Tom Graham - A Fistful of Knuckles

One again, an overpowering sense of dread swept across Sam. His heart was pounding. He leant against a concrete pillar, afraid he might pass out, and in horror he saw amid the pinned-up photographs a face he knew at once; staring out at him was the Test Card Girl — a faded, dog-eared, black and white snapshot pinned up between pictures Henry Cooper and Raquel Welch.

‘Don’t you want to know the truth, Sam? Don’t you want to know what I know … about Annie?’

Sam’s head swam. He braced himself, forced himself not to faint. The girl’s mocking voice echoed through his mind, stirring up the terrible sickness that threatened to overwhelm him.

‘She has a past, Sam. Shall I tell you about it? Shall I? Shall I, Sam? Shall I?’

In sudden anger he snatched the photo of the Test Card Girl. But all at once he found himself holding nothing more than a tatty newspaper cutting of Joe Bugner poised for action.

To hell with your mind games, you little brat! You won’t get inside my head! You’re not real! You’re nothing!

Sam crumpled the photo into a ball and fell into step with Gene. Together they moved forward, making for a roped-off boxing ring where two men lunged and clashed under the under the noisy guidance of a short, pug-nosed Irishman.

‘Hey you!’ Gene barked.

The Irish trainer fell silent, turned, and looked Sam and Gene over. His flat, ugly face was not friendly, and neither was the atmosphere in the gym.

‘You addressing me? ’ the trainer asked in his spiky Belfast accent.

‘I most certainly am, Paddy.’

‘The name’s Dermot.’

‘I don’t care what you call yourself, you gobby spud. Zip your trap and pay attention. And that goes for all of you!’

All the men had stopped working out and were staring at the unwelcome visitors, clocking at once that they had a couple of coppers amongst them — Sam’s leather jacket and Gene’s voluminous camel hair coat were as much giveaways in this place as bobby’s helmets and badges.

The atmosphere tightened. Sam set his face, determined not to show that he was intimidated. But Gene, who thrived on machismo like a rosebush thrives on quality shit, hooked his thumbs into his belt, thrust out his chest, and squinted slowly round at the men who surrounded them.

Please, guv — don’t antagonise them, Sam silently willed him. Keep it cool, keep it calm … no need to wind anyone up …

‘Right, you faggots,’ Gene declared. ‘Stop eyeing up each other’s arses and pay attention. I’ll keep it simple so as not to confuse you. My name’s Detective Chief Inspector Hunt, CID, A-Division — you know, the police. And this here’s my retard nephew tagging along on work experience.’

Sam kept his face fixed, maintaining what professional dignity he could.

Dermot, the pug-nosed trainer, leant casually on the ropes of the boxing ring and said: ‘And what can we be doin’ for you fellas, then? Lookin’ to put a spot of muscle on yourselves, are ya?’

Gene fixed him with a look and said; ‘Denzil Obi, the Mixed Race Widow.’

‘What about him?’ said Dermot. ‘Denzil’s not here.’

‘No,’ said Gene. ‘No, he’s not. He’s gone to that big, stinky gym in the sky.’

A ripple of tension ran through the men. Dermot straightened up, his face serious. ‘What you talkin’ about?’

‘Denzil Obi was found dead in his flat this morning,’ said Sam. ‘Beaten to a pulp.’

‘So it’s a not social call but a murder enquiry,’ Gene declared. ‘Any of you monkeys feel like having a chat? Eh? Anyone here know enough words to tell us anything?’

Silent faces stared back at them.

‘One at a time, lads, no need to rush,’ growled Gene.

Sam looked from one to the other, and it was then that he noticed a lean, wiry man — more sleek and well-toned than bulked-up and brawny — who was sporting a spider tattoo on the base of his neck, almost identical to Denzil’s. For a fleeting moment, Sam and the man with the tattoo made eye contact — and then the man looked nervously away.

At that moment, Gene spotted the man with the tattoo, and at once strode towards him.

‘Oi! What about you? Eh? Knew Denzil, did you? Eh? Speak up, lad! Or would you rather chat about this under the lights down at the cop shop?’

‘Hey, constable, you lay off Spider!’ Dermot protested.

‘I don’t like spiders — I squash ‘em,’ said Gene. ‘Or pull their legs off and flush ‘em down the plug hole. But only if they ignore me — you get my drift? Eh? Spider?’

Spider gave Gene a glowering look. He tightened his fists. Gene tightened his .

‘I said lay off ‘im!’ Dermot cried. He ducked under the rope and waddled aggressively towards Gene on his short, stocky legs.

‘Look, out, Sam,’ said Gene, looking down at Dermot. ‘Looks like I’ve upset the Lollypop Guild.’

Dermot planted himself protectively in front of Spider: ‘Let him be, constable. Him and Denzil were buddies — that ain’t no secret. Real close.’

‘Best friends?’ asked Sam.

‘Like brothers,’ said Dermot.

‘Faggots, were they? Nancy boys? Like to dip your wick in the ol’ chocolate pot, eh Spider?’

‘Officer, you’re out of line!’ the Irishmen cried. ‘You’re well out of line!’

‘What you gonna do about it?’ asked Gene, leaning down so that his face was level with Dermot’s. ‘You gonna get Sleepy and Bashful to give me a going over?’

‘Guv, please,’ said Sam quietly, trying to calm the situation. The atmosphere was tense beyond belief. The men in the gym seemed ready to rush them.

Maybe the machismo in the air’s gotten to him, San thought. Maybe he can’t help himself.

Spider stared furiously at Gene for a few moments, his eyes red and watery, and then he turned and stormed away.

‘Let the fella grieve in peace,’ Dermot said. ‘Spider’s a good lad. Like I told you — him and Denzil, they were like brothers the pair of ‘em. Think of his feelings. Let him shed a few tears. Then he’ll talk to you.’

‘He’ll talk to me now ,’ growled Gene. ‘You might be the leprechaun’s bollocks in this shite-hole, Murphy, but when it comes to a murder enquiry you’re less to me than a puddle of pissed-out Guinness.’

‘I’m warnin’ you …’ muttered Dermot at the back of his throat.

‘Get back to Santa’s gotto, there’s rockin’ ‘orses need wrapping,’ said Gene, and he pushed past the little Irish men to go after Spider. But at once Dermot planted himself directly in Gene’s way, blocking him — and as he did, the other men in the room pushed forward to back him up. Sam braced himself. The anger in the room was like an electric charge. Hands were clenched. Muscles tensed. Eyes narrowed. The whole gym seemed to thrum and vibrate with a deep, pulsing, masculine energy, like the prelude to a storm or the first ominous rumblings of an earthquake. The thrill of imminent violence filled the room.

Sam froze.

Dermot prepared to throw a punch.

The boxers got ready to join him.

Gene puffed himself up.

It was then that they heard the gasp of a woman a few yards away to their right. It was an almost sexual sound. The lemony aroma of Charlie cut through the fug of sweaty men like the reek of powerful pheromones. Sam and Gene glanced across and saw bleached blonde hair, scarlet lipstick caked across wrinkled lips, a tight-fitting, zebra-patterned leather skirt, fishnet stockings encasing muscular legs, white stilettos. The balls-to-the-wall old bird who stared so frankly at the men in the gym raised her left hand to her painted mouth and teased a red lacquered nail between twin sets of nicotine-darkened teeth; as she did so, her right hand ran down her solidly curved body, from zebra-striped breasts to leather-clad crotch, in a single fluid movement of barely suppressed animal arousal.