Chapter Eleven
Henry cautiously poked his head out of the pub door and looked both ways down the poorly lit street. Other than for parked cars it was deserted and quiet, though he could hear the Illuminations traffic passing the front of the pub.
To his left a narrow alleyway ran down the side of the pub, separating it from the next building along, which was a guest-house. It was a dead end, a place that smelled of dustbins and dogshit. They could be doing some sort of a deal down there, he thought. It was difficult to see into the gloom.
As he let his eyes adjust themselves to the darkness, a big man emerged from the dark shadows just inside the alley.
One of the gorillas.
Before Henry had time to react, a clenched fist shot out hard, catching him on the jaw. As Henry reeled away, head hissing and humming, he became dimly aware that another man was also rushing towards him: gorilla number two.
The men grabbed him with big, strong, no-nonsense hands, and heaved him into the alley, out of the street, so that this business could be transacted privately. They threw him down between two metal bins like a rag doll. Henry’s right shoulder connected hard with the top edge of one of the bins as he fell. It toppled over and its smelly contents covered him.
‘ Right, you bastard,’ he heard one of them say, ‘Stick this.’
Henry tried to roll himself into a protective ball as the two men rained kicks into him without mercy. When they kicked him in the face, everything went black; his brain seemed to implode. Then his senses returned as quickly as they’d disappeared, and the situation became very clear.
He was going to die or get maimed unless he did something very quickly. Self-preservation is a wonderful motivator.
He scrambled wildly to his feet and ran blindly between the dustbins to the dead end of the alley where he turned at the wall, facing his attackers.
They walked slowly down towards him.
He tried to get his breath. This was a hard thing to do, for each time he inhaled, a searing pain stabbed through his chest. He could feel blood flowing down his nose — taste it in his mouth, salty, sickly. And there was an unnatural wetness on the left side of his face. His stitches had burst open. Blood was pumping out of the newly opened wound. They came closer. Gorilla number one laughed and sneered in one. Then there were two unmistakable clicks. Henry saw the shimmer of two blades. Flick-knives. Christ. His spirits sank again. Henry was no fighter. He’d done the occasional self-defence class, was quite fit — as he had to be, to carry a firearm. He’d had his struggles and tumbles with burglars, drunks and yobs like any cop, and he’d been assaulted a few times — but he’d never faced a situation like this before, alone, terrified and without hope of assistance. Fuckin’ Greta Garbo, he thought bitterly.
But he had one ace up his sleeve, or under his armpit to be exact.
He reached under his soiled jacket for his gun.
Which wasn’t there.
It must have fallen out when he’d been thrown into the dustbins yet he was certain his holster had been fastened properly. Shite!
With this option gone his eyes searched quickly through the darkness for a weapon of some sort. The apes were fifteen feet away. He knew he had to make the running now. He had to take the initiative from them, otherwise he was beaten.
He flung himself to the left, snatched up a black plastic dustbin and heaved it down the alley at them. Its innards spilled everywhere as it went. They sidestepped it easily. Henry saw the knives glint in their hands. His mouth went very dry as fear swept though him like fire though a building. He wanted to beg for mercy, but knew these two wouldn’t show it. So he fought on.
This time, instead of a whole dustbin, he picked up a lid and held it like a shield in his left hand.
‘ Right you bastards, come on,’ he growled, sounding more confident than he really was.
He waved them forwards with the fingers of his right hand, like football supporters do when enticing the opposing fans to a fight. They came, as he knew they would. He made like he was going to step back but at the last possible moment he lurched at them. The nearest one to him copped the heavy metal lid right across the side of his head. It made a very satisfying clunk on connection. He went down like a jelly, a surprised scream frothing from his mouth.
Henry faced the next one smiling.
The gorilla looked worried now as Henry’s eyes fixed on his face. Henry was determined to give none of his own fear away.
The knife lunged at him, but the move was telegraphed and slow. Henry jumped sideways, twisted round and smashed the dustbin lid down on the exposed, extended arm. The knife fell harmlessly away. The man cowered, holding his arm, his back to the wall.
Henry reversed down the alley, fully aware that all the man had to do now was draw his weapon and slot him. Suddenly, there was a blinding flash at the back of his right ear. His legs went wobbly. He turned around, stunned — and whack! — another blow hit the side of his head. At this double whammy Henry’s legs gave up the ghost and crumpled beneath him.
Someone had sneaked up on him from the shadows.
He hit the ground, his fall slightly cushioned by a mattress of debris from the overturned bins, and passed out. Seconds later he woke up, face down in the mess.
As he tried to push himself up, somebody placed a foot on the back of his neck and pressed hard. He nearly blacked out again, then the foot came off, the pressure was released and blood flowed back into his brain.
The same foot hooked itself under his shoulder and rolled him over so he was face up, looking heavenwards. He blinked and tried to regain his senses.
He heard a man say, ‘Well, you’re a couple of wankers. Fuck knows what 1 pay you for… no, don’t say a fuckin’ word, I’m not interested. Wankers!’ he spat. ‘I’ll sort you out later.’
Several seconds passed before Henry’s eyes focused properly. When they did he saw three faces glaring down at him: the target, the man with the Ralph Lauren polo shirt and the black girl.
‘ Back with us then?’ asked the target.
‘ What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ Henry demanded. He started to get up again. The target shoved the sole of his shoe into Henry’s chest and rammed him back down. The pain in his ribs gripped him in its razor- encrusted vice.
He decided to stay where he was, without complaint, get his breath completely back, compose himself, measure the situation and if at all possible, run away.
The man in the Ralph Lauren top, who Henry christened Ralphie, said, ‘He’s all yours,’ to the target.
The target squatted down on his haunches. ‘I want to know who you are and why you’re following me.’
‘ Me? I don’t know what you mean.’
The target looked up at one of the gorillas — the one Henry had clattered on the head. ‘Kick him once,’ he ordered.
‘ Pleasure.’
Despite bracing himself, tensing his muscles as best he could, it wasn’t much use: it still hurt.
‘ Now,’ said the target softly, after the kick had been well and truly delivered, ‘why are you following me?’
The stubborn side to Henry’s character refused to give in so easily.
‘ I’m not, honest.’
‘ See if he’s got any I.D.,’ the target said to one of the gorillas, who gleefully reached down and rifled through Henry’s pockets. His hand emerged with a leather wallet. He said, ‘He’s wearing a holster, but there’s no shooter in it.’
