Free Twelve Days of Winter by Stuart MacBride

except for Mr Aziz’s doddery bunch of kinky pensioners, and Dillon Black’s girls.
    Brian might be failing geography, but that didn’t mean he was stupid.
    Hands jammed deep into his pockets, he nipped across the road, taking his chances with the traffic. The burger joint was busy: hordes of kids eating processed meat and fries, passing around cans of super-strength lager when the staff weren’t looking.
    A couple of them nodded hello as he walked in.
    Cameron Williams glanced up from his double cheeseburger, mouth hanging open – full of half-chewed mystery meat. ‘Oy, Wanker!’ Doing the hand gesture as well.
    Brian ignored him. Cammy was a dick. But he was a
big
dick and answering back would just get Brian’s head kicked in.
    So he joined the queue for till number three instead.
    He shuffled forwards, staring at the menu like he didn’t already know it off by heart. Cheeseburger with onion rings, fries, and a large Irn-Bru – same as always. And, as it was bloody freezing outside, one of them deep-fried apple pie things as well.
    Bob – his mum’s new bloke – slipped him a tenner to get something to eat while they went down the pub. Which was cool. Meant he’d have enough left over for a packet of fags and a couple bottles of extra strong cider. That’d round off the evening nicely.
    He ordered his burger, then settled back against the counter to wait. Checking his pockets: still twenty or thirty postcards to go. That would take him all the way down to the railway station, where there was a nice little corner shop that didn’t mind selling booze and fags to thirteen-year-olds. The free market economy in action: that’s what his English teacher, Mr Kirkhill called stuff like this.
    Brian knew
all
about the free market economy. He was a seasoned practitioner of its darker arts.
    The food arrived and he carried it over to an empty table; it was way too cold outside to eat in some piss-smelling shop doorway. He took a big bite of burger and a shadow fell across the table.
    A man’s voice, deep and gravelly: ‘Anybody sittin’ here mate?’
    Brian shrugged and kept on eating, head down. Free country, wasn’t it?
    The bloke plonked himself on the other side of the table and unwrapped whatever it was he’d ordered.
    ‘You’re Brian, right? Brian Calder?’
    Brian shrugged again, still not looking up. ‘Depends, doesn’t it.’
    ‘Thought I recognized you. We’re in the same line of work, Brian.’
    ‘Oh aye?’ Why did the weirdoes always have to sit next to him?
    He crammed in an onion ring, and took a peek at the nut-job: thin, pasty-faced, goatee beard, hooded eyes and wide forehead, hair like one of them teddy boys you saw on the Discovery Channel, and a diamond ear stud. Fingertip-length black leather jacket over broad shoulders, a Hawaiian shirt and shark’s tooth necklace. Big Johnny Simpson.
    Oh Jesus. . .
    Brian’s cheeseburger tried to choke him. He coughed, spluttered, forced it down. ‘Mr Simpson.’ He dragged on a smile. ‘Nice to see you.’ Oh Christ. . . ‘How’s Leslie?’
    ‘Fuck should I know? I’m only her father.’ Big Johnny took a bite of his not-so-happy meal. ‘Bloody kids: soon as they hit puberty they want nothin’ to do with their old man.’ Chew, chew chew.
    ‘Right. Right.’ Oh God. . .
    Big Johnny polished off the burger, fries, and a large Diet Coke, then settled back in his plastic seat and stared at him. ‘You finished?’
    Brian glanced down at his food – virtually untouched, the melted cheese all leathery-looking, the onion rings pale and greasy. ‘Not really hungry.’ Not any more.
    ‘Good.’ Big Johnny stood, towering over the table. Shite: he was
huge
. ‘Come on, you and me are goin’ to take a little walk.’
    Brian’s newly dropped balls tried to claw their way back into his body.
    Oh fuck. . .
     
    Half past eight and the city lights made sparkling reflections in the Kings River. Brian had a perfect view of them, because Big