“Fishermen from Orkney, I reckon,” he muttered. “Over for a long weekend. A bit of skirt and a bit of drink. Wish I had the energy.”
Black nodded, but didn’t say anything. He sensed trouble. He knew he should politely retire to his room, and stay out of everyone’s radar. Low profile. But Black had no such inclination. Not this night.
A glass suddenly smashed. One of the men had flung a pint tumbler against the wall. Beer sprayed on the table, on the floor.
The barmaid who had served Black lifted a section of the bar, opened the half door, and approached the group.
“I think you’ve had enough,” she said, laughing. Trying to play down the situation. Keeping it jovial. Diffuse.
“I think you should fuck off,” one of them shouted. The biggest one. Even sitting, Black could tell he was massive. Wide shoulders, bull-necked, the T-shirt he was wearing stretched tight over rolling biceps. Forearms like slabs. Hands like shovels. He looked up at the barmaid, his expression slack, eyes glazed. The others laughed loudly. One of them leaned over and tried to put his hand up her skirt. She took a sudden step back, slapping him away.
“That’s enough,” she said, all remnants of laughter gone. Things were getting out of control. “I need to ask you to leave, or I’ll call the manager.”
This caused another eruption of laughter. From all of them, except the big one, whose gaze flickered on the barmaid.
“Call the fucking manager,” he said. “I dare you.”
The man who’d tried to grope her, tried it again. He lurched forward, and caught the end of her skirt. She kicked out. The movement unbalanced him. His chair toppled, and he fell onto the stone tiles. He remained motionless for a second, on his hands and knees, then got to his feet. He was small, wiry. Thin-faced, with two days’ stubble. He wore black jeans, blue collared polo shirt. Shaved head, displaying an old scar. Lean muscle, but not built like his friend. He glared at the barmaid, face contorted in a snarl.
“Fucking slut fuck!” he shouted.
The man sitting next to Black leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Trouble.”
“Definitely,” Black whispered back.
A man appeared, probably from the restaurant section next door. He was in his fifties, overweight, dressed in a pale-blue suit which had seen better days, collar, tie. Thick dark-rimmed spectacles. The manager. When he saw the situation, and the four men, he baulked. This situation was way above his pay grade. Nevertheless, he had a job to do. Black was mildly impressed.
“Come on, lads,” he said, his voice low and calm. “I think the fun’s over. Let’s call it a night. What do you say?”
The man standing turned slowly round to face him. He was two inches shorter, but had three friends as back up.
“What do I say?” He took a step forward, now six inches from the manager’s face. “I say, why don’t you go and fuck right off, and let me deal with that fucking slut!” He pointed at the barmaid, who had retreated, standing with her back to the bar. Black saw in her face an emotion he had seen a million times. Fear. Both she and the manager were suddenly thrust into a new world. Danger, violence. Black’s world.
“Please,” stammered the manager. “Let’s all calm down.”
Black eased himself off his high stool, and walked calmly up to stand at the manager’s shoulder.
“You heard what the man said. He would like you to calm it down.”
Black, at six-two, was four inches taller than the manager, in peak condition, and looked it.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Black reacted with a thin-lipped smile, but the steel glint did not leave his eyes, and the smaller man saw it. He flicked a glance at the big man sitting at the table, who ponderously got to his feet. Six-four, easy.
“He asked you a question, fuckwit,” said the big man.
Black gently ushered the manager to one side, and stepped forward, so he was close to the thin-faced man. He spoke, his voice calm, unruffled.
“I’m the guy who’s here to ensure you keep your appointment.”
Thin Face looked uncertain. Again, another darting glance towards his friend.
“What fucking appointment?”
“Intensive care.”
A silence fell in the pub. No one spoke. Tension was wire tight. Everyone in the place was fully focused on the scene unfolding.
“Are you having a fucking laugh?” slurred the big man. He clambered his way round the table, staggering slightly, to stand next to his friend. Bodybuilder. Big and clumsy. Drunk, maybe high on drugs. Joints probably crippled by steroids. Black had met his type before. Bravado, posturing. Usually without substance.
Black shook his head, shrugging slightly.
“No laughs here.” He fixed his attention on the thin-faced man. “I’m going to break your arm. More specifically your ulna and your humerus. I might wrench your shoulder out of its socket for good measure. And you’ll lose some teeth. Plus, you’ll be spending a bit of money on facial reconstruction.”
He turned his attention to the big man. “You’re muscular, but slow. You’re clumsy. You’ve been drinking all day, so you have no reflexes. I’m going to snap your spine. The lumbar region. You’ll never walk again. Your pals can cart you round in a wheelchair next time you’re out, until they get fed up.” He faced them, eyes glittering. “This is where we are, my friends.”
Black took a half step forward.
“So why don’t we play this out, right fucking now.”
The remaining two at the table watched, open mouthed. Peripherals, thought Black. Any trouble, and they would vanish.
Black stared at the big man. Black was ready. More than ready. His body tingled for action. And they knew it.
Thin Face licked his lips, took a deep breath. He tapped his friend on the elbow. “Fuck it. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The big man stood, wavering on his feet. The eyes were vacant, the face slack. Suddenly, a glimmer of understanding. Through the alcohol, something penetrated. That
