A Fistful of Knuckles

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 amp;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.

Patsy began to pose and posture again, displaying his battered, scarred, tattooed physique from every angle. Chris swallowed in a dry throat.

Fight — fight — fight — fight!

‘I tell you what,’ stammered Chris. ‘No need for fisticuffs. Give us an Indian burn and we’ll call it quits.’

Patsy raised his fists and adopted the stance of a boxer. Chris looked frantically about like a cornered animal.

‘Can’t we talk about this?’

Fight — fight — fight — fight!

‘We can do a deal, how’s that? You can’t say no to a deal!’

Fight — fight — fight — fight!

Chris leant forward to whisper something in Patsy’s ear, but found himself confronted by a gaping, fleshy hole. He pulled a horrified face and moved round to Patsy’s other ear; cupping his mouth, he whispered into it.

Patsy listened, paused, then turned to the crowd.

‘Thirty quid!’ Patsy declared. ‘Thirty quid he’s just offered me!’

The crowd went mental, booing and whistling and hurling abuse.

Patsy turned his terrible, fiery eyes back towards Chris and said: ‘Is that all your life’s worth to ya, young ‘un?’

Chris seemed on the verge of tears. He whispered again.

‘We’re up to fifty!’ Patsy relayed to the crowd.

Coward! Wanker! Fight — fight — fight, you spasmo — fight!

Chris fell to his knees.

‘I’ll pay you a thousand!’

He flapped at Patsy with his hands, a wretched supplicant before a barbarous, pitiless god.

‘A million! Two million! You can have me fags an’ all!’

Sam could see Chris’s mouth working away, but now his words were drowned by the furious mob. Even so, it was obvious that Chris was pleading. He grabbed one of Patsy’s hands and kissed it pathetically, like he was meeting the pope.

Degraded by this miserable creature’s presence, Patsy pushed him away, and Chris tumbled backwards out of the ring. The crowd jostled him, drubbed him, insulted him, shoved him, until at last he broke free and went stumbling off, disappearing from view behind a noisy generator that was feeding power to the rides. Sam and Annie caught up with him and found him shakily trying to light a cigarette.

‘Chris, what the hell did you think you were doing?’ Sam yelled at him. ‘You could have blown our cover back there, do you realize that?’

Chris gripped his lighter with both hands to keep it steady.

‘Sorry, Boss.’

A fart of terror escaped from his arse.

‘Sorry, Boss.’

He belched like a walrus, seemed about to be sick, managed to swallow down his rising gorge.

‘Sorry, Boss.’

Despite his anger, Sam had to feel sorry for him. His mood softened.

‘Well, at least you got out of there in one piece,’ he said.

Annie rubbed his arm — then pulled her hand away from his soggy clothing.

‘I was sweating cobs!’ Chris said.

‘Feels like it,’ grimaced Annie, wiping her hand with a Kleenex. ‘What did you think you were playing at, Chris?’

‘I was trying to measure the size of his hands.’

‘Well, full marks for the Dunkirk spirit, Chris,’ said Sam, ‘but next time, try not go about your policework like such a tit, okay? You risked the whole operation.’

‘And your own neck!’ put in Annie.

‘Yeah, but I got a result,’ said Chris. ‘Didn’t you see what I did?’

‘Yes, we saw. You laid eggs like a chicken and begged for your life.’

‘Ah! That’s how I wanted it to look! But that was all part of my cunning plan, Boss.’

‘Chris — that weren’t a plan — that was sheer screaming panic.’

But Chris shook his head knowingly and said: ‘You thought I was kissing his hands to ask for mercy. But I weren’t. I was measuring them. That’s what we came here for, weren’t it, boss? I felt his hands to see the size of ‘em. And you know how wide they were across the knuckles? From here to here.’

He pointed to one side of his mouth then the other. And to demonstrate further, he laid his finger across his lips longways.

‘Three inches, near as dammit,’ he said. ‘Patsy O’Riordan’s knuckles are three inches across.’

‘Three inches?’ said Sam. ‘Are you absolutely certain?’

‘I’d swear to it, boss. In court. Patsy O’Riordan — he’s your man. And I just proved it.’

Sam and Annie exchanged a look — then Sam patted Chris’s shoulder.

‘You’re a bullshitter, Chris — but it looks like you’ve confirmed our killer.’

But Chris shrugged Sam’s hand away, looked down his nose at him, and said with pride: ‘Careful who you’re calling a bullshitter, boss. You’re talking to the bloke who’s gone a whole round with Patsy ‘Hammer Hands’ O’Riordan.’

The demonic face inked onto Patsy O’Riordan’s chest once again haunted Sam’s dreams that night. He awoke early, bathed in sweat, his blankets balled at the end of the bed. Padding to the bathroom, he splashed cold water onto his face and tried to recall the details of his dream, but all he could now remember were muddled, hazy images — the demon face looming out of the darkness; pounding fists; Annie being struck and falling into a deep, dark void; Sam blundering, lost and alone, through a nightmare labyrinth that went on forever.

‘Forget it!’ Sam whispered to himself. ‘These dreams don’t mean anything. They don’t. They don’t!’

His heart told him otherwise, but he forced himself to ignore it.