‘Big bastards.’ He said it quietly, but size didn’t frighten him – it was just something he needed to feed into his battle plan. Although he was a wild fucker he’d learned every trick in the book over the years, which was how he’d survived so many skirmishes without ending up in the mortuary fridge. Being his size meant he had to use his brain as well as speed and a refusal to give in even when he seemed beaten.
He turned quickly to Li and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Go to Leith Walk and take the long way round to the flat. I’ll see you there later.’
Li knew the signs and was frightened. He saw it, smiled and decided in that moment that he was getting soft: worrying himself about his lemon before he went into action. ‘No worries, darlin’, it’s just work. Cook us up some supper when you get in.’
He winked and nodded towards the lights at the junction with Leith Walk. Li knew better than to argue and that whatever he was going to do she’d be in the way and a distraction if she stayed. She told him to be careful, which would make no difference but was all she could think to say before heading for the Walk.
The two figures who had stepped out of the car had stopped for a moment, but Cue Ball knew they were ready to move.
What the fuck have you been up to, Ricky my boy? he thought. He’d already identified one of the figures as Brenda McMartin, and whatever trouble Swan had got himself into, the presence of the Glasgow woman meant they were at DEFCON fucking 1. It was pretty obvious they hadn’t turned up for a chat about the weather, but he had to wait and see before he went nuclear. There was always the chance that it was some kind of final warning, but as far as he knew McMartin only made an appearance for wet work. His instinct was that this wouldn’t end with handshakes all round and a promise to meet for cocktails. Saving Swan’s skinny little arse wasn’t the perfect end to the night for him, but it was his job and he’d demand a fat bonus for this one if they survived it.
There was of course an additional problem in that as soon as he weighed in he was at war with the McMartins, and not many people in the game would give a big thumbs-up to that particular idea. He paused for a moment before he came to his usual conclusion about whether to fight or retreat.
‘Fuck it, Andy, you can only die once, boy.’ He said it quietly and calm settled over him.
He opened up the olive-green combat jacket he was wearing, pulled out his brass knuckleduster and a short wooden baton weighted at the end with lead. Zipping up his jacket again he pushed the brass onto the fingers of his right hand, pulled the leather thong of the baton over his left wrist, sucked in a few deep breaths and tried to roll the tension out of his shoulders. He watched intently as McMartin and the other pile of muscle took off and moved quickly towards Swan, who had just done up his flies, oblivious to what was coming at his back.
The drizzle was cold and steady as Swan tugged his collar up then pulled the car door open, promising himself a few vodkas over ice when he got home. A contact from Amsterdam had e-mailed him some XXX porn and he’d take it in with Gnasher, who always seemed interested in human adult entertainment.
‘How’s it hangin’, Ricky?’
The voice startled Swan, and when he turned round something grabbed his balls and squeezed till the pain drove all the air out of his lungs, leaving him helpless and frightened. He’d needed glasses for years but had always been too vain to actually wear them, and the fact that he rarely read anything on paper meant it wasn’t a priority for him. What street lighting there was blurred his vision and was behind whoever or whatever gripped him where he lived. He managed to squeeze out the word ‘please’ between clenched false teeth as his legs gave way beneath him. There were two of them and they were big fuckers, but then again most people were bigger than him. A ham-sized paw closed round his throat, pulling him up then forcing him back, arching his spine over the Merc.
‘Take my wallet. That’s all I’ve got.’ He prayed it was a mugging but had already worked out that his connection to the problems with the missing UC meant he was probably being a bit optimistic.
Whoever was crushing his windpipe laughed and Swan realised that the laugh was female – rough but definitely what should have been the gentler sex. Brenda McMartin pushed her face about six inches from her victim and grinned. Her breath reeked with the stink of cigarettes, the beginnings of serious gum disease and several packets of cheese and onion crisps. It revolted him even with the excruciating pain he was suffering. That was the least of his worries because, like Cue Ball, he recognised her. Everyone knew ‘The Bitch’, even if they hadn’t met her personally. The tabloids had run a few stories about her over the years; she made such excellent copy.
‘Do I look like I’m a fuckin’ mugger?’ She turned to Baker and smiled, enjoying what she did best, but he just stared blankly and waited. She shook her head again, wondering why she bothered trying gallows humour on someone who was only part human.
‘It’s a bit more serious than that, Ricky, and we’re taking you for a wee run. Hope you don’t mind.’ She was going to turn to Baker with a smart one-liner then remembered the cunt was brain damaged in some way and just didn’t get involved in funnies. She nodded to him and he pulled a black canvas bag over Swan’s head. He’d gone limp in McMartin’s hold and she realised that he’d passed out cold.
‘Keeps him quiet, I suppose,’ she said, but she was disappointed at not being able to string it out a bit and enjoy the wee man’s terror.
The word ‘suppose’ had just left her mouth when Baker groaned and slumped down beside the car, gripping his right knee and ear at the same time. Blood poured through the fingers covering his ear; he was hurt and out of the game. If she’d had the time to think about it, she would have picked up something like a dull cracking sound a moment before he was on his way to the deck.
An old woman high up in the flats opposite Swan’s car had seen exactly what had happened. Well into her eighties, her only pleasure was sitting at her window watching the drunks and bampots heading home from the Leith end of her street. Swan pissing against his car was a regular occurrence, and she shook her head and tutted to no one but herself, though the truth was she was fascinated with the bizarre show every time it happened. It gave her something to moan about when her daughter visited her at the weekends. She always managed to make Swan’s little antisocial habit sound like a mad pervert exposing himself on the street. The daughter didn’t really care and wished her mother would hurry up and die so they could sell her flat and knock a few holidays out of the proceeds.
The old woman had watched intently as the two figures left the Beamer and headed for the other side of the road. Her blood pressure rose at the possibility that the two citizens were outraged by what was happening across the street and thought that with a bit of luck they’d kick ten bells out of the pervert with the flash set of wheels. That would be enough to make her night – her week even – but there was better to come and that would keep her going for months.
The two figures had already started on the pervert when she saw something moving at speed from the right side of her view. At first she thought it was a large dog because of the speed it moved across the half-lit street towards the drama taking place at the door of the Merc. It was too much excitement so she poured a stiff brandy from the bottle next to her. She’d already had one but thought that under the circumstances the occasion deserved a bit more lubrication. She raised the glass to her lips and realised what she’d thought was a dog was in fact a man tearing into the people at the car, despite being only half their size.
‘Get intae the bastards, son.’ She was on her feet, having decided to change allegiances and support the wee man. The old woman hadn’t had so much entertainment since she’d witnessed a guy beating his wife unconscious the previous Christmas Eve.
By the time Cue Ball reached Brenda McMartin and the ape who was with her, he’d already worked out that the size difference meant there was no way he could win a wrestling match with the two of them. That meant he had to get
one of them out of the game as quickly as possible. The Bitch was too involved to notice his approach, and his initial plan was to take her out first, but as he closed in Baker turned slightly towards him, having picked up the sound of the rubber trainers bouncing across the cobbles. He was side-on so Cue Ball changed plan when he saw that the moment had exposed the side of Baker’s right knee and swung the weighted baton back. Cue Ball was already within striking distance when Baker snapped his head round, but it was too late: Cue Ball lashed the baton through a wide roundhouse action and when it hit Baker’s shinbone below the knee the sound told him he’d done enough to break it. The big man gasped with shock, and Cue Ball followed up by burying his knuckleduster into Baker’s ear. That put him out of the tussle while he took on McMartin, who’d spun round and let go of Swan. The sauna owner was on the deck and barely conscious.
‘What the fuck?’ Saliva splattered from her mouth with the oath. She lunged at Cue Ball, whose idea was to back off and use his speed to counteract her size and body weight. For a moment his luck deserted him and as he stepped back he caught Baker’s outstretched leg, losing his balance and hitting the cobbles face up. McMartin was too good an operator to miss her chance – she was on him like flies on shit and tried to force her thumbs into Cue Ball’s eyes, growling like an animal that had just made a kill. All he could do was screw them up as tightly as possible to buy a couple of seconds, but it felt like they were being pushed into his brain. Her mistake was in concentrating on blinding him; she hadn’t realised he’d come well armed for the job. Cue Ball drove the baton point forward up under her breastbone with all the force he could muster, which caused her to roll off him, grasping her gut and choking as if her throat had closed off. Cue Ball tried to open his eyes but they burned and ached from her assault and tears streamed down his cheeks as he pulled himself up with the car door handle. He wasn’t prepared for McMartin getting back on her feet so quickly. In next to no time she was on him again, taking him in a bear hug from behind and, just to prove she was a savage bastard, she bit down on Cue Ball’s left ear and gnawed like a dog. He yelped at the excruciating pain as she lifted him clear of the ground.
The old woman opposite decided she needed a third brandy – what she was witnessing in the street was better than a holiday in the sun, and she prayed that the local polis wouldn’t wander past and spoil the whole thing.
Cue Ball thought he was going to pass out when McMartin finally separated half his ear and spat it onto the pavement. She had a brief moment of triumph and felt her attacker weaken through the pain he was suffering as she squeezed even tighter. There was a six-inch blade in her belt and she decided that’s how she’d do it – squeeze a bit more breath from the little fucker then slice him up right there on the pavement. If she’d known the reputation of the man she’d gripped in her massive arms she might have squeezed a bit longer and harder before starting with the blade.
Cue Ball knew he only had one chance left; though he was weak he wasn’t yet beaten. He couldn’t believe the strength of the woman and he went for playing dead, letting the top half of his body drop forward as if he’d passed out like Swan, who was coming round but unaware of the battle taking place near him.
McMartin felt Cue Ball’s body appear to relax and made her next mistake of thinking that it was all over apart from the butcher work. She loosened her hold on him slightly; Cue Ball felt it and took his final shot at the title. He swung the top half of his body backwards with all he could get into the movement, and she had no time to react before the back of his head smashed into her mouth, breaking three teeth and bursting her top and bottom lips. She tried to curse, but there was too much blood bubbling over her tongue. She let go of Cue Ball, clasped both hands to her face and bent over double as he leaned back against the car, his chest heaving with the effort of staying upright. He felt wet at the back of his head and knew it wasn’t just her blood.
‘You’re a fuckin’ dead man and so’s that grassin’ bastard,’ Baker spat at Cue Ball. He was still on the deck and propped against the car but unable to make any movement without setting off fireworks in his smashed leg. The Edinburgh man looked down at him and smiled, and Baker realised that while he might be a short-arse, this man was also a grade 1 fucking psycho.
Cue Ball, keeping eye contact with Baker, took the two steps he required to stand over McMartin, who’d dropped onto her hands and knees, pieces of broken tooth mixing with the blood that dribbled from her shattered mouth onto the pavement. In one sharp movement he raised his knee as high as he could get it and brought the heel of his foot down onto McMartin’s right hand. His eyes never left Baker’s. McMartin screamed like an animal as she felt the bones give way, and lights started to go on all over the street.
‘Fuckin’ hell,’ was all Baker could manage before Cue Ball put him out of his misery for the night. He should have cleared up the grass reference first, but he’d needed to hurt someone. His temper was cooling now though, and he knew what that might mean.
‘It’s time we fucked off out of it,’ he said as he helped Swan to his feet, pulling the bag off his head at the same time. The sauna manager, who was starting to take in the scene around him, whimpered like a beaten dog and had to be led round to the passenger side, where he was pushed roughly into the seat. Cue Ball stood up and stretched his back, trying to ignore his injuries and the worry surrounding the word ‘grass’. He felt weak but this business still wasn’t finished. He ran his fingers over the knuckleduster, gripped the baton and strode back across the road to the Beamer, which hadn’t moved.
Fanny Adams knew it was time to either fuck off or fight – and after what he’d just witnessed he knew he was simply too old to take this one on. In his day he wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but not this night and not for the crazy bitch who was lying in the road. If he just ran, her brother would top him, so the only chance he had was the mental case coming to beat his brains in. Adams opened the door and stood with the car between him and Cue Ball, who was covered in blood and looked like he’d just climbed out of a meat grinder.
‘I’m just the fuckin’ driver here, chief. Any chance of a break?’
Cue Ball spat a wad of blood and saliva onto the road. ‘Do I look like I’m involved in charity work here?’
‘Look, I hate that horrible fucker – as far as I’m concerned she’s a disgrace. The other boy’s just brain dead and does what he’s told. I need to go back injured though or her daft brother’ll waste me. Just gimme a break and don’t make it permanent.’
Cue Ball thought for a moment and decided the guy might just be straight up, but to be fair he looked about 150 years old and clapped out. ‘I’m really gettin’ soft these days. One thing – your pal over the road mentioned the words “grassin’ bastard”. What’s he talkin’ about?’
‘That’s why we’re here, pal. That man you’re backin’ up there stuck an undercover into a Newcastle team the McMartins are involved with.’
‘A Newcastle team?’ The alarm bells were going off in Cue Ball’s head.
‘Pete Handyside.’
Cue Ball cursed. He’d just walked into the wrong fight and was definitely on the side destined to lose heavily. To be identified with a police informant would fuck his reputation and probably mean a death sentence if it was Handyside. The McMartins and Handyside were a nightmare scenario, and he’d just minced Brenda and her gorilla. They had big armies so he was fucked, no doubt about it.
He shook his head, slid the knuckleduster from his fingers and put it back in his pocket with the baton as Adams walked round the car towards Cue Ball. He could see the man had balls – and just how badly he needed Cue Ball to do the business.
Adams never even saw the first blow coming it was so quick, and it stunned him for what came next. By the time Cue Ball was finished Adams was a hospital case, but he’d recover and could tell whatever story he liked to Crazy Horse McMartin.
Afterwards Cue Ball was exhausted; all he wanted was to go home and be wit
h Li, but he needed to unload Swan first.
‘One last thing,’ Cue Ball muttered to himself. Knowing that there was no going back he needed to get all his retaliation in there and then. The McMartins weren’t going to forgive him, and he was streetwise enough to make sure there was one fewer able to come for him. He was going to pull Brenda McMartin by the legs till her feet were just under the front offside wheel of the Merc. But he was done-in and hadn’t the strength to do what he wanted so he gave up and was about to pull himself into the driver’s seat when he realised there was something else he needed.
‘I’m fuckin’ ugly enough. Need the ear.’ He picked up the part of his ear that McMartin had bitten off and looked at the woman moaning weakly beside the car, wondering what kind of woman could have spawned someone like The Bitch? He pulled himself stiffly into the Merc, gunned the engine then moved slowly away from the three casualties left in the street.
‘What happened?’ Swan asked weakly.
Cue Ball looked round at him and shook his head slowly, trying to come up with the right answer. ‘I think we just started World War III, that’s all. By the way, I’m bleeding all over your car.’
The old lady at the window stared open-mouthed at the three casualties lying in the road, and could hardly wait to call her friends and daughter about what she’d seen. It never occurred to her that an ambulance and the police might have been an option.
‘Where’re we headed?’ Swan was coming to life and trying to understand what had just happened. Cue Ball looked round at him and wondered why he’d even bothered helping. The man was incapable of defending himself, and there was no way he wanted to be in the front line of a war with the teams from Glasgow and Newcastle.
‘Look, I think we need to talk. One thing you can put your wages on is that it’s barely started – that woman only appears for serious business. I want to know why, then I’m taking what’s left of my ear to A&E.’
Shores of Death Page 13
