by Paul Finch
The solution was two sharp, upward blows, a thumb striking each eyeball. The landlord shrieked, dropping Heck and staggering away.
Heck rolled over to avoid another flying kick. It was Rat-Hair, his steel-capped leather boot crashing into the wall, hacking out a chunk of plaster. Again, Heck got back to his feet. He grabbed a pint glass, pegged it at Rat-Hair. Another guy threw a punch. Heck blocked it, slamming his knuckles onto the guy’s nose. Rat-Hair swerved back into view. He’d pulled off his biker belt, which was heavy with steel. Heck raised a defensive arm, and the belt coiled around it. A shocking concussion then followed on the side of Heck’s head.
It was Grey Beard. Though his face was a bloodied mask riddled with glinting shards, he’d got himself a broken chair leg and swung it. When Heck fell, they were all over him. Fists thundered down from all sides, pounding his head and body.
‘Kill the fucker!’ one of them growled. ‘Cripple him! Do his fucking neck!’
They only noticed that Lauren was among them when Rat-Hair was hit so hard in the face that his left eye ruptured in its socket. Grey Beard spun to face her, only for Lauren to flick out her blade and slash him across the face, laying it open to the cheekbone.
A circle cleared as the hoodlums fell back. Lauren pivoted around, blade at the ready. Heck lay at her feet in a groggy heap.
‘Who wants it next?’ she challenged them.
‘You black bitch,’ someone snarled.
‘Ooooh, that hurts. White pussy arseholes! You’re a fucking joke!’
It might have ended there; an alley might have cleared towards the doorway. Heck clambered dizzily back to his feet, anticipating this. But then a new problem arrived. It — or rather they — came in from the next bar.
The pool players, maybe twelve of them, filed in from the toilet passage. They were an even worse crowd than the first lot; they were younger, meaner, noticeably fitter. Those of them that weren’t carrying pool cues were carrying socks clicking with pool balls. Heck smeared blood across his face with his forearm. He glanced towards the door. A couple of guys shuffled in front of it. The stale air was suddenly foul with the stench of sweat, blood and bad, beery breath.
The mob was about to charge in — when two of them disappeared under a table, which was slammed down on top of their heads from behind. The guy who’d done it was someone nobody had previously noticed. He’d been sitting in a corner, reading a paper. But now that he was standing at full height, he looked as wrong for this place as Heck and Lauren did. He was about six feet three, and of trim, athletic build. He was also handsome and sunburned, with a mop of blond hair. His clothing consisted of a green sweat top cut off at the elbows, a pair of tracksuit pants and training shoes. He was wearing gloves, and both his wrists, which were thick and powerful, were banded with leather.
There was a stunned silence at this intervention, before the louts twirled around to face him. But he’d already grabbed a pool cue, and now laid it on them with brutal force. Skulls were smacked like baseballs, arms were broken. When the cue snapped, Grey Beard tried to grapple hand-to-hand with the newcomer, only to be hoisted up by the crotch and throat, and thrown bodily across the bar counter. A deluge of destruction followed as bottles and glass shelves cascaded on top of him.
Scar-Lip lunged at Lauren, catching her with a full-blooded punch, but, though she tottered, she managed to keep her feet, and stepped around his second attack, ripping the blade in a zigzag across his back. Ogburn, his eyes like raw plums, tried to put another headlock on Heck, but Heck caught the bastard with a hard left and a harder right, and as he staggered backward, swung a broken chair frame into his midriff, drawing a shrill squeal from his blood-spattered mouth.
The big blond man was still wreaking havoc. They came at him relentlessly, but he smashed their faces or threw them across the room. Head, fists, feet, knees — he used them all with amazing skill and ferocity. They were a rough crowd in the Dog amp; Butcher, but it was unlikely they’d ever experienced anything like this bloke. A couple had now escaped, leaving the front door wide open. Heck snatched Lauren by the collar and hauled her towards it.
After the roiling atmosphere inside, the fresh air was almost cold. They toppled across the pavement towards the Fiat. Another of the hoodlums came staggering out after them. Lauren brought him down with a karate kick to the face. He fell into the gutter, gasping.
‘That’s enough,’ Heck shouted, spotting that she still had the knife, which was glinting crimson.
The next person to come out was the big blond man. He wiped his gloved hands on his sweatshirt as he approached.
‘You folks alright?’ he said with a grin.
Heck was leaning on the car to get his breath. He glanced up. ‘We owe you one.’
‘Nah, you don’t. Spot of useful exercise, that’s all.’
‘Who are you?’ Lauren asked.
He surveyed them, hands on hips. In full daylight, he was surprisingly good looking. His fair hair, bronze tan and trim physique gave him ‘film star’ appeal. ‘Mates call me “Deke”. You can too, if you want.’
‘That was a timely intervention, Deke,’ Heck said, straightening up. ‘Any particular reason why you put your neck on the line for us?’
‘Hardly put my neck on the line. Chocolate soldiers, that lot.’
At which point, the pub door was kicked open again. Grey Beard was there, covered head to foot in blood and broken glass. The part of his face Lauren had slashed hung off as though it had been unzipped. He swore and gesticulated at them, but he did not come outside.
‘Want more, you old fucker?’ Deke laughed. ‘Put one toe over that step, and I’ll teach you a real fucking lesson.’
The door banged closed as Grey Beard disappeared back inside.
Deke laughed again. ‘See what I mean.’
‘You still took a hell of a risk,’ Heck said.
‘It was nothing.’
‘Maybe, but I’m the sort of bloke who likes to know who’s saving his life.’
‘It’s nothing personal. I just don’t like seeing shitheads get on top. Never have.’
Heck nodded, not buying this at all, as he suspected Deke knew full well. ‘Well, no offence, Deke … but we’re out of here. Don’t want to sound ungrateful, but our business in this part of town is definitely concluded.’
‘You were looking for Ron O’Hoorigan, weren’t you?’
‘You know him?’ Lauren asked.
Deke shrugged. ‘Who doesn’t round here?’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘He lives on Lady Luck Crescent, but I don’t think he’s there very often. Any reason why you’re looking for him?’
Lauren glanced at Heck, who quickly replied: ‘Just a business thing. Gambling debt.’
Deke looked amused. ‘You two collect gambling debts?’
‘Yeah,’ Lauren said. ‘So?’
‘Forget it.’ Deke chuckled and waved away the explanation, which he clearly regarded as nonsensical. ‘Listen, you take care of yourselves.’ He edged off. ‘But when you’re collecting in future, don’t go barging into places where the debtors are likely to outnumber you ten to one. Oh, and if it helps … try sixty-nine, Regina Court.’
‘What?’ Heck called after him.
Deke was walking away, but he glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Gallows Hill flats. It’s a squat where O’Hoorigan used to buy gear. I think he kips there now and then.’
‘Gallows Hill,’ Heck said to himself.
‘You know that place?’ Lauren asked.
‘I’ll say.’
He glanced after Deke again, but the guy was now out of hearing range. Meanwhile, a crescendo of angry voices was rising inside the wrecked pub. Heck moved to the car, and ushered Lauren inside. As they pulled away from the kerb, the beaten-up rabble, newly armed with staves and pool cues, came spilling out onto the pavement. Heck watched them in the rearview mirror as the Fiat cruised away. Glancing left, he spotted Deke sauntering down into an underpass, v
anishing from view.
‘Who the hell was he?’ Lauren wondered.
‘Dunno. But he can kick arse like I’ve never seen. You okay?’
‘Yeah.’ She dabbed at her bloodied nostrils with a handkerchief.
‘Par for the course in the Royal Ordnance Corps?’
‘Not exactly. Chapeltown maybe.’ They pulled off the desolate estate and rejoined the main road network. ‘We going to this Gallows Hill place now?’
‘We’re not going anywhere. You’re going back to the railway station.’
‘In this state? They’ll think I’m a right yob.’
‘If the cap fits …’
‘I just helped you out in there! Big time!’
Heck couldn’t argue with that, so he didn’t try.
‘Look, Heck … it’s okay if I call you that?’
‘Yes, you can call me “Heck”.’
‘Heck … you can’t force me to go anywhere.’ She shook her head adamantly. ‘I don’t care what you say, this is a free country. You can’t make me get on a train to Yorkshire.’
‘Okay, that’s true. But if you’ve got no money and you’re not prepared to go home, where are you going to spend the night?’
‘I’m not exactly new to sleeping outdoors.’
‘Up to you. You certainly won’t be alone in this town.’ He drove on, circumnavigating a series of concrete roundabouts.
‘What about this Gallows Hill place?’ she said. ‘If O’Hoorigan used to buy drugs there, it sounds a bit rough.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘So … are you going to call back-up?’
If only he could, he thought. As things were, he wasn’t even planning to report what had just happened. He wanted to; he knew he ought to. But the moment Gemma learned he’d been involved in a bar room brawl where civilians had been knifed, her kneejerk reaction would be to pull him back in. She might pull him in anyway, if the word reached her from other sources.
‘Well?’ Lauren asked again.
‘We’re not going to Gallows Hill just yet. I don’t fancy another fight straight away. Do you?’
‘Suppose not.’ She dabbed at her nose again. ‘So where are we going?’
Heck followed signs towards the motorway junction. ‘Somewhere we can get patched up.’
‘Who is this O’Hoorigan guy, anyway?’
‘He may know something.’
‘So we’ve got to speak to him?’
‘Correction. I have to speak to him.’
‘And while you’re getting patched up, what if he moves on?’
‘Then he moves on. It’s not like I haven’t learned anything.’
‘Eh?’ Lauren looked baffled.
‘You think we just got lucky Deke intervened when he did?’
‘He wasn’t being a good Samaritan?’
‘You don’t find many of those in that neck of the woods.’
‘He didn’t sound local, I must admit.’
‘More East Anglian, I’d say.’
‘Still doesn’t tell us much.’
Heck shook his head. ‘It tells us that we’re onto something. Trouble is, at the moment I’m not sure what.’
Chapter 16
The house was on Cranby Street, a small terraced row, at least half of which had been demolished as part of some long-ago clearance scheme. It wasn’t exactly cobbled, but to Lauren’s eye it didn’t look as if it had changed since George Orwell’s day.
Every house was built from the same red brick, though a couple had received ‘stone-cladding’, much of which had now deteriorated, making them look grotesque. All their doorsteps had been fastidiously scrubbed, but here and there a lower portion of front wall bellied slightly. There was even a canal at the far end, with a lock-gate visible, and on the other side of that an area of reclaimed spoil land where playing fields had been marked out and rugby posts erected.
It was early evening and the street quiet, when they parked. The heavy cloud cover was in the process of clearing, much of it tinged pink by the setting sun. Both Heck and Lauren were now feeling their extensive cuts and bruises. The shock of the fight was seeping through them. Lauren climbed tiredly from the car as Heck approached the front door. Bradburn — from what she’d seen of it — was a typical South Lancashire backwater, but not massively different to many parts of Leeds.
Located twenty miles north of Manchester, it wasn’t the sort of place you’d even notice if you passed it on the motorway: a minor blot on a bleak, post-industrial landscape. Since the collapse of the coal and textiles industries, it had clearly tried to throw off its ‘muck and brass’ identity, but had found nothing to replace it with. Its central streets were now interchangeable with those of every other stagnating provincial town in the UK; lined with the same boring shops, delineated by soulless, monolithic structures of glass and concrete, which passed for malls. Its outskirts were even worse; a grid-work of uniformly drab housing estates, punctuated here and there by short rows of purpose-built retail units which usually consisted of a greasy chippie, a tanning salon and a boarded-up pub.
At least Cranby Street retained some old-time character.
Heck’s sister, Dana, lived at number twenty-three. She answered the door in flip-flops, cut-off jeans and a sleeveless blouse, an outfit which suited her. Aged in her early forties, she was very attractive, with long, dark hair and a slim, shapely figure.
Her eyes initially lit up at the sight of her brother, but then her mouth dropped open in shock. ‘Good God, what’s happened?’
‘Is Sarah here?’ he asked.
‘She’s … she’s in France with school.’
‘Good. That means we can come in?’ He shouldered his way inside, awaiting no invitation. ‘This is Lauren. She’s helping me with a case.’
Dana, still looking stunned, turned and followed him in. Lauren brought up the rear. They entered a small, neat lounge, where a television was tuned to one of the satellite movie channels and a half-drunk glass of wine sat alongside the remnants of a salad.
‘What happened to you?’ Dana asked, switching the TV off. ‘You had an accident, or something?’
‘We ran into a spot of trouble.’
Dana glanced at Lauren, who’d cleaned her face with her sleeve, but had found it impossible to hide the dried blood spattered down the front of her sweater.
‘You sure you aren’t better off at casualty? You both look terrible.’
‘If it’s any consolation,’ Heck said, ‘you should see the other lot.’
Dana shook her head as she went fussing into the kitchen, returning with a first-aid kit and handing them each a wad of antiseptic wipes.
Heck peeled off his jacket. ‘Don’t suppose you’re expecting company this evening?’
‘Yeah, by nine I’ll have gentleman callers queuing down the street.’
He nodded, ignoring the sarcasm.
‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ Dana asked again.
‘No.’
‘At least give me some clue. You never even said you were coming north this week.’
‘It’s nothing important.’ He handed her his jacket. ‘Trust me.’
She held it at arm’s length, gingerly. ‘This is ruined. In fact all your clothes are ruined. I can wash and iron them, but they won’t be ready by morning.’
‘Doesn’t matter, we’ve got spares in the boot. We were planning to be up here for a couple of days.’
‘And you weren’t going to tell me?’
‘There was no need to involve you.’
‘You mean until you got so beaten up that it became obvious a hotel wouldn’t let you past the front door?’ Dana glanced around at Lauren, who couldn’t meet her gaze.
The atmosphere was far more awkward than the ex-squaddie had anticipated when Heck had told her that they were going to his sister’s house. Okay, even where members of family were concerned, it wasn’t the done thing to turn up unannounced and battered to the point where you were almost unrecognisable
. But there’d been no apology from Heck, or even a reasonable attempt to offer an explanation.
‘I don’t suppose it really matters,’ Dana said. ‘I’m guessing you’re staying over now?’
‘If it’s convenient,’ Heck replied.
‘At least I get to see you again. What’s left of you.’ She glanced back at Lauren. ‘Lauren, is it?’
Lauren nodded, smiled.
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Dana Black, Mark’s sister.’
‘Hi,’ Lauren said.
‘Why don’t you go and get yourself a bath?’ Dana suggested. ‘There’s plenty of hot water, and fresh towels in the airing cupboard on the landing.’
Lauren nodded and moved gratefully into the hall. Heck followed her out. ‘Go on up,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the stuff from the car.’
When he came back indoors, carrying Lauren’s backpack in one hand and his own holdall in the other, Dana met him in the porch. ‘You two together?’ she asked quietly.
‘What?’
‘You know … together?’
‘Oh … no.’
She looked disappointed. ‘She a police officer too?’
‘A witness.’
Dana’s disappointment changed to visible concern. ‘And this is why you were attacked?’
‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.’
‘It always is.’ She followed him to the foot of the stairs. ‘Tell Lauren she can have the spare bedroom. You can use Sarah’s. But make sure you have a bath first. I don’t want her coming home from holiday and finding blood everywhere.’
He nodded and made to ascend, but Dana stopped him with a hand on his arm. ‘Just out of interest, Mark … are you going to keep punishing me forever?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t give me that. Never responding to my calls, never getting in touch — not even at Christmas. You’re only here now because you’ve nowhere else to go.’