A Fistful of Knuckles

by Tom Graham

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Tyler, it’s just a bit of fisticuffs!’

  Patsy hurled Chalky’s head down hard against the floor, then jumped on it with both feet. Blood snorted from Chalky’s nostrils.

  And that, it seemed, was that. Panting, heaving, the saliva swinging in gloopy ropes from his slack mouth, Patsy glared about at the cheering crowd, all humanity extinguished from his burning eyes. He raised his arms and began to parade around the workshop, exultant and victorious.

  Gene kept his grip on Sam, snarled at him: ‘Wait! We’ll get him after. Not here. After.’

  ‘I don’t have to take your orders anymore, Hunt. I resigned, remember?’

  ‘No. I don’t remember. Must be getting older.’

  As Patsy completed a triumphal circuit of the workshop, Sam looked across at the mushy heap that was Chalky. It lay still for a while, then, at last, began to move. With heroic effort, the man dragged himself, dripping and bleeding, to his feet – then slithered back down to the floor, senseless and exhausted.

  And then, to Sam’s surprise, and to Gene’s too, Stella appeared like an administering angel. She was still panting from the orgasmic pleasures of the fight, but now she crouched down beside Chalky and began attending to him, clearing the blood from his mouth and nose with a cloth, supporting his head with her hand, offering him sips of water from a bottle. She looked up at Sam, and then at Gene, and, raising her voice to be heard over the racket of cheering men, she said: ‘Don’t just stand there, gorgeous. Give us a hand.’

  In a filthy, windowless room adjoining the workshop, beneath the hard light of a single naked bulb, Sam and Gene carried Chalky in and sat him in a chair. Stella gently cupped the man’s swollen cheek with her hand.

  ‘Still with us, Ben?’ she asked.

  Chalky – or rather, Ben – mumbled inaudibly. He could barely move his mouth, and he couldn’t open his eyes at all.

  ‘Good boy,’ said Stella, and she stroked him tenderly. ‘I’ll see you’re okay.’

  From the workshop next door, the shouts and cries of the excited crowd echoed in.

  ‘This here one of your boys is it?’ asked Gene. ‘You told me you were legit.’

  ‘I am,’ said Stella. ‘But boys like Ben need to make money where they can. Or try to.’

  ‘What’s your connection to Patsy O’Riordan?’ Sam asked.

  ‘This isn’t the most convenient time for an interview,’ Stella replied. But then she sighed and said: ‘There isn’t any connection. I was here to keep an eye on my boy.’

  ‘And to get your kinky kicks watching it,’ put in Gene.

  ‘A girl’s business is her own.’ Then Stella thought for a moment, and said in a low voice: ‘Why are you asking about O’Riordan? Is he a suspect?’

  ‘That’s classified information,’ said Gene, puffing out his chest self-importantly. ‘And since you’re still a suspect, luv, and a filthy mare, it’s got chuff all to do with you.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Hunt,’ said Stella. ‘We’ve had good times together.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself, Grandma,’ growled Gene. ‘Stay here and play Florence Nightingale with what’s left of your toyboy. Me and gormless here have got a murder enquiry to be getting on with.’

  He went to the door and looked out into the workshop beyond. Men were sorting out their winnings, arguing over monies owed, finishing off their lager or else pissing it out against the walls. There was no sign of Patsy O’Riordan.

  ‘I’m not bloody losing him!’ intoned Gene urgently. ‘Let’s roll, Tyler. Come on, move yourself!’

  ‘I’ve told you, Gene, I’m against nicking O’Riordan until we’ve got a case against him.’

  ‘Five minutes ago you were shoving your way towards him shouting Stop, police!’

  ‘Yes, I was. It was instinct, Gene. Seeing that lad getting a pasting, I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘Tyler,’ said Gene, looking seriously into Sam’s eyes. ‘Don’t muck about. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.’

  Sam stared back at him, narrowed his eyes, and at last said: ‘I don’t think you do.’

  Gene raised himself to his full height, glared momentarily at Sam, then swept out through the door. Sam knew at once that he was going after O’Riordan, that he was mad enough to try and nick him all by himself, and that nothing – least of the protestations of Sam Tyler – would swerve him from his course of action.

  ‘You gonna let your guv’nor go into battle all by himself?’ asked Stella, looking up at him with glittering eyes.

  ‘This place …’ growled Sam. ‘Biggest open-air asylum in the world!’

  Gritting his teeth with rage, he barged through the door in pursuit of Gene Hunt.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: CAN THE CAN

  Sam strode briskly across the now-deserted workshop, stepping nimbly over the trails of drying urine staining the hard floor.

  ‘Guv! Wait!’

  Gene had already reached the far side of the workshop and was disappearing through a tall set of metal doors.

  ‘Hold up, Guv! Think about what you’re doing!’

  As Sam rushed forward, his foot came down on a fat gobbet of blood still wet and glistening after the fight. He skidded, lost his balance, and went down hard on the concrete floor. The impact shot a bolt of pain up his spine and set his bruised jaw throbbing. For several moments, he sat there, one hand hovering over his jaw, his face set in a grimace of agony, unable to move.

  Panting and groaning, Sam at last managed to haul himself laboriously back onto his feet. But by now Gene had disappeared. Cursing his guv’nor under his breath, he limped across the workshop to the metal doors and looked out into a gloomy courtyard littered with old packing crates and a crumpled heap of beige sacking. There was still no sign of Gene.

  ‘Damn it, Hunt. Damn you!’

  Sam headed out into the shadowy courtyard, making for a corrugated metal gate that was the only way Gene could have gone. It was just as he reached it that a huge figure loomed out of the darkness, grabbed hold of him and hurled him to the ground. A burst of shattering pain ripped through Sam’s jaw. He cried out – but even as he did, a boot slammed into his stomach and knocked the air clear out of his lungs. Sam found himself writhing on the floor, doubled up and gasping hopelessly for breath.

  ‘Who is it?’ came a rough voice from across the yard.

  ‘Dunno,’ answered the slab-like man who now stood over Sam, pinning him to the ground beneath his boot. ‘Just some fella.’

  Heaving and moaning, Sam fought to draw scraps of oxygen into his collapsed lungs. His vision swam. He told himself: you will not pass out – you will NOT pass out – damn it, damn it, you will not pass out! With effort, he angled his head to look up at the man who had him trapped. He saw battered jeans, a checked shirt, massive forearms, an unruly black moustache, and a wild mop of shoulder length hair framing a hard, flat face.

  ‘He don’t look up to much,’ Moustache-man grinned down at him.

  ‘Check him for a shooter,’ the other voice called across.

  Moustache-man roughly shoved his hands inside Sam’s jacket and fumbled about.

  He’ll find my police ID, Sam thought. And then what? How will he react when he finds I’m a copper?

  Thrusting his hand into Sam’s inside pocket, Moustache-man pulled out the ID in its leather case.

  ‘What you got?’ the other man called across to him.

  ‘Nuffing,’ Moustache-man announced. ‘Just a wallet.’

  ‘Leave it for Patsy,’ ordered the other man. ‘Just so long as this little runt ain’t got no tricks up his sleeve, that’s all that counts.’

  He didn’t even bother to look inside, Sam thought as the badge was shoved back inside his jacket. They’re not interested in my money. This isn’t a mugging.

  Now Sam could see that at the far end of the courtyard was another figure, just as huge as Moustache-man, but sporting a ponytail tied with a grubby red ribbon. He took hold of the mound of beige coloured sa
cking and began hauling it up. It was then that Sam realized that it wasn’t sacking at all – it was Gene. He caught a glimpse of Hunt’s face, his eyes closed and his mouth slack, before Ponytail threw him over his shoulder and strode across to the corrugated iron gate.

  ‘Bring ‘im,’ he barked, and Moustache-man reached down and grabbed Sam in his iron-like grip.

  Sam kicked out, aiming to drive his heel into Moustache-man’s crotch, but missed, catching his muscle-packed thigh instead. Drawing on every ounce of strength, Sam tried to scramble away, reaching wildly for a heap of broken crates, hoping to grab some chunk of wood and fight his way out. But at once he felt those powerful hands slam down on him, dragging his arms behind his back and immobilizing him. Agonizingly, he was dragged to his feet. Sam felt the rough bristles of the man’s moustache prickling against his cheek.

  ‘You like that I break your arms, boy? Eh? You like that?’

  Moustache-man increased the pressure. Sam felt his arms being forced remorselessly further and still further up his back. Bones strained. Tendons screamed.

  ‘Don’t say much, do ya. But you will. You and your mate, we’ll get you talking. You’ll tell us who sent ya and what you’re after. And when we’re done,’ – he pressed his stinking mouth even closer to Sam’s face like he was about to kiss him – ‘I’ll snap you in ‘alf like a Twiglet, you slag.’

  Never had Sam heard the word Twiglet used as a threat before.

  The man wrenched Sam’s arms viciously. Sam’s eyes were screwed up with the pain, but he felt himself being frog-marched roughly across the yard, then across hard concrete. Forcing his eyes open, he glimpsed Patsy O’Riordan’s monstrous, heavily inked face, with its glittering, wolf-like eyes. Patsy peered at him, scrutinizing Sam pitilessly.

  ‘I know ‘im,’ he growled, still panting and snorting from the exertion of the fight. ‘I’ve seen this twat before.’

  He must have glimpsed me in the crowd when Chris ended up in the ring with him. He’s smarter than he looks … more alert … quicker-witted …

  ‘What shall we do wivvum, Patsy?’

  ‘Sling ‘em both in the back.’

  The next thing Sam knew, he was being thrown like a sack of potatoes into the back of the van. The only thing that cushioned the impact was Gene’s motionless body. Landing on him like this, Sam found the guv was surprisingly soft.

  The van door slammed and the bolt was thrown. More doors slammed, the engine growled into life, and the van roared off.

  ‘Guv? Guv, can you hear me …?’

  Gene’s eyes were still closed. The only movement he gave came from the rocking and bouncing of the van.

  ‘Guv?’

  A huge bruise, the colour of a ripe plum, was spreading slowly across Gene’s temple. There was something particularly unnerving to see him in such a state, and Sam realized that he had unconsciously come to think of Gene as somehow indestructible.

  He isn’t indestructible. He’s flesh and blood like the rest of us. Cut him, and he bleeds. Clobber him hard enough, and down he goes.

  Sam felt for a pulse and found one. The guv’s strong heart was still pounding away. But how long would he be out cold like this? And what the hell did O’Riordan and his two lackeys have in store for them?

  They must have clocked Gene steaming after them and thought he was sent by some underworld rival. It’s like Stella said, that’s what their world is like – it’s all violence, vengeance and betrayal. They expect trouble – anywhere, and at any time. What will they do when they discover we’re coppers? Will that make things better … or worse?

  The van accelerated, hurtled round corner after corner, then seemed to leave the road and go bouncing and dipping across rough ground. Sam heard distorted music blaring out over huge speakers. It was Suzi Quatro, belting out Can the Can over the screams of kids on the centrifuge and the waltzer. The van picked its way, slower now, around the outskirts of the fair, then came to a stop. Sam heard O’Riordan, Moustache-man and Ponytail bundle out of the front, head round the back, and throw open the bolt on the doors.

  He shot a glance at Gene, lying there with his mouth slack and his eyes closed. For the first time since pitching up here in 1973, Sam saw the guv as helpless and vulnerable. He was as defenseless as a sleeping child. Whatever O’Riordan and his heavies had in store for them, it was up to Sam to see that Gene Hunt came to no harm.

  I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do to get us out of this … but damn it all, Gene, I expect you to bloody well appreciate it!

  The van doors clanged open and a trio of muscle-bound monsters filled the opening. They were silhouetted against the evening sky and the crazy kaleidoscope of the fairground lights.

  ‘One of em’s awake, at least.’

  ‘He’ll wish he weren’t soon enough.’

  ‘Get ‘em both out. And if that streak of piss in the leather jacket makes a move, open ‘im right up like a can of beans.’

  The men bundled in and grabbed him, dragging him out and throwing him down into the cold, wet mud. Struggling up, Sam was gripped and hauled. He glimpsed Gene, hanging like a slab of beef over Ponytail’s shoulder, being carried away. He opened his mouth to protest – Hey you! Bring that man back here! He’s my DCI! – but a fist clouted the side of his head, shutting him up. As fresh waves of pain coursed through his body, Sam glared this way and that, trying to orient himself as to where the hell he was. The fairground was away to his right, all lights and music and excited screams. So – he had been brought to the very fringes of it and set down amid the power generators, snaking cables, parked vehicles and trucks and caravans, away from the eyes of the public, in the private domain of the fairground travellers themselves.

  Sam caught one last glimpse of Gene being carried away like a dead deer, then he was shoved roughly forward. His hands and knees sank into the boggy ground. As he lifted his head, he heard a growl – a deep, dark, animal growl, horribly close to his face. He froze, not daring to move anything but his eyes. He saw a monstrous set of paws clawing at the wet mud, then a set of slavering jaws, then a pair of glowering, hungry eyes. The Rottweiler strained and snarled, held at bay by the heavy chain padlocked to its neck.

  ‘Say hello to Princess,’ intoned Patsy, hunkering down beside the ferocious animal and roughly slapping its taut haunches. He turned his inhuman, painted face towards Sam and bared his teeth in what might have been a grin, or a leer. He looked even more bestial and uncivilized than the Rottweiler. ‘Princess don’t like blokes who come rushing out of the shadows after me. And neither do I.’

  Princess snapped and snarled. Sam flinched. Moustache-man laughed.

  Sam glanced anxiously about, still on his hands and knees. He could see now that Princess was tethered outside a caravan which was presumably what Patsy called home. It seemed barely big enough to contain such a huge, ogre-like man.

  ‘On your feet, son,’ Patsy ordered.

  Slowly, Sam obeyed. Princess bayed and snapped until Patsy barked roughly at her to shart arp! The beast glowered, fell silent, but continued to bare her fangs.

  ‘Right then,’ said Patsy. ‘I’ve seen your dopey face before, haven’t I.’

  ‘I came to the fair the other night,’ Sam said. ‘I saw you fight.’

  ‘And now you’ve come to see me fight again. Who sent you?’

  ‘Nobody sent us.’

  ‘Bollocks. You and your oppo thought you could jump me after the fight – you thought I’d be shagged out and knackered, didn’t you. DIDN’T YOU!’

  Patsy roared these words. Rage coursed like lava through his bloodstream. His ugly face distorted demonically; he clenched his narrow, bony fists and fiercely pounded his chest like a gorilla, bellowing wordlessly, more like an animal than a human being. Then he fell silent, breathing hard through his flattened nose, and glared at Sam as if he was about to pounce on him and devour him. It was like being in the presence of a grizzly bear.

  ‘Who are you?’ Patsy growled.

 
Sam hesitated. Would admitting to being a copper make things better or worse for him and Gene? Maybe he had no choice; if they went through Gene’s pockets, they’d soon find his police ID badge.

  Fixing his gaze on Patsy, Sam drew up all his courage, stuck out his chest, and said: ‘My name’s DI Tyler – Sam Tyler – CID, A-Division. And that man you’ve just carried away is my DCI.’

  O’Riordan laughed – a repellant, wheezy, gurgling sound, like the noise of gas bubbles bursting in a clogged sewer. ‘Rozzers! They’re rozzers!’

  Moustache-man joined in the laughter, and this in turn set off Princess, who howled and yapped until Patsy clouted her round the head and silenced her.

  ‘Yes, we’re police officers,’ Sam announced, determined to gain some degree of authority here amongst these men. ‘And you lads are in serious trouble. Assaulting an officer – two officers – and obstructing them in the pursuit of their duty. Abduction. Unlawful imprisonment. And while we’re at it, I’ve a mind to see your license for the possession of a domestic dog, Mr O’Riordan – if you have one.’

  ‘You got a way with words, bud. That’s good. A man should be able to express himself – one way or another.’

  Patsy puffed himself up, straining the fabric of the white tee-shirt that encased his massive torso. Sam could make out the dark, vague forms of the many tattooed eyes and daggers and demons and houris beneath it.

  ‘You thought we were going to attack you,’ said Sam. ‘You thought we were working for some underworld character with a grudge against you, didn’t you.’

  Amused at his language, Patsy slapped his massive thigh: ‘Underworld character! Yeah, you’re a copper all right! But what sort of copper, I wonder?’

  ‘I told you – I’m a Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  Patsy stopped laughing, very suddenly, and loomed over Sam, peering at him intently, sniffing him slowly the way a lion would. Up close, his tattoos looked less like ink than rotten, gangrenous veins threading through his sandpaper skin. Sam could see the red welts left by Ben’s knuckles around his eyes and mouth, crusts of dried blood lodged in the nostrils of the spongy mass of his broken nose, and – somehow, most horrible of all – the misshapen, featureless hole on the side of his head that bore witness to Spider’s ineptitude as a hitman all those years ago. Patsy was a walking catalogue of violence and pain – and yet, burning out of the battered, painted face were the fiercest eyes Sam had ever seen, unbroken, undefeated, utterly defiant, and malignantly cunning.