Granite Noir

 

Ryan had never been particularly good at solving problems in his life.

It was always left to someone else to pick up the pieces after the event, if it was not his family, or his social worker, it was his friends who got him out of the scrapes and situations he had gotten himself into in his 28 years on the planet.

His criminal past was way behind him, his heroin addiction, his huge catalogue of previous convictions, and ‘negative peer group’, were all rapidly becoming   history , he was keeping his nose clean , so to speak, and enjoying life in his new tenancy, in a multistorey building, which ironically was just a stone’s throw from the court house he had once spent a lot of his time in .

The flat had seen better days, you know the kind of place, but it would do until something better came along, he was a dab hand with a paintbrush, and had decorated the place himself, and it was furnished adequately.

It would do for now.

It was his own space, where he could write, and live his new life.

Things had changed so much for him in the last while, he was even going to college later in the year, to study Creative Writing, and a heap of other stuff, potentially to gain qualifications, go to university later, things he wouldn’t have dreamed of five years before.

He was well into writing, short stories being his thing, nothing published yet, but he lived in hope, which he thought was the best way. Writing and books had become his drug of choice, since he kicked heroin, and so far, there had been no relapses, no ‘spectacular falls from grace,’ or returns to the ‘downward spiral lifestyle,’ that his solicitor used to bang on about.

He had read a lot in jail, horror stuff like Stephen King to start with, then he moved onto crime fiction, mostly American writers like Jim Thompson, James Ellroy, and Barry Gifford. The latter three he chose, as he had seen the movies based on their books ‘The Grifters,’ ‘L.A Confidential,’ and ‘Wild at Heart,’ these were all DVDs he had stashed away at his folks’ house, old movies from the 1990s, a long time ago. Ryan loved those old movies, especially ‘Pulp Fiction,’ ok, it was outdated now, but it was a ‘classic’ to him. He had drafted a few stories in the ‘hard boiled’ crime fiction style, as it was called, these were set in a 1990s America of his imagination, as he had never been there. He wasn’t at all sure about how a crime story would work if it were set in Aberdeen. He had read online that there were several writers in Aberdeen who wrote crime fiction, which was locally known as ‘Granite Noir.’ He intended to give that a go what with his experiences of the criminal life, he was sure that he could ‘granite noir’ with the best of them, even get something published online, of not ‘on the page.’ He would join a writers group, he could get some feedback on his work, and see how it went from there. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as his dad used to say.

His train of positive thinking was suddenly derailed when a message appeared on his phone, it was Gibby, one of his old pals from his drug fuelled days,

‘Hey Ryan, mate, can do me a favour, eh, can you look after some stuff for me, for a while?

I’m up in court the day and am getting’ the jail, I’ll be banged up for six months this time, according to my lawyer.’

Ryan did not get a chance to answer, as the intercom buzzed insistently.

Who could be calling at this time?

He opened his front door, and saw that Gibby, or one of his lieutenants, had left an Adidas holdall.

This was the ‘stuff’ he had to look after while Gibby was in jail.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed their way down the stairway-whoever it was had not bothered with the elevator.

He always helped out Gibby, as they went back a long way, but what was it that he was leaving him with this time?

Drugs, money, guns, delete as applicable, wtf?

He opened the holdall and found wads of cash, more cash than he had ever seen in the days before Covid stalled the flow of cash across the land.

There were £50 and £100 notes banded together in bundles, bloody loads of them, he could leave ‘the ‘Deen, and relocate somewhere where nobody knew about him or his past.

That sounded like a good plan, the best idea he had produced for years, since coming off the drugs, the only way was up. Gibby could stay in jail, Ryan had done him enough favours, it was time to put himself first for a change.

Nobody would have been any the wiser of the bag being dropped off, the neighbours were in their seventies and eighties, not people who would be paying attention to any deliveries or strangers within the building.

Ryan could leave the place without attracting attention, nobody here knew what was in the holdall, if they even knew him, apart from by reputation and rumour.

He would text his folks, and say he was going away for a while, he would just go without saying, they had as good as disowned him anyway. That was it, he would get in his van, and drive south, just like someone in a Barry Gifford novel, drive across the border to Mexico, although in Ryan’s case, it would be into England, where nobody knew him, not even drug connections from the past. His imagination had the better of him, his departure from Aberdeen would of course be soundtracked by the theme tune to Pulp Fiction,’ which would fit the bill quite well.

He would get rid of the old ‘drug dealer’ phone, the little black Samsung, and throw away the Sim card from inside, buy an I-phone, down in Union Square, so he could keep an eye on any missing persons reports on Nubar News, and such online forums, just in case someone had missed him.

He was not on a Community Payback Order anymore, so it would have been unlikely that anyone from Social Work would be looking for him, so anyway, here he was, driving along Gallowgate, with £100, 000 in a holdall on the back seat, passing by the court building.

What the hell, he had made it, from one lifestyle choice to another.

 First stop, Union Square, to the phone shop, then drive south, away out of Dodge, as his solicitor used to say!

An hour later, and an I-Phone better off, he started off on his way out of Aberdeen, the van was going ok also.

With the Spotify download of the theme to ‘Pulp Fiction’ playing on his phone, he was free of Aberdeen, and his bad influences, the new life started here.

But who was that in the vehicle behind him, a guy driving a Jeep, who was gesticulating wildly at him, and making rude gestures?

Was he one of Gibby’s lieutenants or was Ryan imagining things?

He had been following him since he left Market Street, and was over to Torry, wtf!

He was getting closer, it was Tommy McAra, he was Gibby’s right hand man, his enforcer, and was not someone you would want to get on the wrong side of.

Ryan put his foot on the accelerator, and still McAra was gaining on him.

He was shouting about Gibby’s money, and manically waving a gun at him, while steering the Jeep erratically.

Oh my god, he’s got a gun, Ryan thought to himself.

 Ryan had never come into contact with firearms before, even in his drug days.

He put his pedal to the metal once more, there was a sound of gunfire, and all went black.

He woke up in hospital later in the day, to be told that he was lucky to be alive by the nurse who was attending to him.

‘You got off lightly with a broken leg and some cuts and bruises, which is more than can be said for the other driver, he was dead on arrival.’

Of course, the police will need a statement from you, just routine , of course.

Ryan looked around, wondering when he was going to wake up and find out that this had all been a dream.

He noticed the nurse was coming back into the ward carrying the Adidas bag,

‘You’ll be needing your bag, if you’re going to be here for a while.’

Ryan couldn’t believe his luck, when he opened the bag, the contents were still intact. The only thing was, how could he keep this quiet if he were to be in hospital for some time?

Of course, the police officers would recognize him, and that would be it, he couldn’t escape, not with a broken leg.

Meantime, he picked up the notebook and pen someone had left beside his bed and started to draft a story’ Granite Noir,’ he would call it.