by Cameron Bell
For a half-second I almost had him as he scrambled up to his feet, though in the next half-second he was able to stretch away; my short, injured legs no match for his long gait.
Further down Jon has made a break for it, he heads to us, the grey woman in close pursuit. She grabs a hold of the hood of the duffle coat and she spins him with velocity to the ground. With powerful strides Toni overtakes me, the head of the axe bobbing with derangement in her hand; and I have to dig deep to keep up. Jon gets to his feet and the woman pounces on his back dragging him to the ground like a savannah lion. Marcus makes a beeline for them, the distance opening up between us. Jon struggles to his knees, the woman's arms hooked around his hips, his bearded face a picture of anguish. Marcus closes in, deftly turning one hundred and eighty degrees in front of Jon and executing a snappy back hand hammer fist to the temple poleaxes the old man. Marcus steps back over Jon and raises the spade over his spread-eagled body, the blade poised as a guillotine above his throat.
The woman her hand fumbling in her trouser pocket retreats behind Marcus. Toni quick foots to a stop, her eyes darting between the kidnappers. I draw alongside her, feeling I want to nail him bad for sparking out a defenceless old man.
◆◆◆
“That's it hold yer horses,” says Marcus smugly, his grin failing as he tries to bring his breathing under control.
“Not a move or Jon boy here loses part of his head. Toni, you know I'll do it, and you! whoever the fuck you are? you know, you know what I'm about.”
I do, it is no bluff. He would drive the spade through the old guy's head like it was a breakfast egg. The same as he would trample over a child to get out of a burning building – just sacks of meat getting in his way. Marcus is Nicky Larkin two point zero, developed, upgraded next tier. My policing experience has given me a Layman's appreciation of personality types, and Marcus is a psychopath, or at least a full-blown sociopath on his way to a promotion.
There is a click and the woman steps forward alongside Marcus holding a knife, the sharp end a serrated four inches. We are now standing in a rough square a little less than a dozen yards apart. Eleven yards separating negotiation and the world of words from bloodletting and primal law.
“That's my father's brooch, he found it, you've got no right to it Marcus.”
“Might is right bitch, and the brooch don't give a shit who's holding it.”
He smirks and dismissively shakes his head chiding her.
“That's lame Toni you're going to have to do better than that girl.”
Wounded by his barbed words she fires back,
“Is she your new punch bag?”
The woman bristling with anger rocks her head side to side and spits,
“No, you skanky puta I'm his fiancée.”
She is the youngest of us all being I guess in her late twenties. She stands around five feet five and is like a stick with it. Her angular looks are attractive, but devoid of softness and marred by a hunger for something she never had. The flinty stare she is giving Toni tells she has something to prove.
Marcus cocks his head over in my direction and says with a snigger,
“If you haven't worked it out dumbo, she's a crazy chick, real loop the loop. You'll have fun, you'll just have to learn to sleep with one eye open is all.”
Bridled, Toni takes a half-step forward the axe straining in her hand. The situation is turning into a four way domestic ding dong with the old man hostage to the overspill. It is time for me to remember who I am.
“Okay Marcus let’s take this down a notch or two. I don't want Jon to get hurt so we'll back off.”
“No Will!” dissents Toni.
“Yes, Toni we have to.”
“Listen to your boy Toni, he's talking sense. Back up and drop your weapons and the old man gets to mumble on about shit another day.”
His smoker's voice is full of inflection and malice, but the impenetrable pools of black that are his eyes are shark dead.
“Fuck you!”
“Ah that's the Toni I know.”
“Move on him Conchita and I'll fucking slice your eyes out.”
The woman sounded New York streets, spiky, vivacious, Latino. Her kite shaped face sets into an ugly scowl and the knife in her hand seems restless for action.
“Nice Marta. See Toni that's what loyalty looks like.”
I bring the conversation back on track.
“No, we keep hold of the weapons only a naive fool with a death wish would give them up.”
“I want the weapons. I don't want any more nasty surprises,” he insists.
Deadpan I counter,
“Look Marcus, I know you'll kill Jon if you need to, and I don't want you to kill him, but you're overplaying your hand if you think I give that much of a fuck.”
“Well, what we have here then is a good old, fashioned Mexican standoff,” replies Marcus almost jovial.
“Yes, we do, but the fact is you are outgunned. That axe beats her piddly knife all day long. All I must do is keep you occupied for twenty seconds then it is two on one. And then you'll have an ex-girlfriend full of piss and vinegar at your back with an axe.”
He tried to poker face it, but I saw it hit home. I'd found a chink in the bravado. Though cocksure and arrogant he isn't stupid. The stupid didn't recognize a tight spot when they were in one, however he did.
“But I handled you so easily last time that I was embarrassed for you, and there is no little fall to save you here. You are a skill less brawler, whereas I have trained at the birthplace of Karate in Okinawa. You are simply out of your depth, and with the spade it will be one strike,” he says with a narcissist's certainty.
He is trying to get under my skin with the bravado, to score a psychological victory with his swagger so the fight goes the same way. It doesn't work I know what I got to do, just hang in there and wait for Toni to come through.
The situation is charged, and the air practically crackles as though a dynamo is being furiously cranked into the red. My eyes flit from one powder keg to another trying to figure who will be the one to strike the match.
“We could split the treasure five ways,” offers Toni out of left field.
“Really!” replies Marcus elongating the word as if he is having trouble digesting what Toni had just said.
“Yeah, walking away with a fifth is a better option than us butchering one another and leaving the treasure with the mountain.”
“Six ways. It would need to be six ways for Adam to get a share too.”
Amid the tension there is a note of relief. He hadn't died, or maybe he had, and Marcus is cutting himself a bigger slice of the pie – who knows, at this rate I could guess and double guess in a matter of a second or two.
“He's still alive then?” I look to confirm.
“Yes, no thanks to you.”
And through the corner of his left eye I am needled with a baleful stare.
“All right we'll split it fifty-fifty, a half for each side,” Toni agrees with a palpable reluctance.
“Also no more talking to the cops. We've both taken hits and everyone's hands are dirty. Adam had a hit and run traffic accident, Jon lost his keys and had to break into his own house, and you Toni wanted to come along for the ride. Getting the cops involved hurts everyone and they'll end up finding out what we're after,” proposes Marcus and what he said made sense – lines had been crossed on both sides.
There is complicit silence, and no one moves. This plan requires trust and it is in short supply and I am reminded of the fable The Scorpion and the Frog. In our version they are the scorpion and we are the frog and they will sting us crossing the river, even if in doing so it would drown us all. I glance at Toni, her jaw tight, her intense blue eyes boring holes; then it occurs to me that maybe it is only me that is the frog.
Still no one moves. My mind whirs frantically thinking of how to simultaneously save Jon and backtrack out of a deal that gets our heads bashed in the first moment our guards are lowered.
The ominous silence continues; though the feverish calculations and machinations, being made behind these sets of shifty eyes could almost be heard. I feel compelled to speak yet I don't know what to say.
“You direct and we'll dig,” suggests Toni.
“Yeah we should keep ap .. art,” I say wincing as a casual adjustment in stance throbs suffering through my lower leg.
Marcus smiles a closed lipped smile that barely turns up at the edges.
“My boy hurt you with the knife didn't he? Knife like that would cut to the bone. Give the man some respect though, you got some dog in you to still be here.”
“You better believe it,” and I could feel emotion welling up from the gut.
Then in an absolute moment of clarity I realize what it is all about, what it has ever been about - the fight: the ring, the streets, the mountain - the guns had to blaze win, lose or draw.
“Go up the hill then already,” orders Marta, hand on hip in a strop and her eyes burning with impatience.
◆◆◆
Jon comes around with a startled expression and I see him roll from underneath the blade before Marcus does. He rolls towards us like a log and the spade is driven into the earth behind him. I move, rushing forward ignoring pain as Marcus hefts and plunges the spade at Jon. It slices downward scagging the duffel coat as he spins, pegging a part of it into the ground. Jon suddenly stops, cries out and crosses his arms in front of his face.
“Marcus!” shouts Marta.
Marcus looks up in time to see me bull towards him with the spade at the point of the charge. The split second before impact with all the force I can muster I thrust the spade at his chest. With cat like reflexes Marcus pivots at the hips swerving his upper body to the right, while bringing up the shaft of the spade to parry. The spades clatter loudly as the shaft catches the blade diverting it upwards. I follow through crashing into him, going underneath the shaft and smashing him in the mouth with the handle of the spade. His head jolts back and to the right, and he is lifted off his feet and sent rudely to the ground. He falls on his side and rolls with the momentum onto his knees, his back to me and with the spade tenuously held and outstretched in front of him. Securing a foot in the earth he starts to rise, as I move in to kill the space and finish.
Pushing off the foot Marcus rotates violently to his right, and I sense it just in time as I enter the firing line of a do or die back swing. The spade arcs towards my head and if I hesitate or falter I'm dead. I hurl myself forward to beat the blade and get ahead of it. I do and the wood above his hand hits harmlessly into my upper arm. With the spade as a crossbar I ram it into the right side of his ribcage sending him flying like a crash test dummy. He nosedives into the wet grass, his legs folding over his back like a Scorpion's tail. I hear screams behind me, and I shut them out.
I close, and as he is gathering his limbs to spring back up I spear the ankle of the trailing leg. There is a head turning crunch accompanied by an unrestrained yawp that carries over the hills. Marcus bends to the pain, clasping his ankle he rocks on his back, glaring with astonished eyes and clenched teeth. He grabs for the spade and I raise mine as though I'm going to split a log. I propel the executioner's axe and I see death shroud his face - a capture of when the light is about to be snuffed out. He recoils in horror, palms upward in submission and I halt the blade two feet above his head.
◆◆◆
"Nah this won't do. I want to fight you mano-o-mano, your skills against mine. Get up!”
I step back to give us both room. He warily sits up, coughs and says shakily,
“You're as crazy as she is.”
“What are you doing Will?” and I hear Toni's voice coming from somewhere behind me.
“Have you ever gotten something you didn't deserve? It comes cheaply and has a hollow ring. I beat you but I hit you below the belt to do it. Now I'm going to beat you fairly. We're going to stand facing each other with our fucked up legs and fight until one of us goes down and doesn't get back up.”
In the pit of my stomach emotions writhed then soared liked fireworks.
“No Will that's fucking insane, smash the other leg and cripple the fucker, and be done with it.”
“Where's Marta?” asks Marcus.
“I slashed her arm, and she ran like a frightened little bitch,” boasts a pissed and triumphant Toni.
He looks up at her and I think I detect a hint of concern, then again it could be for himself. He pushes more,
“Badly?”
“Nuh, it's not hanging off or anything; should be a nasty gash though and leave a pretty scar,” she answers him with relish.
Marcus's face sours with an expression of contempt.
“I bet she hasn't told you about the time she stabbed me in the ass with a steak knife for turning up late.”
He hacks up another cough and the dead, black eyes twinkle with devilment.
“Fucking five hours I waited for you, let's not get into war stories I got more than you, you piece of shit.”
“Managed to kill the time though didn't you by snorting a few lines and getting well into a second bottle of wine, all on top of the happy pills you are always popping. Time I got round she was a fucking train wreck. I almost pity you fella, you don't know what you've got yourself into.”
Over the years I'd been to hundreds of domestic arguments and I am a part of one now. A relationship could end yet enmity could keep it going like pouring petrol on a flagging fire. It is recent and still raw between these two with a gang of grudges lining up on each side to settle score. They were volatile together and probably loved hard, now in love's aftermath they are hating with the same passion.
Only now do I notice that Jon has got up and is standing slightly behind me. His long fingers touch his temple and he examines it for blood. He doesn't say anything, though I suspect he has a lot of things to say and is letting this storm pass before saying them.
“Will, is that your name? What's your story fella? why have you got yourself mixed up in this shit? You're from England right? … you two meet online, have one of those sad long, distance relationships?”
He had calmed his fear and was now talking in an easy relaxed manner as if he hadn't a care in the world.
“No, met the old fashion way in a bar three days ago.”
“Huh, Huh, damn that's mighty quick work Toni I'm impressed, how you can get some random guy to go through so much shit. So, I ask again are you in it for the pussy or the cash?”
“Neither.”
Puzzlement temporarily replaces contempt and I want him to know what I'm about.
“I'm in it for the action. Speaking of which are we going to fight, or do I punish you where you sit?
“Punish me for what? she owes me money, she wouldn't be here if I hadn't bankrolled this trip. I'm not afraid to fight you, but isn't it stupid that men are always fucking each other up because of women?”
“Beat his ass Will,” urges Toni snatching the spade up.
“Huh see, and with her on the side-lines even if I win I lose,” he says disgruntled and shaking his head.
“My heart bleeds for you. Enough talk, let's go.”
“You've got a white knight complex bud and it's going to get you killed.”
With some discomfort Marcus gets to his feet and tests his right ankle with small movements. He removes his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of a black Yojimbo sweater with the words “Come Get Some” woven on the chest. I throw the spade behind me, get into a crouched boxing stance and clench my fists. Marcus points to a piece of relatively flat stone less ground of piebald green and brown. I nod and we carry ourselves over to our arena, a facsimile of contests past and limber up as if waiting instruction. He is quiet this time and from it I infer some respect, but I don't kid myself that will mean anything more than some caution and more ruthlessness.
Chapter 19
We square off and I find myself strangely detached from the outcome, and there is a release in the indifference. I take a deep b
reath and shuffle forward bobbing and weaving towards a static Marcus. He stands stoically in stance, left arm floating out in front, right hand loaded at the side, his hips twitching. I am setting to jab when the left foot leaves the ground and lashes diagonally upwards, scudding off my right shoulder as it rolls to the left. Marcus hops back to balance and his back foot buckles under the injury. I push off after him as he gathers his feet, shooting out the left jab and doubling it up when the first falls short. The second jab hits the cheek marking the range to fire the right hand. Primed and ready I let it go straight down the pipe towards his chin. He pulls back and it detonates in mid-air.
Switching direction, he launches forward throwing right and left fists like pistons at my head. I slip the first but the left stings the corner of my left eye, but I now have him where I want him - in a firefight. With my chin down I hurl a left hook and it glances the side of his nose. He pumps out another arrow straight right that bounces off the top of my head and stepping in skims the side of my face with an upward cutting elbow strike. I dip my legs and losing myself to a barbaric poetry let my hands go: ripping a right hook into his side and digging into his liver with a heavy left hook. Transferring weight through the hips I rattle his jaw with a short right cross then club him just below the ear with a left hook, that is slightly stray of where it needed to be to put him over. Bent legged and clutching his right side he steps backwards leaning at the waist as if to be sick.
I surge forward for the finish, but I am interrupted by a spike stepping pain in my shin that slows me right down. Marcus takes advantage of the reprieve and I see eagerness in his left leg. I duck to the left to avoid the kick and I am cleverly brought onto a front snap kick from the right foot. I take a brain juddering boot in the face that mashes lips against teeth; my eyes fuzz and I experience a tipping feeling like a tree being felled. I hear a gasp and the strike has hurt both ways, though it is an unequal trade. I fire back on instinct with a whistling left hook that wheels me with the miss a few feet over.
