Nick Harkaway - Tigerman

And then a woman near the sweeper said: ‘You missed a bit here, by me,’ and when the sweeper went to get it she kicked it lightly away.

The sweeper pursued it patiently, but the woman chased and kicked it again, and the sweeper slipped and went down, and the whole street heard the crack as she landed hard on one hip, and the reedy cry which went out of her. Her outstretched hand, reaching for solace and assistance, caught the woman by the ankle.

‘Get off me!’ the woman shrieked at her, and kicked out, and the toe of her shoe clipped the sweeper across the mouth. It was — it all was — an accident.

The dealer shot to his feet and started to speak and the boxer came up with him, drawing back his hand to silence what he assumed would be a furious denunciation with his fist, and the Sergeant shouted: ‘No!’

He stepped into the silence awkwardly, wishing for his full uniform, for something which spoke of what he represented, what he was, but he only had his parade-ground voice, and it would have to be enough.

‘Siddown!’ he barked at the dealer, and the man sank to his chair again. I am obeyed . He knew the mob had registered it, could feel them making space for him. Authority, exercised on their behalf. ‘And you,’ he added more gently to the boxer. ‘That right hand of yours is used to gloves. You hit that old fart with it and you’ll ruin your knuckles for months. Don’t be a twit.’ He turned before the young man could object. He had to keep moving, keep making sense. ‘I’m Lester,’ he said. ‘I’m supposed to be up at the big house hiding under the carpet, but I’ve got friends down here and I didn’t want them to get hurt so I came. I’ve seen him fight at the gym,’ he added, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘He’s a terror. Faster than you’d believe. Drops his shoulder a bit, mind, but a good coach’ll break that habit. Someone take off their coat for that lady, please, she’s old enough to be my mother and shouldn’t be lying in the cold. You, miss, would you mind stepping back aways?’ This to the woman who had felled her. ‘I think you’ve had a bit of a shock. It’s always hard to be close to something like this, you always feel it’s somehow your fault and it never is.’ Bemused, the woman backed away and was embraced solicitously by those around her. A moment later, the sweeper was covered in a makeshift blanket.

‘Now,’ the Sergeant carried on, ‘we’re all alone out here tonight. Those arseholes,’ he gestured vaguely in the direction of Kershaw’s office, ‘aren’t coming, so we’ve no emergency services. We’d best do it ourselves, hips can be tricky. I need a few strong lads to get this lady into my car and I’ll take her to a doctor. You, sir, you better come along so she’s got a familiar face.’ This last to the dealer, who got unsteadily to his feet, assisted by the boxer.

They were carrying the sweeper down the side street with surpassing gentleness and loading her into the long back of the Land Rover when the Sergeant heard engines, and felt the mood thicken around him. He shook his head. I had them. I bloody did .

But he had lost them now. He pressed the keys into the dealer’s hand. ‘Get in the car. Go to the scrivener’s office and get him and the Witch and get up to Brighton House — she knows where to find the key. If it gets nasty use the red phone in the office and tell the snotty prick on the other end that I’m compromised and the diplomatic premises are under direct threat.’

And before the man could say anything he stepped back and waved cheerily. ‘Off you go, now, sir. I’ll be right behind you. I want to help these folk clean up a bit.’

The dealer got the Land Rover started and went, and the old woman’s eyes locked on the Sergeant’s in mute concern as they pulled away.

Lester Ferris turned, and saw the boys on their quad bikes rolling slowly through the crowd, and with them a kind of bitter recollection of anger. They had work to do. There were things to be broken, statements to be made.

‘English sergeant,’ the leader said from beneath his mask.

‘Shame we got no dogs left,’ said the next.

The Sergeant felt the crowd respond. No dogs left, and someone’s got to be nailed up.

Shit.

There was no retreat from this situation. He was cut off. There would be no help from Kershaw, either, that was clear. And no blather he could muster would soothe them. So he pointed his index finger at the leader and scowled.

‘You’re the toerag who kills broken-down old pups, is it? The limp-dicked, shrivel-sacked little puswad, the best part of whom dried up on a hankie, who thinks nailing a dog to a telegraph pole will make him a hero. Is that right? Is that the fucking size of it? You miserable excuse for a shitheel? Well, then. Well, then. WELL, THEN. Let’s have a bit of fun, you and me. A man-to-man discussion, eh?’ He was walking forward now, and that was pretty unlikely, unlikely enough to stop the momentum, change the game. But it had to be just right. He had to be offensive enough to challenge, but not enough to be dismissed as disrespectful of the game. ‘Or are you a bit too scared of an old geezer for any of that? You can always hide behind your mates. You can have them soften me up a bit first, can’t you? Let them take some of the sting out of it for you.’ And they backed away, bless them, at this ignoble suggestion. Oh, for a few of my lads behind me. We could actually win.

The leader got down off his quad and stretched. He was loose-limbed and fluid, with a dangerous reach. His hands had seen proper work and proper fighting.

And then he produced a long-barrelled revolver from his belt and levelled it.

‘Beat the shit out of him,’ he said simply.

And they did.

The first blow came in low and numbed the Sergeant’s left leg, the second across his back. They had pieces of timber, ungainly but none the less painful and bruising. The third blow knocked him from his feet and he knew that it was all up, that he would almost certainly die on this clean white street, and he rolled into a ball, saving his head as best he could and wondering when the first bone would crack. They were unprofessional and not particularly enthusiastic, but their anger was growing as they struck and quite soon they would start to mean it, and shortly after that he would lose consciousness and then it really would be over, because they would kill him without even really meaning to. It didn’t matter who you were, the human body was just not that tough.

And then he went away, until curiously he smelled fish and bad cigars.

He came to in his own bed, again, expecting to see the Witch or the boy and slightly hoping for Kaiko Inoue. The unexpected smell of fish was gone, but the bad cigars, stale and grim, hung in the air along with a pungent male odour. He opened his eyes and saw a man with a bandaged nose.

‘Holy shit, Ferris, they hardly touched you,’ Pechorin said. ‘When that fat bastard came and got me I thought maybe you’d lose a kidney at least, but look at you. The doctor with the extremely Ukrainian tits out there, who claims to come from Kansas? She says you’re not even going to die a little bit.’

‘Who. . came and got you?’

‘Beneseffe,’ Pechorin growled. ‘He and his lobstermen. We had a little conversation about fish this morning. Some opportunities were discussed. Some possible business. They send some local kid round to check me out, I figure they know what’s going on, so I go see them. We make friends. Then a couple of hours ago, “Pavel, Pavel, we have to save Lester” and blah blah, and I say okay, because you will box with me and you’re good when I lose my temper, which is not everyone. The world is not full of people who will decline the opportunity to hit me in the head.’