A Fistful of Knuckles (24 page)

‘We’ll be watching all the time,’ said Ray, looking over his shoulder at Annie. ‘Don’t you fret, luv.’

‘I’m not fretting,’ said Annie, passing back the binocs. ‘I’m just hoping Tracy’s actually at home.’

‘She will be,’ said Sam. ‘Patsy keeps her on a very tight leash. Speaking of which, mind out for the Rottweiler he’s got chained up right outside his door. It’ll have your hand off.’

‘A Rottweiler?
Now
you tell me!’

‘It’s no worries dealing with a Rotty,’ put in Ray. ‘The secret is to grab its back legs.’

Sam pulled a face that said
you’re talking bollocks, Ray,
but Ray ignored him and carried on.

‘Grab the back legs and hoik ‘em off the ground. Don’t, whatever you do, go anywhere near the front end.’

‘That’s the end with teeth,’ Chris added helpfully.

‘Lift the rear legs and start walking backwards,’ Ray went on. ‘Your Rotty’ll be too busy trying to keep balance on his front legs to bite you. I’ve seen it done. It’s the biz.’

‘Sounds like grabbing the tiger by the tail,’ said Annie, looking anxious. ‘You’re okay until you let go. And sooner or later you’ve
got
to let go.’

‘Not the tail, the legs,’ Chris corrected her. ‘Rotty’s ain’t got much of a tail. It’s more like the last bit of a sausage. Ain’t that right, Ray?’

‘Don’t sweat, luv,’ said Ray, winking at Annie. ‘You won’t be on your own. Like I say, me and Chris’ll be keeping a close on eye on you.’ And quietly, to Sam, man-to-man, Ray added: ‘We’ll be keeping a close on eye on her, Guv.’

Sam glanced round at Annie. She gave him an expression that reassured him:
it’s okay,
her face said.
I’ll look after myself. Everything’ll be fine.

‘I just want to say one more thing,’ he said, looking from one face to another. ‘We’re dealing with a dangerous man here tonight. The safety of all of us rests on us working together as a team. Every single one of us must be constantly thinking of the others. Spider, are you listening?’

Spider nodded, but still said nothing.

‘Pity the guv ain’t here,’ said Ray, feeding a stick of Juicy Fruit into his mouth.

‘Yes, it’s a pity,’ said Sam. ‘But he’s
not
here, and we
are.
So stay alert, and stay vigilant, and between us we’ll make the guv jealous he was loafing around in a hospital bed instead of on the front line with us guys. You with me?’

‘With you, Boss.’

Only Spider didn’t join in the chorus of support.

Sam checked his watch.

‘Time for me to go. As soon as Patsy leaves the caravan, Annie moves in and starts on Tracy. Ray, you pay close attention to what’s being said between me and Patsy; wait as long as you safely can before sending Spider over. We need to give Annie as much time with Tracy as we can.’

‘Wilco, boss.’

Sam turned to Spider: ‘I’ll see you in the arena, then. Good luck, Spider.’

No response. Spider sat, unblinking, like a waxwork.

‘Good luck everyone,’ Sam added, glancing once more at Annie.

‘Good luck, Boss.’

Sam clambered from the car, his heart starting to pound. Every beat seemed to hammer against the microphone taped to his chest, shoving it forward, betraying its presence. He resisted the urge to fidget with it. The secret was to forget about the damned thing’s existence entirely and concentrate on the role he was here to play; he was a bent copper, out to nab an innocent man and frame him for murder.

Striding confidently across the open ground, Sam looked up at the lights of the fairground as they flashed against the darkening sky. Lit up and sparkling, the Ferris wheel was turning. Sparks flickered from the bumper cars (from which Gene was banned, for life). Music pounded out. People screamed excitedly as the rollercoaster rattled by.

And then he looked at the caravans parked front-to-tail just on the fringe of the fair. A stone’s throw from the light and laughter and music and fun of the fair, violent men lurked in the shadows, preparing arenas of combat where they would clash and batter each other to pieces.

And here come two of those violent men now …

From the direction of the arena, Ponytail and Moustache-man came sauntering towards him, their shoulders back, chests stuck out.

Sam decided to affect a Gene Huntian arrogance. He maintained his brisk pace, aiming to stroll straight past them.

‘Evening, girls. You’re both looking ravishing tonight.’

Moustache-man blocked him. Sam side-stepped – and so did Moustache-man.

Forced to stop, Sam sighed and rolled his eyes: ‘All right, you fairies, what’s got your goat, mmm?’

Ponytail walked a slow circle around Sam, looking him up and down.

‘Checking me out for a bumming?’ Sam sneered. It wasn’t the best line in the world, but then again, he wasn’t addressing the most sophisticated of audiences. ‘Not my bag all that – but your friend with the tash looks up for it. Don’t you, Mildred.’

Out in the darkness, Sam caught a glimpse of Annie, picking her way along the very edge of the open ground, taking the long route round towards Patsy’s caravan. All at once, he felt an overwhelming sense of longing for her. Not a sexual longing, but a longing to be with her, just the two of them, somewhere safe and decent – a need to protect her against all the filth and hatred and violence of the world.

She’s a serving officer, she can protect herself.

But can she? Sam knew – he
sensed,
deep in his nervous system – that there were worse things out there in the darkness than knuckle-heads and Rottweilers.

Whatever it is out there, it has found its form in Patsy O’Riordan. Put O’Riordan away, for ever, and you’ve defeated it, Sam.

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.’

Go on, answer, stop posturing and ANSWER!

‘Just out of interest, Patsy, how did you locate Denzil at the gym? Did you have an inside contact? Or did you go there to work out and just suddenly see him?’

Patsy was throwing punches at the air, snorting like a bull. He seemed to be no longer aware of Sam’s presence. Sam glanced back at Moustache-man and Ponytail, peering in nervously through the gap between caravans.

What’s happening here? They know there’ll be no fight here this evening, that it’s just a put-up job. Why’s Patsy focussing himself like this? He’s acting like Spider …

Acting like Spider. Yes. Spider was psyching himself up for a fight too … and yet neither of them was
supposed
to fight – both of them knew this whole thing was just a trap …