Tom Graham - A Fistful of Knuckles

He stoked that thought in himself like he was stoking the embers of a fire. Sparks flew up. Flames leapt.

Defeat Patsy, and you defeat that Devil in the Dark … Defeat Patsy … Defeat Patsy …

And then, just as he felt his courage return and his resolve strengthen, he heard Ponytail say from directly behind him:

‘Open your shirt.’

‘I told, I’m not up for it.’

‘I said open your shirt. Or we’ll open it for you.’

Sam’s heart was racing. But he affected total cool when he turned slowly and fixed Ponytail with a straight look.

‘I came here in good faith,’ he said.

‘Then prove you’re not wired.’

‘And why the hell would I be wired? I’m not here for Patsy, I’m here for that freak Spider.’

‘Then open your shirt.’

‘You don’t trust me? If you don’t trust me, then I don’t trust you. And if I don’t trust you, then tonight’s off. I’m out of here.’

‘Open your shirt.’

Sam forced himself to laugh: ‘You don’t have much between your ears, do you! Either of you! I’m a copper, you dopes! You two turnips mess me about and I can have you both banged up and buggered from here till bloody doomsday. So — if you don’t mind — I have business to attend to with Mr O’Riordan. So naff off, the pair off you.’

He turned and pushed past Moustache-man — and the moment he did, he felt strong hands clamping themselves on him. At once, Sam felt his police training kick in. It was instinctual, completely beneath the level of conscious thought. He struck hard at the edge of Ponytail’s wrist, right on the bone, dislodging the hand from where it gripped his jacket. At the same time, he ducked back, giving himself space.

‘If you can fight with only one hand, do so,’ they had taught him, years ago (or rather, years from now). ‘Always keep one hand free — across your chest, across your stomach, tensed and ready to fend off a blow or an incoming blade.’

Ponytail had clutched his hand, indignant at the pain Sam had inflicted. Moustache-man came lumbering forward, both fists clenched, leaning forward like a silverback gorilla.

‘Keep your feet planted wide — a good, solid stance — mind your balance — the last thing you want to do in a fight is find yourself flat on your face or flat on your arse …’

Sam aimed a kick, driving the heel of his boot into Moustache-man’s kneecap. The man howled and crashed forward, carried by his own suddenly shifted centre of gravity, and slammed face-first into the mud.

Without pausing, Sam span round to face Ponytail and instantly adopted a pose he recalled from the one and only Tai Chi class he had attended. Knees bent, left hand, claw-like, tucked against left shoulder; right hand outstretched in a fist, turning slowly on the axis of his arm. For good measure, he made a low, cat-like mewling in the back of throat:

‘Hiyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee — YAH!’

He thrust forward suddenly and inexpertly.

‘Look out, Joey, he’s Bruce bloody Lee!’ Ponytail howled, stumbling backwards, his fist raised but his whole stance one of imminent flight.

Moustache-man — Joey — picked himself up from the soggy ground, his face caked in mud. He limped anxiously away for a few steps, one hand on his knee, the other raised vaguely to fend off an attack.

Glaring fiercely, Sam took a step forward, crouching low and thrusting out his left hand instead of his right.

‘That’s right,’ he said, working hard to keep the fear out of his voice. ‘I’m a double black-belt Jedi Knight, taught by the great Master Yoda himself … and I can break every bone in your bodies just by looking at you …’

He chopped at the air and made oriental noises. It did the trick. Neither Ponytail nor Moustache-man would approach him, let alone touch him.

Recalling episodes of Kung Fu he’d seen as a kid, Sam slowly relaxed his posture, straightened up, placed his palms together and bowed his head. Such pose, such self-assurance, was even more unsettling than the violence. Perhaps this little man in a leather jacket really could break every bone in their bodies …

‘Now that we all trust each other again,’ said Sam, straightening his collar, ‘I’ll be on my way. I have business with Mr O’Riordan.’

He turned and started walking towards the arena of parked caravans. Behind him, at a safe distance, Patsy’s henchmen followed him.

Brain over brawn, Sam wanted to whisper into the microphone for Ray to hear. But he had too much sense to do something so reckless.

The four caravans were parked in a square, bonnet to rear bumper, with no more than a couple of feet between them for access. They defined a scrap of boggy ground as the arena, a space that was cramped and hemmed in and smaller by far than a regular boxing ring. It was a tight corner, a bear pit, graceless, practical, and private — a walled-off enclave where two men could settle their personal scores like savages. It was a patch of barbarism amid a civilized society.

Sam clambered through the gap left between two of the vehicles and glanced with distaste around the arena. Behind him, lurking nervously in the gap, he saw Ponytail and Moustache-man.

I’ve earned their grudging respect — or at least their fear. That’s good. They’ll keep their distance. I can forget about them for the time being and concentrate solely on Patsy … But where IS Patsy?

As if in answer to his thoughts, a monstrous devil-face appeared in the space between two of the caravans. It grinned at him from the shadow, bearing its fangs. Sam felt his stomach muscles tighten, his blood congeal. He felt a sudden overpowering sense of self-consciousness, and — unconsciously — raised his hand to his chest in an attempt to cover and conceal the wire taped beneath his shirt. When he realised what he was doing, he turned the gesture into one of coat-straightening.

Patsy loomed into the arena, wearing nothing but corduroy trousers and a pair of battered, workman’s boots. So worn were the boots that the metal of the steel toe-caps peeked through the leather. Sam had a mental image of those boots connecting with the side of Spider’s head.

There will be no fighting here tonight. Arrests, yes — but no mayhem, no brawling, no repeat of the savagery I saw between Patsy and that black boxer, Ben.

‘Your boys gave me a warm welcome,’ Sam said, adopting a macho posture fitting for a bent copper. Taking a gamble, he added: ‘The bastards wanted to frisk me for a wire.’

Patsy glowered across at him, his eyes bright and white like chips of ice. His face was so disfigured with wounds and tattoos that his expression was almost impossible to read. More expressive than his face was his general air of menace and violence; it told Sam everything he needed to know about what was going on inside Patsy’s hairless, bullet-like head.

‘We’re going to have to learn to trust each other,’ Sam went on. ‘It’s no good getting paranoid.’

Patsy said nothing, but slowly paced the arena, flexing his muscles. His tattoos rippled.

Why isn’t he saying anything? What’s the point in my going to all the risk of wearing a wire if the bastard won’t speak?!

‘Limbering up, Patsy? I wouldn’t bother — I’ll be nicking Spider before you get a chance to touch him.’

Patsy clamped his small, hard palms together and pressed, making his arm and chest muscles bulge.

Say something, you thug, damn well say something!

‘You know Patsy, without our … little arrangement, me and my department would be up the creek. You covered your tracks so well at Denzil’s place that we really couldn’t mount a case against you.’