But his ears were vulnerable, and the pounding Bliss gave them caused Watson to shriek like a whistling kettle reaching boiling point.
Watson’s arm flapped backwards uselessly as he attempted to swat Bliss away. The baseball bat rose and fell against the solid hallway wall, gouging out a large chunk of plasterboard and lodging against it before the rounded wood could cause any damage to flesh and bone. The bat fell to the floor. Bliss used the momentary advantage to strike again, this time one-handed at the nose sticking out from the turned head like the gnomon of a sundial.
Enraged, Watson managed to shuffle around and complete his turn. Facing his opponent, he seethed at having been interrupted. Bliss saw the punch coming from the moment the man’s shoulder muscles twitched. But the drawback was laboured and clumsy due to the lack of space. Bliss rolled backwards from the waist. He could easily have avoided the swing altogether, but that was not part of his plan. Instead, as Watson’s fist reached the apex of his arm’s extension, Bliss met the connection with his head. He reeled back as if it had caused some genuine damage, thrilled to see the man’s steroid-fuelled eyes spring wide open in excitement.
This was the beat down Neil Watson had been craving ever since Bliss had first intruded upon his life. This was everything his tormentor deserved, a justifiable punishment for every taunt and jibe and episode of harassment. And that was precisely what Bliss was counting on.
A straight jab with the left followed. Bliss took it on the upper arm. It hurt, but not enough to cause any lingering harm. The main thing was that it allowed him to take another couple of stumbling steps backwards.
In this way, Bliss lured Watson out of the flat and onto the small shared landing. He was peripherally aware of people scattering, fleeing like demonstrators in the face of a mounted police charge. He saved his own energy while Watson expelled his with every grunt and lunge. The blows kept raining in, Bliss deflecting or allowing himself to take the odd one that lacked any genuine momentum and power.
As he’d raced up to the landing, Bliss had noticed that the door leading to the shared external balcony had been propped open with a thin triangle of wood. While Watson hurled abuse at him, losing himself in the anger and fury, Bliss continued to lure the madman away from Poppy Myler and her son. Somewhere nearby, sirens and lights began to occupy the evening air, growing louder, brighter, moving closer, tyres skidding and car doors slamming. The cavalry had arrived. If he could keep Watson at bay for a moment or two longer…
But in his haste, Bliss had grossly miscalculated the size of the balcony, and almost immediately found himself jammed up against its brick and metal railing. As Watson stepped closer, his eyes bulging, nostrils flaring like those of a racehorse, Bliss steadied his stance for the first time and threw his weight behind a right hook. His opponent felt it – as did Bliss, the jolt running all the way up to his elbow. His response was to step in closer still. The two men merged, morphing into thirty-plus stone of bone, muscle, fat, tissue and blood in a single image of almost cartoon-like combat.
***
The stunned crowd looked on as two figures forced themselves up against the balcony railing, vigorously trading blows. A shrill female voice cut through the clamour of raised voices and cries of alarm, cursing and wailing, seeming to grow louder with every passing moment.
The two men swapped shoves and punches, kicks and elbows. Hard, thumping footsteps reverberated along narrow corridors as newcomers to the scene raced up the staircase. Both combatants struck out at will, gouging, using their foreheads, knees, hips, and shoulders as weapons. Anything to both defend against and attack their opponent. Strident voices echoed in the cool breeze that scattered scraps of discarded paper in the air, a blur of motion that captured the imagination, if not the full attention, of those who continued to witness the terrible scene.
Amidst the windmilling limbs and devastating thuds of bone on flesh, further obscenities were exchanged between the rasping gasps of breath that surged into the uncaring night. Only this time they were followed by a forceful rending of cloth on metal, and a sharp cry of terror that died almost as swiftly as it had begun.
And when the mesmerised crowd yelled and gasped in terror as one figure disappeared over the balcony handrail, the other remained on his feet, shuffling unsteadily backwards, no blows left to trade, none now required. Panting and heaving, hands resting on his knees, a huge grin creasing his face, sweat pouring from his hairline, blood smeared across his mouth and cheeks, Neil Watson turned, raised both hands in victory and let out a triumphant roar.
Which was the precise moment that Poppy Myler raced forward to swing the baseball bat that her assailant had only minutes earlier wielded against her.
Fifty-Two
‘We’re going to miss him around here,’ Detective Chief Superintendent Feeley said, gently squeezing Penny Chandler’s arm. ‘I genuinely mean that. He and I had our differences, but if ever a man had what it took to get the job done…’
He let it go at that.
What else was there to say?
Chandler pulled up the collar of her royal blue coat. Bliss had not wanted black attire, and she had abided by his wishes. People associated the colour
