Free California by Ray Banks Page B

jacket pocket. “For your trouble and everything.”
    Charlie looked at the money, but didn’t take it. Shug leaned over and tucked the notes into the breast pocket of Charlie’s blazer, patted it smooth and then straightened his poppy.
    “Alright then, on you go.”
    Charlie didn’t move. His eyes were glazed, pink in the corners. He looked as if he was close to tears. And there was nothing sadder than a grown man in tears.
    “Come on now, Charlie. Chop-chop. Don’t want to make us late, do you?”
    Charlie turned to him. His chin wobbled.
    “Please,” he said.
    Shug undid his seat belt and got out of the car. He surveyed the people passing by – nobody was watching him – and went round to the passenger side. He pulled open the door, saw Charlie flinch at the sight of him. He leaned over, clicked Charlie’s seat belt open, let it whip back over the old man’s shoulder. Then he stepped back. Waited.
    “Don’t make this difficult,” he said.
    Charlie shifted in his seat. Looked at the steering wheel.
    “I’m not pissing about, Charlie. Be sensible and get out of the car.”
    Charlie let out a sigh and got out of the car, his shoulders hunched. Shug slammed the door as soon as he was clear, headed back round to the driver’s side.
    He stopped before he got in, leaned on the roof. “You feel free to phone this in any time you want, alright? Sooner the better. Don’t want them to think you’re pulling a fast one, do we?”
    Shug ducked into the car, shut the door. He crunched gears as he pulled away, that ticking sound turning into a rattle. He glanced back at Charlie in the rear view. Rain began to spot the windscreen.
    He hoped the old bloke got somewhere dry soon, else he’d catch his death, and Shug really didn’t want to be held responsible for that. He hoped that Charlie did the right thing and phoned it in, too.
    But most of all he hoped that rattle in the engine wasn’t anything serious. It was a long way to California, after all.
     

2
     
    A couple of miles out of Linlithgow, the rattle was louder than the rain. Not long after that, the rattle turned into a persistent cough. By the time Shug hit Sandburn, the cough was tubercular. Finally, when it sounded as if the Micra needed a priest, Shug turned it to the shoulder, let the engine hack its last while he watched rain snakes on the windscreen and breathed slowly through his mouth.
    Anger was a deluded mind.
    Anger exaggerated something’s faults.
    Anger prompted an escalation to a negative emotional climax. It was unproductive, it was unnecessary, but it was also completely unavoidable.
    “The question,” whispered Shug, “is how do you deal with this negative emotion in a healthy and progressive way?”
    Very good question, and not the first time he’d asked it. Normally the answer was count to ten and take deep breaths, exhale the rage a little on each number until it faded away. There was nothing wrong with getting angry, but there was something wrong with not questioning why he was angry. Because if he didn’t question his negative emotional state, then he was letting it rule his rational mind, make his decisions for him.
    And that was no way to live.
    So Shug focused on what made him feel angry right now, then he worked out a rational response to it.
    Shug got out of the car, went to the boot. He found a length of rubber hose and an old pop bottle, which he used to siphon the petrol out of the tank. Then he doused the inside of the car and dropped a flaming Swan Vesta into the puddle. The seat caught orange, spread and smoked. Shug cracked the window a little to let the air get in, and then shut the door.
    Wasn’t the situation that had boiled his piss. He had to be clear about that. No, what had made him angry was his own decision to jack a pensioner’s car. In hindsight, it didn’t make a lot of sense. Yes, Charlie was an easy target, but pensioners ran their rides to rust, let the little problems get big because they were too