shoulder. “He’s coming out. We’re luring him, like a fish with a baited line. Not long now until the Underthing shows himself and we can be rid of his pollution. He’s already making mistakes, showing his cards.”
Banjo stood and approached her, drawn by the sight of her unfolding wings. He reached out, but he did not touch them, not yet. He wasn’t allowed. All he could do was watch, and yearn, and wait.
Hailey rose a few inches off the floor and hovered there, her beautiful, multi-hued hummingbird wings glowing in the dusty air.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THEY WERE WAITING for Simon when he went outside.
He locked the gates, checked that they were secure, and turned around. The three boys were standing there, at the edge of the Roundpath, watching him in silence. He recognised one of them from earlier at the Arcade — the big lad with the trippy Scooby Doo baseball cap.
“Can I help you?” The words made him sound more confident than he felt. He clenched his fists, holding on to the bulky set of keys — a good weapon in a pinch, he recalled from somewhere — and waited for a response.
“Who the fuck are you, like?” The biggest of the three — Scooby — stepped forward, spat on the ground after he spoke. Like the others, he was wearing jeans, trainers, and a hooded top. The sweatshirts were all the same style; the one the leader wore — if that’s what he was — was red, and the other two were blue and green.
“Well?” repeated Scooby, his arms loose, ready for combat.
“I own this place. Why, what business is it of yours?”
“Ooooh!” Green Hoody began to laugh. “What a fucking prick.”
Scooby smiled, rolled his shoulders like a boxer. “I’ll ask you one more time, and then I’ll fuck you over. Who are you? I saw you talking to my lass in the cafe.” He pronounced the word ‘cafee’.
“Listen son,” said Simon, stepping away from the fence. “I’m nobody you want to be messing with — okay? I was just talking to the girl, that’s all. I didn’t know she was your girlfriend. In fact, she was the one who spoke to me.” He stood his ground, shaking. He hoped that the boys couldn’t tell, but he felt his entire body flooding with adrenalin.
“Funny cunt, in’t he?” Blue Hoody had found his voice. It wasn’t worth the effort: weak, high-pitched, as if his balls were yet to drop. Green Hoody just stood there, his face a blank mask, not even capable of a proper expression.
“You trying to say that my lass was chatting you up?” Scooby turned to his cohorts, opening his hands in a questioning gesture. “Is that what he’s saying, lads? Eh? That my lass wanted his cock?”
Simon said nothing.
“Aye,” said Blue Hoody, nodding. “Aye, that’s what he said. I heard him.”
“For fuck’s sake…” Simon had run out of things to say. Debate was not an option. These kids wanted blood, and nothing else would satisfy them. Years ago, when he was a teenager, he would have been able to handle this situation — in fact, it probably wouldn’t have happened. Back then, he was an insider, this was his patch. But now he was a stranger, an outsider, and considered fair game by the local beasts.
“Give us your wallet.” Scooby had stopped smiling. He held his hands at waist level and flexed his fingers. He must have been, what, fifteen years old? “Now.” He bared his teeth. His cheeks were pockmarked, and his front teeth yellow, probably tobacco stained.
“Listen, lads–”
“No, you listen.” The boys each took a single step forward, like one entity composed of three parts. “Do what I said, and empty your pockets. If you do, we might not hurt you.”
Jesus Christ, was this really happening, in broad daylight?
Suddenly Simon was no longer afraid, he was angry. This was good; he could use it. He let the rage flood through him, filling him up from the inside, like a tap being turned on somewhere in his gut. “Fuck off, son.”
He’d barely finished his sentence when the boys struck.
Scooby moved forward and threw a punch, which landed sweetly on the side of Simon’s face. He reeled backwards, his own hands coming up, and he was pushed further back by the advancing boys. He lashed out, feeling his fist connect with bone, and started screaming abuse as he tried to pummel his attackers.
His energetic defence did not last. He went down after a few seconds, taking more blows to the face, and a hard one to the stomach. His breath came in thick, jagged bursts; his kidneys ached; he felt his head go down. Then, before he even had a chance to attempt any more punches, he felt the solid connection of a foot to his temple.
He stayed down, unable to fight gravity. The ground grabbed him, held him, and refused to let him go, while darkness inched in from the corners of his vision.
He was aware of the boys — Scooby, Blue Hoody, Green Hoody — going through his pockets, and then they dragged off his suit jacket. There was laughter, yelling, and the sounds diminished as they ran away, leaving him there on the ground.
The only reason he did not black out was because he vomited, bringing up his bland breakfast in the dirt.
After several minutes he stopped heaving. There was nothing left in his stomach to come up, and his throat felt raw. He struggled to his knees and inspected himself for damage. A few bruises on his face, a sore side, no blood. As far as beatings went, this one was mild. They were amateurs. He’d suffered worse when he was mugged by one man in London, four years ago as he stumbled drunk through the streets behind King’s Cross.
But the bastards had taken his jacket, and his wallet and mobile phone had been in the pocket. “Shit,” he said, looking upwards. He had no memory for numbers, not these days when everything was stored on a SIM card, so he would not be able to call Natasha, or Mike at The Halo. “Shit, shit, shit…” Nobody would be able to contact him, either.
He struggled to his feet, taking it slowly as the blood rushed to his head and made him dizzy, and then headed back towards the flat. He had a few loose notes in his trouser pocket, but his debit and credit cards had been in the wallet. He needed to get to a phone and make a few calls, stop the cards and order some new ones. He checked the ground for his keys; they were still there, near his foot. Okay, this could have been much worse. Yet still he felt angry. This was his birthplace, where he was from — how dare those little fuckers do this to him!
Beneath the anger, buried away in a place where he rarely looked, there was also shame. He was a grown man, a successful property developer, and he had been unable to handle a bunch of kids. They’d kicked his arse and hung him out to dry, and he was embarrassed at the pathetic effort he’d made at defending himself.
Next time, he thought, I won’t go down so easily. But, in that same quiet spot in his gut, he knew that he would. He always would, because despite the lies he told himself, he was not a real fighter. He was a survivor, but not a warrior. Experience had already taught him that.
Simon let himself into the flat and inspected himself in the mirror. His face was already bruising — the right side was slightly swollen, a lump developing along the side of his jaw and across his cheek. He was hardly turning into the Elephant Man, but the swelling would be noticeable.
He took a shower, dressed in some clean clothes, and then rang directory enquiries on the landline to get the number of his bank. He cancelled all of his cards, and because he was a priority customer, with large sums in his accounts, he was told that a new set of cards would be couriered to him within twenty-four hours. Again, he felt ashamed. Money got you what you wanted, the things you needed, and it got them to you faster than it did to anyone else. He took some notes and loose change from the drawer by the bed. He always split his money in this way; it was an old habit he’d not lost.
As an afterthought, he rang the emergency services number and was put through to the local police station. He told the officer on the other end of the line what had happened. They asked if he was hurt. When he told them it was nothing serious, and he did not need medical care, they gave him a crime number to quote in the instance of any insurance claim and asked him to call into the station when he could to give a statement. He hung up the
