Easy Run 

By 

Alan Hay 

Kenny Gilmartin's silver Honda Civic was parked behind the Pine Trees Lounge. Spirals of rusting razor wire topped the brick walls that enclosed the concrete yard, and a graffitied metal gate allowed access from a narrow side street. Empty beer kegs were stacked against one wall, and on the opposite side were two large, industrial bins. 

Kenny groaned and stretched in the driver's seat to relieve the pain in his lower back. The seats were tired and lifeless and became uncomfortable on long journeys. The velour pile had worn to a dull sheen and foam bulged through on the right hand side where the seam had given way. It had 120k plus on the clock, the suspension was rough, and the gearstick needed an extra push to find second gear, but it was reliable and it was inconspicuous. 

The phone rang. It was Claire. 

"I can't talk. I'm working." 

"Where are you?" she asked. 

"On the road. I'll call you later." 

Kenny watched three figures dressed in black enter through the open gate and huddle in a corner next to the bins. Their heads were covered by hoods and their faces were hidden behind scarves or ski-masks. They wore North Face, Nike, and Berghaus: de rigueur for the young, fashion-conscious Scottish ned. 

"Will I see you tonight?" Claire asked. 

"I dunno. I'll be back late." 

He heard the click of a lighter and he knew she was settling in for a conversation. They'd been seeing each other for a few months now, and he liked her, but Claire was after something a bit more serious. She had started talking about moving in together. 

"I've got to go. I'll call you tomorrow," he said, then hung up. 

One of the neds glanced round and noticed the Honda Civic was occupied. Three masked faces turned towards the car and weighed the situation, then the lanky one swaggered over. Kenny got out the car and, after a brief negotiation, both parties agreed to mind their own respective business. 

Kenny walked towards the fire exit at the back of the pub where three plastic chairs had been arranged around a barrel that acted as a table. The door was held open by a yellow wet floor sign. He was mildly surprised that a pub like the Pine Trees even owned a wet floor sign, and was amused at the health and safety contradiction of using said sign to prop open a fire exit. He entered and walked along a narrow corridor, past the ladies' and gents' toilets, before emerging into the bar. The barman clocked him as he approached but no-one else raised an eye. The place was dead. 

One old boy sat at the far end of the bar studying a newspaper and a couple sat at a table with shopping bags around their feet. Elvis Presley sang “If I Can Dream” on the jukebox. 

The barman finished pouring a pint for Newspaper. He took his money and gave him change then walked to the other end of the bar towards Kenny. This wasn't the usual guy. Kenny had never seen him before. The usual guy—Kenny presumed he was the landlord—was overweight and bald, with tattoos signifying a previous career in the armed forces. This guy was young, maybe early-twenties. He was tall, well-built, and seemed to fancy himself as a bit of a hard-case. His short black hair was shaved at the sides, smothered in gel on top and combed forward to create a severe looking fringe. He wore a thick gold chain over his black polo shirt and a diamond stud earring in his right ear. 

He instinctively picked up a pint glass and stood in front of Kenny, waiting for him to order. Kenny gave a slight shake of his head and realisation dawned on the young man. 

“Are you the guy?” 

“Aye. I'm the guy.” 

Fringe went to the till and took out an envelope. He walked back towards Kenny and slid the envelope across the bar towards him. Kenny removed a package from his jacket pocket. He placed it on the bar, picked up the envelope, and walked back down the corridor as Elvis reached his crescendo. 

The neds had moved on, having upheld their side of the treaty, and Kenny sat back in the driver's seat. He opened the envelope and counted the money—it was short. Any other time he would let this go because it wasn't his problem. He was just the runner, and anyway, McGarvey didn't mind his customers running up a bit of debt. In fact, he preferred it that way because it kept them in his pocket. 

Kenny walked back into the pub and sat at the bar. He placed the envelope in front of him and waited for Fringe to come over. 

"It's short," Kenny said. "Two hundred." 

"I just got telt to gie you the envelope." 

"Where's the big man?" 

"He's no here," said Fringe, "He'll be here later." 

"Take it out the till. Two hundred." 

"Mate, ah cannae—" 

"Ah'm no yer mate," Kenny interrupted. "Open the till or go wherever you have tae go tae find two hundred quid." 

Fringe went to the till and opened it. He took out some notes and handed them over. Kenny counted them—a hundred and twenty—still short, but better than nothing. He put the money in the envelope and tapped it on the bar as he turned and left. 

He reversed the Honda through the open gate and saw the neds further up the road, walking back towards the pub. Lanky Ned stared into the car as it came closer. He pulled his hand out from his tracksuit bottoms and made a gun sign as Kenny drew level with them. He pointed it at Kenny and pulled the trigger as the car drove past. Kenny looked in the mirror to see the gun transform into a middle finger. He thought about the baseball bat lying on the floor in front of the rear passenger seats. 

No, he thought. He didn't need any complications. They turned to follow the car and he watched Lanky Ned strutting down the street after him, his arms outstretched in the universally recognised invitation for a 'square go'. One of the others, emboldened by the sight of the retreating Honda, picked something up and threw it at the car and Kenny heard it bounce off the roof. He kept driving, watching them in the mirror, resisting every instinct to reverse back down the road and grab the bat and teach the cheeky wee fuckers a lesson. 

Kenny hadn't even noticed he was approaching a junction when he ploughed into the side of the Renault. The side street he'd been driving on met a main road lined with shops. It was early evening and most were closed, or closing, but a few bystanders quickly gathered round. A woman emerged from the Renault and began assessing the damage. Kenny got out and looked at his car. The front bumper had taken the worst of it and the headlight cluster on the driver's side was smashed, but it didn't look like anything he couldn't drive away from. 

END OF EXCERPT