Authors: Frederic Lindsay
The
man
watched
him
in
the
mirror.
'Sorry,
pal,
I
not
want
to
fight
you.'
In
his
muscles
disappointed,
beyond
the
disapproval
of
his mind,
Murray
released
a
long
breath.
'You're
a
wise
man,'
he
said
contemptuously
.
'Sure.'
Murray
turned
his
back
on
him
and
the
man
said,
'You
want
to
fight
–
you'll
find
plenty
people.'
There
was
an
inner
and
an
outer
door
with
a
short
flight
of steps
between.
Murray
climbed
the
steps
and
stepped
back
into
the
club
through
the
second
door.
In
a
half
ring
what
seemed
at
first
impression
a
dozen
men waited
for
him.
His
reflexes
were
fast
and
instantly
he
threw
himself
back
only
to
jar
against
an
unyielding
resistance.
The
door
he
had
just
passed
through
was
now
locked
from
the
inside.
The
men
stood
waiting.
Beyond
them
he
could
see
the
empty
spaces
of
the
deserted
club;
on
the
nearest
table
blue
smoke
curled
up
from
a
cigar
left
in
an
ashtray.
As
he
looked
round,
he
saw
that
the
doorman
was
one
of
the
men
on
his
left.
He
had
tried
to
give
a
warning
and
Murray
knew
that
by
his
code
that
was
enough.
George
would
not
be
an
ally.
After
the
first
shock,
he
stood
quietly,
his
feet
slightly
apart,
his
arms
relaxed
at
his
sides.
He
was
breathing
faster
but
it
was
controlled
.
He
saw
there
were
no
weapons
showing
and
thought
that
might
mean
there
was
a
fair
chance
he
would
not
be
fatally
injured.
The
men
facing
him
were
used
to
a
man
collapsing
with
fright
or
rushing
them.
Their
waiting
became
wary
and
dangerously
heightened.
On
his
left,
between
George
and
an
older
man
with
a
boxer's bent
nose,
there
was
a
blond
teenager
who
let
fly
with
a
kick
for
the
head
karate
style.
Marginally,
the
left
was
the
side
from
which
Murray
had
expected
the
first
move.
It
was
the
side
most
people
expected
to
be
the
weaker.
He
twisted,
caught
the
foot
by
the
ankle
and
threw
it
from
him.
He
heard
the
satisfying
crack
as
the
blond
head
smashed
into
the
wall.
A
boot
from
the
other
side
caught
him
on
the
back
of
the
thigh
.
It
was
a
practised
kick,
not
swung
but
pushed
out
like
a
punch
and
if
it
had
landed
differently
would
have
broken
his
leg.
He
staggered
and
the
whole
pack
fell
on
him.
There
were
so
many,
they
got
in
each
other's
way.
Three
trained
men
like
the
one
who
had
numbed
his
leg
would
have
worked
more
effectively
.
Crouched
he
made
an
awkward
target.
Mouth
open,
heaving
for
air,
he
pumped
his
fists.
Anything
he
hit
was
profit.
A
heavy
blow
struck
him
on
the
side
of
the
head.
He
drove
his
knee
up
and
a
rabbit
screamed
thinly.
He
fought
his
way
almost
clear
by
aggression
and
strength.
A
space
opened
round
him.
It
was
enough.
Someone,
perhaps
the
one
who
had
caught
him
at
the
beginning,
kicked
him
on
the
thigh.
Almost
on
the
same
place
as
before,
it
paralysed
the
leg.
Spinning
like
a
grotesque
bird
wounded,
as
they
came
again
he
went
down.
Testicles,
spleen,
kidneys,
head
–
there
is
no
way
a
man
on
the
ground
can
protect
all
of
them.
The
only
thing
in
his
favour
was
their
number
and
eagerness.
The
time
came
and
passed
when
it
would
have
been
better
to
lose
consciousness.
It
took
a
moment
to
realise
the
storm
was
over.
Squinting
up
he saw
blurred
and
enormous
like
a
shape
in
fog,
the
strange
lumped
face
of
the
man
who
had
barred
the
door
on
his
escape.
Like
a black
halo
of
spikes,
the
hair
stood
out
round
it.
In
his
hand
over
Murray's
head,
he
held
one
of
the
ice
buckets
lifted
from
a
table.
'I
fix
your
barrow,
you
bastard.'
The
face
grew
larger,
spit
from its
mouth
fell
on
him.
The
figure
was
taller
than
anyone
he
had ever
seen,
taller
even
than
the
bearded
fishermen
who
towered
over
a
small
boy.