Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

On a repeated basis he found himself listening to the potted version of his father’s life changing experiences. The same story, over and over again, of how he had boxed since he was a young boy back in his native Scotland. Explaining in detail how he had been introduced to it by his father, Hunter’s grandfather, so that he ‘could stand up for himself.’ He had very quickly discovered he had a natural flair for the pugilistic art, and so as a teenager he had been taken on by an ex-professional at one of Glasgow’s leading clubs and had been coached to a high level. Then he would re-run some of the fights in animated fashion, especially when he had got to the part where he told Hunter he found himself selected to compete in the Commonwealth games. And especially how, at seventeen, he had won a Bronze medal and that had carved the way for a professional career. His story tailed off when he told him about the bout which ended his career. He picked up a nasty cut just above his eye, where the flesh is at its thinnest, and despite several skin grafts, the scar opened with every fight and so at twenty-two years old his career was over.

Then with immense pride he would pick up the story again, telling him, that rather than turn his back on the sport he was good at he had worked even harder and immersed himself fully in the training side of the game. His father’s story always ended on a note of sadness as he explained how he had soon come up against the seedier side of the fight game, finding himself constantly warding off some of the undesirables, especially those involved with the Glasgow gangs.

Hunter always wondered why he would go quiet at this point of the story and would find something else to say or do. Though his father would return to the story later, telling him that when he discovered that he had a child on the way, he decided he had had enough of Scotland, and moved down to Yorkshire with his pregnant wife, where he began a new phase in his life, setting up one of the best boxing gym’s in the area, which earned him a very good living. He always ended his life tale by putting an arm around his shoulders and telling Hunter that his birth six months later changed his life.

Hunter leaned against the tiled wall of the shower area rolling his neck slowly whilst the warm jet of water swept away the sweat from his head, along the curve of his back, and away down his legs. That felt really good, he said to himself as he shut off the shower and padded into the changing area. As he dried himself he switched back into work mode, recalling the previous night’s telephone conversation with Barry Newstead.

He had kept in daily touch with Barry since the interview with Susan Siddons, updating him as to the latest developments in the investigation into the two murders. He had also shared the predicament of Paul Goodright, particularly raising the issue of how he could legitimately introduce the cardigan as evidence without it being subject to too much scrutiny, especially if it proved to be a vital piece of evidence to the enquiry. If anyone could resolve this, he had told himself, it would be Barry. After all he had employed so many unorthodox methods in his past; Hunter had no doubt that he would have been involved in something pretty similar over the years, especially the era which Barry had moved in during his career. The phone call yesterday evening had proved him right.

“I’m your guardian angel,” Barry had begun. “Meet me in the pub after work tomorrow, and bring that young Goodright with you. He can keep me in beer all night whilst I reveal all and keep him out of the proverbial shite.”

As he had pressed the phone to his ear Hunter could almost visualize the smug grin on Barry’s face as they discussed details of when and where they should meet.

He dressed hurriedly, slinging on a T-shirt over a pair of jeans, and then stuffed his sweaty training gear into his bag. As he left the gym he could hear his father turning off the lights and closing doors behind him throughout the building.

Hunter popped the locks of his car and was about to open the driver’s door when the shuffle of feet resounded behind him. Before he had time to turn his head he felt a sharp blow to his back, directly over the region of his right kidney. The sickening stab of pain was instantaneous and his knees buckled beneath him. A sea of stars blurred his vision as he reached out to stop himself falling further. Another blow caught the side of his head, sending him crashing against his car door and throwing him onto his back. He let out a groan as he slumped to the pavement, but instinctively snapped open his eyes to see who his attacker was. There were three men towering over him and he instantly recognised two of them; Steve Paynton’s younger brothers; David and Terry. David, the younger of the two, was grinding his fist into the palm of his other hand. A menacing grin ripped across his face.

“Our Steve’s asked us to pay you a little visit. He just wants you to know that thanks to you and that fucking black tart of yours he’s on the Nonce’s wing at prison and we’re here to pass on his regards.” He sneered. “Oh and when we’ve finished with you we’re off to see to that black bitch as well.”

Hunter tried to scramble to his feet but quickly found himself reeling back against his car as a boot caught him mid-chest knocking the wind from his lungs. The three figures became shadows as a film of tears washed across his eyes, and expecting further blows he pulled his knees into his body. In that same instant, in the distance, he heard raised voices and the running of feet coming towards him. Scuffles broke out around him and as his vision cleared he saw his father and Barry Newstead grappling with his assailants. Feeling instantly buoyed by their presence he took on an inner strength and sprang to his feet.

He dodged another blow from David, twisted and lashed out with a tightly clenched fist. The punch he swung came from the hip and arced into his foe’s head. He knew he had connected well when he felt the crunch of gristle and bone. For a second Hunter stared into a young man’s face that was frenzied and distorted. The eyes were bulging and menacing. Hunter was hurting and he was also mad. Jumping instinctively to boxing stance he let fly again, raining punch after punch upon David Paynton. He could hear the cries and squeals flowing from David’s busted mouth, but he never let up until the man had slumped to the ground. As he pushed himself upright Hunter could see that in spite of his father’s and Barry’s age, neither had forgotten how to channel their aggression nor had they lost their touch. Barry had quickly overcome his foe and was standing over the man Hunter hadn’t recognised. The prostrate man was holding his chest and moaning.

The fate and suffering of Terry Paynton was still ongoing. It was only as Hunter took stock of the situation that he realised Terry was out of it. The only thing that kept him upright was the grip his dad had on the front of Terry’s sweatshirt, yet the viciousness with which his father still pummelled him was unrelenting.

A knot formed in Hunter’s stomach and he lurched forward grabbing hold of his dad’s swinging fist.

“Dad he’s had enough.” He caught his father’s stare and for a split-second he witnessed something in his dad’s eyes, which he had seen on many occasions during drunken street fights he had attended over the years doing his job, but never before seen in his own father. It was the look of sheer hatred and evil.

For a second his father tried to resist his son’s grip.

Hunter clenched his dad’s wrist tighter. “Dad, I said he’s had enough.”

Hunter saw the look in his father change dramatically. His command had registered.

Terry Paynton’s bloodied head was flopping around like a rag dolls.’ He let go of the sweatshirt and there was a sickening thump as Terry’s skull whacked the pavement.