effect. The dog just tucked his ears back flat and shut his eyes. His skull was so thick he might as well have been wearing a crash helmet.
Then the pair of them overbalanced, and once the man was on the ground, I knew the Ridgeback had the upper hand. I had no qualms about leaving the two of them scuffling while I went to help Madeleine.
I ran past Sean and West to get to her. The two men were circling each other with their hackles up. Both were on guard, moving with that easy grace that suggested training, and skill. Even injured, I was still confident that Sean could take him.
I kept running.
Harlow had managed to land a couple of hefty punches on the dark-haired girl by the time I reached them, and seemed to be enjoying himself.
I threw myself onto his back in a move Friday would have been proud of, lacing one arm tight round his throat, and the other over his eyes. He just managed to get an elbow back before Madeleine took a run at him and brought her knee up hard. It seemed to be something of her trademark.
I swear I felt two lumps come up into his throat before I let go. I just had time to dismount as the man folded, gasping.
Madeleine and I both turned then to find Sean and West trading blows. Sean was taller and heavier than the other man, and he’d been taught by the nastiest people in the business, but he was still weak from the wound and the blood loss, and it was clear he was already tiring.
Even so, he’d scored a few hits, and for a moment I thought he’d done enough to disorientate West. The smaller man’s aim was off. His punches seemed to be consistently missing Sean’s ducked chin, deflecting off to the side.
Then I saw the determination in his eyes, and the cunning.
My legs had carried me a couple of steps, my mouth opening to shout a warning, when West finally got lucky and landed the blow he’d been planning all along.
He hit Sean, hard, just under the point of his left shoulder. West didn’t bother to keep his guard up after that. He already knew it was a punch that would finish the fight.
Sean went backwards silently, unable to spare the breath even to cry out. He twisted and fell, his whole body shuddering. His eyes were open, but there was only shock in them, and his breathing was quick and shallow. The blood started to well up, passing through the layers of dressing, tracking across the front of his shirt. It glistened in the firelight.
West gave him a savage smile, and moved in for the kill.
A wheaten blur suddenly shot past me and dived into the fray. Friday, bored with the game of ravaging at Drummond, had spotted a new target. His blood was up. His tribal instinct, so long contained beneath the veneer of domestication, had been let loose, and there was no stopping it now.
By the time I saw the knife in West’s hand, it was too late. The dog had already started its run, muscles meshing smoothly under the skin as he powered forwards with a single-minded purpose.
I yelled Friday’s name, but he didn’t hear me. Or if he did, he was too far beyond control to listen and obey.
I saw West’s lips stretch back in a parody of the dog’s grimace as Friday attacked. The man took a couple of quick steps backwards, and for a moment I thought he meant to retreat, but it was just a bluff. He held his left arm out as he started to turn, a red flag that Friday couldn’t resist.
“Friday!” I shouted desperately. “No! Leave him!”
The Ridgeback gathered himself and leapt with perfect co-ordination and timing, clamping his jaws round the man’s exposed forearm just as he reached the crest of his jump. The sheer momentum should have carried West right off his feet.
As it was, the man allowed himself to be spun about, pivoting on his toes to keep his balance. His right arm swung round towards the dog’s body, the blade flashing in the dull light.
I’ll never forget the scream that Friday gave out as the knife went in. It was horrible, and oddly human. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a noise like it, and I pray that I never will again.
West stabbed him hard enough to sink the blade into the dog’s flank right up to the hilt. Even so, Friday wouldn’t give up his grip without a fight. He hung on bravely, taking two quick, nasty blows about the head before he let go at last and dropped, bleeding, to the stony ground.
I was moving forwards before the Ridgeback had hit the deck. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him struggling gamely to rise. This time it was Madeleine who called my name, told me to stop. Her voice was high with alarm.
I paid no more attention to her warnings than Friday had done to mine. I just had to hope that the end result wouldn’t be the same.
West grinned as he jumped away from the dog, waving the knife that ran crimson with his blood in front of me. Seeking to taunt. All it did was brace my courage.
As I closed on him, he tried a couple of swift slashes to test my reflexes, didn’t seem worried that they failed to connect. He was high on confidence, the conviction of his own invincibility running through him like fire.
He came at me with the knife held underarm, aiming to drive it upwards into my body, to slit me open from stomach to breastbone like a snared rabbit.
On the upstroke, I grabbed the top of his wrist tight with both hands outstretched, thumbs overlapping to form a vee. I made no attempt to wrestle the knife from his grasp, which would have been stupid, and probably lethal.
Instead I used the force of his own charge to swing his arm up and out to the side. Still holding his wrist I stepped inside it, underneath it, turning my back into West’s body as I did so, as though we were partners in some deadly form of old-time dancing.
Our arms reached the top of their arc and gathered speed on the way down. I had control now, using his own size and weight against him. I tightened my fingers around his hand, then, still wrapped firmly in his own fist, I plunged the knife down and sank it into West’s right leg at the top of his thigh.
I felt the blade go in, tugging and tearing. It glanced off the bone, then settled deep into flesh. West howled much less convincingly than Friday had done, and I was aware of a fierce blast of grim satisfaction. It left a dark and bitter taste in my mouth.
By the time I turned to face him, West was on the ground, writhing. Both hands were clamped round the handle of the knife, which was all I could see protruding from his leg. Blood was welling from the wound in gushing spurts like a burst water main coming up through clay.
Numbly, I left him there and stumbled over to kneel by Friday’s body. The dog lifted his head as I reached him, and begged me with those big expressive eyes to make his pain go away. There was a trickle of blood coming out of his nose, and his sides rose and fell shallowly, as though he was afraid to breathe. The sight of him stung my eyes with tears.
Madeleine had helped Sean to his feet. He moved across, producing from the side pocket of his trousers the sling he’d discarded earlier. He thrust it into my hand as he came past.
“Here, stop the bleeding with this and watch he doesn’t bite you,” he said. He still looked pale. “You OK?”
I nodded, and he carried on, bending over West.
Loudly, with expletives, West was demanding a doctor, and an ambulance. He’d pulled out a grubby handkerchief from his pocket and was clumsily trying to knot that round his thigh. Sean eyed him coldly, and made no moves to help.
Then, after a few moments he reached down and took hold of the knife’s greasy handle.
West’s body jerked at the touch. “No, no!” he shouted. “Let them do it at the hospital. Don’t move it. I’ll bleed to death.”
Sean cocked an eyebrow at that less-than-convincing argument, and hauled the knife straight out of the wound with a vicious jerk. West bucked and twisted, swearing.
“You didn’t think,” Sean demanded quietly, “that I was going to leave you with a concealed weapon, did you, you sick fucker?”
West stopped thrashing about long enough to spit at him. Sean leaned closer, ignoring the splatter of phlegm that landed near his feet.
