Paul Finch - Stalkers

The mob was about to charge in — when two of them disappeared under a table, which was slammed down on top of their heads from behind. The guy who’d done it was someone nobody had previously noticed. He’d been sitting in a corner, reading a paper. But now that he was standing at full height, he looked as wrong for this place as Heck and Lauren did. He was about six feet three, and of trim, athletic build. He was also handsome and sunburned, with a mop of blond hair. His clothing consisted of a green sweat top cut off at the elbows, a pair of tracksuit pants and training shoes. He was wearing gloves, and both his wrists, which were thick and powerful, were banded with leather.

There was a stunned silence at this intervention, before the louts twirled around to face him. But he’d already grabbed a pool cue, and now laid it on them with brutal force. Skulls were smacked like baseballs, arms were broken. When the cue snapped, Grey Beard tried to grapple hand-to-hand with the newcomer, only to be hoisted up by the crotch and throat, and thrown bodily across the bar counter. A deluge of destruction followed as bottles and glass shelves cascaded on top of him.

Scar-Lip lunged at Lauren, catching her with a full-blooded punch, but, though she tottered, she managed to keep her feet, and stepped around his second attack, ripping the blade in a zigzag across his back. Ogburn, his eyes like raw plums, tried to put another headlock on Heck, but Heck caught the bastard with a hard left and a harder right, and as he staggered backward, swung a broken chair frame into his midriff, drawing a shrill squeal from his blood-spattered mouth.

The big blond man was still wreaking havoc. They came at him relentlessly, but he smashed their faces or threw them across the room. Head, fists, feet, knees — he used them all with amazing skill and ferocity. They were a rough crowd in the Dog amp; Butcher, but it was unlikely they’d ever experienced anything like this bloke. A couple had now escaped, leaving the front door wide open. Heck snatched Lauren by the collar and hauled her towards it.

After the roiling atmosphere inside, the fresh air was almost cold. They toppled across the pavement towards the Fiat. Another of the hoodlums came staggering out after them. Lauren brought him down with a karate kick to the face. He fell into the gutter, gasping.

‘That’s enough,’ Heck shouted, spotting that she still had the knife, which was glinting crimson.

The next person to come out was the big blond man. He wiped his gloved hands on his sweatshirt as he approached.

‘You folks alright?’ he said with a grin.

Heck was leaning on the car to get his breath. He glanced up. ‘We owe you one.’

‘Nah, you don’t. Spot of useful exercise, that’s all.’

‘Who are you?’ Lauren asked.

He surveyed them, hands on hips. In full daylight, he was surprisingly good looking. His fair hair, bronze tan and trim physique gave him ‘film star’ appeal. ‘Mates call me “Deke”. You can too, if you want.’

‘That was a timely intervention, Deke,’ Heck said, straightening up. ‘Any particular reason why you put your neck on the line for us?’

‘Hardly put my neck on the line. Chocolate soldiers, that lot.’

At which point, the pub door was kicked open again. Grey Beard was there, covered head to foot in blood and broken glass. The part of his face Lauren had slashed hung off as though it had been unzipped. He swore and gesticulated at them, but he did not come outside.

‘Want more, you old fucker?’ Deke laughed. ‘Put one toe over that step, and I’ll teach you a real fucking lesson.’

The door banged closed as Grey Beard disappeared back inside.

Deke laughed again. ‘See what I mean.’

‘You still took a hell of a risk,’ Heck said.

‘It was nothing.’

‘Maybe, but I’m the sort of bloke who likes to know who’s saving his life.’

‘It’s nothing personal. I just don’t like seeing shitheads get on top. Never have.’

Heck nodded, not buying this at all, as he suspected Deke knew full well. ‘Well, no offence, Deke … but we’re out of here. Don’t want to sound ungrateful, but our business in this part of town is definitely concluded.’

‘You were looking for Ron O’Hoorigan, weren’t you?’

‘You know him?’ Lauren asked.

Deke shrugged. ‘Who doesn’t round here?’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘He lives on Lady Luck Crescent, but I don’t think he’s there very often. Any reason why you’re looking for him?’

Lauren glanced at Heck, who quickly replied: ‘Just a business thing. Gambling debt.’

Deke looked amused. ‘You two collect gambling debts?’

‘Yeah,’ Lauren said. ‘So?’

‘Forget it.’ Deke chuckled and waved away the explanation, which he clearly regarded as nonsensical. ‘Listen, you take care of yourselves.’ He edged off. ‘But when you’re collecting in future, don’t go barging into places where the debtors are likely to outnumber you ten to one. Oh, and if it helps … try sixty-nine, Regina Court.’

‘What?’ Heck called after him.

Deke was walking away, but he glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Gallows Hill flats. It’s a squat where O’Hoorigan used to buy gear. I think he kips there now and then.’

‘Gallows Hill,’ Heck said to himself.

‘You know that place?’ Lauren asked.

‘I’ll say.’

He glanced after Deke again, but the guy was now out of hearing range. Meanwhile, a crescendo of angry voices was rising inside the wrecked pub. Heck moved to the car, and ushered Lauren inside. As they pulled away from the kerb, the beaten-up rabble, newly armed with staves and pool cues, came spilling out onto the pavement. Heck watched them in the rearview mirror as the Fiat cruised away. Glancing left, he spotted Deke sauntering down into an underpass, vanishing from view.

‘Who the hell was he?’ Lauren wondered.

‘Dunno. But he can kick arse like I’ve never seen. You okay?’

‘Yeah.’ She dabbed at her bloodied nostrils with a handkerchief.

‘Par for the course in the Royal Ordnance Corps?’

‘Not exactly. Chapeltown maybe.’ They pulled off the desolate estate and rejoined the main road network. ‘We going to this Gallows Hill place now?’

‘ We’re not going anywhere. You’re going back to the railway station.’

‘In this state? They’ll think I’m a right yob.’

‘If the cap fits …’

‘I just helped you out in there! Big time!’

Heck couldn’t argue with that, so he didn’t try.

‘Look, Heck … it’s okay if I call you that?’

‘Yes, you can call me “Heck”.’

‘Heck … you can’t force me to go anywhere.’ She shook her head adamantly. ‘I don’t care what you say, this is a free country. You can’t make me get on a train to Yorkshire.’

‘Okay, that’s true. But if you’ve got no money and you’re not prepared to go home, where are you going to spend the night?’

‘I’m not exactly new to sleeping outdoors.’

‘Up to you. You certainly won’t be alone in this town.’ He drove on, circumnavigating a series of concrete roundabouts.

‘What about this Gallows Hill place?’ she said. ‘If O’Hoorigan used to buy drugs there, it sounds a bit rough.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘So … are you going to call back-up?’

If only he could, he thought. As things were, he wasn’t even planning to report what had just happened. He wanted to; he knew he ought to. But the moment Gemma learned he’d been involved in a bar room brawl where civilians had been knifed, her kneejerk reaction would be to pull him back in. She might pull him in anyway, if the word reached her from other sources.