“Your turn, big cheese,” said Dan. He squinted up at the face of the taller man, and got a decent view for the first time.
“Oh, you. It’s real good to see you, Joe.”
“We’re going to kill you.”
“No. You tried that already.”
“No we didn’t. We’ve been trying to tell you, that you people have gotten in the way of something way bigger than you or me. This is the beginning of the Racial Holy War. We didn’t start it, Bradley. The Muslims started it. But we’re going to win.”
“Too much talking, Joe. And it sounds like you’re tripping.”
“No. It’s coming. And we’re prepared for it. Give it five years and the state will be begging for our help, not fighting it.”
“Loonies, Joe. You’re just a basket case army of loonies. And I’m not interested in your delusions. In fact, I’m sick of hearing all your shit”
Dan went at him. Joe Merton slammed a fist into his shoulder, stopping Dan in his tracks, and then another fist swept up to hit him in the chin, but Dan blocked it. Joe was strong. As expected, the man knew how to fight. But Joe had one problem. Beer breath revealed he was more in the mood for arguing than fighting. Dan smiled as he traded blows with the man, elbowing him in the hip, sending Joe’s head reeling with an uppercut. But the big man had stamina. He took a hit and gave some back. Dan fought on his wits. He parried, one, two three, then took a risk and looked back. Burton was there, moving back towards his son. The other skinhead pack were closing in.
“Tell me about your race war, Joe,” said Dan.
Joe threw Dan off and Dan let him. Joe stood back and breathed.
“Ha. There’s going to be blood on the streets. The enemy will press every mosque in the land into joining their terrorist cause, and it won’t be hard once IS are here. They will persuade the persuadable, and the others they’ll kill to make examples of them. Then they’ll start their jihad from centres of power in every town. It’ll be so easy for them. They’re already here and waiting, ready to start their insurgency. Why do you think there are so many mosques? Why do you think they are so quiet right now? They are biding their time, that’s all. Our nation has grown soft and fat and weak. But we are still proud.”
“Will Burton tried to make you sound like moderates.”
“Burton was only ever good for the press.”
“Tell me about Cordy Farm,” Dan moved forward a step.
“That’s where we train for this war. Those bastards train in the deserts. We train in the scrubland…”
Dan stepped closer.
“Now tell me about how you were going to rape my partner. Tell me.”
Dan threw a punch, Joe Merton covered his face with a guard like Mickey-Mouse ears, his fists up high, and his elbows in front of his chest leaving his stomach and ribs exposed. The punch landed sweet in the solar plexus, and Joe growled and fell winded onto his knees. Dan’s eyes were level with Joe Merton’s now.
“You know what, talk’s cheap, Joe.” The man’s guard was weak now. Dan wound up. Then he unloaded lefts, then rights through the weak guard until Merton’s arms fell loose and weak at his side. Flecks of glistening black blood sprayed the air. Eleven brutal punches, and Joe Merton dropped to the floor, dead silent. Four men down. Dan turned and saw Will Burton with the boy, cradling his head on his thighs.
“Will Burton, I see you. Don’t you dare do another damn thing to him. You stay absolutely still and keep him warm.”
Silence was Will Burton’s response.
Dan stepped past him. There were five men emerging into the wash of moonlight up ahead. On the left was the vast and quiet pond, hidden from view here by a thicket of pitch black trees and bushes. On Dan’s right were high garden fences of long gardens belonging to tall townhouses. Lights were flicking on now in the houses, awakened by the screams and squeals. There were no more screams. Only low muffled groans of pain. Hopefully none would call the police until what had to be done was done. Five of them. One shaped like a bowling ball, a Big Daddy in a comedy suit. This one wasn’t going to be a worry unless he hit you or sat on you, thought Dan. Then there was a thin streak of piss, a tall man who looked like a skinhead or maybe the only skinhead in the Munsters. The others were wiry looking shapes, fighters again, probably young men from Cordy Farm. And there, right in the centre was the Ego master, Peter Serge. Dan’s adrenalin had dampened his anxiety until now. Now it thudded at his temples, and choked at his throat. He snatched in breaths as best he could. Serge was pale in a black suit. His face was sucked in at the cheeks. His eyes matched the darkness. They looked hollow and unholy. Dan forced himself to breathe like he might forget to do it, and the breaths came in awkwardly, and far too quickly. Dan fought to control himself. He took control of his voice first, forcing it to stay level. He spoke to bide for time to get control.
“You’ve lost, Serge. Go home and lose like a man.”
“You’d know all about losing, wouldn’t you? You’ve had loser written all over you since the moment we met. No can do, Bradley. Will Burton has done his best to ruin everything we worked for. He has to pay. If he’d just quit a week ago, the night he hurt his son, we’d still be fighting this election. But by quitting tonight, the bastard has sabotaged everything! Years of work! The snivelling piece of crap. Do you hear me Will? We know you were never one of us, Burton! Never!”
Dan interrupted Serge’s aggressive flow. “You never believed in this moderate stuff, did you, Peter? You never believed you were just a right of centre, let’s-get-out-of-Europe party. You were building your ramshackle empire, making an army of poor deluded foot soldiers out of those stupid young people. Do you really believe in that shit, Peter? This race war tosh?”
“I don’t just believe in it, Bradley. It’s already happening, you stupid bastard. It’s happening in the North, in the Midlands, and now it’s exploding into life here in your own town. You have to be prepared. It’s coming whether you want it or not. By winning the election, we had a chance of cutting through the politically correct crap spoken by the mainstream, to educate the people, to get them to wake up and see what was happening round them. The PC machine is part of the Muslim conspiracy to take over this country. The Muslim monster is poised to strike. The people have been utterly duped, sold down the river.”
Peter Serge stepped forward, and shook a fist. “I am not prepared to see this great country get overrun by foreign mobs. This country needs strong leaders. We need a new Churchill. We need a war leader, because that’s where we are right now. We’re in a war.”
“Will Burton wasn’t a Churchill. It turned out he was no kind of leader at all. Just a pathetic piece of shit who’d sell his own mother for a taste of glory. Isn’t that right, Will?” said Dan.
Serge laughed. “I knew that all along. But he was good at presentation at least. The TV and press liked him for some reason – better than they ever liked me.”
“You want to know why no one likes you?”
“If you like. We’re going to hurt you anyway, so you may as well get it off your chest.”
“Because you don’t come across like Churchill or Blair or Cameron or anyone even remotely likeable. You come across like a weird mix of Adolf Hitler and a dirty raincoat flasher. I bet it took you a while to master that combo.”
“I know you’re scared, Bradley. I can see and hear you’re shaking like a little girl. You reek of fear. I would feel sorry for you, but to be honest, I hate your fucking guts.” Serge stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets as the wind seized his hair and snatched at his lapels. “Get rid of him first. Then Will Burton.”
“What about the boy?” asked the Big Daddy.
“Depends if he’s conscious or not. Get on with it.”
So it was that obvious. Peter Serge saw his fear all along. In a way in made the fear more bearable, but no less forceful. The fear was there, on his shoulders pressing down, shaking the edges of his mind, making his breath rapid and tense. But now there was no need to
hide it. Everyone knew that Dan Bradley was a chicken shit. It was out in the open, the shame for all to see. But the crazy thing was, Dan suddenly felt the fear loosen. It was there, only now it didn’t matter. And now he had some fighting to do.
Streak of piss and Big Daddy moved forward like they believed they were going to fix things very quickly from here on in. Maybe they were the big guns. But Dan wasn’t afraid of them, there was only one man he was scared of. The Big man shuffled forwards and Dan let him get close. Dan saw the fist coming like the face of a truck, and it was easy enough to dodge. As he dodged, Dan drilled three hard, thunderous punches into the ribs and kidney area of the big man’s body, but his fists sank into a cushion of obese flesh. The big man was sweaty, the glisten all over his face. He barely reacted to Dan’s punches. There had to be another way. Now the tall man emerged from behind the big boy. This one was jerky and angular and quick. The man had a vacant looking face, his mouth open, his head shaved like the rest of them, but his eyes were like lasers. There was a small shining knife in his hand.
“All you lowlifes love the little knives,” said Dan as the man came swiping at him. He moved back and let the man keep coming because he needed time to watch the man’s style and spy his weaknesses. There – Dan saw a pattern. The man favoured making a double slice. Every now and then, the man would swipe left, and then cut right twice. Dan watched his face now, and saw the man’s eyes. Yes. It was a gamble, fighting was always a gamble, but Dan believed he knew the man’s pattern better than the man knew it himself. Dan feigned ignorance and fear, and the man grew bolder in his attack. Forward, left swipe, then right. Dan leapt to the left, and the arm was committed already to the second right swipe. Dan jumped up, and slammed his whole body weight behind a kick into the tall man’s knee and it gave way – backward - with a sickening crack. Only half done, Dan watched the man topple and let loose a brace of left and right punches through the man’s bony head. The slack jaw made an easy target. It was weak and now it was broken. When the man went down, Dan snatched up his blade to replace the one he’d lost before. The blackness had arrived, but now Dan felt awesome. It was with him. Rage filled him, an anger charged with a delirious pleasure. He had never felt anything like it before in his life.
The big man wasn’t happy. His face was all screwed up with anger, all pressed into the centre of his big fat face. This man was going to soak up more punches than Dan had the will to waste. Dan waited for the big man to make his move, and it came as another clubbing fist. Dan was not going to play that game. These people were evil, and they deserved to be given no quarter. Dan swiped the small blade across the fat fist and saw a red line emerge and spill blood. The big man winced. Dan ran around to his side and plunged the knife into the other arm and dragged it down the full length of the bicep. The big man screamed, both arms effectively useless.
“Get to hospital fatso. Tell them you need stitches and a gastric band.”
The big man wailed and fell away clutching his arm with a bleeding hand.
The two young ones came at him like skinhead ninjas, all posture and coiled-spring strength. He saw their confidence, their poise. Saving the best for last, maybe? Serge’s own elite guard. Who knew? Dan felt his anxiety rise as he drew closer to the enemy he feared and hated all at once. The sensation was like chewing glass, raw and unbearable. Dan knew it was going to get worse.
The man on the left moved forwards cat like, cautious and wily. Dan wondered if the man had ever boxed. He looked like he had a boxer’s brain, watching Dan, measuring him and analysing him. Dan decided to confuse him. He let his body go loose, and walked a little closer to the young man. There was some sort of martial art in him. The position of his body looked ready to send out a kick. As soon as the man’s hip shifted, Dan bent back, let his arm out and snatched the man’s denim clad ankle, and threw him over on his backside. Before he could see him coming, the other man was upon him, fists raining down on his head, and a knee burying itself in Dan’s gut. Damn. Tears of pain sprang out of his eyes. Dan took a half second to wipe his eyes, realising his nose had taken a hit. Probably broken. So what, the fear was worse than the pain. Dan turned the pain inside, and pushed it back outwards upon his attacker. A blow came in and Dan blocked it with his shoulder, threw his elbow inside the attacker’s arm and exposed the man’s chest. For a split second, he went to sink the knife into his gut, but stalled. He changed his mind. The change cost him. Dan took a blow to the head. Dan went down. He heard the skinheads cheer. But Dan had the knife. No second thoughts this time. He slammed the knife through the shiny leather boot of the nearest man and he screamed so loud it hurt Dan’s ears. They were stunned now. Dan pushed up onto his feet, the bloodied knife still in hand.
“Come on!” said Dan to the last man between him and Serge.
The martial artist. He went for Dan again, weighing him up, moving left a little like a crab, then changing his footing, evaluating. Dan knew he couldn’t do the go-loose trick again. He’d run out of ideas. It was time to fight. Dan walked forward and blocked as a shin-kick swung up to his head. A rapid follow up came with a heel kick towards Dan’s chest. Then a punch. Dan blocked all three. The boy was good and quick. A kick-boxer from the look of it. Kick-boxers were basically the same as boxers, but with extras thrown in, and a little less skill on the fists. Dan liked the challenge. He slipped the knife into his pocket and smiled a mad and bloody face at the kick-boxing skinhead.
“Finish him,” said Serge.
The boy moved in, pushed on by Serge. Serge was hurrying him. Bad move. A good boxer bides his time for an opening, and right now, Dan knew there wasn’t any. In came the boy and threw a punch to draw Dan out, but he kept his guard tight and shoved in close. They were body to body now, and kicks were useless. The black arts of the ring came to hand now. Dan thudded his head left into the skinhead and made him lose his balance. Now he had to hold on to Dan not to fall. Now the sides of his body were vulnerable. Dan took a breath and let loose an endless tirade of kidney slammers left and right, as hard as he could. The kid was growling in pain, his breath hissing in and out as quickly as he could. The pain made him desperate. He tried to shove Dan away, but now he was an open book. Dan slapped his hands away, and hammered a right cross through his head. The kid was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Now his eyes fell upon Peter Serge, and Serge’s face became a blankness… unemotional, unremitting and utterly fearless.
Twenty-eight
Eva watched Dan strike them like a monster. He despatched four of them with ruthless brutality, and then he took on more of them without showing any fear. He used a knife like it was a casual, easy thing. Bones were broken, people lay crumpled and moaning in the grass. Others were still and silent. Eva found the silent ones most disturbing of all. Now Dan stood facing Peter Serge, two silhouettes in the cold indigo night staring each other down, Dan’s shoulders were hitching through exertion, and maybe through fear. Eva felt queasy when she thought about what Dan had done in front of her very eyes, and what he was capable of. So she put it aside, for a moment, and looked at Jerry Burton. The night was very cold now. They had been present here no more than ten or twelve minutes, but Jerry was in trouble. Any prolonged exposure and he could easily have died from pneumonia. Eva saw her only chance was now – whether Dan survived this carnage or not, they needed to rescue Jerry Burton from whatever happened next. Eva turned and looked at Jess, the grasses and reeds were stuck to the wetness from the tears on her face. Her eyes were wide with shock.
“We’ve got to get Jerry now. He needs us, Jess.”
Jess nodded. Eva seized her trembling wrist and they went out into the blackness. Now Eva had a clear view she saw Will Burton close by his son again, kneeling beside him. Eva watched the man stick a hand into his pocket and withdraw something.
“No!” she said and ran towards Will Burton. She got close and saw the shining plastic vial in his hand, the lid already off, one of his hands under his son’s head, the other read
y to pour into his mouth.
“You can’t. How could you hurt your own son?”
“It’s better this way. His life is ruined… and my life is ruined… Keep away. It’s too late anyway. This will help make the end easier…”
Will Burton’s hand tipped, and the first liquid fell onto the young man’s chin. Eva took another step and kicked Burton’s hand so the bottle span through the air and spilled its contents on the grass.
“Noooo! No! No!” cried Burton. It was the cry of a child caught up in a tantrum, the last desperation of a despicable brat who couldn’t have his way. Eva couldn’t stand the man any more. Before she could control herself, Eva swung her arm and smashed her fist through the man’s face. Will Burton grunted and fell down.
Eva dropped to her knees and pressed her fingers to Jerry Burton’s throat. There was a faint pulse bobbing there. She put her cheek to his mouth, yes, he was breathing weakly too.
“Jess. Get the car. Go quickly and drive it up as near to us as you can.”
She threw the keys at Jess. The girl caught them and started running. Now Eva couldn’t help but watch the confrontation. Her heart was thudding faster and faster. There was nothing else to see. She laid her warm hands on the cold young man’s head and watched Dan and Peter Serge draw closer.
“I can’t let you stop me,” said Serge.
“But I am going to stop you,” said Dan, his voice quaking audibly.
Serge smiled. “Why are you so afraid, Bradley?”
Divide and Rule Page 20