Forever After (a dark and funny fantasy novel) (4 page)

             
Adam looked offended. “I ain’t paying for it.”

             
Michael sighed. “Then
I’ll
fucking pay for it.”             

             
He shook his head. “There’s something not right about paying for sex.”

             
“Fuck it,” Michael said with a shake of his disagreeing head. “It’s a service. They’re the receptacle and you have something you need to empty.”

             
“Nice image mate,” Del said.

             
The three men laughed together and then turned around on their stools, facing away from the bar where an elderly bartender had just finished pouring their drinks.

             
Michael’s stare was immediately attracted to the hen party. He caught flirtatious glances from a couple of the drunken women. One he deemed too old, an unhappily married woman looking for a drunken fling. The other, in her mid-thirties, was better looking, but too drunk. He had no problems with drunk women but there was a line and it looked like she was about to throw up on it.

             
He turned his attention to the pool table where the group of men were still enjoying their game; all of them were silently watching the smallest of the group who was eyeing up a long shot on the black.

             
They were all dressed in tight fitting leather jackets -- strewn with cheap patches and emblems -- that struggled to engulf their large frames. They were all bigger than Michael; bigger than his friends. They looked like they wouldn’t move if asked, they probably wouldn’t have moved if someone drove a car through them.

             
With a sly smile tweaking the corners of his mouth Michael asked, “Fancy a game of pool?”

             
Del snapped a short and mocking laugh. “You seen those guys?” he said, appalled at the suggestion. “They’ll break our fucking necks just for asking.”

             
Michael shrugged off the comment and jumped down. “We’ll be fine,” he declared confidently. “Come on.”

             
Del and Adam followed apprehensively behind their friend as he strode towards the table.

             
The small man had sunk the black to equal quantities of applause and distaste. He was receiving a mixture of curses and high-fives from his friends when Michael interrupted them.

             
He stood in front of the table, waited until he had everyone’s attention and then addressed the biggest man there: a bearded man made purely of muscle and fat, with sweat patches staining his tee-shirt and tattoos colouring his bulbous arms.

             
“You guys finishing any time soon?” Michael asked him.

             
The big man looked Michael up and down derisively. He sucked in his protruding stomach -- concealed under a stretched, sweat stained tee-shirt and angled by the flaps of his sleeveless jacket -- and shifted forward, hugging the floor with his heavy boots.

             
“Fuck off kid,” he spat.

             
Inches away from the big man Michael felt like he was choking on his odour, a morbid concoction of sweat, tobacco and beer. Despite the smell he shifted forward until he could feel the moistened touch of the biker’s stomach against his own.

             
“Kid?” Michael said, smiling wryly. “Just because I’m smaller than you doesn’t make me younger.” He paused to reciprocate a curious cross-examination. “Although judging by those wrinkled biceps of yours, I probably am.”

             
There was a wave of hushed silence through the group as everyone took a sharp intake of breath.

             
Del mumbled apathetically from behind his friend, “Here we go again,” and the silence erupted into chaos.

             
The big man swung for Michael but he saw the monstrous arm working its way backwards long before it had time to connect. He ducked out of the way, feeling a rush of air dust his nose as the thick fist swept by. The big man toppled with the force of his own missed-swing, just managing to save himself from hitting the floor.

             
The youngster who had potted the black to win the game moved at Michael with a pool cue in his hand and a determined grimace on his face. He drifted around his tumbling friend and swung the cue at Michael, who threw his hands into its arcing flight to protect himself. The cue smacked his palms with a dull sucking-sound, slapping a vicious whip against the flesh. He ignored the burn in his palms, closed his hands around the thin end of the cue and yanked it out of the youngsters’ hands.

             
With the cue raised above his head he took a quick step away from the table and flashed the weapon at the others who were preparing to launch into an attack. Grinning like a madman he twirled the cue through his hand and over his head, using it like a baton in a parade.

             
“Every fucking week,” Del muttered bas he watched.

             
The big biker straightened and moved for Michael, Michael swung for him and caught him square in the jaw with the tip of the cue. The chalked end grazed the bottom of his ear before snapping against his cheekbone. Michael pulled it back for another swing as the big man recoiled, but before he could launch another attack the other men were upon him, their fists and knees jabbing away at his stomach and thighs; their hands grasping for the weapon in his hand. Del and Adam reluctantly threw themselves into the brawl to help their friend, pulling the men off him before they had a chance to do any serious damage.               The fight expanded into the rest of the room, as customers ducked and ran out of the way to avoid catching any of the wildly thrown punches and kicks.

             
It lasted for a few minutes, but for some it felt like hours.

             
When the fighting had ceased two of the bikers had fled. The biggest one lay partially unconscious at the foot of the snooker table, having found himself the main beneficiary of the boot, fist and weapon attacks. The other two were wearily bent-double on the floor; contemplating a return to the fight whilst keeping one eye on the exit should the fight return to them.

             
“Well, that was fun,” Michael beamed, admiring his handiwork.

             
Del and Adam had both received broken noses and bloodied faces for their trouble, Adam was having a hard time standing up and felt like he was about to unleash his guts onto the floor via his mouth and anus simultaneously, but Michael seemed to have been perked up by the fight. His eyes were quickly swelling, his nose and lip were both bleeding and his shirt was torn, but he was happier than when it had started.

             
The sound of police sirens filtered through to battle-weary ears that hissed with constant whines or didn’t work at all.

             
Michael casually walked to the bar, returning to his pint. “Drink up,” he told his friends.

             
The bartender, who had phoned the police during the fracas, stood in wait. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he told Michael with a stern but concerned expression on his face.

             
“You shouldn’t have called the cops,” Michael told him, still smiling.

             
“You just pissed off a very strong gang.”

             
Michael shrugged and downed his drink in one go, spilling half of it down his top as his swollen lip failed to get a clean purchase. He finished with a relishing sigh and a smile that beamed even wider.

             
“They weren’t that strong, right guys?” he said, turning to his two friends.

             
Del shrugged nonchalantly. “We’ve had worse.”

             
Michael waited for his friends to pour their drinks down their tops with equal gusto before they all exited the pub, leaving it empty barring the broken bikers crawling and groaning on the floor -- the rest of the patrons had left at varying times during the brawl.

             
Outside the sounds of sirens were heavy in the air. The lights of advancing police cars ascended into the night sky, flashing at the darkness like a dazzling and distant firework show.

             
“Split up and fucking leg it!” Michael hollered.

             
They turned in different directions and fled the scene. Michael scuppered across the road, ducked into an unlit backstreet and then dove down an opposing alleyway. He enjoyed the adrenaline of the chase as much as the fight and was still grinning broadly when he breathlessly slumped down on a step deep inside the alleyway -- the road, the pub and the police cars, all out of sight.

             
He looked around in the stale darkness, assessing his poorly lit location. To his right the back-way to another stretch of alley was blocked by an overflowing dumpster. Behind him, on the cold step where he took refuge, a grime covered door shielded the back entrance to a liquidated fast-food restaurant.

             
The light was dim, the source distant and obscured, but it was prominent enough for him to make out the small cuts on his knuckles and the pencil-shaped bruise on his palm. The light wasn’t strong enough for him to see the person next to him. When he pulled his attention away from his hands and looked up, the sight and proximity of the figure on the small step gave him a juddering fright.

             
He jumped and recoiled, turning towards the man but leaning away. In the dim light he could see he was a lot older than himself, maybe middle-aged, maybe more; a glimmer of greyness glittered on his stubbled chin and flecked the hair above his ears, a multitude of wisdom lines creased his forehead. He was smiling; his piercing eyes glimmered from underneath a furrowed brow that questioned Michael’s surprise.

             
“What the fuck!” Michael spat, breathless. “Where did you come from?”

             
The man lowered his brow, maintained his smile. “Quite a fight you put up back there,” he stated simply, ignoring the question.

             
“What?” Michael spat, dumbfounded, still a little unsure if he was about to be raped and mutilated or if he had just stumbled upon an innocent weirdo.

             
“I was wondering,” the greyed man faced forwards, seemingly interested in a sheet of moulded newspaper which clung to the pavement like statically charged cellophane. “How does an aspiring art student learn to fight like that?”

             
“Aspiring art…” Michael shook his head. “You saw what happened in the bar? How?”

             
The man tilted his head this way and that. “I fear you wouldn’t believe me.”

             
Michael stood up, backed off slightly. “What’s going on here? Are you part of the gang? Did the bartender phone you? Did he put you up to this?” he clenched his fists and left them dangling by his side. He was prepared for a fight, even though the old man didn’t look like the fighting type.

             
The man remained seated. His confident and calming gaze met Michael’s agitated, trepidatious features.

             
“Not a setup. This is an offer,” he explained. A serious expression crossed his face and cancelled out his smile. “
Although
, as your assumptions were not
entirely
incorrect. I have to be quick.”

             
“What the fuck are you talking about it?”

             
“I have been studying you, headhunting if you like. I work for a very highly respected organisation, and I think you would fit right in. We are on the lookout for individuals such as you.”

             
Thoughts of MI5 and the SAS popped into Michael’s head but were dismissed just as quickly as they arrived, replaced by something far more likely and far less interesting.

             
“Are you a fucking pimp?”

             
The older man laughed. A sound both spine chilling and comforting, like the screams of a long-lost loved one. Michael took another step back.

             
“I am something you can’t even comprehend,” he explained when the laughter had faded from his voice.

             
Michael shook his head dismissively, “Bollocks to this.” He turned and ducked into the alleyway, exposing himself to any potential enemies on the street ahead.

             
The man stood up behind him. He opened his arms imploringly. “Clearly you’re not in a talkative mood,” he said, raising his voice as Michael scuppered into the alley. “But I dare say you will be soon enough.”

             
Michael stopped in his tracks, took a few steps backwards until he could see the man again. “I don’t think so mate,” he addressed him face to face, rose a threatening finger and thrust it menacingly at him. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I don’t want to be any part of it.”