The crowd remains silent. He kicks at the man’s thigh with a final grunt then turns and strides back to the barbecue station. The steak is well done—just how he likes it. The man already forgotten. The crowd jabbers. Let them talk. Let them see what happens to anyone who crosses Mad Dog Docherty.
“Gill,” he calls to his wife. “Steaks done to a turd.” He snickers at his own joke, though his raw knuckles sting with the heat and the smoke.
“Any sausages ready?” Shauna asks. “The kids are getting hungry.”
“Nearly.”
Shauna clasps her youngest daughter to her hip. The child turns away from him as he offers a smile.
“Tell her not to be scared of Uncle Jack, Shauna.”
The child pushes her head into her mother’s shoulder and, for a second, he regrets that she’s seen his rage, but then, she needs to know the family won’t stand for being pushed around and, he’s sure, it will make her stronger to know she’s surrounded by people who will protect her. “C’mon, chick,” he soothes. “Uncle Jack’s got you a hot dog.”
For the next ten minutes, the afternoon continues without issue; his ‘family’ wait patiently as their steak, sausages, and lamb chops continue to cook, and the disgruntled punters have now respectfully removed themselves from around his barbecue station and joined other lines to wait for their meat. Once his family have had their fill he’ll hand the station back. He wasn’t greedy, but they had to understand that family came first, and any man who couldn’t stand up and protect his own wasn’t worth shit as far as Jack was concerned. Take the men who’d stared at him as he’d taken control of the station—they looked on with contempt, some even with anger, but they did nothing, and looked away quickly when Jack challenged them with a quick narrowing of his eyes. It didn’t take much to show people just who was in charge, and just who they should respect. His family relied on him for protection. They were safe - they would always be safe - Jack would see to that.
As he scans the area, searching out any challengers, and flips another pork chop, the park gates are swung to a close. A rumble of discontent wafts through the air as those outside the gates protest. Jack decides he’d step in for Sam if the punters decided to get lairy. He turns another sausage. He’d make sure they played nice.
The cook at the next station lowers the lid on his barbecue. “Sorry, folks! All the meat has gone.”
“What?”
“We’ve been waiting for hours.”
Mad Dog turns with interest to the drama unfolding at the next station and inwardly thanks Jake ‘The Snake’ Calhoun for turning up on his doorstep this morning. The man was a weasel but if he hadn’t tried to sell him the stolen meat then it could be his family going without. How many of the other stations were running out too?
A narrow box, its flaps still folded, sits beneath the barbecue of the closing station.
“There’s another box.” A balding man with a t-shirt that barely covers his belly as it overhangs his jeans, stabs at the unopened box at the cook’s feet.
“That’s been put aside.”
“Put aside?”
“Yes. Sam’s orders.”
“Who’s it for, Nigel?” Mad Dog shouts across to the cook.
“We’re starving.”
Nigel ignores Mad Dog’s question. “Sorry. I can’t let you have it.”
“For who?” Mad Dog repeats, recognising the apprehension in the man’s eyes. Something wasn’t quite right.
Nigel’s eyes catch his then flit back to the grille. He throws himself into scraping away the greasy residue of cooked flesh.
“Yeah,” a voice from the crowd pipes up. “For who?”
The cook clenches his jaw. “It’s not my decision. I’m just here to cook.” His cheeks stain to pink.
Mad Dog frowns. Why won’t he give a straight answer?
“It’ll be for Sam.”
“Well, he needs feeding too.”
The crowd settles as they decide that the meat must be for Sam, or the Protectors.
“They’ve done a good job. They deserve it.”
“I’m chuffing starving though.”
“Mummy. Are we getting food?”
“Not here, sweetheart.”
The child begins to cry. A single sausage remains on Mad Dog’s grille.
“Here!” He grabs for the sausage, pinching it between tongs, and holds it up.
“I’ll have it.” A small man, dark hair flat against his forehead, pushes forward, hand grasping.
Mad Dog draws the sausage back, suppressing he urge to slap at the man’s hand with the steel tongs. “It’s for the kid,” he growls. “Here, missus,” he calls to the mother. “Let the little one have this. It from Henson’s. Proper Lincolnshire sausage.” He places it on a serviette and hands it to the woman.
“Thank you.”
Gill’s arm slides across his back. “And that’s why I love you.” She reaches up to kiss his cheek. He smiles down at her and winks; he was on a promise tonight!
“So who is the meat for?” Shauna steps beside them. “There’s something fishy about this, Jack. Nigel was lying. Did you see it in his eyes?”
“Yep,” Jack agrees.
“So who’s it for, Nigel?” Shauna shouts across at the cook. He doesn’t stand a chance now that Shauna’s got her teeth into him.
Nigel turns to her with startled eyes. Jack can’t help snort as an old memory surfaces. Shauna really will sink her teeth into this one. They had history, a torrid, passionate and, if he remembers correctly, illegitimate, and ultimately, violent, history, and Nigel hadn’t been the one swinging the punches.
“Sam said-”
“You already said ‘Sam said’,” she continues. Nigel flinches but ignores her and stares down at the grille, scraping at the metal with an intense focus to detail that would have been laudable in any other situation. Coward. Jack’s attention on the scene is total. Shauna continues her inquisition. “You said Sam told you to put it aside, but who is it put aside for?”
Mad Dog recognises the tone of Shauna’s voice. It was one he’d come up against too many times as a kid—her complete determination to find out the truth. Once she had you between her teeth she was like a terrier—she’d shake you till your neck broke, or rather you spilt the beans. He’d always thought she’d missed her vocation; she’d have made a good interrogator—like the ones on the telly that have to ‘work’ at the perps to get them to confess. Or perhaps some government secret service that tortured its victims until they cracked. He chuckles as she steps forward. Nigel didn’t stand a chance against his sister.
Shauna takes another step closer, too close for Nigel’s comfort, and Jack watches with fascination as he wheedles, prevaricates, then caves in under her unrelentingly aggressive questioning. The crowd has quieted as it listens. “They’re for the men at the police station.”
“The men?” Shauna takes a step closer to him. The rage in her voice is clipped and taut. “Which men?”
Mad Dog knows the answer. Nigel’s efforts to hide the truth have made it crystal clear. “The terrorists, Shauna. He means the terrorists.”
“Is that right?” Shauna prods a sharp fingernail into Nigel’s chest. His face is flushed to puce.
“Yes.” His voice is little more than a whisper.
“Say it louder.” Shauna shouts over the crowd. “Let everyone hear who the meat is for.” She stands inches from his face. “Who is the food for?” The crowd waits.
The lump at the base of his throat bobs. “It’s for the men-”
“Say it right! They’re not men. Tell the truth.”
“It’s for the terrorists.”
“Louder. Shout it so they can hear.” Shauna prods a precisely manicured purple fingernail at the crowd. Their attention complete, they listen in silence.
“Terrorists,” he shouts. “It’s for the terrorists.”
“You mean to tell me.” Shauna pauses for effect. “That food is being kept from starving children,�
�� she jabs her finger at the crowd, singling out a man with his child held tight in his arms, the child’s face buried against his neck, “to be given to a load of evil bastards that came here to kill us?”
“Sam’s orders.” Nigel’s voice is low, his cheeks flushed.
“Fireman Sam!” she spits. “Who is he to say who gets fed?”
“He’s done a bloody good job in protecting us and he’s organised this whole barbecue,” Nigel blurts back. “He’s the one who convinced the butchers and the shops to hand over the food.” His defiance is a brief spark extinguished as Shauna continues.
“He’s the one who brought them right into the town. Now we’re all living in fear in case they break out and murder us whilst we sleep.”
“They’re locked up.”
“They’re ready to break out and murder us. He shouldn’t have brought them into the town.”
Shauna reaches down to grab the box of meat. Nigel intercepts. “No. Sam said-”
Jack takes control. “I’m not interested in what Sam said,” he growls and takes a step closer to the cook.
“Take it!” Nigel jumps back, flinching at Jack’s looming face, and throws the spatula onto the grille as though it is suddenly white hot. It lands with a clink against the hot grille and flips to the dry grass.
As Shauna flips open the box of layered steaks, and the crowd gathers to look inside, shouts erupt in the background. “There’s enough to feed fifty people here.”
Discontent grumbles as men jostle to look into the box of layered steaks. “He’s giving them rump steak.”
“They should be on gruel.”
“He’s a traitor bringing them into the town and protecting them.”
“They should be starved.”
“Prisoners have rights.”
“You’re taking the piss. They’ve come here to kill us. They should be hung.”
“Fireman bloody Sam, lefty-do-gooder.”
“It’s liberal idiots like him that’ve ruined our country.”
Thud! An arm swings, fist curled tight, and punches. The apologist falls with a thud to the floor, knocking over a woman and child. She screams and lands against another man. He knocks into another who drops his steak to the ground. Jack watches as in less than three seconds the crowd becomes a heaving mass of jostling angry men and women, pushing, shoving, and punching at each other.
“Watch out!” The crowd surges as people attempt to move out of the way of the men and women now fighting in earnest.
If Sam hadn’t brought those animals into the town then this wouldn’t be happening. “Forget the meat.” Mad Dog growls as a woman screams, falls back and knocks into a large barbecue. “It’s the terrorists we need to sort.”
The woman’s scream intensifies as hot coals tumble to the grass, catching her forearm and her skirt as they fall.
“Forget the meat? No way. It needs cooking—there’s kiddies here who are starving.”
“Look at this mess, Shauna,” Mad Dog jabs at the chaotic scene. “The terrorists have got what they want—these people are terrified.”
The woman jumps away from the fallen barbecue, patting at her skirt as someone bats at the smoking grass with a jacket.
“It’s all that Sam’s fault. Go sort it, Jack.”
Passing the spatula to Shauna he steps from behind the grille and slaps a hand on Ryan’s back. “Get everyone together, we’re going to pay the terrorists a visit.” A tight smile breaks across his face as excitement begins to pump through his blood. Sam may not have the bollocks to finish off those murderous bastards but Jack’s were big enough for the both of them; they didn’t call him ‘Mad Dog’ for nothing. His fists flex as he imagines grabbing one of the vile dogs and ripping it apart with his bare hands.
Chapter 11
Bill scans the area as he takes another bite of steak. It’s the best he has ever tasted and his mouth waters as he chews, his body ravenous for the next bite.
“Hell, I was hungry. No offence Jessie, but living on dried fruit and nuts is just not for me.”
“Don’t forget the tinned Irish stew,” she laughs.
“I will never forget that tin of Irish stew,” he replies with a grimace.
“I’ve also got a Fray Bentos pie.”
“Now you’re talking.” He laughs again through a mouthful of chewed meat. “I thought they’d stopped making those in the eighties.”
“Nope.”
“You got a supply of industrial strength can openers then?”
She laughs. “Yes, I do. Anyway, only numpties can’t open them.”
A group of men push past through the crowds catching Bill’s attention. “Twelve o’clock,” he says to Jessie. “Check out that group.”
He watches as the group, headed by a man who rivals Uri in height and breadth, leads the way through the crowds towards the park’s main entrance.
“Looks like they’re on a mission.”
“It does. Hazzer!” Hazzer grunts through a mouthful of meat. “The bloke over there—the big one—black t-shirt, black hair, built like a brick shithouse.” Bill points to the huge figure as it passes through the gates. “What can you tell me about him?”
“That’s Jack ‘Mad Dog’ Docherty. Local hard man.”
“Is he?”
“Hard as they come.”
“Criminal?”
“Just low-level stuff. Likes to throw himself around now and then but not been in real trouble for a good few years. The whole family are a bit lairy, mind. Most locals know not to get in their way.”
Bill watches as the group disappear through the park’s entrance.
“Any idea where they’d be going in such a hurry?”
“No idea. I’m not about to go and find out neither; he’s earned his name.”
“Mad Dog?”
“Yeah. If you ever saw him in a fight you’d see why.”
“Right.”
The group of men disappears.
“Mind you,” Hazzer continues, “it’s his sister that’s the scary one. Nigel’ll tell you all about that. Bruised and battered he was and they were only seeing each other behind his wife’s back.”
A scream forces Bill’s attention away from the road beyond the gates, and Hazzer’s tale of extra-marital domestic violence, and back to the interior of the park. Black smoke plumes upwards.
“Fire!”
“Has one of the barbecues caught light?”
The smoke thickens.
Bill scans the jostling crowd.
People near the flames turn and force themselves through the gathered crowd, slow to realise what’s happening and still waiting to join the queues. Screams erupt as the fire takes hold and begins to spread through the grass. Flames lick at the edges of a tarmacked pathway and leap into a tree. The grass is parchment dry after a hot and rainless summer. Even the thunderstorm that had raged only the other day hadn’t relieved the scorched earth. Fire jumps to a low shrub. Red and orange flames flicker and the air moves with the heat.
Screams and shouts of ‘run!’ erupt as people at the outer edges of the crowd realise what is happening. Some watch confused. One man reaches for his phone and holds it up before realising the power is still out. Suddenly the whole park is moving as the smoke blackens and the fire spreads. Embers float, rising in an eddying swirl on the super-heated air.
“Where’s Sam?”
“Last I saw he was talking with Martha near the museum, but that was ten minutes ago.”
“Bill,” Hazzer asks, “what do we do?”
“Evacuate the people and find something to put the fire out with,”
“The museum should have fire extinguishers,” Jessie suggests.
“There were only two. Sam checked earlier,” Hazzer replies. “He took them and had them put near the biggest barbecues.” He jabs in the direction of the main barbecue area.
“Good man. Hazzer, stay calm and guide these people out.” He pats his shoulder and turns to Jessie just as Sam appears at
the corner of the museum. Hands on hips, Sam stares out at the chaos. Bill waves his arms high, catching his attention. “Sam!” he shouts but the man seems bewildered. Come on! Get your act together. As Bill waves and shouts again, Jessie runs towards the museum, and Hazzer cups his hands around his mouth, takes a deep breath and bellows. “Make your way to the carpark and out of the gates.”
Sam’s heart thuds with a sickening tattoo against his chest. The park is filled with black and twisting smoke, shouts and screaming. The twisted flesh along his side and neck runs with pain. He swallows, overwhelmed by the moment. Someone calls his name, but the voice is at the periphery of the black smoke and screams smothering his senses. A hand taps hard on his shoulder.
“Sam! Sam!” The tap becomes a thump as the voice shouts into his ear.
“Martha-”
“The fire extinguishers, Sam. Get them.”
‘Take a breath. Nice and calm.’
Martha pushes at his shoulder. “You gave them to Mike and Helen.” Insistent, she tugs at his sleeve.
‘Breath in. Breath out. Calm. That’s right, Sam. Feel the calm around you.’
A woman trips just feet away.
“Mum!”
A new strength takes control and without thought Sam steps forward, crouches to the woman, puts a protective arm around her shoulders and helps her to stand. “Make your way to the carpark then out through the gates.” His voice is steady, strong with authority. She thanks him quickly, slides an arm across her son’s shoulder, then moves on at a slower pace towards the exit.
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