The one on the right had a little gold ring through his ear and a little thin thing just riding his lip. A bedraggled youngster trailed behind them. He looked about eight. He was sucking his thumb.
Could do with a good bloody wash, thought Bernard. But he wasn’t drunk enough to say so.
Not yet.
John eyed the new arrivals warily as he set the pints down at the table he and Bernard occupied. The Red Lion had been empty, until now, except for the two of them and the barman.
‘What’dya reckon? Gypos?’ said John.
A certain class of man doesn’t know how to whisper. These two Fenland farmers were, by and large, among that class.
‘Give us a pint,’ said the one with the moustache.
‘Eh?’ said the barman.
‘Give us a feckin’ pint. You's a cunt, aye?’
‘You're calling me a cunt?’ said the barman. He wasn’t an east end barman, from the actual east end, or like you see in Eastenders or Guy Ritchie films. He didn’t count himself a hard man. But that didn’t mean he’d put up with people calling him a cunt.
‘Aye. You’s a cunt, I said it, didn't I? Give us a pint.’
‘I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
‘Jesus,’ said John.
‘Here now,’ said Bernard, who was drunk enough, and a man. The thing about men is, even when they’ve got a beer gut, rheumy knees, and half a ton of years under their belt, they still think they're in their twenties. ‘You can’t use that sort of language in here.’
‘You's are callin’ us a cunt now?’
‘Eh?’
‘He’s a fecker, Da,’ said the little boy, taking his thumb out of his mouth now he felt he had something useful to say.
‘Feckin’ right,’ said his dad, the one who couldn't grow a decent moustache.
‘Come now,’ said the barman, woefully out of his depth.
That was when the knife came out.
*
Margaret handed her money over at the fruit and veg stall. The lady behind the rows of veg (largely imported, Margaret was sad to see) fiddled in her little bum bag and then passed Margaret a few coppers back with a forced smile. Margaret didn’t want to be rude, so she thanked the woman, but she knew why the woman was terse. It was because of the ruckus going on behind Margaret.
Some kind of altercation, but definitely the loud and angry variety.
It was difficult to maintain decorum when people were creating like that. The shouting man had filthy language, language she had never heard the like of before.
She wondered if she should intervene. The gypsy at the stall creating all the trouble (he had to be a gypsy, even though he wasn't quite as swarthy and dusky as she had imagined) shouted something unintelligible before he threw a coin at the stall owner. Then he snatched up a large spanner from the display out front and brandished it at the owner when he tried to come around his stall, perhaps to reason with the man, or maybe to engage in some sort of fighting.
Margaret, watching the elderly stall owner and the furious man wielding a stolen spanner, thought that was probably a spectacularly stupid idea.
So, apparently, did the owner, who backed away, hands before him, trying to calm the angry man.
‘Okay, okay...take it. I don’t want any trouble.’
Margaret could see the older man was shaking. He was frightened...she was, too.
She couldn’t understand all that the gypsy was saying, but there was a lot of language involved. Even the way the angry man put his syllables together was quite expressive.
She stood, half-horrified, half-fascinated, in just the same spot when the gypsy turned and bumped into her. She felt some pressure on her handbag, and realised with sudden shock that he was trying to take her purse, which she’d left sitting on the top of her handbag so she could get to it easily.
‘Oh, you bugger,’ she said. Her hands were full, so she did the only thing she could. With an effort that pulled her shoulder joint something shocking, she swung the bag of fruit and veg at the man's head. In the bag there was a melon, a cauliflower, and a few oranges. The man with his hand on her purse didn’t even notice them. He did, however, notice the cast iron kettle which was also in the bag. Margaret had picked it up for a song from the antiques stall.
He staggered back, blood flowing from a gash above his eye.
Margaret stepped back, too, doing anything she could to get away from the sheer fury of the look he gave her. It was murder, pure and simple. She’d never seen a look of murder in anyone’s eyes, but there was no mistaking it.
She held up the bag with the kettle in it like a talisman. She didn’t think she’d get another swing in, but it was all she had to ward him off.
But as the gypsy lunged, a policeman walloped him on the head from behind, and he slumped to the floor instead.
Margaret took a huge, whooping breath in. She frowned, too, and concentrated on holding her bladder. She really didn't enjoy being scared. It made her angry.
‘Ma’am,’ said the policeman.
Her heart still fluttered in her chest. The policeman yelled his colleague, down the end of the row of stalls, to help him.
‘You okay, ma’am? Hurt?’
‘Not hurt...okay...yes…I think so.’
People moved aside as the policeman's colleague came charging through the market. She expected a whistle, or something, but they just shouted at people to move. She couldn't honestly remember the last time she'd seen anyone fighting, or being arrested. She'd never expected she'd see such a thing first-hand.
Belting a thief with a kettle hadn't proved anywhere near as exciting as she thought it might.
Her legs felt weak, and she really did need to visit the bathroom.
While people milled around and pretended they weren't watching the spectacle, the two policemen hefted the unconscious man to his feet between them. The one on the left spoke into his walky-talky.
He's too young to be a policeman, surely?
But then, thought Margaret, maybe I just got old.
A van with mesh over the windows pulled up at the edge of the road. Margaret watched, dazed with shock, as the police bundled the man into the back. They didn't seem to be particular about bumping the man's head, either.
Good, she thought.
No one noticed the door swing ajar as soon as they’d shut it. Margaret didn't notice, but that's because she had her eyes closed while she told her heart to slow down, please.
'Ma'am,' said another policeman, returning to her from the van. 'Very impressive handbagging.' He smiled.
Bless him, she thought. He's trying to put me at my ease.
It was sweet, really, but all she wanted to do was get herself home.
‘Should I come with you? Give a statement, or something?’
She didn't want to, but she would if it helped keep people like that behind bars, where they should be.
‘No, ma’am,’ he said, shaking his head. The one who’d done the hitting was beside the police van, talking to the driver. The van, she noted, had wire across the windows, like she'd seen on the news.
‘He’ll never see a cell. No point with the gypos.’
‘Oh.’
He looked like he wanted to say more, but just then his walky-talky squawked.
‘Back-up, now! It’s kicked off in the Red Lion…fuck!’
The policeman left her gawping at his back as he sprinting toward The Red Lion.
Oh. Shit.
Bernard.
She hefted her cast-iron kettle in her hand. While she couldn’t run with her hands full and wellies on, she still made pretty good time across the road, up the street, following the sound...shouting and screaming, mostly.
*
The man in the back of the van shook his head to clear it. His thoughts were fuzzy for a moment, but not for long. With his right hand he wiped away the warm blood from a cut above his eye. The blood was warm, but the breeze was cool.
Cool, because the door to the pig-pe
n was open.
He smiled and shuffled down the van, ducked, checking for a driver, or anyone around at all.
No one.
He opened the door and got out. The woman who smacked him with her bag was there, right in front of him.
Feck was in that bag?
He rubbed at the dribbling blood and followed the woman down the road. When she turned, he skipped into the shadow of a shop door and watched her waddle on.
The door tinged and a small lady piped up from somewhere below his chest.
‘You can’t stand there.’
‘Feck off,’ he said. Then, in case she was a fuckwit, he raised his shirt to show the shopkeeper the handle of the knife.
The little bell rang again as the woman scuttled back inside. Behind him, the owner flipped the sign to ‘closed’ and locked the door.
He turned back to watch the woman with the red wellies go right up to the front door of the Red Lion.
*
The knife that rubbish-moustache man held didn't look like any kind of knife Bernard had used. Like a carving knife and about as long, but thick and heavy.
It was business-like, and the man seemed the sort to use it. He held it up to the barman right now.
‘Come on, now, there’s no need for that,’ said Bernard, still sitting.
Bernard was a farmer, in the Fens. He didn’t know the first thing about bar fights. The last fight he’d had was at school, with Bicky Chapman. Buggered if he could remember his real name. Maybe the boy's parents really had named him 'Bicky'. Stranger things have happened.
It was easy to tell Bernard had never been in a bar fight, because he was still sitting down thinking wistfully about the old days and a lad named Bicky when the barman took the knife through his right hand.
John screamed like a nine-year old girl who'd seen a spider in the bath and bolted for the door. The man without the knife, the one whose head bobbed like a cockerel, swung a fist at him. John took the punch on one meaty shoulder. It was a very meaty shoulder, though, and it barely rocked him. He made it to the door, where he began shouting.
‘Help! Police! Fight! Knife!’
That pretty much covered all the bases, he thought. Then, because John had never been in a bar fight, either, he went back inside, where he found the barman bleeding and holding the gypsy’s arm with his good hand, trying to fend the knife off.
Bernard decided to get up.
The other one, the one without a moustache, walked slowly toward Bernard. Bernard, though slightly sozzled, had one advantage, in that he outweighed his adversary by roughly five stone, around seventy pounds.
On the negative side, that extra weight was mostly useless fat.
Bernard forgot about the fight going on with the barman, and concentrated on the business at hand. He saw the business at hand largely consisted of not getting killed. Despite never having been in a real fight where people are actually trying to kill you, rather than getting your flying saucers or sherbet dibdab off you, he did the right thing. The right thing in most instances, including this one, is to hit the other guy first with the biggest, hardest thing you can find.
The sway-backed old chair that had gamely held Bernard for so many years broke apart like deadwood. The gypsy's arm snapped. He yelled and Bernard gloated.
'Ha!' he said.
The gypsy, however, wasn’t playing fair. In real life, Bernard reckoned you hit someone with a chair, they had the good grace to give up.
The gypsy had other ideas. His broken arm by his side, the other grabbed at Bernard. Bernard leaned back a little to get out of the way, when the man's foot connected soundly and squarely between the farmer's chunky legs. Bernard doubled over, head down. With his thick, sausage fingers, he grasped the man around his waist and clung on for dear life.
The police took that moment to come charging in.
The man Bernard hugged pushed himself free with his good arm, setting Bernard on his arse, then set about punching and kicking any policeman that got close enough. The barman was trying to staunch the flow of blood from his hand with a grubby beer mat. John remonstrated with the police as they bashed anyone who looked vaguely like they didn't belong.
Then, while the police were belting the two men down to the wooden floor, the little kid ran at Bernard and sank yellow teeth deep into his arm. Bernard swatted him with his free hand, like you would a bad dog. The kid landed hard on his narrow arse. He sat there, and glared at Bernard.
‘You fecka,' said the kid. 'You broke ma ‘ose.’ For some reason, the kid sounded surprised.
‘Good, you little shit. No more than you deserve.’
The police had the brat’s dad on the floor. The one with the moustache was now unconscious by the bar, bleeding heavily from his head. One of the policemen, who Bernard noticed was in fact a policewoman, helped out with the barman’s hand. No one made any effort whatsoever to stem the flow of blood from the unconscious man on the floor. Blood leaked along his scalp and around a split above his right eye.
Good show, thought Bernard, scowling at the little shit.
The kid didn't say a thing, but the gypsy cockerel looked like a man set on murder. ‘You feckin' fat cunt. I’m going to get you back for that,’ he said, then spat onto the floorboards.
Bernard was aware his heart was dangerously high, fluttering about somewhere in the stratosphere. The words seemed distant, his ears ringing. Something to do with his blood pressure, maybe. He struggled to make sense of what the man said. Ten seconds, maybe, until his mind caught up through the din in his ears and the man's thick accent.
'Got what he deserved. So did you two. Little shit bit me!’
‘You shud'na hit ma boy.’
The way the man said it caused Bernard to shiver.
Just shock. Nothing more. He's going to jail, the little shit and moustache-man, too, hopefully.
Don't worry...no good for the ticker.
‘Come on, you bastard,’ said one of the policemen, and dragged the dad away. More policemen spilled in the door, the barman got led out...walking wounded, but stitches sometime soon. The policewoman dragged the kid out, the unconscious man stayed right where he was, another copper, a PC, trying to bring him round by slapping him gleefully in the face.
Bernard thought most of the coppers looked disappointed it was all over. He wasn't, he was damn sure about that.
Then, Margaret was there, in the doorway. One of the policemen tried to stop Margaret. She stamped on his foot, then she rushed over to Bernard. The policeman swore.
'Oh, shit,' said Bernard, but under his breath. He wasn't a complete idiot.
‘Bernard. What have you done?’
‘They just…’ suddenly, he was very light-headed. He sat down on the nearest bench with a thump, his back against the wall. He waited for a minute, until the stars floating in his vision went away. Margaret, for once, didn't look angry at all. She looked concerned. A little...
Frightened?
But Bernard reasoned that was the faintness and the star-dancing.
Margaret, frightened?
That was crazy thinking.
Policemen came up to him but he waved them away. Margaret fielded them, telling them his name, his address…all the little things the police need to make violence fit on a sheet of paper.
‘They just came in, started a fight,’ he told her, when he felt able to talk. ‘They stabbed Dave. In the hand. Fuck.’
‘Bernie, language!’
‘Well, Madge, what do you expect?’
‘Are you alright, Bernie? Do you need an...ambulance? You look...’
‘Dreadful?'
'Hmm...yes. That's the word.'
Bernard shook his head. 'I’m fine, Madge. I will be. Bit too much excitement.’
‘Poor thing. It must have been terrifying.’
‘It was.’ Bernard's mouth was on automatic.
Madge really does seem concerned...maybe I should get in fights more often.
For some reason, Bernard re
membered when their youngest was conceived. Then he looked at Madge, her stern face right there, just under the concerned one. He shook the memory loose.
'I'll be fine, Madge.'
'Good,' she said. 'Then let’s get out of here.’
‘The police will want statements, I expect.’
Margaret sniffed. ‘I’m sure I don’t care what they want. What you need is a good hot cup of tea at home.’
And that was exactly what she told them when the police tried to stop them. The police could deal with violence all day long, but not the full force of Margaret’s stony gaze.
‘But…’ said Bernard, looking to the policeman at the door for some kind of support, hoping the man could save him from Madge's tender 'care'. The man proved spineless, though. He looked down at his shoes.
‘Hmm,' said Margaret, and walked Bernard by the arm through the door and out into the fresh, chill air. 'Home, Bernie. Come along.’
Bernie swayed for a bit.
‘How many did you have?’
Jesus.
She was like a dog with a bone.
‘I've just had a bit of a shock, Madge,' he said defensively. 'Give me a break, eh?'
'How many, Bernie?'
He sighed. 'Just the one, love. Just the one.’
‘Really.’ Margaret sniffed again.
‘Got a cold, darling?’ Bernard ventured.
She didn’t reply. Didn’t say a word, in fact, until they got to the car. It was very effective.
‘m’sorry,’ he said, as he drove out of the car park. ‘Maybe it was two.’
Margaret nodded, and that was as much as he was going to get.
Neither of them noticed when a battered old Vauxhall Nova pulled out behind them.
*
Bernard drove, though his head was pounding. He was almost sure he’d had a stroke, but people who’d had a stroke couldn’t still drive, surely?
Either way, he didn’t have a choice. Madge wouldn’t drive. That was his job. She’d made that perfectly clear over the years. Even when the police had started clamping down on drink driving. Then, she had quite unreasonably expected him not to drink.
A Scarecrow to Watch over Her (A Horror Novella) Page 2
