Tim Stevens - Jokerman

The big man peered at the car from were he stood, but didn’t step closer. He nodded at Hannah.

‘Who’s she?’

‘ She can answer for herself,’ said Hannah. ‘Detective Inspector Hannah Holley.’ Her tone was cold, unyielding.

The man didn’t drop his gaze down her body, as Purkiss had expected. He glared at her face as if trying to stare her down. Then he turned his free palm upwards, raised his eyebrows.

‘So where’s your ID?’

Damn , thought Purkiss.

‘You’re not coppers,’ said the smaller man. He gave the chain the slightest tug so that the end flicked through a circle.

Purkiss said, ‘You men need to back down right now. There’s no going back if you cross that line. Assaulting a police officer. That won’t be overlooked, or forgiven.’

‘Impersonating a police officer’s a serious offence, too,’ said the first man, the one with the knife.

The small man smirked.

‘You’re all sons of Dennis Arkwright, I take it,’ said Purkiss. ‘All we want to do is talk to him. We’re not here to arrest him, or to make trouble in any way.’

‘So why are you pretending to be coppers, then?’ said the big man.

Purkiss looked at Hannah.

‘If you’re not going to help us,’ he said, ‘then please let us pass.’

He took a step forwards. The big man, surprisingly, moved aside.

As Purkiss drew level with him he saw the man was grinning.

‘That proves it,’ he said. ‘If you were real coppers you’d have busted us for threatening you.’

It was a cliché: go for the biggest one, the leader, first . And usually it was a sound tactic. Not always, though, in Purkiss’s experience. Sometimes the biggest one, the apparent leader, wasn’t the most dangerous. And Purkiss didn’t like the knife, and would rather have dealt with its wielder first.

Still, the biggest man was also the nearest of the three, and was the one who was initiating the attack, so Purkiss started with him.

The man’s crowbar whipped across sideways rather than downwards onto the crown of Purkiss’s head, in a backhand slash aimed at the face. Purkiss stepped back, arcing his neck away, and felt the end of the bar swipe past inches from his face. The movement left the man’s torso exposed for an instant and Purkiss closed in with a one-two punch, the first landing in the man’s abdomen just below the breastbone, the other connecting with the stubbled jaw as it tipped forwards. The man stumbled, his flailing body uncertain whether to drop to its knees or collapse backwards. Purkiss made the decision for it, crashing a right hook into the side of the man’s head, the blow spinning the man round almost one hundred and eighty degrees to sprawl face-down in the dirt.

Purkiss pivoted just as the chain came whickering down, the end catching his hand as he brought it up in defence. The pain exploded through his knuckles and he leaped back. The man advanced at a crouch, the chain held two-handed like a python, the end whirling.

Beyond him, Purkiss saw Hannah facing off with the knife man in a similar position, the man’s arm darting slashes at her.

The problem with a chain as a weapon was that it was inherently unwieldy. A landed blow could cause intense pain and considerable damage, blindness, even, but the flailing end was difficult to control.

Purkiss watched the links at the end of the chain, not the man.

They described a sudden figure-of-eight and lashed towards Purkiss’s face. He spun, his back momentarily to the man, moving in past the chain and aiming a reverse kick at the man’s head. His aim wasn’t quite true and he caught the man’s shoulder, heard the grunt of pain. The man staggered back but kept his footing.

Purkiss hoped the blow to the man’s shoulder would take some of the force out of his swing, and it proved to be the case: the next flick of the chain was slower, less snappy. Purkiss watched the link at the end until the very last moment before he seized the chain in both hands, wincing at the pain in the one the chain had connected with. The metal was slippery in his hands but he held on, winding it around his fists as he pulled.

The smaller man was strong, and stood his ground, his tiny black eyes blazing. For a few seconds the bizarre tug-of-war seemed to have reached an equilibrium, both men gripping the chain, three feet apart, neither able to pull the other any closer.

Then the man released the chain and leaped forward.

The sudden release of the chain caused Purkiss to stumble backwards. He used the bunched mass of links in his hands as a shield of sorts, but it didn’t stop him losing his footing as the man collided with him. Purkiss landed hard on his back on the dusty, stony ground. The man jackknifed his body around the chain mass and sank his teeth into Purkiss’s upper arm.

In his time with SIS and since, Purkiss had been in more fights than he could remember, or cared to. He’d been punched, kicked, throttled, garrotted, and slashed with sharp objects of various kinds. He’d taken headbutts to the face, elbows to the throat, and knees to the groin.

But he’d never before been bitten.

Somehow, the outrage was worse than the agony. His instinct was to pull his arm away but he understood that if he did so, he’d lose a chunk of flesh from his arm. Instead, Purkiss used his other arm, the right, to bring across the length of chain he was gripping in his right fist. It was an awkward move because he had to sweep his arm round the back of the man’s bristly scalp, but he managed.

The fire in his arm was relentless; he could see blood darkening the material of his suit jacket, staining the man’s face. Like a feral creature the man was snarling, his eyes wide open as he hung on.

Purkiss couldn’t bring the chain through under the man’s chin because there was no room. Instead, he reached between them and looped it up across his assailant’s chest. He grabbed the end and pulled to the right, tightening it.

The man’s snarls grew louder. He began to shake his head, like a dog with a downed duck.

Purkiss hauled on the chain, feeling the links inch themselves across the man’s chest.

A few yards away, Hannah and the knife man were continuing their macabre, circling dance. She closed in every now and again, landing blows but not incapacitating ones. She didn’t seem to have been cut yet.

The man was strong, more so than Purkiss would have expected. Despite the tightening of the chain around his chest he hung on, and kept his legs inside Purkiss’s so that Purkiss had no opportunity to bring his knee up into his opponent’s groin.

Purkiss heaved on the chain with renewed force. His right fist, with the end few links of the chain wrapped around it, was up beside the man’s head. Summoning all the strength he could, Purkiss slammed the chain-clad fist into the man’s left ear.

The pain must have been exquisite, because the man relaxed his jaws around Purkiss’s arm and gave a yelp. It was all the opportunity Purkiss needed.

He wrenched his arm free, wincing as a gout of blood spilled down the torn material of his jacket- and shirtsleeve. Again he punched the man’s ear, splitting the skin of the scalp. He hauled on the chain again, heard the man wheeze, his breath quicken as his ribcage was compressed.

Purkiss heaved, rolling the man off him, and staggered to his feet, still holding on to one end of the chain. The man tried to rise with him and Purkiss kicked him in the stomach, doubling him up. Purkiss swept his feet out from under him with a second kick, and flung the length of chain on top of him.

Satisfied that the man writhing on the ground was out of action for the time being, Purkiss turned to see Hannah kneeling on her opponent, who was prone on the ground, his arm twisted behind him, Hannah’s knee in the small of his back. Her clothes and face were dusty but Purkiss couldn’t see any blood, except at the man’s nose. The switchblade lay in the dirt, several feet away.