York followed, muscling his way into the coffee shop. Only two tables were in use, the parties of both staring at the scene in wild fascination. The barista merely pointed to a door at the back, feet glued to the spot.
Through the back of the café he found himself in a small courtyard, stacks of cardboard piled on one side, empty crates on the other. From the far side of the fence, he heard a grunt – his target had gone over.
Scaling the fence as quickly as his aching body would allow, he crashed down on the other side. Another alleyway, only this time he got lucky - his fleeing target had chosen the wrong direction. York didn’t move, but he didn’t have to. One end of the dark alley terminated with an unscaleable brick wall. The dark shape paused in the shadows, glancing back at him, peering to the top of the obstacle.
York caught his breath and edged forwards, the figure turning to face him. He still hadn’t seen the man’s face, but at that very moment it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered now was the next few moments. Who was the stronger willed? Who was the stronger physically?
Who had who cornered?
There was only silence and a shock of airlessness in the alley, like they were standing at an elevated altitude. What followed was another stare down. This time there would be no running.
‘You killed my friend,’ York said at last. His voice carried confidence. At least he thought so.
The silhouette didn’t reply, simply stood motionless, watching, his face pulling in the shadows.
‘You went back on your word, you fuck!’
Still nothing, just the concentration of careful observation.
‘I can stand here all night,’ York assured him. ‘I’ve got nowhere I ne–’
‘You talk too much,’ the figure finally murmured in a low guttural grunt. There was no fear in the tone, not even a trace.
York took another step forwards. ‘You don’t talk enough.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Does it matter, Nicolas? Do you think it will change anything to know who I am, what I’ve done? What I’m going to do?’
‘Oh, I know what you’ve done.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Your partner was a fighter,’ the voice grunted. ‘Real spirit. It was almost a pity to put her out of the game.’
‘Is that what this is to you, a game?’
‘No. As a matter of fact it’s not. I believe disposing of your partner has taken us past the stage of riddles and messengers. That was just my bit of fun.’
‘People have died, son, that's not my idea of fun.’
‘I've given you a purpose again, Nicolas,’ said the figure cryptically. ‘Are you going to begrudge me that?’
York frowned.
‘Since your family disappeared you have had no real focus in your life. You cling on to each day in the hope that your son may still be alive, and you shoot that crap into your veins because it gives you a reprieve on your excuse for an existence. You think you’re any different to me? We both have our escapisms, mine is just a little more…inventive. Bottom line, Nicolas, you need me.’
York took a step back this time, suddenly apprehensive. ‘How do you know these things?’
‘Because I watch. I observe. And I especially see people in turmoil. I saw you, Nicolas. You stood out.’
‘I don’t need you,’ York muttered uncertainly.
‘Who are you trying to convince? Only two of us here.’
‘Fuck you! You’re through. It’s over. I can’t let you leave here, you know that.’
‘You can’t stop me, Detective,’ the voice murmured firmly. The defined glint of a sharp edge appeared in the darkness. ‘No one can. I chose you because you were damaged, a broken man. I figured you’d provide the best sport and you haven’t disappointed. But this little rendezvous is over. Now you’re going to step aside and let me pass.’
‘And why am I going to do that?’
‘Because, Detective, I will not hesitate to gut you where you stand.’
York paused a moment, stood fast. ‘Let me ask you something. Do you think I have anything left to lose? Morning after morning I wake up and curse the daylight, devastated that I haven’t died in my sleep from an overdose. I’m not afraid to die, son. So if you think I’m going to step aside so a punk like you can walk away, think again. I can see your knife. Well, I’m unarmed. What do you suppose my chances are?’
‘Oh Nicolas. Nicolas, Nicolas, Nicolas…’
York took a step forwards. ‘Bring it on, you degenerate fuck!’
In the blink of an eye the silhouette was on him, the glint of his blade slicing through the air inches above his face. Grabbing a handful of hair, York yanked viciously back, his assailant tumbling off him, rolling away into the shadows.
Instantly back up he leapt onto the figure’s back, swinging hooks at any part of the body, any connection a good connection. Some of the jabs landed, others found air.
Pitched off to the side with unnerving strength, York tumbled through the air and landed with a solid thump on the concrete, springing back up in time to feel himself being picked up and slammed into the wall of the alley, a reverberating whump as his head cracked the brick. Glitter and closing darkness danced before his eyes, but his consciousness gripped. With his arms pinned he swung his head forwards feeling the hard connection. His release and the agonising grunt came hand-in-hand as he pushed himself away from the wall, his assailant reeling.
York charged forwards flailing into the dark, arms wind-milling, but not a single blow landed. From the shadows, a large arm snaked around his neck from behind, lifting him off the ground, crushing his throat.
