A Fistful of Knuckles

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: BIG MEN, BIG TROUBLE

The four caravans were parked in a square, bonnet to rear bumper, with no more than a couple of feet between them for access. They defined a scrap of boggy ground as the arena, a space that was cramped and hemmed in and smaller by far than a regular boxing ring. It was a tight corner, a bear pit, graceless, practical, and private — a walled-off enclave where two men could settle their personal scores like savages. It was a patch of barbarism amid a civilized society.

Sam clambered through the gap left between two of the vehicles and glanced with distaste around the arena. Behind him, lurking nervously in the gap, he saw Ponytail and Moustache-man.

I’ve earned their grudging respect — or at least their fear. That’s good. They’ll keep their distance. I can forget about them for the time being and concentrate solely on Patsy … But where IS Patsy?

As if in answer to his thoughts, a monstrous devil-face appeared in the space between two of the caravans. It grinned at him from the shadow, bearing its fangs. Sam felt his stomach muscles tighten, his blood congeal. He felt a sudden overpowering sense of self-consciousness, and — unconsciously — raised his hand to his chest in an attempt to cover and conceal the wire taped beneath his shirt. When he realised what he was doing, he turned the gesture into one of coat-straightening.

Patsy loomed into the arena, wearing nothing but corduroy trousers and a pair of battered, workman’s boots. So worn were the boots that the metal of the steel toe-caps peeked through the leather. Sam had a mental image of those boots connecting with the side of Spider’s head.

There will be no fighting here tonight. Arrests, yes — but no mayhem, no brawling, no repeat of the savagery I saw between Patsy and that black boxer, Ben.

‘Your boys gave me a warm welcome,’ Sam said, adopting a macho posture fitting for a bent copper. Taking a gamble, he added: ‘The bastards wanted to frisk me for a wire.’

Patsy glowered across at him, his eyes bright and white like chips of ice. His face was so disfigured with wounds and tattoos that his expression was almost impossible to read. More expressive than his face was his general air of menace and violence; it told Sam everything he needed to know about what was going on inside Patsy’s hairless, bullet-like head.

‘We’re going to have to learn to trust each other,’ Sam went on. ‘It’s no good getting paranoid.’

Patsy said nothing, but slowly paced the arena, flexing his muscles. His tattoos rippled.

Why isn’t he saying anything? What’s the point in my going to all the risk of wearing a wire if the bastard won’t speak?!

‘Limbering up, Patsy? I wouldn’t bother — I’ll be nicking Spider before you get a chance to touch him.’

Patsy clamped his small, hard palms together and pressed, making his arm and chest muscles bulge.

Say something, you thug, damn well say something!

‘You know Patsy, without our … little arrangement, me and my department would be up the creek. You covered your tracks so well at Denzil’s place that we really couldn’t mount a case against you.’

Go on, answer, stop posturing and ANSWER!

‘Just out of interest, Patsy, how did you locate Denzil at the gym? Did you have an inside contact? Or did you go there to work out and just suddenly see him?’

Patsy was throwing punches at the air, snorting like a bull. He seemed to be no longer aware of Sam’s presence. Sam glanced back at Moustache-man and Ponytail, peering in nervously through the gap between caravans.

What’s happening here? They know there’ll be no fight here this evening, that it’s just a put-up job. Why’s Patsy focussing himself like this? He’s acting like Spider …

Acting like Spider. Yes. Spider was psyching himself up for a fight too … and yet neither of them was supposed to fight — both of them knew this whole thing was just a trap …

Unless …

Sam swallowed uneasily.

Unless they’re both intending to fight for real.

As Patsy snorted and threw blank punches, Sam raised a hand to his mouth and thought hard.

Does Patsy intend to ignore the deal and kill Spider here tonight? And does Spider intend to forget the operation and go instead for revenge on Patsy? Have both these fighters decided, independently, to use me to get to the other?

That was madness, surely. It was in Patsy’s interests to see Spider take the rap for the Denzil Obi murder, just as it was in Spider’s interests to see Patsy arrested for the crime he had committed. What the hell would a fight between them achieve?

Maybe they don’t think like that. Maybe all they think about is vengeance … battering each other’s heads in.

‘Patsy,’ Sam said carefully. ‘You do remember the deal we made, don’t you?’

‘All deals are off.’

It wasn’t Patsy who spoke. It was Spider. Without warning, Spider was stepping into the arena, stripped to the waist, revealing his lithe, tight musculature and pale skin, so blank and clean compared to Patsy’s inked and elaborate palimpsest of flesh.

Sam’s temper flared. What the hell was Ray playing at, sending Spider in so soon?! He needed time! He needed time to get Patsy to speak — and God knew he hadn’t said a word so far — he needed time for the lumbering thug to incriminate himself … and Annie needed time in the caravan alone with Tracy, persuading her, winning her trust, making her see sense.

Glaring around, Sam saw that in the gaps between the ring of parked vehicles there were faces — men’s faces, peering in — the faces of fairground folk, travellers, luggers, grafters — the faces of Patsy O’Riordan’s people, come to see the showdown, come to witness all the fun of the alternative fair. In that moment, Sam realised he’d been duped. Patsy had no intention of being part of some police scam to frame Spider. All he wanted was to be alone in the ring with the man who once tried to kill him.

And at the same time, Sam understood that Spider had used him too, that he had never intended to play along with the operation but instead wanted to get his revenge on the man who killed his blood brother — or die in the attempt.

Patsy and Spider stared silently at each other from opposite corners of the arena. Sam stood there, uncertain, dithering, feeling at once like the referee in a boxing match.

But this is no boxing match. And there’s no call for a referee because there’s no rules …

‘Ray!’ Sam hissed into the hidden microphone beneath his shirt. ‘It’s all gone tits up! Get down here now! And call for back-up!’

Instinctively, he waited for an answer — and then had to remind himself this was not a police radio.

I’ll just have to trust that he heard me.

But just as he thought that, he heard voices — Chris’s voice, and Ray’s — coming from just outside the arena.

Through one of the corner gaps, Sam saw them. They were being dragged roughly by large men. Ray was glowering fiercely, blood streaming from his nose where it drenched his moustache and dripped thickly from his chin. Chris was hollering and complaining, and as he turned his head from side to side Sam saw that one of his eyes was swollen shut from a huge, black bruise.

‘Ray! Chris!’ Sam called out instinctively. And at once he heard his own voice coming back to him from the radio receiver that was held aloft by one of the thugs. The receiver was hurled roughly to the ground and trampled. It smashed.

‘They sprang up outta nowhere, boss!’ howled Chris. He was silenced by a clip round the ear. ‘OI! Watch out!’

‘The bastards rushed us,’ Ray growled, trying to staunch the flow of blood down his face. ‘They got us … all of us … as you can see.’

Sam caught his meaning at once — they got all of us, as you can see …

Annie’s not here. He’s telling me that they didn’t get Annie. She’s okay. She’s clear.

That was something, at least.

Sam turned sharply on Patsy and bellowed: ‘What the hell’s going on here, you moron! These are my officers your thugs have assaulted! Let them go — right now! We had a deal, Patsy!’

And now, at last, Patsy became aware of him. He turned his nasty, misshapen, green-and-blue inked head, and bared his teeth in a vicious grin. His eyes flashed wickedly.

‘Patsy! I demand your monkey crew get their mitts off my officers!’

‘You’re in the arena,’ Patsy growled, his voice low and bestial. ‘My arena …’

‘The deal, Patsy! Remember the deal!’

‘No deals … Not here …’

Sam turned towards Spider: ‘Back off, Spider! This isn’t the way!’

But Spider couldn’t hear him. His entire will was fixated upon his enemy. His eyes were blazing. Every muscle was pulled tight. He was locked on, like a missile — primed, ticking, seconds from detonation.

With his heart hammering and his mouth dry, Sam strode boldly towards the two men and planted himself between them.

‘I’m arresting both of you,’ he declared. ‘I’m arresting everybody!’

Patsy held out his right hand and placed it on Sam’s chest, right where the bug was taped. But it didn’t matter about that anymore — the operation had gone to crock. Patsy’s small, bruised, scabby, painted hand rested on Sam for a moment — lightly, as if he were checking his heartbeat — and then, with a sudden show of strength that seemed to come out of nowhere, he shoved Sam back. Sam stumbled and fell, landing heavily on his backside in the churned-up mud of the arena.

Looking up, he saw Patsy and Spider launch at each other like head-on express trains. They slammed together with a shocking impact, and then it was all fists, a firestorm of fists, so fast and frenzied that they became a blur of colour. Blood splattered against the side of one of the caravans.

Sam clambered to his feet and scrambled away, like he was avoiding the spinning blades of some murderous machine run amok. He saw the faces of men pressing in at every gap between the vehicles, their eyes wide, their lips drawn back, their teeth bared as they lapped up the ferocious violence exploding and thudding in the arena. He even saw Ray’s face, streaming with blood, as he peered in. And for a moment he glimpsed Chris, trying to see what the hell was going on with just his one good eye.

Turning back to the fight, Sam saw Spider hurling a series of truly monumental blows against Patsy’s face. His fists slammed into the bigger man like hurled mallets, flinging Patsy’s head back and to the side, over and over. Patsy flailed blindly, trying to defend himself, but he was retreating blindly. He slammed against the side of one of the caravans, struggling to keep himself upright against it.

I don’t believe it! Spider’s battering him! He’s winning!

As Patsy raised both arms to cover his face, Spider switched his attack, firing rapid blows one after the other into Patsy’s stomach and ribs. As Patsy doubled up, Spider switched again, blazing away at his face and head once more.

Nobody can take much more of that — not even O’Riordan!

Sam felt a sudden elation, an exhilarating joy in seeing so much violence up close. Or was it that? No — it was something else — it was the deep, vicious pleasure of seeing the Devil in the Dark being battered to a pulp. That enigmatic and nightmarish force which had been reaching out with such malice towards Annie, and which had found its expression in the tattooed body of Patsy O’Riordan, was being beaten into submission, mashed, smashed, battered, broken.

Destroy him, Spider! Sam found himself thinking, his blood ablaze with fury. Rip him to pieces! For Annie! Do it for Annie! And me! Do it for us!

In that moment, Sam wanted nothing — could think of nothing — except the ecstasy of seeing the enemy of all his happiness being systematically punched to death. He was dimly aware that Spider must be feeling exactly the same thing.

Do it for Annie! Do it for Annie!

Annie.

Her name was like cold water dashed into his face, bringing him back to his sanity.

Murder, he thought. I’m witnessing a murder.

And then: You’re a copper, Sam. Act like one.

And then: Annie would be disgusted to see you revelling in this violence. Stop this fight, Sam. Do it for her — do it for Annie — be a man — be a real man, not a bloody caveman — stop it, stop it, stop the fighting — do it for Annie!

He ran his hand over his face, shook his head to clear, and moved forward to stop the fight. It had gone on long enough.

But at that very moment, Patsy decided it had gone on long enough too.