I let my eyes pass over the group Sean had indicated. I hadn’t noticed anything amiss about them but, now I looked more closely, I could see they were quietly egging each other on. Question was, to what?
It didn’t take long to find out.
Before we’d had time to polish off our current round of drinks, the biggest of the group got to his feet and came swaggering across like he had a six-shooter and spurs. The others followed a few paces behind and what worried me was the fact that, although they’d finished their drinks, they hadn’t put down their bottles and glasses. As unobtrusively as I could, I eased my chair back.
“So, which one of you fuckers is the fucking queer?” The big man spoke with an aggressive local accent.
For a moment there was utter silence. It lasted for maybe no longer than a year – or it felt that way, at least. During that time a whole string of interconnected thoughts whipped through my brain. Everything from the way the group moved, both individually and as a whole, to who else had noticed what was going on. The barman had frozen like a terrier that scents a fox, instincts honed by years of dealing with belligerent drunks.
Then there came the hollow scrape of a chair going back. I flicked my eyes sideways and found, to my surprise, it was Paxo who’d got to his feet, hands clenched and chin thrust forwards.
“Who wants to know?” he demanded.
The big Irishman grinned nastily. If he’d been able to pick which of us he’d wanted to take on, Paxo would probably have been his first or second choice.
Before the man had the chance to express his glee, another chair went back. This time it was William who got to his feet. I saw the Irishman take a mental step back as William rose to his full height. William’s dark face was the same ominous mask he’d worn when I first encountered him at the hospital.
William didn’t speak, just stood with his arms folded, rocked back on his heels slightly, head a little on one side. A second later Jamie was on his feet next to him.
“Whoa, hold up guys.”
Daz put down his drink and stood, looking shaken. Nothing to do with the challenge, I realised. Everything to do with the response.
He faced the Irishman, defiant. “You got a problem with me?” he asked, his voice quiet.
“So you’re the fucking queer, then?” the man said, glancing back to make sure his mates were right behind him before he took the final step.
“That’s right,” Daz said.
“Me too!” Jamie threw in, his voice a little high and wild. He sounded breathless, but that would be the adrenaline shot. The fight was almost inevitable now and his system was cranking up for it, the tension racking his nerves tight as rigging.
“No, no,” William murmured, “I think you’ll find that
The Irishman laughed without understanding the joke. His mates joined in, the sound loud and primitive, pumping them up, driving them on. Then Sean stood up and they stopped laughing.
You couldn’t deny there was something inherently violent about Sean. It wasn’t just the size of him or even the way he moved, it was the way his thought processes were wired. There were times when, in some subtle way, he could make them show on the outside. It was what made people step into the gutter to avoid a confrontation with him when he was walking down a narrow pavement.
But now I noticed his stance was different. He was keeping it open, hands up a little, fingers outstretched. Hardly anyone in that room would have noticed that he could have turned passive appeasement into aggression in an instant.
The Irishman was either too drunk, or too inexperienced, to respond to this escape route when it was offered to him. He took another step forwards.
“OK now lads, let’s have this outside,” the barman called across. “Go on, in the street with you – I’ll not have you brawling in my place! The po-lice are on their way.”
It was the perfect opportunity for a climb-down and, just when I thought the Irishman might still be just sober enough to take it, Daz took a step forwards.
“You heard the man,” he said softly to the Irishman. “You up for this, or what?”
The fight kicked off almost before we were all out of the door. The pub had no car park, so the entrance spilled us all straight onto the heavy slope of the street, across a metre of pavement, then into the road.
Daz went for a pre-emptive strike, launching a fast but amateur blow to the Irishman’s head. After that, it was a messy free-for-all. I grabbed Tess and got her out of the firing line, then stayed on the outskirts. Sean saw what I was doing and gave me the slightest fraction of a nod in response.
Group fights are hard and fast and dirty and you’re as likely to get thumped by one of your own team as you are by the opposition. You need a sniper who can stay on the periphery and only join in when things are going badly for your side.
So, when the guy who Daz had hit waded in using his empty beer bottle as a club, I edged in behind them and kicked the back of the guy’s knees out from underneath him, then ducked away again.
Paxo had clearly done martial arts of some description. He fought with more balance and style than I would have expected, but made the mistake of getting too fancy and took a nasty couple of hits to the ribs as a result. As soon as his opponent had his back to me, I slammed a couple of short hard shots into the guy’s kidneys. He grunted but by the time he had the breath to look round, I was gone.
William was relying on brute force and sheer weight, swinging his fists wildly and missing his target more than he was hitting it, but at least his swatting fists kept the blows away from him.
Jamie had seemed to be holding his own, but I saw him go down out of the corner of my eye. Next thing he
