“He’s there,” McCollough yelled to the rest of his crew. “Get him!”
Upon his order, they immediately leapt from the van but as soon as the boy spotted them he began to run once more; his gait pained and awkward, yet more determined than ever to evade his pursuers at all costs.
As the skinheads bolted across the road after him, a siren sounded and a police car which just happened to be travelling several cars behind the minicab suddenly pulled out of the line of traffic and gave chase, its blue lights flashing.
McCollough watched helplessly from the driving seat of the stationary Transit van as the police car sped after the trailing pack of skinheads.
There was nothing he could do to help them but was confident that they would find their way back to the 617 Club in due course. As would the other four who had legged it down the narrow street a few moments earlier in pursuit of the second youth.
However, Merton was some distance behind, so McCollough decided to turn the van around and attempt to find him.
Maybe, if he was not too late, he might still be able to inflict some pain on the Paki-boy his trusted lieutenant had gone after.
***
Sam was panting hard, exhausted from the run, but there was no time to pause and catch his breath as Merton stood to face him, still holding the pick-axe handle.
“You’re fuckin’ dead, Pretty Boy,” he snarled, angrily pulling off his balaclava to expose his deformed lip which was curled with rage.
“Oh, yeah?” Sam spat breathlessly, “Well you killed me a year ago, asshole, and that didn’t take - so now it’s your turn.”
Merton laughed, not comprehending. “I killed you a year ago? What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”
As Sam looked at him with revulsion, he saw the scene of Merton rutting Claudette in the glade; pulling on the chain wrapped around her neck, tugging it like the leash of a disobedient dog as he brutally violated her. Sam remembered her tears and her terrible anguish as if it was only yesterday.
And he remembered watching her die.
“You asked me earlier if you knew me,” Sam said, breathing more steadily now.
“Yeah, so?”
“Well then take a good look at my face.”
Merton scowled at him quizzically, trying to place where he had seen him before, but it would not come.
“Still no idea?” Sam asked. “Then I’ll give you a clue. Cast your mind back to a sunny day last July when you and five others raped and murdered a black girl on the banks of the River Cam.”
It was clear from Merton’s expression that he did, indeed, recall the incident.
“Good,” continued Sam. “I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten. Because neither have I.”
“You’re the boyfriend, ain’t ya?” Merton blurted in a flash of recognition.
“Bingo.” Said Sam.
But Psycho Billy merely smiled. “So you survived, good for you. Now what? You’ve come to avenge your girlfriend, is that it? You want justice for us killin’ your nigger whore?”
Sam’s rage was boiling over as his hands curled into fists.
But Merton had not finished. “Well good luck with that Pretty Boy,” he growled, “Cos now you’re playing with the big boys - and no amount of dressing up and pretending to be skinhead is ever gonna make you hard enough to bring one down - especially not one as thoroughly fuckin’ nasty as me - cos believe me, I’m gonna rip your lungs out and feed ‘em down your throat.”
With that he charged forward, roaring like a crazed lion, swiping the pick-axe through the air, aiming for Sam’s head.
Sam raised his arm just in time to protect his shaven skull; the hefty wooden handle crashing against his forearm with terrific force. A massive jolt of pain shot through him as his Ulna fractured, yet Merton continued to attack.
Another swipe of the bat hit Sam’s shoulder, then a heavy boot struck his thigh and a fist slammed into his cheek. He desperately tried to remember his boxing training but his mind was a blank and he found himself hopelessly unprepared.
This was the moment he had craved for so long; his opportunity to avenge the woman he had loved, but now the time had finally arrived he was unable to rise to the challenge.
What is more, he had completely underestimated the sheer brutality of his enemy and now he was paying the price.
Suddenly Merton was up in his face, holding him by the scruff of the neck and before Sam knew what was happening, he was head butted on the nose. There was a loud crack and Sam saw a bright white light. Everything started to spin and without warning his legs gave way.
Next thing he knew, he was laying on his back in the alley with Merton sitting astride him. Furthermore, his attacker had now discarded the pick-axe handle and was gleefully setting to work with his fists.
There was no way Sam could go on taking so much punishment; every devastating blow steadily knocking him senseless.
Then, with a rush of relief, he remembered the knife tucked into his jeans at the small of his back. With some effort he managed to twist his body and make a for grab it with his one good arm. But he was weak, his movements hampered further by the weight of the man pinning him down, and as he pulled the knife free, Merton simply snatched it from him.
“I already told you, Robbo,” he said, enjoying himself immensely, “you ain’t never gonna get the better of me, not even with a blade like this, cos I’m in a different fuckin’ class.”
With his last hope gone, Sam lay there utterly helpless.
Psycho Billy punched him hard again, rocking his head to the side and he felt dazed once more. He was beaten. Finished. His vendetta over before it had even begun.
“I might have failed to kill you the first time, Pretty Boy,” Merton continued, his mouth watering with anticipation as the razor sharp blade of the Damascus Bowie glistened in the moonlight, “but this time there won’t be any mistakes.”
Sam was horrifically aware that at any second he was going to be stabbed to death with his own knife - sending him to join Claudette in the afterlife.
Indeed, as that thought struck him it did not seem so bad.
But then, miraculously, Sam’s vision cleared and he saw the baseball bat that moments before he had thrown at Merton’s feet. It was laying just to the side of him and he reached out and found it with his fingertips. Desperately, he clawed it a little closer before he could at last secure a firm grip on the handle.
Merton was now grinning madly, his eyes wild with unhinged delight as he slowly pushed the lethal blade of the knife into the fleshy space just beneath Sam’s shoulder.
Sam wanted to scream, to cry out in dreadful agony, but he blocked out the pain and furiously whipped the baseball bat up and around with every ounce of strength he could muster.
It struck Merton’s skull with a loud thwack; a noise similar to that of Babe Ruth striking a home run or Ian Botham hitting a ‘six’.
And the result was devastating.
Merton’s bald head cracked open like a ripe walnut in a spray of blood and brain matter. His grey eyes rolled upwards in their sockets to show nothing but the pure white beneath and the manic grin slipped slowly from his hideously misshapen lips.
Then, as Sam stared up at him, Psycho Billy, one of the six men who had attacked and killed Claudette, keeled over and rolled limply aside.
The Hare was dead.
***
The Asian youth whom Merton and Sam had been chasing bolted out of the other end of the alley and very nearly into the path of the Transit van driven by Deano McCollough; the second vehicular near fatality involving a Pakistani boy in almost as many minutes.
McCollough jammed on the brakes, seeing the vague blur of a pedestrian just a split-second before it was too late. He had no idea who it was until afterwards when he and the fifteen-year old glared at each other through the windscreen.
An instant later the boy darted off again and McCollough seriously considered giving chase before it occurred to him that Merton should have been following close behind.
Yet he was not.
After several more seconds there was still no sign, so McCollough left the van and entered the alleyway from whence the boy had just come.
He had not gone far when he came up against an eight foot wall blocking his way and heard the scuffle of a fight just beyond.
He removed his ski mask so that he might hear better. He could now make out the sound of Merton’s voice.
Suddenly, a loud thwack echoed through the alleyway and McCollough immediately sensed something was amiss.
His friend was in trouble and he had to go help.
***
Sam was in a great deal of pain; the curved antler bone handle of the Damascus Bowie knife still protruding from where it had been stuck between his Clavicle and Scapula, its 7.5” steel blade buried firmly within.
Merton’s body was slumped to the side of him, although his legs remained draped over Sam’s, partially trapping him and making movement difficult, especially with his injured shoulder.
However, as he attempted to disentangle himself from the dead weight of Merton’s legs, Sam heard a scrambling sound coming from the opposite side of the wall in front of where he was laying.
A second later, he saw a hand, then an elbow appear over the top, closely followed by a skin-headed man dressed in a black bomber jacket and combat fatigues, identical to those worn by Merton.
Sam knew it to be one of the men from the van but could not yet see whom.
Nevertheless, his situation had suddenly become considerably more perilous.
As the skinhead jumped down, his polished black army boots landed with a thud right beside Sam’s head.
“Jesus! Billy - are you okay?” Said the man, whose voice Sam recognised as Deano McCullough’s.
“Fuck! He’s dead ain’t he?” McCullough exclaimed, shocked by the sight of his best friend laying lifelessly on the ground in a growing pool of his own blood. “He’s fuckin’ dead - what the hell happened?”
Desperately Sam tried to think of a convincing reply; a good reason why Merton was dead and he, himself, was stabbed - something that would not immediately give him away for the imposter he truly was, knowing, if he was found out, it would surely end badly.
But McCullough then spied the baseball bat in Sam’s hand and bent down and took it from him. “You did it, didn’t ya?” He growled,“You killed him.”
Sam looked up at the man standing over him, trying to conjure up a plausible story, and was about to speak when he finally saw Deano McCullough’s face for the very first time.
Upon setting eyes on him, it was as if Sam had been stabbed again, but this time through the heart, for he had seen that face before and it was one he would never forget for as long as he lived.
Because Deano McCullough was the man with the bulldog tattoo.
He was The Bulldog.
McCullough was the one who had been with Psycho Billy Merton in the glade; the pair of them taking it in turns to rape Claudette and laughing with gratuitous pleasure as she whimpered with pain.
Sam remembered the heartbreaking expression on her face and the tears of despair rolling down her cheeks as the rest of the gang held her down.
“Yes. It was me.” Sam replied. “I killed him because he killed my girlfriend - and so did you.”
“What?” McCullough was in a state of shock, still trying to comprehend the scene he had stumbled upon. “I don’t get it, what girlfriend?”
“Last year,” Sam gasped, the agony from his wounded shoulder almost unbearable as he spat out the words. “You, Merton and four others murdered a girl in a glade by The Cam. I was there - I saw you.”
McCullough paused for a moment as he thought back to the day in question. He remembered it well and as he stared at the man at his feet, he suddenly remembered him, too.
“Bastard!” He roared, lifting the baseball bat high above his head in preparation to strike down with deadly force. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill ya!”
Sam had no time get out of the way, his legs were still partially trapped by Merton’s and McCullough was standing directly over him, about to club him to death with the bat that had killed his best friend.
Operating on survival instinct alone, Sam suddenly grabbed hold of the antler bone handle sticking out of his shoulder and tugged the knife free. Then, with all of his might, thrust it upwards into McCullough’s balls.
The skinhead squealed like a stuck pig, the baseball bat falling from his grip and clattering harmlessly on the ground as he wailed in agony.
But Sam held the knife firm as he wriggled out from under Merton. “Quit struggling or I’ll slice ‘em off!” He snarled, climbing awkwardly to his knees.
“Please, no!” Begged McCollough, his voice pained and his breath coming in short anxious bursts, “Please don’t.”
“Then tell me who you were with on that day!” Ordered Sam. He had not had an opportunity to press Merton for information and after killing him thought his only chance of finding the others was gone. But now he had been given another and he was determined not to squander it. “Who were the other four men?”
“I don’t know,” cried McCullough, tears streaming from his eyes. “We were just hired for the day, that’s all - a one off deal. We didn’t know the others—”
“Liar!” Sam barked, slowly twisting the knife; blood pouring over his hand and soaking his white Fred Perry shirt. “You must have known ‘em. Who were they?”
McCullough emitted a low, gurgling sound as pain erupted through his groin and sent shockwaves throughout his whole body. “I only knew Finchy - that’s all. I swear it. Only him. He contacted us - we’ve worked with him before. But that’s it I—”
“Where is he?” Sam demanded. “Tell me where to find him.”
“He lives out in Pemberton Woods,” McCullough whimpered, “all by himself - he’s got a cottage there. That’s all I know, honest!”
“Who is he?” Sam asked, shifting the knife just the merest fraction but enough to make the skinhead squeal again; his gut-wrenching cries echoing through the dark alley.
“His name’s Roger Finch!” He blurted. “We was in the regiment together. Him, me and Merton - he was our C.O. But that’s it, I promise.”
“And you don’t know who the others are?” Sam pressed.
“No! I’m telling the truth,” McCullough sobbed, “We were just hired for that job. I hadn’t ever seen ‘em before - nor since. Please, you gotta believe me,” he pleaded.
Sam decided that he did believe him, if McCollough knew any more then he would have admitted it as the pain was surely too much to endure.
Carefully he climbed to his feet, the skinhead rooted to the spot in front of him, scared to move even a muscle for fear of it triggering any more pain.
Sam was now looking at Claudette’s rapist directly in the eyes; so close that he could smell McCollough’s breath.
The skinhead was openly weeping, hurt etched all over his face and blood from his groin pissing all over Sam’s hand which was still holding firmly onto the knife.
Then, in one swift tug, he pulled the blade free and McCullough dropped instantly to his knees, the relief immense even though the wound he had incurred was no less hideous and no less painful.
Yet he remained extremely dangerous; his hatred for Sam blazing and the desire to kill him overriding all other emotion.
Sam’s shoulders drooped, his own injuries making themselves known as the rush of adrenaline slowly passed.
However, out the corner of his eye, he saw McCullough’s hand seize upon the baseball bat once more and he span to defend himself.
As the skinhead whipped the bat around, aiming for his head, Sam blind
ly flung out his one good arm in the hope of somehow deflecting the blow.
But he was still holding the knife.
Suddenly he struck something solid and as McCollough’s attack died the baseball bat clattered harmlessly to the ground for a second time without finding its target.
When Sam turned to look, he saw the antler bone handle of the knife protruding from McCollough’s right eye socket, buried up to the black buffalo horn pommel.
He involuntarily winced with horror as he quickly pulled the blade free, the spontaneous action accompanied by a dreadful squishing sound.
Sam returned the knife to its sheath in the back of his Levis, watching as McCollough then fell forward, his body flopping limply over Merton’s.
Now the two of them were dead. The Hare and The Bulldog.
And Sam had killed them both.
Chapter Fourteen
Sam was in a bad way and looked absolutely dreadful, covered in his own blood as well as that of Merton’s and McCullough’s.
He had been stabbed in the shoulder, his arm was broken and he was pretty sure his nose was too.
He needed to go to the hospital but knew doing so would raise too many questions. He had just killed two men and regardless of the circumstances he would undoubtedly be arrested if the police got involved - quite possibly even charged with murder.
He staggered from the alley not quite knowing what to do; everything had happened so fast, so unexpectedly, with no time to formulate a contingency plan.
It occurred to him that maybe Flea could help patch him up. But then he dismissed the idea as she was bound to ask questions which would surely lead to more problems. Indeed, even though she had hated Merton and was blatantly frightened of him, she was so in tune with the skinhead mentality as a whole that it would be unwise to trust her with anything that might give her cause to doubt Sam’s commitment to it.
The truth of the matter was, Flea had only been a means to an end and now McCullough and Merton were dead, she was of no more use. It was harsh but Sam felt little guilt as her bigoted attitude had been a constant source of irritation and extremely hard to ignore.
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