Стюарт Макбрайд - The Coffinmaker’s Garden

If he thought I was going to meekly stand outside and take a kicking, he was in for a nasty shock. ‘How did you know I was here?’

‘Ah, Mr Henderson, ever the inquiring mind, I do so admire that about you. Let us simply say that gentlemen in our position may obtain information to our advantage from those prepared to divulge things they perhaps shouldn’t in exchange for financial gain or the diminution of certain debts.’

AKA: some bastard ratted me out.

I cricked my neck to one side, then the other. Rolled my shoulders.

I’d taken Francis before and I could do it again.

As long as I made sure he—

The world snapped back through ninety degrees as Francis’s fist slammed into my face.

A high-pitched whine burst across the café, accompanied by a swarm of wasps — making fierce yellow circles in the corner of my eyes. And then the pain hit. Slicing through my sinuses, digging its claws into the back of my eyes and my skull. The world stinking of hot iron and cracked pepper as my head rocked forward again and scarlet spurted down across my shirt.

‘Gnnn...’

‘Now, Francis! That was hardly sporting, was it? You didn’t even allow Mr Henderson the opportunity to stand up.’

‘Sorry.’

Hands took hold of my jacket’s lapels, hauling me out of my chair as the room waltzed one way then the other, the wasps getting louder. Scarlet droplets bursting against the linoleum at my feet.

Henry’s barks rang out like a shotgun.

Alice joined them: ‘GET OFF HIM, YOU BASTARD!’

‘Now, now, dear Doctor, let’s not escalate this situation unnecessarily. Control that animal, before it gets hurt.’

I blinked away the tears. Brought my fists up.

Francis’s head got smaller for a heartbeat, then swelled up like a meteorite, slamming into the bridge of my nose with the crack and pop of a thousand fireworks. Filling the world with the stench of raw meat. My right leg stopped working, the knee refusing to hold my weight as the café’s waltz turned into a polka and boiling petrol washed through my face. Bursting into flame as it touched whatever was left of my nasal cartilage. I grabbed a handful of table, keeping myself upright. But only just.

FIGHT BACK!

I swung. Missed.

‘That’s the spirit, Mr Henderson! Do not go quietly into that dark night!’

That was the trouble with gobby bastards — too much time spent on word-of-the-day calendars and not enough learning the proper bloody quotes.

More barking.

I spat out a mouthful of copper pennies. ‘Come on then. That all you’ve got?’

Effie emerged from the kitchen, teeth bared, a frying pan clutched in one hand like a mallet. ‘What the hell do youse bastards think you’re doing in my café?’

‘How unfortunate.’ Joseph raised his eyes to the grubby ceiling as if the answer to Effie’s question was written there. Then turned his cold hard smile on her. ‘I take it you are the proprietor of this fine establishment? Well, if you’d be so kind as to take a seat and remain silent, we shall try to conduct our business here with the minimum of disruption to your premises. It would be a matter of personal regret if we were forced to cause damage to your fixtures, fittings, and limbs.’

Alice’s voice slashed through the muggy air: ‘EFFIE, CALL THE POLICE! CALL — Ulk...!’

The clatter and scrabble of dog claws on the linoleum.

‘Now, dear Doctor, I do believe I counselled against interfering.’

Alice.

I turned, teeth bared and there was Joseph, standing behind her, with his right arm around her throat, left arm locking her head in and forcing it forward. Chokehold. Shutting off the blood to her brain.

Henry charged at Joseph, jaws snapping, barks ringing out.

Then a whimpering yelp as Joseph lashed out with a foot, sending the brave wee lad flying as Alice’s face darkened. ‘I warned you!’

Right, that bastard—

Francis’s left fist cracked upwards into my ribs, nearly lifting me off my one good foot. Taking all the breath in my lungs with it. And the other knee gave way.

This was it.

The scarlet-spattered linoleum rushed up to meet me. Now the kicking would start. The stamping. The broken bones and fractured skull. The internal bleeding.

Clutching at the table didn’t help — it dragged the checked plastic cloth off, taking the sauces and salt and mugs and plate and chips and fish fingers with it. A shattering of crockery, the ping and clang of cheap cutlery bouncing.

Then BOOM .

The Tartan Bunnet’s front door burst open and Helen MacNeil charged over the threshold, screaming something without words in it, mouth wide, teeth flashing, all the cords in her neck standing out like the cables on a suspension bridge.

Francis got as far as, ‘Naw—’ before she crashed into him, knocking him off his feet and sending him flying into the nearest table with a crunch of buckling chipboard. He was bent backwards over it, hips jutting, arms flailing as Helen leapt on him — one knee slamming down into his groin. And that was it for the table. The entire thing collapsed and Francis thumped into the floor with Helen still on top as she grabbed his ponytail and battered her other fist off his face five or six times in rapid succession, like a jackhammer, sending up tiny spurts of scarlet with every impact. Re-breaking that squint nose, shutting his eye.

Then twisting around and onto her feet again.

Can’t have taken her more than a dozen seconds, and Francis was a groaning mess of battered skin, blood frothing at the side of his mouth and dribbling down his cheek.

Joseph swivelled, putting Alice between Helen and himself. Partially releasing his chokehold to dig a hand into his jacket pocket. ‘Now I know we haven’t been properly introduced, but I can assure you that this encounter will not go well for you if you don’t turn around and leave right now.’

She kept her eyes on him as she picked up one of the broken table’s metal legs, holding it like a baseball bat, slapping the other end against her palm. ‘You know who I am?’

‘I haven’t had the pleasure.’

‘Oh, it’s no pleasure, I’m pretty sure of that.’ Stepping closer. ‘See, I know who you are.’

‘Then you know that, much though it may pain me, I shall not hesitate to do the good doctor here serious harm if you don’t depart as requested.’

Helen shrugged. ‘Go on, then. She’s nothing to me. But this one?’ Pointing the table leg in my direction. ‘He’s mine. And you better pray he’s still useful to me, because see if he’s not?’

‘Unnnnnngh...’ Francis rolled over onto his front. Struggled up to his hands and knees. Blood dripping onto the linoleum beneath his face. Another grunt and he was sitting back on his haunches, face already swelling up. Wobbling in a circle, as if the whole café was swaying.

Welcome to the dance.

Helen didn’t even look at him. Instead she swung the table leg in a fast, flat arc behind her.

A muffled clang as the metal cracked off Francis’s head, and gravity reclaimed him. On his side, lying there, mouth open, eyes closed.

But at least he was still breathing.

Alice, on the other hand, was going a darker shade of red, hands scratching at Joseph’s arm, mouth opening and closing on nothing. Feet scratching across the linoleum. One arm wasn’t enough to cut off the blood flow, but plenty to make sure she couldn’t breathe.

I hauled myself up the nearest chair. ‘LET HER GO!’

‘Going to give you a choice, Joseph. Either you take your boyfriend and you run away, or I do the same thing to you that I did to Neil Stringer.’ The table leg slapped into her open palm again. ‘Five... Four.’