by Chris Ryan
Bald shook his head. ‘Not now, lass. Scotland are winning.’
The bargirl retracted her hand and pouted. ‘Kamlai bored.’
‘Have another drink. It’ll be finished soon.’ Bald winked at her. ‘Then I’ll show you a good time.’
‘Kamlai don’t want more drink.’ She folded her arms and pulled a sad face. ‘Kamlai want you to meet family. You made promise, remember. When you gonna meet?’
‘Soon, love.’
‘Always soon. Never happen.’ Tears welled in her big, round eyes. ‘Maybe you bored with Kamlai. You gonna leave me. Find new girl.’
A roar went up from the speakers either side of the screen. Bald looked over and saw the Bulgarians celebrating a late equaliser. A trio of English football fans sat at a table in one corner of the bar, cheering ironically. Bald gritted his teeth as he turned back to the bargirl.
‘Next week, alright? We’ll visit your family then. You can introduce me to your folks.’
‘Then you make me honest woman?’
‘Aye,’ said Bald. ‘Then that.’
That seemed to placate her. She nodded and wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘Make sure ring nice and big. Kamlai no want cheap ring.’
Bald grinned. ‘I’ve got something else nice and big for you, love.’
‘You dirty man, Mr John.’
She flashed that diamond-studded smile at him again, and Bald felt a stirring in his loins. He’d had his way with plenty of bargirls since moving to Bangkok, but none of them had come close to matching Kamlai in the sack. The woman was out of this world. She did things that Bald had never heard of, much less experienced. And she was tough. Kamlai wasn’t like the other girls he’d met. She’d lived a hard life and there was an edge to her that had impressed him. She wasn’t desperately eager to please. She didn’t put up with any shit. Bald respected that about her.
Which is why he’d agreed to marry Kamlai. That, and the crazy sex, of course. He was getting for free what every other punter was paying top whack for.
You wouldn’t find a bird like this in Glasgow on a Friday night, that’s for sure.
His luck had changed massively since his last major op for MI6 three years ago. Back then Bald had been tasked with infiltrating a rogue PMC outfit operating in Somalia, led by a delusional ex-soldier by the name of Kurt Pretorius. After the op, he’d planned on walking away from Six for good. But the suits at Vauxhall had other ideas. They’d stumbled upon evidence of Bald committing war crimes and persuaded him it would be in his best interests if he stayed on the payroll.
They gave Bald a simple choice. Work for Six, or spend the next fifteen years rotting in a cell at the Hague.
He chose the work.
Shortly after, he moved to Thailand.
He needed a change of scenery. He was tired of seeing the same old faces around Hereford, living in the same shoebox flat and drinking in the same pubs. Officially, he now worked for one of the biggest PMCs on the Circuit, Kliner Security. He took home a decent pay packet each month, far more than he’d ever pocketed in the Regiment, and in between his jobs he got to live like a king in the world’s biggest fleshpot. Being at Six’s beck and call was a small price to pay, Bald figured. And they hadn’t reached out to him in months. Perhaps one day soon they’d cut their ties with him for ever.
Good fucking riddance.
Bald drained his pint, made the universal sign to the barman for another and stood up from his stool. He ducked into the toilets, emptied his bladder and returned just in time to see the Bulgarians score an injury-time winner.
When he looked over at the bar, he saw that someone else had taken his spot.
The guy sat with his back to Bald, nursing a fresh pint. Bald recognised him as one of the England fans who’d been cheering on the Bulgarians. His head was closely shaven, his arms were covered in naff tattoos and he wore a retro England shirt with SHEARER emblazoned across the back in big red lettering. The guy rested his free hand on Kamlai’s thigh while he chatted her up. Kamlai pretended to laugh at something he said, then looked away.
The other two England fans were still engrossed in the footy.
Bald tensed his muscles. Marched over to the bar.
Shearer was telling Kamlai a joke. Something about Muslims going sky-diving. Bald stopped beside him as he unloaded the punchline.
‘. . . they had no idea why his snorkel and flippers didn’t open.’
Kamlai smiled politely at him. Bald tapped the guy on the shoulder. Shearer ripped his gaze away from the bargirl and swivelled towards the ex-SAS man. He worked his ugly features into a scowl.
‘What the fuck are you looking at, pal?’ he said in a gruff voice that was part Essex, part forty-fags-a-day.
Bald stood his ground and nodded at Kamlai. ‘This one’s taken.’
‘Yeah?’ Shearer spat. ‘Says who?’
‘Me.’
‘And who the fuck are you?’
‘Someone you really don’t want to piss off.’
Shearer’s thin lips curled up into a wicked smile. He pointed to it. ‘See this, sunshine? This is me looking fucking scared.’
Bald wasn’t the biggest bloke who’d ever passed Selection. He stood a shade over five-nine and weighed exactly the same as the day he’d left 22 SAS, a trim seventy-five kilograms. A greyhound, rather than a mastiff. But what he lacked in size he more than made up for in strength and stamina and grim determination. Qualities that his instructors at Hereford had been quick to recognise. They had turned the angry kid from Dundee into an elite killer and a hero of the Regiment.
But Shearer didn’t see any of that. He just saw a wiry, middle-aged Scot with greying hair, and figured he wasn’t a threat.
Big mistake.
‘Last chance,’ Bald said calmly. ‘Piss off now.’
‘Or what?’
Bald looked him up and down. ‘Know any more jokes?’
‘Loads.’ Shearer looked confused. ‘Why?’
‘You’re about to become one. Once I’ve finished beating the shit out of you, your mates are going to be taking the piss for years.’
Shearer dropped the smile so fast Bald almost heard it hit the floor. He stood up from the stool and stepped into Bald’s face, the vein on his forehead bulging. Behind him, the two other England fans had turned away from the game and slid out of their chairs. Fists balled, ready to wade in and help out their mate at the first sign of trouble.
For a second Bald thought Shearer was going to take a swing at him. Then his small black eyes slid across the bar as a new crowd of expats swaggered in through the door. They filed past Bald and Shearer, laughing and joking as they took up spots along the bar.
Shearer grudgingly relaxed his stance as he stepped back from Bald. He shot a look of contempt at Kamlai, then brushed past Bald and headed back to his mates.
‘Scottish wanker,’ he muttered.
Bald watched him shuffle away. He turned away from Shearer and his two mates, then pulled up a pew next to Kamlai. Over on the TV, the football match had ended. Two-one to Bulgaria. Another hard luck story for the Scots. The barman came over and put another Chang down in front of Bald. A commiseration pint. He took a long swig.
Better.
After ten minutes, the three England fans left.
Three more beers and a couple of slugs of Famous Grouse later, Bald stood up from his seat, settled his tab at the bar with a pair of thousand-bhat Thai notes, and made for the door. Kamlai dutifully followed at his side, whispering in his ear all the things she was going to do to him when they got back to his place.
They sounded good.
The Drunken Monkey was situated at the end of one of the many narrow alleys leading off the main strip on Sukhumvit Soi 11. In the distance, Bald could hear the repetitive thud of club music, the wild cheers and laughs of the partygoers on the nearby rooftop bar. The apartment Bald was renting was a twenty-minute stroll south along Sukhumvit Road, spitting distance from the Radisson. The night was cool, and he felt
like walking back instead of flagging down a cab.
He turned right outside the bar and headed down the alley towards the main street sixty metres away. Chinese cars and vans lined both sides of the alley. Piles of stinking rubbish were piled high outside blocks of crumbling high-rise flats. A rat the size of a small cat scurried across the ground, dimly illuminated by the neon sign outside a massage parlour on the corner of the alleyway. At eleven o’clock at night the parlour was still open for business. The price list next to the sign offered hour-long massages for the equivalent of a tenner.
A soapy massage with a happy ending for less than the price of a cinema ticket, thought Bald. Not a bad deal, that. He briefly entertained the idea of popping into the parlour for a quick tug before the journey home. But then he looked across at Kamlai and changed his mind.
I’ve got an even better shag waiting for me when I get back.
He was twenty metres from the alley exit when Kamlai froze.
‘What?’ Bald said, stopping.
She held his arm tightly. ‘Mr John.’
Kamlai nodded at the end of the alley. Bald looked in the same direction, his eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness. He saw them then. Three figures stepping out from behind a couple of old vans parked either side of the road.
Shearer and his mates.
EIGHT
Shearer stood in the middle of the trio, four metres ahead of Bald. The guys to his left and right immediately spread out on either side of the alley. The bloke on the left was squat and thickset, like a professional wrestler gone to seed. He wore a replica Wolverhampton Wanderers shirt that stretched like clingfilm across his huge beer belly. The guy to Bald’s right wasn’t wearing any kind of shirt at all. He had a polo t-shirt wrapped around his trunk, revealing a sunburnt chest with a St George’s flag tattooed on his right shoulder. The jagged teeth of a broken beer bottle gleamed in his right hand.
Shearer grinned.
‘Going somewhere, sunshine?’
‘Home,’ said Bald.
‘Nah. I don’t think so.’
Shearer took a step closer to Bald. Spat on the ground. ‘You think you’re fucking funny. You won’t be smiling after me and the lads are finished with you.’
Bald glanced quickly at Wolves and Sunburn as the pair of them inched closer to him. Surrounding him on three fronts. They were both three metres away now. So was Shearer. Kamlai held tightly on to Bald. He could feel her long fingernails digging into his flesh. Bald slowly pulled her hand away from his. He stared firmly at her as he nodded in the direction of the Drunken Monkey.
‘Go back to the bar, love. Tell them to call the cops. And an ambulance.’
She ran off back down the alley. Bald slanted his gaze back to Shearer. The bloke’s grin widened, revealing a set of brown teeth, stained from decades of smoking.
‘Hear that, lads?’ he said, making a sideways glance at Wolves and Sunburn. ‘Alan Hansen here is fucking bricking it.’
Wolves and Sunburn chuckled. Bald shook his head. ‘Not really. But about five minutes from now, you’re all going to need a visit to A and E.’
Shearer lost the grin. He dead-eyed Bald, curling his lips upward into a menacing snarl. His muscles bulged with pent-up aggression, and possibly sexual frustration.
Then he took a half-step towards Bald and took a swing at him.
Which is just what Bald wanted.
Shearer was as wide as he was tall, with a neck as thick as a car tyre and arms the size of tower blocks. His fists were like a couple of racks of ham. Everything was buried under a layer of fat. There had been a lot of heavy lifting in the gym over the years, apparently. A lot of bench presses and bicep curls. All the work had been concentrated on the Hollywood muscle groups. Probably a lot of steroids and supplements, too. Shearer had obviously been aiming for mass, not definition. He wanted to get big. Probably a lifetime goal of his.
But all that weight slowed him down. It was called dumb muscle for a reason. Now Bald was going to make him pay for his lack of agility.
Shearer dropped his right shoulder in slow motion as he threw his punch. Like he was moving through treacle. Bald read the move easily. He was a half-second faster than his opponent. Which in fighting terms was an eternity. Like Real Madrid versus a pub football team.
He didn’t wait for the punch. Bald got his counter-attack in first, shifting his weight to his right foot and stepping inside Shearer, simultaneously jacking his elbow back and balling his hand into a tight fist. The speed of his attack caught Shearer off-guard. The guy had no time to adjust his stance. No time to defend. He’d invested everything in the punch that he was halfway through unloading.
Bald slammed his fist into Shearer’s midriff, drawing a gasp of shock from the guy as the bony ridge of the Scot’s knuckles connected with his guts, driving the air from his lungs. Shearer jackknifed at the waist, forming a wide O with his slackened mouth. Bald followed through, grabbing Shearer by his shirt and bringing up his right knee in a sharp jerking movement. There was a dull crack as the hard surface of Bald’s knee smashed into Shearer’s face, doing all kind of damage to his nose and cheekbones. Shearer grunted in pain. Bald released his grip and let him fall away. The guy face-planted to the ground in front of Bald as if he’d spotted a £50 note lying in the gutter.
He didn’t get back up.
Bald stepped back from Shearer, tensing his muscles. Wolves and Sunburn were already lunging at him from the flanks, looking to drop Bald before he could get an attack in. He saw them moving towards him in his peripheral vision. Wolves at his nine o’clock, his fist clenched as he shaped to launch a punch. Sunburn lunging at him from his three o’clock, gripping the broken beer bottle like it was a dagger.
Bald had a fraction of a second to react. He spun to his right. Towards Sunburn.
Deal with the biggest threat first.
Sunburn stabbed out at him with the bottle, aiming for Bald’s face. Ready to cut him to pieces. He moved with the confidence of someone who assumed they held the advantage in a fight. Because he had a weapon, and Bald didn’t. But the advantage was all in his head. Bald had his own weapon too: himself. He had eighteen years of Regiment training under his belt, plus another half a dozen years operating on the Circuit, and he’d spent thousands of hours training in combat, armed and unarmed. The guy with the bottle had probably been in a handful of fights in his life. He’d seen maybe half a dozen self-defence videos on YouTube.
No contest.
Bald parried the blow with a broad sweep of his left forearm, deflecting the beer bottle at an angle away from his face. Momentum carried Sunburn on half a step, bringing him into attacking range. He closed his eyes as if expecting Bald to slog him square in the face. Instead Bald sidestepped to the right, shoved Sunburn in the back and sent him flying in the direction of Wolves. Sunburn lost his balance, stumbled forward and crashed head-first into Wolves, knocking the latter off his feet before he could rush at Bald.
Wolves fell backwards, arms pinwheeling before he landed on a heap of bin bags dumped in the doorway of a closed shop. Some of the bags had split open down the sides, spilling rotten food, Red Bull cans and soiled nappies over the guy. Sunburn staggered on for a step before he spun back around to face Bald. He still had his right hand clasped around the neck of the beer bottle. His nostrils were flared. His shoulder muscles were pumping up and down with rage.
Bald glanced sideways at Shearer. He was still face-down in the middle of the alley space, kissing concrete. Wolves was lying on his back, covered in shit and flailing wildly.
For the moment, that left Sunburn.
The guy stood a metre in front of Bald, still gripping the neck of the beer bottle in his meaty right hand. He glanced uncertainly at his mates, as if worried he might suffer the same fate. Then male pride kicked in, mixed with animal hatred, and he charged again at Bald, slashing out at his face with the bottle.
His attack was ragged. Undisciplined. Sunburn hadn’t expected to find himself one-on-one wit
h his opponent. He didn’t want to get dragged down into the trenches with Bald. Now he was rushing things, stabbing wildly in an attempt to land a quick killer blow and get the fight over with.
Bald easily ducked the thrust. He dropped to a crouching stance and left Sunburn thrusting out at dead air. Then Bald sprang up on the balls of his feet, moving inside his opponent. Sunburn had just enough time to register a look of surprise before Bald jerked his head forward and gave him an authentic Glasgow kiss, tucking his chin tight to his chest and headbutting Sunburn on the soft triangle in the middle of the face.
The blow stunned Sunburn. He groaned nasally. The bridge of his nose collapsed into a soup-like mush of shattered bone and cartilage. He stumbled backwards, then fell away, the beer bottle clattering to the ground as he pawed at his ruined face.
Bald kept his fists bunched as he spun around to face Shearer. The guy had scraped himself off the ground and he scowled at Bald from a safe distance. Blood streamed out of his nostrils, staining his teeth. His lips were purpled and swollen. Two of his front teeth had been knocked out. He looked all kinds of fucked-up.
Voices approached the alley from the direction of the main road. Shearer spat out a globule of blood and scurried over to Sunburn. Then he and Wolves hauled the guy to his feet before beating a hasty retreat out of the alley. As they hit the main road they bumped into a stag group out on the piss. Words were exchanged. Shearer shouted at them to move out of the fucking way. The stag group quickly parted. Bald watched the England fans disappear from sight, pleased with himself.
I’ve still got it, he thought.
Six years out of the Regiment, and I’m still razor-sharp.
Some of the guys who left the SAS let it all go after a while. They went soft. Took comfortable, low-paid security jobs to top up their military pensions and settled down to a life of mild contentment on Civvy Street. A life of Sunday BBQs, shopping trips and charity runs. But that was never Bald’s style. He was a hard bastard, conditioned for violence. His whole life had been one giant war. Against the world, and himself.