Dillon squared up to him. He'd had as much as, and more than, he was ever going to take from Malone. But his tone was quiet and calm, and he was in total control.
'Okay, Malone,' he said evenly, 'in front of witnesses. We want that five hundred quid you nicked from us. If you want to make it double or quits, now's the time.'
Malone got his meaning loud and clear. It wasn't just the money Dillon was on about. Something more important had to be settled, once and for all. It almost amounted to a blood feud between the two of them. Like a festering boil of bitter black hatred, it had to be lanced. The wound had to be torn open, the gangrene exposed and gouged out.
Griffiths, as well as any of them, knew what was about to take place; he sensed that it was inevitable, and no matter what he said or did it was bound to happen. But he wasn't prepared for its raw brutality, for its sheer animal ferocity.
But then, he'd never witnessed a one-to-one brawl between two ex-Paras before.
Malone didn't wait for the off. He charged straight in, head-butting Dillon, opening up the old sniper abrasion above his right eye. Blood spurted out, running freely down Dillon's face, soaking into his shirt collar.
Leering, Malone raised both hands, waving him on. 'Come on then, Dillon, you been beggin' for it, come on…'
Still dazed, Dillon shook his head to clear it. He looked at the blood on his fingers, and then stripped off his camouflage smock.
Although both men were expert in the techniques of unarmed combat, they'd had their share of dirty street fighting too, and that's what this turned into. It was ugly to watch. Clawing, biting, scratching, kicking, each sought to disable his opponent by any means possible. Malone, bigger and heavier, could have beaten Dillon in a test of pure physical strength, but Dillon wasn't going to give him that chance. He kept in close, fingers clawing at Malone's eyes, trying to rip off his ears. Malone bit into Dillon's forearm and it took a knife-edged open palm across the bridge of the nose to make him let go. Then a savage kick swept Dillon's legs from under him. Down he went, dragging Malone with him, the two of them rolling in the dirt, using fists, elbows, knees to inflict maximum damage.
Appalled, Griffiths watched as the two men grappled with each other, tumbling and rolling across the compound towards the stables and the fodder barn. The lads kept pace with the action, crouching, fists clenched, cheering Dillon on. It was a fight to the finish, to the bitter end; no truces, no split decisions; one victor, one vanquished.
Scrambling up, Malone grabbed a rake, swinging it viciously at Dillon's head. Ducking low, Dillon dived for a pitchfork leaning against the barn door. The two weapons clashed together, striking sparks. Dillon twisted the pitchfork, snapping the rake in two, then jabbed at Malone's stomach, forcing him inside the barn. The lads crowded in the doorway, yelling Dillon on. Half-blinded with blood, his face and neck covered in cuts and bruises, Dillon was eking out his last few precious ounces of strength. Malone sensed it. He waited, arms spread wide, for Dillon to jab again, then wrenched the pitchfork out of his grasp and turned it back on him. Dillon tripped, went sprawling backwards onto the straw-covered floor. With a snarl, Malone thrust downwards at Dillon's head, the four sharp tines burying themselves in the earthen floor as Dillon squirmed out of the way. He made a grab at Malone's leg, bringing the big man down – splat! – in a heap of horse manure.
'Good one, Frank!' Harry's usual florid complexion was shining beetroot-red. He pumped his fists like pistons. 'Go for it, finish him off, Frank!'
Smeared with horseshit, Malone pulled a fire bucket off its hook and hurled sand in Dillon's eyes. As Dillon backed away, temporarily blinded, he followed up with a kick to the groin that made every man there's eyes water. Dillon went down clutching himself, doubled over in agony.
'For God's sake,' Griffiths cried out, ashen-faced, 'someone had better stop this…'
Cliff raised an eyebrow. 'You want to get between them sir?' he inquired.
Malone spun a tap above a metal drinking trough and sluiced his head, shaking water out of his eyes. He pushed his hand through his glistening black hair, alert once again, ready for the final round.
'Look, Dillon, call it off,' Griffiths begged, wringing his hands. 'I'll make up the five hundred he owes you, this has gone far enough.'
Dillon spat out a mouthful of sand. He was back on his feet, but none too steady, and even after Harry tipped a bucket of water over him, he seemed dazed, blinking at Malone as if unable to focus. Chest heaving, water dripping off him, Dillon looked exhausted, all but done in.
'You quittin', Dillon?' Malone taunted him, teeth bared in a sneering grin. 'Want to quit, Dillon…?'
Dillon wiped his hand down his face. When it came away, his eyes were staring. He was seeing Malone all right. The big square face, the black bar of his eyebrows. But Malone wasn't grinning. His face had a sickly grey pallor. His eyes were rolling, the whites showing, his mouth slack and quivering, as he burst from the toilet cubicle in the side passage of Hennessey's Bar…
'Come on Malone, get back in there!'
After swearing the pub was clear, the bastard was trying to do a runner. Didn't have the guts to stay and help. Only interested in saving his own yellow skin. Throwing Dillon off, barging his way into the crush of people jammed in the narrow passage, pushing bodies aside in a frantic effort to get out.
Still staring, Dillon said, 'Like the way you ran out on my lads?' He shook his head, his breathing hoarse. 'I'm not quitting!'
Malone lunged forward. Dillon hit him. Once. A sweet right hand, smack in the teeth. Malone went cross-eyed. His legs buckled and he sank, very slowly, to his knees and toppled over.
'You had that coming for a long time, Malone,' Dillon panted, and with a smile at the lads fell down flat on his face.
'Just keep still… you're gonna have a beaut, split open like a tomato, mate.' Harry dabbed with a red-speckled towel, then stuck a plaster across Dillon's right eyebrow. Cliff stood nearby with a bloody sponge and a bucket of rose-tinted water. 'How's your ribs?' Harry asked.
Dillon eased himself into a sitting position in the back of the jeep. If his eyebrow was like a split tomato, the rest of his face resembled a blue and purple pumpkin. He pushed Harry's hand away. 'Gerroff me… you're makin' it worse!' Groaning, Dillon gingerly touched his cheekbone. 'I feel terrible…'
Jimmy bounded up, grinning fit to bust. 'How's about this to make you feel on top of the world, mate!' He waved a thick bundle of notes in the air, licked his thumb and peeled through the twenties. 'Two weeks' wages, plus – you won't believe this, but his Lordship thought you took a beatin' from the poachers – bonus – one grand!'
Cheers and shouts from the lads clustered round the jeep. 'No, wait,' Jimmy held up his arms, 'plus, plus – Malone is out, and…' He wrapped his arm around Don's shoulder, who gave him a shy, quizzical smile. 'Don-boy here is now head keeper!'
Don went beetroot-red, stuttered, thank you, thanks, nodding his head up and down. Afraid to show how much it meant to him, he did a runner, running like the deer he loved, and they watched him running, watched him take a flying leap into the air, then they heard him whooping at the top of his voice, arms above his head, fists clenched.
Jimmy laughed. 'Well, he seems happy enough! Guy's a real fruit!' Then he leaned closer to Dillon, whispering. 'Eh, what you say Frank, we can make it a nice round figure…' He flicked the wad of notes and slipped his arm around Dillon's shoulder. 'We could take him tonight, drive the carcass to Edinburgh, with nature boy owin' us, he can turn a blind eye, what you say Frank?'
'Forget it!' Dillon shrugged him off. He called out, 'Come on, let's get home.'
'Why? Who's to know it was us?'
Dillon didn't think it needed explaining, but obviously it did.