A Fistful of Knuckles

by Tom Graham

  Patsy began to pose and posture again, displaying his battered, scarred, tattooed physique from every angle. Chris swallowed in a dry throat.

  Fight – fight – fight – fight!

  ‘I tell you what,’ stammered Chris. ‘No need for fisticuffs. Give us an Indian burn and we’ll call it quits.’

  Patsy raised his fists and adopted the stance of a boxer. Chris looked frantically about like a cornered animal.

  ‘Can’t we talk about this?’

  Fight – fight – fight – fight!

  ‘We can do a deal, how’s that? You can’t say no to a deal!’

  Fight – fight – fight – fight!

  Chris leant forward to whisper something in Patsy’s ear, but found himself confronted by a gaping, fleshy hole. He pulled a horrified face and moved round to Patsy’s other ear; cupping his mouth, he whispered into it.

  Patsy listened, paused, then turned to the crowd.

  ‘Thirty quid!’ Patsy declared. ‘Thirty quid he’s just offered me!’

  The crowd went mental, booing and whistling and hurling abuse.

  Patsy turned his terrible, fiery eyes back towards Chris and said: ‘Is that all your life’s worth to ya, young ‘un?’

  Chris seemed on the verge of tears. He whispered again.

  ‘We’re up to fifty!’ Patsy relayed to the crowd.

  Coward! Wanker! Fight – fight – fight, you spasmo –fight!

  Chris fell to his knees.

  ‘I’ll pay you a thousand!’

  He flapped at Patsy with his hands, a wretched supplicant before a barbarous, pitiless god.

  ‘A million! Two million! You can have me fags an’ all!’

  Sam could see Chris’s mouth working away, but now his words were drowned by the furious mob. Even so, it was obvious that Chris was pleading. He grabbed one of Patsy’s hands and kissed it pathetically, like he was meeting the pope.

  Degraded by this miserable creature’s presence, Patsy pushed him away, and Chris tumbled backwards out of the ring. The crowd jostled him, drubbed him, insulted him, shoved him, until at last he broke free and went stumbling off, disappearing from view behind a noisy generator that was feeding power to the rides. Sam and Annie caught up with him and found him shakily trying to light a cigarette.

  ‘Chris, what the hell did you think you were doing?’ Sam yelled at him. ‘You could have blown our cover back there, do you realize that?’

  Chris gripped his lighter with both hands to keep it steady.

  ‘Sorry, Boss.’

  A fart of terror escaped from his arse.

  ‘Sorry, Boss.’

  He belched like a walrus, seemed about to be sick, managed to swallow down his rising gorge.

  ‘Sorry, Boss.’

  Despite his anger, Sam had to feel sorry for him. His mood softened.

  ‘Well, at least you got out of there in one piece,’ he said.

  Annie rubbed his arm – then pulled her hand away from his soggy clothing.

  ‘I was sweating cobs!’ Chris said.

  ‘Feels like it,’ grimaced Annie, wiping her hand with a Kleenex. ‘What did you think you were playing at, Chris?’

  ‘I was trying to measure the size of his hands.’

  ‘Well, full marks for the Dunkirk spirit, Chris,’ said Sam, ‘but next time, try not go about your policework like such a tit, okay? You risked the whole operation.’

  ‘And your own neck!’ put in Annie.

  ‘Yeah, but I got a result,’ said Chris. ‘Didn’t you see what I did?’

  ‘Yes, we saw. You laid eggs like a chicken and begged for your life.’

  ‘Ah! That’s how I wanted it to look! But that was all part of my cunning plan, Boss.’

  ‘Chris – that weren’t a plan – that was sheer screaming panic.’

  But Chris shook his head knowingly and said: ‘You thought I was kissing his hands to ask for mercy. But I weren’t. I was measuring them. That’s what we came here for, weren’t it, boss? I felt his hands to see the size of ‘em. And you know how wide they were across the knuckles? From here to here.’

  He pointed to one side of his mouth then the other. And to demonstrate further, he laid his finger across his lips longways.

  ‘Three inches, near as dammit,’ he said. ‘Patsy O’Riordan’s knuckles are three inches across.’

  ‘Three inches?’ said Sam. ‘Are you absolutely certain?’

  ‘I’d swear to it, boss. In court. Patsy O’Riordan – he’s your man. And I just proved it.’

  Sam and Annie exchanged a look – then Sam patted Chris’s shoulder.

  ‘You’re a bullshitter, Chris – but it looks like you’ve confirmed our killer.’

  But Chris shrugged Sam’s hand away, looked down his nose at him, and said with pride: ‘Careful who you’re calling a bullshitter, boss. You’re talking to the bloke who’s gone a whole round with Patsy ‘Hammer Hands’ O’Riordan.’

  The demonic face inked onto Patsy O’Riordan’s chest once again haunted Sam’s dreams that night. He awoke early, bathed in sweat, his blankets balled at the end of the bed. Padding to the bathroom, he splashed cold water onto his face and tried to recall the details of his dream, but all he could now remember were muddled, hazy images – the demon face looming out of the darkness; pounding fists; Annie being struck and falling into a deep, dark void; Sam blundering, lost and alone, through a nightmare labyrinth that went on forever.

  ‘Forget it!’ Sam whispered to himself. ‘These dreams don’t mean anything. They don’t. They don’t!’

  His heart told him otherwise, but he forced himself to ignore it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT: A FRIGHTENED MAN

  Arriving early at CID, Sam found Gene was the only one to beat him in.

  ‘Up with the lark, Guv?’ he said, stepping into Gene’s office.

  ‘Didn’t sleep, Tyler. Things on my mind.’

  ‘I thought you might have worn yourself out on the dodgems last night. You were certainly going for it.’

  ‘Merely demonstrating the art of good driving,’ Gene growled back. ‘The Nureyev of the highway. They should have looked and learned, not had me banned.’

  ‘They banned you from the dodgems?!’

  ‘Wipe that smirk off your gormless face, Tyler. Them fairground pikeys besmirched my honour.’

  ‘You can’t blame ‘em, Guv, you were getting a bit leery.’

  ‘I was bumping! That’s why they’re called bloody bumper cars!’ yelled Gene.

  ‘They’re dodgems, Guv. You’re supposed to dodge.’

  Gene glared at Sam for a few seconds, then settled himself again. ‘Anyway. Forget it. We’re not here for that. What matters is the Denzil Obi case.’

  ‘Well, thanks to Chris we’ve got a possible match between Patsy O’Riordan’s fists and the wounds on Obi’s body.’

  ‘Which is good enough for me, Sam, but you know as well as I do that standing Chris up in court to say that he reckons O’Riordan’s the killer because he kissed his hands and thinks they might be the right size isn’t exactly going to secure us a conviction.’

  ‘Spider was at the fair last night, guv. I managed to catch up with him.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘Not a lot. He was very threatening. I thought he was going to smash my face in.’

  ‘Frit you, did he?’

  ‘No, Guv, he didn’t ‘frit’ me.’

  ‘Bet he did. Bet you pooped some.’

  ‘Guv, I attempted to engage to elicit information in the pursuance of this homicide enquiry,’ Sam said, ignoring the pouting, eyelid fluttering, limp-wristed posture Gene adopted to mock him. ‘He was in a bad way, emotionally. Very highly strung, on the verge of some sort of breakdown I’d reckon. Denzil’s death has really hit him hard.’

  Gene shrugged: ‘Either that or he’s play-acting.’

  ‘He wasn’t play-acting, Guv. I think Denzil was all he’s ever had in life. And when he lost Denzil, he lost everything.’

 
Leaning back in his chair, Gene thought for a moment, then asked: ‘Faggots, you reckon?’

  ‘What does it matter? God, Gene, two men can be close, you know!’

  ‘Well, depends what you mean by “close”, don’t it, Tyler. There’s close and there’s close. I mean, there’s mates, right – and there’s ‘best’ mates – and then there’s ‘arseholes in the bogs’ mates, which ain’t right.’

  Sam massaged his temples for a moment, told his temper not to rise, and said: ‘Let’s just keep our minds on what’s important here. Spider was at the fair last night –the same fair that Patsy O’Riordan works at. Both men are connected to Denzil, and Patsy is now our chief suspect. So, if we’re right, and Patsy killed Denzil, then it’s a fair guess to say that he might very well be after Spider too.’

  Gene nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. You remember there were three locks on Denzil Obi’s door.’

  ‘Yes. And a spyhole too.’

  ‘And a spyhole …’

  Gene trailed off, lost in thought. After a few moments, he said: ‘Denzil was a frightened man. Three locks and a spyhole – that’s frightened. And yet he opened the door for the man who killed him.’

  ‘Looks that way, guv.’

  ‘If it was Patsy O’Riordan standing there, why the hell would he let him in? There was bad blood between them. He knew that Patsy had a grudge against him – a deadly grudge – a killer grudge – and still he opened the door and let him in. Why? Why?’

  Sam shrugged: ‘Maybe Spider can answer that.’

  ‘I’ll bet he can.’

  ‘What do you mean, guv?’

  ‘You’re a copper, Tyler – figure it out.’

  Sam frowned, not following Gene’s thinking. He imagined the scene moments before Denzil was attacked: there was Denzil, in his flat – a knock at the door – Denzil instantly wary and suspicious – he goes to the door and checks the spyhole – he sees a face he knows – a face he trusts – a face he is willing to open the door to …

  ‘Spider!’ said Sam.

  He imagined Denzil seeing Spider’s face through the spyhole – the door opening – and then, looming out of nowhere, Patsy O’Riordan appears, his compact, rock-like fists slamming into Denzil’s face with terrifying force.

  ‘No,’ said Sam, shaking his head. ‘It’s impossible. I saw Spider’s fists last night at the fair, guv. They were well more than three inches across.’

  ‘Measure them, did you?’

  ‘I didn’t need to, Guv, I had one this close, right in my face.’

  ‘How close is “this close”, Tyler?’ Gene loomed towards Sam and thrust his own fist right against his face. His hard knuckles pushed against Sam’s nose. ‘Is “this close” this close?’

  ‘More or less,’ said Sam, backing off.

  ‘Well there you go! Any fist is going to look like a big ‘un that close. And I’ll bet you were dropping bricks in your freshly ironed Y-fronts an’ all. Sorry, Tyler, but I seriously doubt your judgment in this matter.’

  ‘Okay Guv, even if I’m wrong about the size of his fist, Spider still doesn’t have a motive for killing Denzil. Denzil and Spider were close. They were like brothers. Why would Spider betray Denzil like that?’

  ‘I can’t answer that question, Sammy boy,’ said Gene, getting to his feet and jangling his car keys. ‘But we both know who can.’

  The Cortina screamed to a stop at the foot of an imposing concrete tower block.

  ‘That’s the place,’ said Gene. ‘That’s the address Stella gave us.’

  ‘I’m still not buying your theory, Guv,’ said Sam. ‘I can’t see Spider betraying Denzil like that, least of all to a monster like Patsy.’

  ‘Perhaps Spider bought his life with that betrayal,’ said Gene. ‘After all, it’s Denzil who wound up in the morgue, not Spider.’

  ‘You might be right that Denzil was betrayed by someone he trusted – but who’s to say it was Spider? What about Dermot, their trainer from the gym? What about Stella herself?’

  ‘It weren’t Stella,’ Gene scowled.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Coz it weren’t. I’d sense it otherwise.’

  ‘That’s no argument,’ said Sam.

  ‘I’m your DCI, I don’t need to argue!’

  Sam looked across at him: ‘I hope you’re not letting your feelings sway your judgment, Guv.’

  ‘Feelings?’ roared Gene. ‘For what? That clapped-out slapper?! I’ll forget you spoke, Tyler.’

  Feeling he had touched a raw nerve, Sam bit his tongue and fell silent as he followed Gene out of the Cortina and across to the tower block. The lifts were burnt-out wrecks so they were forced to take the stairs. The found themselves panting and grunting on an endless trudge up concrete stairwells that reeked of urine.

  ‘Spider would have to live on the eighty-second millionth floor,’ growled Gene.

  ‘Hell of a view, though,’ panted Sam, looking out across Manchester as the sun struggled up. And then he felt a sudden sense of overpowering vertigo. For a moment, he was sure he was falling – falling – hurtling towards the hard concrete below. He gripped a metal railing and steadied himself.

  A memory of the future, he told himself as he steadied his breathing and calmed his beating heart. A flashback … or a flash forward.

  Either way, it made his head spin to think about it. Time and Space, it all began to swirl like colours in a kaleidoscope.

  ‘Move yourself, Tyler,’ barked Gene, shoving past him as he strode along the balcony looking for Spider’s front door.

  ‘Right with you, Guv,’ said Sam, forcing down the sense of disorientation that had overwhelmed him. And he thought: you made the right decision to jump, to come back here … don’t let anything make you doubt that.

  He caught up with Gene and found him examining a black front door.

  ‘Looks pretty solid,’ he said.

  ‘And the window’s blocked up with plywood,’ said Sam. ‘Like a barricade.’

  ‘He’s expecting trouble,’ said Gene. ‘He’ll be jumpy. We’d better tread carefully. Don’t want to spook him.’

  ‘Good idea, Guv.’

  Gene hammered ferociously on the door and yelled through the letterbox: ‘Open up, Spider you slag, it’s the law!’

  ‘The gentle touch,’ commented Sam.

  They heard movement on the other side of the door.

  ‘It’s okay, Spider,’ Sam called out. ‘It’s CID. We just want to talk to you about Denzil.’

  ‘I bet he legs it out the back way,’ snarled Gene, sizing up the door to smash it.

  ‘We’re eight storeys up, Guv – I don’t think there is a back way.’

  A voice called out from behind the door. ‘Show me your badges.’

  ‘Spider, it’s me, the copper who spoke to you at the fair last night. Under the rollercoaster, remember?’

  Gene gave Sam a sideways look: ‘Oh aye? Under the rollercoaster? And what did you two get up to under the rollercoaster?’

  Sam ignored him: ‘Come on, Spider, don’t muck us about.’

  ‘I said show me your badges!’

  Gene and Sam held their ID up to the spyhole.

  ‘Let me see your faces,’ the voice demanded.

  ‘Just open this door,’ Gene snapped.

  ‘Your faces! Show ‘em!’

  Sam and Gene exchanged a look, then obligingly brought their faces to the spyhole. Sam imagined how they must look, distorted and bulbous in the fisheye lens.

  There was a pause – and then, one by one, a series of heavy bolts were thrown back. The door inched open, and there was Spider. He stared at them warily; when he swallowed nervously, the spider tattoo on his neck seemed to flex its legs.

  ‘Hey-ho, remember us?’ said Gene, pushing Spider back into the hallway.

  Sam followed them in. The flat was cramped and filthy. The windows were all blocked in with plywood; the only light came from a few bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling on frayed cables.r />
  ‘Your cleaner phoned in sick, has she?’ said Gene, shoving Spider into his one and only armchair. ‘Sorry to come barging into your web like this, Spider, but you seem rather shy when it comes to talking to policemen.’

  ‘I don’t trust coppers,’ Spider said, eyeing them both suspiciously. And to Sam he added: ‘Bet you’re saying I went for you, ain’t ‘cha.’

  ‘No, Spider, I’m not saying that. You got a bit heated, but I can understand that. You’re upset. You’re stressed.’

  Spider looked away, disgusted by this attempt to empathize.

  ‘We just need to talk to you,’ said Sam. ‘It’s like I said before, it’s in your interests to cooperate. We’re not here to fit you up. We want to get our hands on the man who killed Denzil as much as you do.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ muttered Spider. ‘Maybe you do want him … but nowhere near as much as I do.’

  ‘You’d like us to think that,’ said Gene.

  ‘Guv, just give the fella some space,’ protested Sam. ‘Spider, why were you at Terry Barnard’s Fairground last night?’

  Spider shrugged: ‘Free country.’

  ‘What were you hoping to find there?’

  ‘A decent toffee apple.’

  ‘You were looking for Patsy O’Riordan, weren’t you. Well? Weren’t you? You wanted to size him up, see what state he’s in – because he’s after you, isn’t he. He killed Denzil Obi, and now he’s coming for you. Am I right?’

  Spider said nothing. Sam heard Gene inhaling loudly through his nostrils – a sure sign his patience was rapidly running out – so before the guv could put his foot in, Sam said quickly: ‘Spider, I’m going to level with you. Patsy O’Riordan is our prime suspect. We think he killed Denzil. And we think you think so too. Why did he do it? We don’t care about whatever you and Denzil got up to in the past – we’re not here for you, we’re here to find Denzil’s killer and bring him to justice. And to do that, we need your help. So please, just tell us what you know. Why would Patsy have a grudge? Spider? Please talk to us.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time, Sam,’ piped up Gene. ‘He won’t say a word. And you know why? Coz he’s got blood on his hands. Ain’t that right, Spider?’

  Spider said nothing. His eyes flashed menacingly at Gene. His tattoo flexed its spindly legs as he swallowed.