Philip Nutman - Cities of Night

Alex drew a breath through clenched teeth.

Hougan.

“Staff,” he said.

He turned, nodding. “Got it.”

Alex felt anger rise from the depths of his gut like heartburn. The same old song and dance: a song of fists, a dance of pain. Hougan had the smaller guy — it was always a smaller guy, he thought — in the palm of his hand, trapped, angry, caution thrown to the wind. It was always the same, ride someone’s case till they responded, cause enough hurt for the other to lose control, then move in for the kill. Hougan was slamming the small guy against the door, the sound of the guy’s head hitting wood loud enough for him to hear.

Painful memories came with each blow:

Hougan punching him unexpectedly in the face at Newbridge.

Hougan ambushing him one rain-splashed day as he walked home.

Hougan suspended for smashing an older kid’s head on the playground.

Hougan tripping him on the rugby pitch, kicking him in the face, making out it was an accident.

Alex taken to the hospital: ten stitches and a shot for his shattered front teeth.

Hougan swung a roundhouse into the bloke’s head. There was a whack as fist connected with face, the smaller guy rebounding off the wall as blood poured from his pulped nose; a punch to the guts and the opponent went down fast.

Alex looked at Staff, his expression hard. “Let’s do the bastard.”

Staff nodded.

Hougan stood over the slumped body, ready to lash out his foot. The other youth, barely conscious, raised an ineffectual hand. Hougan pulled his foot back with deliberate slowness, savouring every wrinkle of fear on the bloke’s face, unaware of Alex and Staff approaching from the other side of the road. Seeing that he was about to kick the guy’s head, they rushed him.

Hougan turned as Staff ploughed into him, taking them both down as his right fist connected with Hougan’s sternum. Hougan tripped over the downed youth’s legs, pulling Staff with him but not able to twist away as Staff’s full weight landed on his body. Staff punched his stomach, but Hougan retaliated with his left fist, catching Staff on the side of the head. Staff saw stars, pain racing down his neck. Hougan growled with the fury of an enraged bear, heaving Staff off as Alex came in.

Alex hesitated. A mistake. Hougan scissored his legs, taking Alex beneath the knees, sending him over to land heavily on his left shoulder, his skid lid flying. He cried out. Staff, despite the bells ringing in his head, backhanded Hougan across the face. Hougan grunted. Alex shouted “fuck,” kicking with his right foot at Hougan’s balls. He missed, his foot scraping hip bone. Staff stumbled to his feet and kicked. His foot hit Hougan’s chest, snapping the youth back, slamming his head to the pavement.

“He’s mine!” Alex screamed, diving as he brought his right fist down like a piston, spreading Hougan’s nose across his face.

The pain in his left arm was intense, but not as intense as the raging anger exploding his reason. The frightened, wounded animal inside him emerged with teeth bared, claws drawn, as years of fear and hurt rushed out in a flood of adrenaline.

He punched again.

Again.

And again.

Everything blurred into a red haze, and he didn’t feel or hear Hougan’s jaw break or his teeth shatter. Nor did he hear Staff shouting at him to stop.

He brought his fist down a fifth time, catching Hougan on his left cheek and sending his head over at an unnatural angle, the neck snapping. Deep inside Alex, in that sick, secret place, a voice began to laugh with insane hysteria. He screamed “you fucking bastard you fucking bastard” as Staff slapped him hard, displacing him from the saddle of Hougan’s chest.

Alex leapt to his feet, his mind caught on some mad wavelength, waving his fist.

“You want some of this? Come on fucker!”

Staff, his head throbbing, looked at Alex as if for the first time.

Alex went to kick Hougan and Staff grabbed him.

“He’s dead!”

He slapped Alex a second time. Alex froze a beat, then shook his head.

“What?”

“He’s dead. You broke his fuckin’ neck. Jesus. Alex, he’s fuckin’ dead.”

He looked down at Hougan, whose face looked like several pounds of dog meat.

“God… God, oh Jesus God… nononono God no, Jesus.”

He started to rock back and forth, his voice dropping.

Staff looked up the street. A car approached from the Beaufort Hotel end.

“Come on,” Staff said, “help me.”

He started dragging the body into the dark alleyway beside the bakery. Alex was still rocking, his arms cradling his chest.

“Do it!”

Alex stumbled.

“Shit.” Staff pulled Hougan’s body out of the light.

The car was closer.

“Alex!”

Alex moved slowly.

“The other one!”

Alex looked blank.

Staff went to the beaten youth. “Come on, you stupid fuck!”

The car was almost on them.

Staff grabbed the semiconscious bloke, heaving him from the doorway. Alex understood now, panic replacing shock. He reached down, taking the youth’s legs, and helped his friend haul the dazed youth into the darkness as the car passed.

The youth groaned again.

“What do we—”

“Get the hell out,” Staff snapped, taking Alex by the arm as he stooped to pick up their helmets. The car hadn’t stopped.

Alex hesitated as Staff gave him the red one. He looked at the alley with the expression of a confused child.

“Move.”

He took the helmet.

Jamie was down on the Upper Bristol Road near the river when his left arm started tingling, pins and needles running from shoulder to waist. He stopped.

The road was deeply dark here; the only light was that cast by the high orange lamps on the other side of the river where the Lower Bristol Road turned into carriageway. A gravelike stillness hung over the open fields and boatyard, yet he felt the air dance electrically. He sat on the wall massaging his limb.

(out of here)

He’d been following an internal compass with the blind faith of a sightless pilgrim, his mind tabula rasa, free of conscious direction. Now the compass spun wildly, a vertiginous spiral of confusion.

(move)

The thought was faint, his limbs leaden. He knew his journey was almost over. Whichever uncharted road he was traveling, his destination was on the other side of the river, and he had no control over whatever events were in motion. He was a sailor adrift on a psychic sea in a rudderless boat, at present suspended on a tidal change. Then the compass stopped spinning, and he continued.

Staff tolled The Bitch down Queen Square, carefully observing the speed limit. To Alex, it seemed they were moving at a snail’s pace. Hougan was dead.

He felt nothing.

No remorse, panic, no residue of the nausea he’d felt as they walked to the bike, when his stomach had suddenly performed a forward roll, expelling Guinness and cider over the pavement in a hot rush.

Empty.

His head was unnaturally light and clear.

He’d killed him.

Alex laughed silently as Staff headed down toward the Lower Bristol Road.

The clock in the cab said 11:35 as Harry took a wide curve. From his high seat, he could see the mile-long carriageway lit up like a neon strip across the uneven hedgerows and dark farmland.

The lights were green as he came out of the curve and he accelerated, willing them to stay that way.

He yawned.

Damn it, he’d drive the truck home. If he took it back to the depot, he wouldn’t get home till midnight — if the bloody Capri would take him there. The last thing he needed right now was to spend time under the bonnet trying to get it going if it wouldn’t start.

Home.