Michael Fowler - Cold Death

* * * * *

Billy Wallace slipped into the room alone.

Jock saw that he was still wearing that signature Crombie of his.

After all these years, and he still dresses like he’s the ‘big I am’

Jock took in the menacing look Billy targeted him with as he stepped slowly, deliberately, further into the room. He caught a glimpse of his eyes. Billy’s pupils had become so dilated that his eyes appeared almost black. It was a look Jock had seen in those eyes once before. It was the look of cold death.

Suddenly everything seemed to fast-forward. Jock witnessed a quick movement in Billy’s right arm, it was a jabbing movement downwards, and he spotted the glint of a long blade emerge from the end of his sleeve. A tremor raced through him. Then he realised he was still clutching one of the free weights and it gave him a strange reassurance. He tightened his grip around the bar-bell.

“Don’t be stupid Billy if you do anything to me you’re going to go away for a very long time. You’ll probably die in prison.” Jock said, doing his best to sound calm. “You can walk away from this right now and no one will be any the wiser.”

“I’ve done thirty six fucking years already because of you. It will be worth it,” he growled, edging closer.

Jock saw Billy’s face change. He was met by a cold-bloodied stare as he stepped closer.

Taking up a defensive stance, Jock swung the six-kilogram barbell behind his hip, whilst balling the other into a solid fist. A strange thought entered his head; two combatants locked in a fight to the death.

Billy catapulted himself forward swinging his right arm in a whiplash movement.

The knife slashed across Jock’s forearm before he had time to react.

He bounced backwards with fighting instinct and the metal racks clattered against his legs.

Then he spotted the blood spreading through his sweat top, though surprisingly there was no pain. It bought memories flashing into his brain from his boxing days. He remembered he had not recognised pain back then.

Billy pulled back the knife again, preparing for another attack. Every sinew in Jock’s body tightened; stretched as tight as a bow ready to fire and he felt an immense power surge through him. He dropped back on one leg and exploded forward swinging the barbell up in an arc. It smacked against Billy’s jaw and he instantly knew from the blankness which registered in his eyes that he had done the damage. He’d seen that look so many times during his boxing bouts. He instantly followed up with a left hook, smacking the side of Billy’s head. He heard the knife clatter to the floor and saw Billy’s legs buckle. Just before he sank, Jock caught him with the swinging barbell again. A dull thwack emanated from the back of his head.

Jock dropped on top of him, took a handful of hair and yanked Billy’s head back violently. Then he slipped an arm to the front of his neck, slotted his windpipe into the crook between his muscular forearm and bicep, and began to squeeze.

* * * * *

Hunter grabbed Barry Newstead within seconds of the line going dead. “My dad’s in trouble,” he hissed bolting for the side door of the pub.

A rush of energy surged through him as he jumped into his car and fired it up. Slamming the gear into first, and stamping the accelerator, he revved the 1.9 litre engine of his Audi and tore out of the pub car park towards the gym.

Barry was making an emergency call on his mobile whilst attempting to buckle up.

Less than ten minutes later the car skidded violently sideways across the tarmac surface of the gym’s car park and shuddered to a halt.

Hunter flew from the car leaving the engine running and propelled himself through the rear double doors into the gym.

Only seconds behind was Barry

Rab Geddes was waiting for them in the corridor, legs astride and holding in front of him a wooden baseball bat. He smacked into his palm.

Hunter skidded on the wooden surface and came to halt a few yards from him.

“Where’s Billy Wallace?” he screamed.

“You’re too late!” Rab retorted with a sneer.

For a few seconds there was a stand-off. Hunter eyed the baseball bat bouncing in Rab’s hands. Then anger took over. He flew at him aiming for his face, mauling with clawing hands, gouging at his eyes like a rugby player in a ruck. The force spiralled Rab sideways smashing him into the wall. Hunter heard the breath explode from his lungs and felt the warm breath on his cheek, and in a white heat of berserk fury, and using his arms like pistons, he pulled, punched and pummelled.

Barry Newstead jumped into the fray forcing in his bulk. Within seconds Rab was pinned against the wall. The baseball bat clattered to the floor as he tried to protect himself from the unexpected onslaught.

Hunter fell away gasping for breath, drenched in sweat, and doubled-up almost retching as he watched Barry slam in a couple more punches to the ribs before Rab collapsed into a heap.

“My dad,” Hunter managed to gasp as he gulped in a lung full of air.

“You go and help him.” Barry urged. “This guy’s going nowhere fast.”

Hunter turned on his heels hitting the double swing doors into the main training area with his shoulder. He caught his balance, re-adjusted and quickly scoured the room. He caught sight of his dad by the weight rack draped across a prostrate figure which he immediately realised was Billy Wallace. At first Hunter wondered what was happening then the reality hit home. His father was strangling Billy. He sprinted the ten yards across the wooden sprung floor and snapped his arms around him making every effort to drag him off, but his dad had Billy locked tight.

“Dad! Dad!” he screamed, “He’s had enough, let him go. You’re going to kill him.”

He hooked his fingers into a gap and prised at his father’s wrists. “Dad I said let him go — NOW.”

Hunter saw by the reaction from that shout that it had registered. He caught his father’s wild and staring eyes and in the next moment they had softened. Hunter prised at his dad’s hands again and this time they yielded to his force. Billy’s head smacked the wooden floor.

Hunter pulled his father to his feet and pushed him away and went to Billy’s aid. He quickly checked his airway, manoeuvred him into the recovery position and checked him again. He stared at his chest and inwardly prayed. Suddenly a spluttering cough burst from Billy’s mouth, racking his body into life.

“Thank god for that!” Hunter cried out in relief. He spun round to face his father who was ashen-faced and staring down. “Christ dad you could have killed him.”

His dad glanced at the blood pouring from the wound on his forearm, clamped a hand around it and started to shake.

* * * * *

Standing in the entranceway to his father’s gym Hunter watched Billy and Rab being loaded into the back of an ambulance. They had a catalogue of bumps and bruises between them, and Billy had a deep wound to the back of his head, but neither of them was seriously hurt. A couple of minutes later they were off to hospital with an armed police escort

DCI Dawn Leggate appeared with two members of her team. She informed Hunter that the hired help in the ski masks had been detained and were en route to the custody suite. She added that the pair were known back in Scotland as petty crooks but since they hadn’t actually done anything except act as decoys and drive dangerously they didn’t have anything to hold them, though she’d make sure they had a night in the cells whilst a check was made to see if they were wanted elsewhere.

That had been ten minutes ago. Now he, Barry, his father, and the DCI, were seated around the desk in his father’s office. His dad had refused to go in the ambulance and so one of the paramedics had put a bandage on the laceration and told him that it required suturing and to get it treated before the day was out.