“Enough talk,” the woman snarled. “Time to die.”
She leapt towards him, spinning around and slashing out with the knives like some kind of deadly dervish.
With his heart filling his throat, he dodged out of the way but skidded on the dusty ground and stumbled into the high adobe wall surrounding the courtyard. No doors here. No windows either. The only escape route was back through the taberna. He got to his feet just in time as the crazy woman dived at him again and one of the blades slashed at his upper arm. Not deep, but painful all the same.
“Shite on a bike! Please. You don’t have to do this.” He held his hands up, walking backwards with his assailant matching him step for step around the perimeter, both with one eye on the door. “Delgado sent you, right? Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I’ll return what I took. No danger. Okay?”
The woman hurled herself forward, but this time Danny grabbed her by the wrists. He held on tight as she lurched and bobbed, jabbing the steel blades towards his chest. She snarled, spat in his face, but he wasn’t letting go. Danny Flynn might be a pretty boy (a lover not a fighter, was what he told the ladies), but he could handle himself all right. A childhood spent in Ballyfermot, arguably one of the poorest and roughest areas of Dublin, meant he’d had to. A young man grows up fast, places like that, learns how to handle himself. Though, Danny did have principles. Despite what some might say, he wasn’t a womaniser (he wasn’t, he enjoyed women’s company, that was all). Growing up without a father his principal role models had all been women. His ma, his aunt Sheila. He’d always enjoyed women’s company far more than men’s. And he certainly had never hit a woman. Up until a minute ago, even the thought of doing so would have disgusted him.
“Get to fuck,” he yelled, making to knee his attacker in the stomach.
But she was too quick for him. His flailing knee found nothing but air as she dodged out of the way and the exertion meant he slackened his grip on her wrists. This, coupled with a foot to the groin, and she was able to struggle free. He staggered backwards, holding onto his old-fella and preying his lower intestine hadn’t actually fallen into his arse like it felt like. His right heel touched against a raised flagstone and he stumbled against the perimeter wall. That was it. Nowhere to go.
He grimaced, waiting for the fatal blow, but it never came. Instead the woman just sneered at him and shook her head, an expression of pure disdain creasing her features.
“Look, let’s talk about this.” He held up his hand, the other covering his bare neck as he got to his feet. “How much is he paying you? Whatever it is, I’ll double it. Triple it. I’ve got cash, it’s not a problem.”
The woman scoffed. “It’s a problem for you, Danny Flynn. I have a job to do. And I will do it.”
He slid his back along the wall, heading for the taberna with each unstable step. Could he make a run for it? She was fast – one swish of one of those blades and he’d be bleeding out under the stars before he knew what hit him. She stepped towards him, crossing her arms over her chest. Shite. This was it. The death strike. He pulled his own arms into his torso, shielding himself as much as possible.
“Oh sweet Jesus, no.”
He screwed up his face. Waited.
I’m sorry, Ma.
“Hey! Qué está ocurriendo?”
He opened his eyes to see the barman standing a few feet away with his hands on his hips and a stern frown darkening his tawny features.
“Quién eres?” he asked.
But Danny wasn’t waiting around to exchange pleasantries. Exploiting the glorious reprieve this split-second interjection provided, he rushed past the barman as fast as his trembling legs would allow. Out of the taberna and into the night, he didn’t look back once as he ran through the narrow winding streets of San Sebastian’s old town. Nor did he stop running until he reached his apartment building ten minutes later.
Once there, he didn’t enter straight away but circled around the block a few times, scanning the busy streets for any sign of the crazy woman with the white streaks in her hair. Satisfied he’d given her the slip, he returned to the front door of his building and hurried inside.
Safety.
For now, at least.
But that didn’t mean she’d give up looking. There was something about that mad nun that sent a chill down his sweaty back even now. And it wasn’t only those sharp blades of hers. It was the way she’d looked at him. Like she hated him down to the soul with a deep and resounding passion. Was that what true evil looked like? He wasn’t sure. But he was certain he didn’t want to experience it again.
He climbed the two flights of stairs up to his room and unlocked the door. Once inside, he relocked the door and pushed a heavy chest of drawers across it before collapsing onto the bed. Barricading himself in like this did little to assuage his fears, but it was all he could think to do right now. It was quickly dawning on him that things were much more dire for old Danny Boy than he’d realised.
“Shitting, shiting hell,” he screamed into his pillow. “Ya fecking eejit.”
Delgado still had all his papers. Meaning he was stuck here in Spain. He rolled onto his back and checked the wound on his arm. Only a scratch, really. He’d got away with that one. Luck of the Irish and all that. Only, that luck was now running
