A Fistful of Knuckles

by Tom Graham

  ‘Spider! Wait up! It’s okay, I only want to …’

  Suddenly, Spider span round, his eyes blazing, his face fierce. Up went his fists, one tucked beneath his chin, the other circling the air just in front of his face. A livid red light fell across him from the flashing fairground bulbs; just for a moment, he seemed to be spattered in blood.

  Sam took a step back, his hands raised palms outward.

  ‘Whoa there, Spider. Easy. I just want to speak to you …’

  Spider stayed exactly as he was, poised to fight. The only thing that changed was the colour of the light that dappled him. It went from blood red to electric blue, then to a flickering lemon yellow, then to a slowly pulsing pale green.

  ‘You remember me?’ said Sam, keeping very still, determined not to provoke him into lashing out with those lethal fists of his. ‘I came to the gym. My DCI behaved like a dick, but I’m different. All I want is to talk to you. Please – Spider – put your fists down.’

  The framework of scaffolding about them lurched and rattled. Overhead, the rollercoaster thundered by on its tracks, screaming and whooping as it went. The structure shook, the planks creaked, the feeble-looking blocks and wedges upon which the whole edifice stood groaned and shifted.

  ‘Jesus, this place is a death trap!’ Sam muttered, flinching as if he expected it all to come crashing down on top of them. ‘Spider – please – let’s talk, but not here, yeah?’

  ‘Ain’t nothing to talk about,’ Spider grunted at him through gritted teeth. He kept his boxer’s fists in place. ‘You want to nick me? Then go ahead and try.’

  ‘Spider, I told you, I just want to talk. I’m a police officer pursuing a murder – you’re a close personal acquaintance of the victim – it’s hardly surprising that I’m going to want to talk to you, is it! Now please – put your fists down.’

  Sam waited, giving Spider the time and space to make up his own mind what to do next. The rollercoaster rocketed overhead once again, rattling every scaffold tube and straining every plank.

  Slowly, Spider relaxed his pose.

  ‘Thank you!’ sighed Sam. ‘Now come on. Let’s get out of here before this shit-heap comes down around our ears. I’ll buy you a toffee apple somewhere and we can talk.’

  ‘No. You want to talk, we talk here.’

  ‘I’d really prefer we went for that toffee apple, Spider. It doesn’t feel very safe here.’

  ‘You don’t feel safe?!’ spat Spider, sneering. ‘Is that what you’re used to feeling, is it? Safe?! Safe and ruddy sound, is that what you’re used to?’

  ‘We spoke to Stella from the gym,’ said Sam. ‘She told us things have been tough for you.’

  ‘Not so tough as they’ve been for Denzil lately,’ Spider growled back.

  ‘That’s why I’m here. I want to find out who killed him.’

  ‘And so you came straight after me.’

  Spider’s hands were at his sides now, but as he walked slowly towards Sam he gave off an aura of menace and violence even more overbearing than when he had raised his fists. Stray shafts of coloured light fell across the spider tattoo on his neck, bathing it in all the hues of the rainbow. Sam forced himself not to give ground. The insane lights filtering through from above shifted and changed, spraying them both with shimmering specks of restless purple.

  ‘Knock it off, Spider,’ Sam said, sounding tougher than he felt. ‘I just need to talk. I’m not accusing you of anything.’

  ‘I don’t care what you think,’ breathed Spider, positioning himself directly in front of Sam, eyeball to eyeball, almost nose to nose. ‘This business, it ain’t nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Grow up, Spider.’ Sam maintained eye contact. He refused to be intimidated, not by Spider’s overbearing presence, not by the awful spider tattoo across his throat, not even by the rickety rollercoaster that went crashing by once more, setting everything creaking and rattling. ‘Why’d you come to the fairground tonight, eh? Who were you looking for?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘You were looking for Patsy O’Riordan, weren’t you.’

  ‘I said I weren’t looking for no one.’

  ‘You think Patsy killed Denzil. Don’t you. And that’s why you came here.’

  ‘How am I going to persuade you to keep your nose out of this business, eh?’

  Menacingly, Spider raised a fist slowly and laid it against Sam’s chin. The span of his knuckles was huge, more like a sledgehammer than a human fist. Far, far bigger than the three-inch knuckle span of the man who beat Denzil Obi to death in his grotty little bedsit.

  ‘Denzil Obi was beaten to death,’ said Sam. ‘His assailant had small hands. Much smaller than yours, Spider.’

  ‘That won’t stop you pinning it on me, though, will it?’

  ‘I’m not here to pin anything on anyone. I’m here to find the man who killed Denzil Obi. And I think, Spider, that makes two of us.’

  Without warning, Spider shoved Sam away. Stumbling backward, Sam fell against a set of spindly scaffold tubes. He could feel these slender metal rods thrumming dangerously with the fierce, wild energy of the rollercoaster they bore.

  Spider lashed out, but instead of aiming at Sam, he drove his right fist into the scaffold supports. Then he did the same with his left fist.

  ‘Spider! Jesus! For God’s sake!’

  Slam! Slam! Spider powered his huge fists, one after the other, into the feeble framework that held everything up.

  Sam grabbed at him, trying to pull this madman away before he got them, and the screaming thrill-seekers tearing by overhead, all killed.

  But Spider turned fiercely on him, his eyes blazing: ‘What’s the matter? Not feeling safe? Eh? You frightened them poles are going to give out? You frightened of what might come down on your head any second?’ For a moment, his words were drowned by the clamour and roar of the rollercoaster. He grabbed Sam by the lapels of his jacket. ‘Now you know how it feels!’

  Spider’s throat was working convulsively, working the legs of the spider tattoo, giving the ink an illusion of life. He seemed on the verge of tears.

  This man is having some sort of breakdown, Sam thought. All he’s ever known is violence and the threat of violence and a hand-to-mouth career made out of violence. And with Denzil dead, he’s lost his only friend in the whole world. No – it’s more than that. He’s lost his only connection with humanity. He’s completely alone. He has nothing. Nothing – except revenge.

  ‘I won’t lie to you, Spider. Right now I’m scared.’

  Spider sneered at him.

  But Sam added: ‘I’m scared you’re going to do something really stupid. I’m scared you’re going to go gunning for Patsy O’Riordan, and that you’re going to force us, Spider, force us to arrest you for it. Damn it, Spider, I want Denzil’s murderer behind bars, not you! Think, Spider! You want justice for Denzil? Then work with us! Together, we can nail the killer. We can nail him, Spider, so he goes down for thirty years to life. That’s justice – not you running around like a one-man lynch mob. Help us, Spider. Help me.’

  The next thing Sam knew, he was being thrown roughly aside. Spider bolted back out into the crowd. By the time Sam found his feet and set off after him, he was gone.

  ‘Sam! There you are!’

  It was Annie, running him to, panting.

  ‘Did Spider go racing by you just then, Annie?’

  ‘If he did, I missed him. Sam, are you all right?’

  ‘You didn’t see where he went? Damn it, we’ve lost him!’

  ‘We’ve lost him, Sam – but look who we’ve found instead.’

  She indicated ahead of them at a crudely painted sign suspended above the crowd. It read:

  YOUR CHANCE TO FACE

  THE LEGENDARY BARE-KNUCKLE FIGHTER

  * * * PATSY ‘HAMMER HANDS’ O’RIORDAN * * *

  LAST ONE ROUND, WIN TEN POUND!!!

  ARE YOU MAN ENOUGH????

  An eager crowd of young men jostled around the makeshift boxing
ring, keen to impress their mates and girlfriends, trying to nerve themselves to take on the challenge and face Patsy ‘Hammer Hands’ O’Riordan. Sam and Annie joined the crush, straining to catch sight of Patsy himself. At first, there was no sign of him – the ring was empty – but then, to a great cheer from the crowd, a rather scrawny young man leapt up, stripped off his shirt, and began strutting about, posturing and posing.

  ‘Is that him?’ asked Annie. ‘It’s not what I’d imagined.’

  But it wasn’t him. Patsy appeared moments later, ducking under the ropes, stepping into the ring, and rising himself up to full height. He presented himself arrogantly to the crowd.

  ‘Chuffin’ Nora …’ murmured the shirtless young man in the ring.

  ‘Flamin’ ‘eck …’ breathed Annie.

  ‘My God …’ whispered Sam.

  Everybody stared.

  CHAPTER SEVEN: LORD OF THE RING

  The first thing Sam saw was a monstrous, demonic face with glowing red eyes and slavering, bestial jaws streaming with fire and blood. This image of hell covered Patsy’s chest, tattooed into the latticework of scar-tissue that was his flesh. There were nicks and knocks, slashes and slits, grazes and gashes and great, gouged trenches, telling the story of a lifetime of pain and violence and blood and thuggery. Across his stomach sat three ghastly indentations – Sam knew at once that they were old bullet wounds – and these had been elaborately decorated with a trinity of tattooed women; naked, buxom, horned and horny, these she-devils caressed the wounds, pressed themselves sexily against them, made demonic love to them. Patsy had turned these old battle scars into proud trophies – more than that, he had turned them into depraved objects of lust. He was proud of his injuries. They were symbols of his manhood. They were a turn-on.

  My God … thought Sam, his blood running cold. I’ve seen that tattooed devil face before! I’ve seen it swimming up like a shark out of the darkest waters of my psyche.

  Patsy raised his arms and turned slowly, letting the crowd feast its eyes. The tattoos, like the scars, covered almost every inch of him – devils, skulls, snarling animals, naked women with bat’s wings and forked tails. A tattooed dagger pierced his left cheek and emerged, dripping blood, from his right. Around his neck was a tattooed noose. His bald head, shiny and hard as a bullet, was inked to give the illusion that his skull was cracked and fractured like shattered glass. Cunningly, his right ear had been tattooed to make it look as if it were ripped off entirely – until Sam realized that it was ripped off entirely, leaving nothing but a ragged, fleshy hole in the side of Patsy’s head. Patsy O’Riordan’s body was a walking monument to violence, lust and scar tissue.

  So this is the demon I’ve seen leering at me from the dark. But why? Why have I dreamed this terrible man?

  Sam recalled the photograph of Tracy Porter from Annie’s file. That slim, frail, hollow-cheeked girl was this ogre’s girlfriend. His girlfriend – and his punch bag. Looking at Patsy now, Sam thought that Tracy had got off lightly only to end up in A&E; a beating from Patsy could quite easily put her in the morgue. Why did she stay with such a creature? Was it fear that held her prisoner? Or did she – and this seemed inconceivable – did she actually love this man?

  God knows. But one thing’s for sure: if anyone could beat a man like Denzil Obi to death, it’s Patsy O’Riordan.

  Having shown himself to the crowd, Patsy turned to the boy who had offered himself as a challenger. They looked like creatures of different species; Patsy towered over the boy, his battered, ink-stained skin rippling, his eyes blazing more fearsomely than those of the devil-face on his chest.

  ‘What’s ya name, son?’ Patsy asked in a deep, low voice.

  The boy in the ring quailed, took a step back, forced himself not to flee.

  ‘… Stu.’

  ‘And you reckon you can go one round wiv me, Stu?’

  No, thought Sam. And he sensed that the crowd were thinking the very same thing. And so was Stu.

  But still the boy said: ‘Yeah, I reckon.’

  He had jumped into the ring, he had accepted the challenge. His mates were watching. There was no backing down now.

  Patsy nodded slowly and raised his fists. A tattooed scroll unfurling along his massive forearm read: abandon hope. Stu lifted two trembling fists in return.

  ‘O’Riordan’s a caveman!’ whispered Annie in Sam’s ear.

  ‘I don’t think he’s even evolved that far,’ Sam whispered back. ‘He’s going to batter that kid into next week!’

  ‘Didn’t that boy think twice before jumping up there?’

  Sam shrugged. Whatever it was that compelled men like those in the ring to seek out violence for the sake of it, he didn’t understand it.

  ‘Can you make out Patsy’s hands?’ he asked Annie. ‘How small are they? Three inches across the knuckles?’

  ‘Hard to say. They’re not huge, but …’

  ‘How can we get close enough to find out?’

  Before Annie could answer, a bell clanged. The round was on. The crowd roared as Stu lunged forward and threw a succession of rapid punches. He fought wildly, blindly, without style – an amateur brawler. His knuckles smacked against Patsy’s face. Patsy made no attempt to dodge, duck, or defend himself. He didn’t react. He didn’t even blink.

  Stu threw everything he had at Patsy, jumped back to give himself a breather, then hammered in again. The crowd went ballistic. But still, Patsy just stood there, his fists raised and unmoving, his eyes open and unblinking. It was like watching a young man fighting a statue.

  Suddenly, Sam caught a familiar face amid the crush of onlookers. It was Chris. He had managed to worm his way right up to the side of the ring and was trying to gauge the width of Patsy’s knuckles from a distance. He kept holding out his finger, trying to estimate how it compared to Patsy’s fists. He looked frankly ridiculous.

  ‘Chris, don’t be a bloody idiot …’ Sam muttered.

  But in the next moment, there was a sudden shift in the ring. Stu was rushing forward, throwing fast, blind punches, but this time Patsy sprang into life. With breathtaking speed he fired out his left fist, then his right, in quick succession, like pistons. Bash-bash! The first blow flung the boy’s head sharply to the side, the second lifted him clear off his feet. He landed flat on his back and lay motionless. A single tooth bounced to a stop on the canvas a few feet from him.

  Patsy turned away and rolled his shoulders. It wasn’t a victory – it had been a warm-up session, nothing more – a little light sparring to wake up his muscles. He glowered about at the yelling crowd, searching for a more worthy opponent.

  Stu’s mates clambered into the ring, but not to fight. They grabbed Stu’s senseless body and started dragging it away. As they did, Chris dived into the ring and pawed at Stu’s face, trying to measure his finger against the swelling bruises on the boy’s cheek and jaw.

  For God’s sake, Chris, don’t draw attention to yourself! Sam willed him silently.

  But it was too late.

  Patsy had spotted Chris and was striding towards him. As Stu’s mates hauled their fallen friend out of the ring, Chris tried to crawl away with them, but all at once he found his way blocked by a massive, tattooed leg. Chris’s nose bumped against Patsy’s kneecap; he slowly raised his eyes, looked up at Patsy’s thigh, his boxing shorts, the decorated bullet holes across his stomach, the devil face leering from his chest, until finally he made eye contact with Patsy himself.

  Very meekly, Chris said: ‘We could be friends.’

  Sam felt Annie tug at his arm.

  ‘Let’s get him out of there,’ she urged.

  ‘We mustn’t draw attention to ourselves,’ Sam replied, stopping her from rushing forward. ‘We’re supposed to be undercover.’

  ‘Sam, that monster’ll kill him!’

  ‘Chris isn’t up there to fight. He’ll jump out of the ring and run a mile, you’ll see.’

  Sam watched as Patsy grasped Chris by the shoulders and lifted him to his
feet.

  ‘My next opponent, is it?’ Patsy growled.

  ‘Who? Me?’ said Chris. And with exaggerated nonchalance he said: ‘Nah, I’m just some little fella.’

  ‘Ain’tcha man enough?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To face Hammer Hands O’Riordan.’

  An encouraging cheer went up from the crowd. Chris looked anxiously about, then seemed to take courage from the onlookers’ support. He shrugged Patsy’s hands away from his shoulder, straightened his knitted tank top, and said: ‘I can look after meself.’

  ‘Oh, Christ …’ muttered Sam.

  ‘Last one round, win ten pound,’ said Patsy. ‘Fink you can manage that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to ten quid,’ said Chris, cockily. ‘But … you know, I’m doing okay. I don’t need a tenner. And I’d hate to cause you an injury.’

  Sam covered his face with his hands. Was Chris fearless? Was he suicidal? Or was he just a berk?

  Patsy brought his ugly, tattooed face close to Chris’s and sniffed him, first one side, then the other, like a lion. Chris took a nervous step back. Patsy turned to the crowd, raised his voice and cried out: ‘He’s agreed to fight!’

  A roar went up. Chris’s face went white.

  ‘I never agreed to nuffing,’ he whined, and he appealed to the baying mob for support. ‘I’m good for a tenner, I don’t need the money!’

  But the crowd had taken up the chant now. Fight – fight – fight – fight!

  ‘We’ve got to stop this!’ said Sam, and he pushed forward, but the press of bodies was so tight now that he couldn’t get through.

  ‘Chris! Chris!’ called Annie, but her voice was swallowed up by the noise.

  Fight – fight – fight – fight!

  ‘Get ya stuff off, boy,’ Patsy said, looming over Chris. ‘Strip down, to the waist.’

  ‘I can’t, I got a wheezy cough,’ pleaded Chris.