ISSN 1758-6488
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Nothing at the Top Fiction |
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Tommy goes upstairs to his bedroom and takes the gun out of his pocket. He wipes it and takes it apart and uses a rag to clean the inner workings, and then he reassembles it. It’s still warm. He pries up the loose floorboard and a faint breath of cold air wafts up.
The phone rings in the hall downstairs. He stashes the gun and replaces the floorboard and lets the phone ring out. It's started to rain again. He sits on the edge of his bed.
Aidan comes in.
—Yeh ready? he says.
—Just give me a minute.
Aidan leaves. Tommy closes his eyes and lies on the bed. He wants to sleep but he knows that he won't. If he was able to sleep now he wouldn't wake till tomorrow, till the weekend. He lies and listens to the wind and the rain sweep through the estate, and he feels like his life isn't his own. He squats down beside the bed and jimmies the floorboard free again, and looks at the still warm gun in his hand. Rain spatters the window. It makes no sense that the gun should still be warm.
