to pull him out. The man screamed for help. Shug reached for the pistol, brought up under the man’s quivering chins. The driver’s door opened easily and the man stopped screaming, moving quickly out of the Cavalier and quietly begging to keep what little life he had left. Once the old man was both feet on the ground, Shug shoved him out of the way and moved to the driver’s seat.
He looked up, saw one of the uniforms running towards him. Saw the police car already turned and pointed his way. He pulled the driver’s door shut and stamped on the accelerator. The engine roared and then choked, the Cavalier rolling forwards on a stall. Shug saw the police car turn up ahead, bearing down on him from the front, blocking him off. He put the Cavalier into reverse, suddenly aware of the small noises he was making in the back of his throat.
The engine coughed again, didn’t catch. The Cavalier rolled.
The driver’s door flew open. The uniform put hands on him. Shug let go of the steering wheel, tried to scramble over the gear stick. The uniform grabbed a hold of Shug’s jeans, yanked him back. Shug kicked out, screamed at the copper and twisted round to reach for his gun. Touched bare back instead.
Shug felt himself dragged out of the Cavalier. He saw the other uniform get out of the police car just before he was shoved against the side of the car. He looked down, saw the pistol at his feet but had no way of going for it. The pressure against his back was immense.
“Watch it with this one,” said the car copper. “He’s supposed to be a heid-the-ball.”
“You mental?” said the uniform, grabbing one of Shug’s wrists.
“Course he is. You only need to look at him.”
Shug stared at the copper who’d been driving, and then over his shoulder at the police car that stood with the driver’s door hanging open and the engine running. He was tired, but he couldn’t give up. Not now. He hung his head, felt the steel close around one wrist. Anticipated the uniform coming in for the other hand, and brought his foot down the uniform’s shin to his instep, felt a satisfying crunch as his heel ground bone and then twisted out from the copper’s grip.
Shug feinted to the left, ran right, vaulted the Cavalier’s bonnet and made for the police car.
He shoved at the other copper, but felt his hand catch on something, his body carrying on regardless. Then pain flared in his wrist, something kicked him in the back and the ground reared up to kiss him. He fell hard, the kick turned to solid weight between his shoulder blades and his arm pulled back across his arse. Shug saw the world through fireworks and kicked out, screaming.
“Told you he was a fuckin’ headcase.”
“Hold him. Hold the fucker.”
Shug threw himself around, felt the coppers struggle to keep a hold of him.
“Take the bastard’s legs, Bri. He’s a kicker, this one.”
Too right. Shug showed them what kind of kicker he was. He lashed out with both feet, screaming until his head felt like it was ready to explode.
Then a whip across the backs of his legs. Once. Twice. He yelled with the pain, scrambled up to his knees for a second before another blow brought him crashing to his stomach. Something shifted from his jacket, a weight lost.
“ Got the bastard.”
His other arm, pulled up and clicked at the wrist. Something scraped against the tarmac. The Ginsters clawed its way up his throat, but he swallowed it back. He wasn’t going to spew for these two. He tried to kick out again, but the message didn’t reach his legs.
And then he saw the travel guide. It lay open on the tarmac, pages fluttering in the wind. He thought he saw the picture again, the one of the vineyard, and he stared at it, tried to brand it into his memory.
But there was Fiona with tears in her eyes. There was Len and Golly and blood on the lino. There was Ailsa with booze on her breath and a bruise on her cheek. He saw all of this, and the Napa Valley struggled to take,
He looked up, saw one of the uniforms running towards him. Saw the police car already turned and pointed his way. He pulled the driver’s door shut and stamped on the accelerator. The engine roared and then choked, the Cavalier rolling forwards on a stall. Shug saw the police car turn up ahead, bearing down on him from the front, blocking him off. He put the Cavalier into reverse, suddenly aware of the small noises he was making in the back of his throat.
The engine coughed again, didn’t catch. The Cavalier rolled.
The driver’s door flew open. The uniform put hands on him. Shug let go of the steering wheel, tried to scramble over the gear stick. The uniform grabbed a hold of Shug’s jeans, yanked him back. Shug kicked out, screamed at the copper and twisted round to reach for his gun. Touched bare back instead.
Shug felt himself dragged out of the Cavalier. He saw the other uniform get out of the police car just before he was shoved against the side of the car. He looked down, saw the pistol at his feet but had no way of going for it. The pressure against his back was immense.
“Watch it with this one,” said the car copper. “He’s supposed to be a heid-the-ball.”
“You mental?” said the uniform, grabbing one of Shug’s wrists.
“Course he is. You only need to look at him.”
Shug stared at the copper who’d been driving, and then over his shoulder at the police car that stood with the driver’s door hanging open and the engine running. He was tired, but he couldn’t give up. Not now. He hung his head, felt the steel close around one wrist. Anticipated the uniform coming in for the other hand, and brought his foot down the uniform’s shin to his instep, felt a satisfying crunch as his heel ground bone and then twisted out from the copper’s grip.
Shug feinted to the left, ran right, vaulted the Cavalier’s bonnet and made for the police car.
He shoved at the other copper, but felt his hand catch on something, his body carrying on regardless. Then pain flared in his wrist, something kicked him in the back and the ground reared up to kiss him. He fell hard, the kick turned to solid weight between his shoulder blades and his arm pulled back across his arse. Shug saw the world through fireworks and kicked out, screaming.
“Told you he was a fuckin’ headcase.”
“Hold him. Hold the fucker.”
Shug threw himself around, felt the coppers struggle to keep a hold of him.
“Take the bastard’s legs, Bri. He’s a kicker, this one.”
Too right. Shug showed them what kind of kicker he was. He lashed out with both feet, screaming until his head felt like it was ready to explode.
Then a whip across the backs of his legs. Once. Twice. He yelled with the pain, scrambled up to his knees for a second before another blow brought him crashing to his stomach. Something shifted from his jacket, a weight lost.
“ Got the bastard.”
His other arm, pulled up and clicked at the wrist. Something scraped against the tarmac. The Ginsters clawed its way up his throat, but he swallowed it back. He wasn’t going to spew for these two. He tried to kick out again, but the message didn’t reach his legs.
And then he saw the travel guide. It lay open on the tarmac, pages fluttering in the wind. He thought he saw the picture again, the one of the vineyard, and he stared at it, tried to brand it into his memory.
But there was Fiona with tears in her eyes. There was Len and Golly and blood on the lino. There was Ailsa with booze on her breath and a bruise on her cheek. He saw all of this, and the Napa Valley struggled to take,
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