Paul Finch - Stalkers

Francis James Ogburn

It sounded a tad well-heeled for this neighbourhood. Heck glanced back at the car. Lauren waggled her fingers at him through the windscreen. Swearing under his breath, he turned and went inside.

The Dog amp; Butcher was a dingy, shadow-filled den. Grey light filtered through its grimy windows, showing a stained carpet, Formica table-tops, and, dotted here and there, punters — some in groups, some alone — all of whom looked either tired, miserable or menacing, or a combination of the three. Though it was cloudy outside, it was hot and therefore humid indoors. Flies buzzing back and forth added to the squalid atmosphere.

Heck approached the bar. The man behind it was bare-chested under a faded denim waistcoat, and broad as an ox. He was bullet-headed, with a boxer’s battered face; his brawny arms and shoulders bore myriad tattoos.

‘Yeah?’ he asked, mopping the counter top.

‘Pint of bitter please,’ Heck said.

The man moved to the pumps. Heck glanced around. Having studied O’Hoorigan’s photograph until he’d memorised it, it was evident the guy wasn’t in here. But there were actually two bar counters. Beyond the one he was standing at now, another one opened into a second room, where various men and boys were gathered around a couple of pool tables. The toilet passage probably connected with it.

‘I’ll not be a sec,’ Heck said. ‘Paying a visit.’

The barman nodded indifferently.

Heck went down the passage, but didn’t bother with the toilets. He stuck his head into the pool room. There was no sign of O’Hoorigan in there either, so he returned to the first bar, where his pint was now waiting for him.

‘Two quid, mate,’ the barman said.

‘You Mr Ogburn?’

The barman regarded him suspiciously. ‘Yeah, why?’

Heck handed him the requisite coins. ‘No reason. Always like to know who the landlord is.’

Ogburn didn’t reply.

‘I don’t suppose Ron’s been in?’ Heck asked.

‘Who’s Ron?’

‘You know … Ron O’Hoorigan? He’s a mate of mine.’

Ogburn turned his back. Ostensibly, he was arranging notes in the till. But Heck suspected there was more to it than this. The guy didn’t want to look round for fear that his facial language would reveal a deception.

‘So … has he been in?’ Heck persisted.

‘Don’t know who you’re talking about.’

‘Come on … Ronnie O’Hoorigan. This is his local.’

When Ogburn finally did glance around, his eyes met Heck’s and locked. ‘I don’t know anyone called O’Hoorigan. You got that?’

‘Easy pal, it was only a question.’

‘I’m not your pal. Why don’t you drink up and get off, eh? I’ll be closing soon.’

‘Normally close around tea-time, do you?’

‘I close when I want.’

‘Maybe this’ll help.’ Heck filched the photograph from his pocket and held it up, along with a twenty-pound note.

The landlord didn’t even look at the proffered gift. In fact, he raised his voice so that now the entire pub could hear. ‘What’s your fucking game, eh?’

‘I just want to speak to him.’ Heck pocketed the money. ‘So why don’t you tell me where he is, then we’ll have no problems?’

He’d shifted into tough-assed mode. It wasn’t what he’d wanted, but collecting information in a place like this wasn’t possible if you went at it nervously. All other conversation in the room had ceased. Ogburn was about to say something else when the door to the toilet passage burst open and a man came in, zipping up the fly on his green canvas trousers.

It was Ron O’Hoorigan.

He was taller than Heck had expected, but also leaner. He came to a standstill when he saw everyone looking; his eyes flirted to the photograph in Heck’s hand. Whether or not he spotted his own image there was unclear. Perhaps his reaction came through force of habit. Either way, he bolted for the outside door. Heck gave immediate chase, only for someone to stick a foot out and send him flying. He crashed over a table, winding himself. When he clambered back to his feet, several of the punters had got up and were confronting him.

The one immediately in his face, the one who’d tripped him, might have been sixty; he had grey hair, a grey beard and a moustache, but he had a bull neck and a massive body. To his right there was a younger guy, his hair carroty red and spiked up; he had a scar across his top lip, which gave him a permanent sneer. To his left, there was a biker type — long, ratty, black hair hung down over motorbike leathers; he was pock-marked and broken-toothed. Chair legs scraped as other men got to their feet. Heck sensed Ogburn lifting a hatch so that he could come out from around the bar.

Clearly, there’d be no time for explanations.

Close to Heck’s right hand, an empty Newcastle Brown bottle sat on a table-top. It seemed an obvious move to snatch it up. The forehead of the burly sixty-year-old with the grey beard was its obvious destination.

The bottle exploded, and the guy went down as though poleaxed. Heck ducked a swinging punch and caught Scar-Lip in the stomach with a left hook, only to take a head butt on the cheek from Rat-Hair. Again, he fell over a table. Figures closed in from all sides. When Heck got back to his feet, he grabbed a chair and swung it full on at Ogburn, who blocked it with a meaty forearm. Scar-Lip came in with a flying kick. Heck caught his ankle, dropping him onto his back and smashing an elbow down into his groin — only for Rat-Hair to catch him with a stinger in the mouth. Heck’s head jerked sideways, and two burly arms wrapped around his neck in a choke-hold. He was dragged backward until he overbalanced. Struggling to breathe, he saw Ogburn grinning down at him, his fat, red face beaded with sweat.

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.