butt of the pistol through the window. Glass rained onto his feet. He knocked shards away, pushed his arm through the hole up to the pit and grabbed one of the travel guides. Then he backed quickly off from the window and walked briskly back towards the entrance to the services, the alarm screeching behind him.
It was cold outside. He breathed deep, slowed down. He looked for the Land Rover.
Saw the police car idling next to it.
Shug kept walking, didn’t break stride. He tucked the travel guide into his jacket pocket, closed it up just in case the wind revealed the pistol in the small of his back. He walked the long way round the car park, kept an eye on the police car. He thought he saw two of them in there, both of them big enough to pose a threat. One of them was busy writing something down.
There were choices here. One of which was lose his fucking mind, which was the one that didn’t so much appeal as demand to be done, especially when the police car moved towards him. Shug stopped at a Cavalier, turned his back on the police. He pretended to fumble around in his pocket for his car keys, then glanced down at the driver’s side window.
Saw the elderly man staring at him. A split-second, and Shug thought it was Charlie, but then the man’s face changed into a stranger’s and started shouting at him from behind the glass. Shug stepped back as the man wound his window down.
“What d’you think you’re playing at?” shouted the man.
Shug looked over his shoulder. The police car was up the other end of the car park, moving slowly. Then the brake lights flared. The car came to a stop.
“Get out of the car,” said Shug.
“You what?”
Shug lunged through the open window, grabbed the old man round the neck and tried
There it was, a huge cardboard vista in the window of WH Smiths.
... and the wine is bottled poetry ...
Red vines. In the distance, a mountain shimmered in a heat haze. Above it, the bluest sky he’d ever seen. There were more than seven hundred wineries dealing with the kind of grapes, just saying their names made you sound posh and French and sophisticated: Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon ...
It was some advert for a travel guide that came free with a paper Shug would never read otherwise, but it sang to him. It told him that his dreams were closer than ever, reminded him that all this shite so far had been absolutely worth it. All he had to do was pick up some more clothes at the airport, as well as some luggage to put them in. He also had to remember to buy a return ticket else they’d have in him a windowless room all bastard night.
The Red Bull had started its growl. He breathed out through his nose.
Only other thing he needed was that guide. After all, it was fate, wasn’t it? The paper could’ve done anywhere in the world, but they’d picked his dream as theirs.
Shug approached the gated window, looked at the seal that ran around it. Alarmed, probably. Daft to think otherwise. He looked down at the pile of papers under the cardboard advert, the pile of travel guides next to it, then turned around to see if there was anything big enough and heavy enough. There were bins and benches, but they all looked bolted to the floor. Again, daft to think they wouldn’t be. Places like this, they were security conscious. Wasn’t some post office in Bathgate, was it?
Shug pulled the pistol from the back of his jeans. He checked around, but there was nobody walking around in here apart from him. He hefted the gun in his hand, then approached the window again. Ran through the motions in his head first, timing it, the muscles in his hand and arm micro-twitching in their rehearsal.
Then he put the butt of the pistol through the window. Glass rained onto his feet. He knocked shards away, pushed his arm through the hole up to the pit and grabbed one of the travel guides. Then he backed quickly off from the window and walked briskly back towards the entrance to the services, the alarm screeching behind him.
It was cold outside. He breathed deep, slowed down. He looked for the Land Rover.
Saw the police car idling next to it.
Shug kept walking, didn’t break stride. He tucked the travel guide into his jacket pocket, closed it up just in case the wind revealed the pistol in the small of his back. He walked the long way round the car park, kept an eye on the police car. He thought he saw two of them in there, both of them big enough to pose a threat. One of them was busy writing something down.
There were choices here. One of which was lose his fucking mind, which was the one that didn’t so much appeal as demand to be done, especially when the police car moved towards him. Shug stopped at a Cavalier, turned his back on the police. He pretended to fumble around in his pocket for his car keys, then glanced down at the driver’s side window.
Saw the elderly man staring at him. A split-second, and Shug thought it was Charlie, but then the man’s face changed into a stranger’s and started shouting at him from behind the glass. Shug stepped back as the man wound his window down.
“What d’you think you’re playing at?” shouted the man.
Shug looked over his shoulder. The police car was up the other end of the car park, moving slowly. Then the brake lights flared. The car came to a stop.
“Get out of the car,” said Shug.
“You what?”
Shug lunged through the open window, grabbed the old man round the neck and tried
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