Gun Dog by Peter Lancett

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    I come out of the tree line and into a pretty large clearing. The ground is rust-coloured with fallen pine needles and somewhat springy because of them too. It’s almost silent here, and with the trees all around and a low grey sky above, it’s like being in a box, like you’re somehow removed from the world at large. If I listen carefully, I can hear a backdrop of constant car noise, but it’s so way off in the distance that it doesn’t really intrude on the quiet in this place.
    Like I said, this clearing is pretty big, and there’s a sort of small lake in it, abouta hundred metres or so across. It’s actually quite spooky, because a kid died in this lake last year. Well actually, when I say died, I should say he was killed. It was in the holidays last summer. Loads of kids come into these woods to play, and one day, some kids were here, and there was some kind of argument about a stolen bike or something, and one kid was thrown into the lake. And when this kid tried to climb out, the other kids threw rocks at him and stuff and stopped him. And, eventually, he went under the water and drowned. We’re talking about kids who are about twelve years old here. I don’t know them, because they’re not from my estate and they don’t go to my school, but I know that it’s a true story because it was in the papers. But not on the front pages. It was nowhere near sensational enough for that.
    So, like I said, it feels spooky here by this lake. And that’s even despite the fact that I’m carrying the Ruger in my pocket. Let’s face it, a gun is no use against a ghost. And you can stop sniggering; you wouldn’t find it funny if you were out here alone, I’m telling you. This place does feel strange.
    So I’m back in among the trees and I’ve walked well away from that lake. It might as well be here as anywhere. I take the Ruger out of my pocket and the synthetic black grip rests against the palm of my right hand while my fingers curl loosely around it. My index finger rests alongside the trigger guard and does not touch the trigger at all. I hold the gun out in front of me, my feet are planted shoulder width apart and my knees are slightly bent. The handle of the gun is resting against the palm of my outstretched left hand for stability, just like I’ve read in articles on the internet, and have seen in movies and on television. I’m looking straight along the top of the barrel. The polymer frame is glistening black. I’m aiming at the trunk of a tree about twenty feet away as I slip my finger inside the trigger guard. I begin to squeeze, slowly. Nothing’s happening. I think I’m a bit tense waiting for the bang, not knowing what to expect. I continue to squeeze. Surely that’s fourteen – BANG!
    Actually, it doesn’t bang, not in the way that a firework bangs, or guns in oldmovies bang. It’s loud enough, sure, but it’s a metallic sound that dominates, the sound of the slider knocked back to eject the spent cartridge and pick up the next round from the magazine, loading it into the chamber.
    I look at the tree in front of me. I can see where the bullet has hit it, but it’s way higher than I’d been aiming. The recoil from the gun was not as strong as I’d been expecting, but I hadn’t been ready for when the shot was going to come. When it had, it had taken me by surprise, and I’d let the Ruger jump in my hand. I’ll be more prepared next time.
    I take aim again, but now it’s already cocked; it’s only going to take five pounds of pressure on the trigger to fire it this time. I hold it a little bit tighter, plant the base of the handle a little firmer in the palm of my left hand. I begin to squeeze the trigger. BANG! That’s better. Much lower, but it’s pulled to the left a little. One more shot, I’m thinking, just to get the measure of it, and I’ll call it a day. Now don’t go thinking that I’m packing in early because firing the gun isunnerving me or something. That’s