Authors: Derek Farrell
Chapter Forty-Five
Ali bustled back into the bar, a crate of mixers in her arms, dumped the crate on the bar and glanced around. “Thought I heard voices,” she said.
“You did,” I answered glumly. “But they’re gone.”
She frowned and began removing the bottles from the crate, placing them on the shelf at the back of the bar, each one with the label facing forward. In the background, Patsy Cline stopped spilling her broken heart all over the place and was immediately replaced by Ella wishing everyone a
Happy Christmas
in a tone that suggested she had other plans.
Ali pulled an overstuffed bin liner out of the can under the bar and tied a knot in it.
“Here–” I jumped off my stool, “let me help you with that.”
Ali was hefting the full bin bag; I wrested it from her. “Um, where does it go?” I asked, shamefacedly.
“Thanks,” she smiled. “Bins out the back in the alleyway. I want to talk to you about the food; I’ve had an idea.”
“OK.” I smiled and hefted the bag, “Back in a minute.” I exited the bar, walked down the hallway and stepped out into the freezing night air, so wrapped up in my thoughts that I walked straight into the ambush.
Something foul-smelling, leathery and damp was flung over my head, blocking all light and disorienting me so that I gasped and realised that the damp rag had sucked into my mouth and was restricting my breathing.
“Message from a mate, Danny Boy,” said a voice in my ear. “You need to learn to mind your own business, know what I’m saying? Let things be.” And a vicious punch in the kidneys shot an explosion of pain through my body and sent me sprawling, the bag dropping from my hands.
“Grab him,” said the voice and someone hoiked under my armpits and dragged me to my feet.
This time, the blow came into my solar plexus and I doubled over, the breath gone from my body. I heard a giggle from somewhere close by. “Smack him again, Gaz.”
Whoever’d been holding me upright had released me so that I now had my hands free. I yanked the rag from my head, the sudden blast of yellow lighting and cold air on my face shocking me so that I twisted my head just as a denim-clad knee slammed upwards into the side of my face, missing the nose that had been the intended target.
Stars flashing in my head, I yanked myself upright. There were three of them. No, wait: in the shadows at the end of the alleyway, no doubt keeping watch on the street beyond, was a fourth. They were white, male and mid-twenties, I’d say. And they looked like they meant business.
The one who’d just tried to break my nose was about five nine, had a dark crew cut and had had his own snout snapped at some point in the past. The one who’d been behind me, but was now moving to my left in a pincer movement, was chubby, blond and well over six feet. He was wearing a thick woollen pea coat and looked like he was dressed to go visit his nans for tea when he’d finished beating me to death.
The third was a scrawny short-arse with a head of sparkly ginger stubble, a tattoo that snaked out of the t-shirt he was wearing, up his neck and hooked around his ear, and a wild look in his eyes. This one scared me more than the other two. I glanced briefly at the end of the alleyway where the fourth remained shadowed and unmoving.
They’d circled me now, each of them watching one another, as if waiting for some pre-arranged signal.
“Look,” I said, raising my hands.
And that was as far as I got. Ginger produced, from nowhere, a length of solid metal chain. I remember thinking “Has he come on his bike?” before it swung at me, but I barely noticed the chain swinging, so mesmerised was I by the look on his face.
His eyes – a metallic blue even in this dim light – had a shine to them and, as he swung the chain, aiming it squarely at the side of my head, he licked his lips, a tiny bead of spittle staying on the full bottom lip.
He’s loving this,
I thought in one millisecond before, in the next, thinking
Duck, you moron!
I twisted to one side, but Chubby had pressed in close so that I couldn’t escape the arc of the chain. So, with all my might, I stomped backwards onto Chubby’s left foot.
He squealed and leapt backwards, allowing me enough room to at least turn side on, dipping as I did, so that the chain, rather than smashing into my nose or cheekbone, slammed painfully into my shoulder, then flew off into the darkness.
“You fucker!” Chubby punched me firmly in the back of the head and the world swum as, biting my own lip so hard that I tasted blood, I staggered to the left, directly into the dark crewcut, who was now wielding what looked like a cricket bat.
He swung it uncertainly and I raised my arm to fend off the assault. The bat connected with such force that I swear my teeth chattered.
“Woo-hoo!” Ginger sniggered, in what I assumed was his impersonation of a New York street fighter, “Tha’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
I staggered backwards, my good arm nursing what I was sure had to be at least a fractured limb and the trio recommenced their circling motion, Chubby and Crewcut Boy glancing nervously at Ginger, who was obviously the psycho-in-chief.
Chubby took that moment to pull from his pocket a short but very scary looking blade. He held it in front of him as though its mere presence would kill me.
The world seemed unnaturally silent. The door behind me masked the sound of the jukebox and not so much as a barking dog disturbed the foggy night.
“You think he’s got the message?” Ginger asked his cronies, who remained silent, their glances flicking from the ringleader back to me. “Well, Danny Boy?” he demanded of me, “you got the message yet?”
“Keep my nose out of other people’s business,” I answered. “Anyone in particular?”
“You got a fuckin’ smart mouth,” Ginger snarled from behind me. His foot connected squarely with the flat of my back and he shoved me with full force into Chubby, whose knee came up to connect firmly with my balls.
I collapsed to my knees, doubled up, tears streaming down my cheeks and the knowledge that there was worse to come if I didn’t get away from this bouncing around my head.
“Get him,” instructed The Watcher and Ginger came around front, the better – I supposed – to kick me in the face.
Now, I was never the sporty one in my family. My sisters were all netball addicts and Siobhan had had trials for Arsenal Ladies before she discovered boys and decided that running around sweating on a pitch in nylon shorts was not for her.
My dad had taken me to the same boxing gym he’d trained at as a boy; the same one he’d taken Paddy to a few years previously and, while my older brother had shown a natural aptitude for the sport, I’d been… well, let’s just say that, even at an early age, it was obvious that I was a lover, not a fighter.
But that was cool. My dad was clearly confused by my absolute lack of any enthusiasm for the sport of smashing shit out of other people, but he accepted that it wasn’t for me and made no big deal of it.
My brother Paddy, on the other hand, made a deal out of it. Especially when Graham Carter, the school bully, decided to make me his personal project.
Every day seemed to become “Let’s rough up Danny day,” and I spent much of one whole term hiding from Carter and his goons.
This was an unacceptable situation for my big brother.
You see, by this stage, Paddy was in line to be the South East under 17s welterweight amateur boxing champion.
“Listen, Dan,” he collared me one evening after dinner, “you’re going to have to deal with this Carter. That fucker looks at you and sees weak. You don’t fight back.”
“I can’t,” I answered, conscious of how whiney the answer sounded.
“You have to,” he answered.
“It’s easy for you. You know how to. You train. You like it,” I huffed back.
“Yep,” Paddy agreed, “I do. And I’m good at it. So liking it makes me better. But Dan, you don’t need to like it. You just need to decide which you hate more: coming down the ring with me, or spending your lunch hours hiding in the girls’ lavs.”
He was right, of course; I went to the gym with him that night and within a fortnight the Carter problem had been resolved.
So, when I say I’m not the sporty one in the family I’m telling the absolute truth. But here’s the thing: thanks to my brother Paddy, Graham Carter and his not-particularly-bright band of cohorts, I know how to brawl.
And the first lesson of brawling is: never fight fair.
I heard Ginger hawk something from the back of his throat and a moment later a globule of sparkling snot landed on the ground in front of me.
I looked down. Ginger was standing directly in front of me. Too close for him to kick me – the trajectory would be all wrong and he’d never get a good swing from this proximity. But when he did step back, those solid black leather reinforced toecap work boots would do some serious damage.
I glanced upwards. Although he was standing directly in front of me, he was looming over me as though he were savouring the moment, peering down on his cowering victim from on high.
He sniggered again and I heard him hawk another snot ball up.
Which was when I moved. Nagging nuts or not, it was now or never. I switched my weight so that my feet were firmly planted on the floor and, with no warning, I jumped bolt upright, my legs powering the trajectory of my full weight upwards in a straight line so that the crown of my head connected full force with Ginger’s face.
There was a muffled roar as he staggered back, his hands flying to his face, a thin arc of claret spritzing the night air.
My flight carried me upwards a little further and I staggered to the left, sprawling over the bin bag I’d dropped at the start of the attack.
“
Doo bro by fudden no
,” Ginger bellowed. My guess was it translated as y
ou broke my fucking nose,
but the statement was rendered somewhat irrelevant by the scarlet mush that filled the centre of his face.
“Oh fuck,” Chubby wheezed, seeming, rather belatedly, to realise that he couldn’t stand the sight of blood, as he collapsed into a dead faint.
Ginger, his piggy little eyes flashing furiously, advanced on me. “I’b godda fudden kill doo,” he announced and I sort of got the gist.
This was tricky, cos I’d lost sight of Crewcut and was hampered in my attempts to rise by the bin bag that was now sliding along the ground as I attempted to scramble out of Ginger’s path.
Too late, I realised I’d scrambled up against the bins and could go no further. Ginger continued his advance, paused, pulled back his right foot and my hand, fumbling for any means of fending him off, connected with something cold, thin and metallic.
I recognised it instantly, gripped it and swung the discarded chain with all my might at his left leg, feeling, rather than seeing, the metallic links wrap around his boot, their force locking them in place firmly enough so that when I yanked with all my might the chain came towards me, whipping his one earthbound foot out from under him.
Ginger roared again, his right leg flailing wildly as, completely unbalanced, he crashed to earth, his head smashing into the ground with a nauseating smack.
He groaned once and was silent.
I staggered up, the sound of running feet testifying that Chubby had risen from his faint and fled to the side of the fourth man who stayed in the shadows at the end of the street.
I turned and there was Crewcut, his cricket bat waving around in front of him like a bunch of garage daffs on Mother’s Day.
“I’ll take you,” he said, in a tone that was less than convincing.
“Really?” I asked, being sure to inject as much confidence into the phrase as I could, even though my arm was throbbing, my heart racing and my whole body shaking violently.
“Only I thought he was the one with the murderous streak.” I gestured at the prostrate figure of Ginger, conscious as I did so that Crewcut was moving out from behind the bins and my efforts to keep him in sight meant that I was turning my back to Ginger, Chubby and The Watcher. “You don’t strike me as a psycho,” I announced.
And he swung at me.
I was genuinely surprised: he
hadn’t
seemed the type likely to carry this on once the ringleader was out cold. Which just goes to show that you can’t be right about people all the time.
The bat – the whole solid willow weight of the thing – collided with the top right side of my head and stars exploded as I staggered backwards and fell to the ground.
“Colin,” Crewcut was calling now, to his still prone comrade, “are you alright baby?”
Baby?
Ginger groaned and I tore my eyes away from him long enough to look up at Crewcut, as he raised the bat over his head. “You should have just taken the warning,” he said, his face creasing in a concentrated frown.
Now, when Chubby fainted, he’d dropped his weapon. It was a short knife – the sort usually sold in kitchen shops as a paring knife. And I could see it glinting dully on the ground just to the right of Chubby’s foot.
So I lunged, as Chubby brought the bat slamming downwards towards where my head had been a moment ago and where my upraised arse cheeks now were. The impact stung, don’t get me wrong; but it hurt me a lot less than it would have if the point of impact had been the top of my head.