R.I.P Robbie Silva Read Online Free

to shout at her or run. My mind blanked. I watched as she brought the bottle down over his head and then he crumpled on the floor, blood gushing from a serious head wound.
    'The fuck are you doing?' I yelled.
    Gail started to kick at the Jambo, stamp on his face. Her blows were too insubstantial to do much damage but before long the soles of her shoes were covered in blood and she slipped about on the slimy floor.
    'Cunt ... fucking cunt ...' she yelled. She had the stocking off her face now, turned up so she could get a better look at him. It made me scan for cameras but I didn't see any.
    As I gazed about the shop something kicked in me and I got sense enough to turn the till around and rifle it. I filled my pockets with cash. Must have been the best part of a grand in there. When I was done I looked back to find Gail had righted herself; she turned to the cigarettes counter and pulled down a can of lighter fluid, started to douse the Jambo with it.
    'No ... fucksake ...' I shouted out to her but she was gone on some nut-job trip. I put the shooter back in my jeans and tried to grab the canister off her but she was beyond my reach. I turned to mount the counter; heard the Jambo coming round, moaning. Then I heard the match strike. I was over the counter as Gail dropped the flaming match. He went up like a lantern.
    'Jesus- fucking -Christ, girl ... what are you doing?'
    She was laughing now, lolling her head back as she said, 'He had it fucking coming ... he so had it coming!'

    * * * *
    There's been a couple of time in my life when I just seemed to burst out my skin. You run on some kind of weird energy that doesn't seem to be yours. It's like when you hear about these folk in car crashes and they have a kid trapped inside and they find this super strength to lift the motor off its wheels to free the nipper ... this was one of those moments.
    I grabbed Gail by the waist and flung her over the counter out of the way. She didn't land right and staggered into a stack of Ariel washing-powder boxes. The lot went flying. There was a puff of powder raised as my arms swung back over the counter. I grabbed an old anorak that was sitting on the back of the chair by the till. I wrapped the navy and red hood around my hand and started beating the fat Jambo with it. The flames shot out the sides and then there was a black escape of smoke and they were gone after three or four swipes. When I was done, I dropped the jacket.
    The Jambo looked fucked, but he was alive. I was grateful for that. I propped him up and he yelped a bit. His arse-cheeks squeaked on the floor as he went and a brown streak appeared on the lino – he'd shit himself; I didn't blame the cunt.
    I was about to ask if he was okay when the door opened and an Asian bit came in and started screaming. Her hands were up at her face, but she didn't seem to be moving anything else; it was like she was frozen to the spot. Just screaming and bawling.
    I knew I had to mush.
    I ran round the counter and grabbed Gail's arm. She didn't like that, wanted to fight me. I showed her a fist, said, 'Move. Or you're going cold.'
    She got the message.
    The Asian bit's screams brought in people from the street. A workie in Adidas trackies and, behind him, the old diddy with the tartan shopping trolley lolled into the doorway. This was the last thing I needed. The workie looked like he was thinking of squaring up to me, so I sorted that problem out first. I grabbed his left ear and brought his head forward as I sunk mine into his nose – a fountain of blood escaped as he fell to the ground.
    At the door I fronted the old dear, said, 'Excuse me, love.'
    She didn't get the message, so I put my hands on her shoulders. She smelled of lavender as I motioned her to the side.
    Gail was already on her way out when I hit the street. I'd side-stepped the shopping trolley but the handle caught my foot as I went and the day's messages – fucking kilos of spuds and a frozen chicken – keeled me over. As