Clearly, there’d be no time for explanations.
Close to Heck’s right hand, an empty Newcastle Brown bottle sat on a table-top. It seemed an obvious move to snatch it up. The forehead of the burly sixty-year-old with the grey beard was its obvious destination.
The bottle exploded, and the guy went down as though poleaxed. Heck ducked a swinging punch and caught Scar-Lip in the stomach with a left hook, only to take a head butt on the cheek from Rat-Hair. Again, he fell over a table. Figures closed in from all sides. When Heck got back to his feet, he grabbed a chair and swung it full on at Ogburn, who blocked it with a meaty forearm. Scar-Lip came in with a flying kick. Heck caught his ankle, dropping him onto his back and smashing an elbow down into his groin – only for Rat-Hair to catch him with a stinger in the mouth. Heck’s head jerked sideways, and two burly arms wrapped around his neck in a choke-hold. He was dragged backward until he overbalanced. Struggling to breathe, he saw Ogburn grinning down at him, his fat, red face beaded with sweat.
The solution was two sharp, upward blows, a thumb striking each eyeball. The landlord shrieked, dropping Heck and staggering away.
Heck rolled over to avoid another flying kick. It was Rat-Hair, his steel-capped leather boot crashing into the wall, hacking out a chunk of plaster. Again, Heck got back to his feet. He grabbed a pint glass, pegged it at Rat-Hair. Another guy threw a punch. Heck blocked it, slamming his knuckles onto the guy’s nose. Rat-Hair swerved back into view. He’d pulled off his biker belt, which was heavy with steel. Heck raised a defensive arm, and the belt coiled around it. A shocking concussion then followed on the side of Heck’s head.
It was Grey Beard. Though his face was a bloodied mask riddled with glinting shards, he’d got himself a broken chair leg and swung it. When Heck fell, they were all over him. Fists thundered down from all sides, pounding his head and body.
‘Kill the fucker!’ one of them growled. ‘Cripple him! Do his fucking neck!’
They only noticed that Lauren was among them when Rat-Hair was hit so hard in the face that his left eye ruptured in its socket. Grey Beard spun to face her, only for Lauren to flick out her blade and slash him across the face, laying it open to the cheekbone.
A circle cleared as the hoodlums fell back. Lauren pivoted around, blade at the ready. Heck lay at her feet in a groggy heap.
‘Who wants it next?’ she challenged them.
‘You black bitch,’ someone snarled.
‘Ooooh, that hurts. White pussy arseholes! You’re a fucking joke!’
It might have ended there; an alley might have cleared towards the doorway. Heck clambered dizzily back to his feet, anticipating this. But then a new problem arrived. It – or rather they – came in from the next bar.
The pool players, maybe twelve of them, filed in from the toilet passage. They were an even worse crowd than the first lot; they were younger, meaner, noticeably fitter. Those of them that weren’t carrying pool cues were carrying socks clicking with pool balls. Heck smeared blood across his face with his forearm. He glanced towards the door. A couple of guys shuffled in front of it. The stale air was suddenly foul with the stench of sweat, blood and bad, beery breath.
The mob was about to charge in – when two of them disappeared under a table, which was slammed down on top of their heads from behind. The guy who’d done it was someone nobody had previously noticed. He’d been sitting in a corner, reading a paper. But now that he was standing at full height, he looked as wrong for this place as Heck and Lauren did. He was about six feet three, and of trim, athletic build. He was also handsome and sunburned, with a mop of blond hair. His clothing consisted of a green sweat top cut off at the elbows, a pair of tracksuit pants and training shoes. He was wearing gloves, and both his wrists, which were thick and powerful, were banded with leather.
There was a stunned silence at this intervention, before the louts twirled around to face him. But he’d already grabbed a pool cue, and now laid it on them with brutal force. Skulls were smacked like baseballs, arms were broken. When the cue snapped, Grey Beard tried to grapple hand-to-hand with the newcomer, only to be hoisted up by the crotch and throat, and thrown bodily across the bar counter. A deluge of destruction followed as bottles and glass shelves cascaded on top of him.
Scar-Lip lunged at Lauren, catching her with a full-blooded punch, but, though she tottered, she managed to keep her feet, and stepped around his second attack, ripping the blade in a zigzag across his back. Ogburn, his eyes like raw plums, tried to put another headlock on Heck, but Heck caught the bastard with a hard left and a harder right, and as he staggered backward, swung a broken chair frame into his midriff, drawing a shrill squeal from his blood-spattered mouth.
The big blond man was still wreaking havoc. They came at him relentlessly, but he smashed their faces or threw them across the room. Head, fists, feet, knees – he used them all with amazing skill and ferocity. They were a rough crowd in the Dog & Butcher, but it was unlikely they’d ever experienced anything like this bloke. A couple had now escaped, leaving the front door wide open. Heck snatched Lauren by the collar and hauled her towards it.
After the roiling atmosphere inside, the fresh air was almost cold. They toppled across the pavement towards the Fiat. Another of the hoodlums came staggering out after them. Lauren brought him down with a karate kick to the face. He fell into the gutter, gasping.
‘That’s enough,’ Heck shouted, spotting that she still had the knife, which was glinting crimson.
The next person to come out was the big blond man. He wiped his gloved hands on his sweatshirt as he approached.
‘You folks alright?’ he said with a grin.
Heck was leaning on the car to get his breath. He glanced up. ‘We owe you one.’
‘Nah, you don’t. Spot of useful exercise, that’s all.’
‘Who are you?’ Lauren asked.
He surveyed them, hands on hips. In full daylight, he was surprisingly good looking. His fair hair, bronze tan and trim physique gave him ‘film star’ appeal. ‘Mates call me “Deke”. You can too, if you want.’
‘That was a timely intervention, Deke,’ Heck said, straightening up. ‘Any particular reason why you put your neck on the line for us?’
‘Hardly put my neck on the line. Chocolate soldiers, that lot.’
At which point, the pub door was kicked open again. Grey Beard was there, covered head to foot in blood and broken glass. The part of his face Lauren had slashed hung off as though it had been unzipped. He swore and gesticulated at them, but he did not come outside.
‘Want more, you old fucker?’ Deke laughed. ‘Put one toe over that step, and I’ll teach you a real fucking lesson.’
The door banged closed as Grey Beard disappeared back inside.
Deke laughed again. ‘See what I mean.’
‘You still took a hell of a risk,’ Heck said.
‘It was nothing.’
‘Maybe, but I’m the sort of bloke who likes to know who’s saving his life.’
‘It’s nothing personal. I just don’t like seeing shitheads get on top. Never have.’
Heck nodded, not buying this at all, as he suspected Deke knew full well. ‘Well, no offence, Deke … but we’re out of here. Don’t want to sound ungrateful, but our business in this part of town is definitely concluded.’
‘You were looking for Ron O’Hoorigan, weren’t you?’
‘You know him?’ Lauren asked.
Deke shrugged. ‘Who doesn’t round here?’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘He