Purkiss pivoted just as the chain came whickering down, the end catching his hand as he brought it up in defence. The pain exploded through his knuckles and he leaped back. The man advanced at a crouch, the chain held two-handed like a python, the end whirling.
Beyond him, Purkiss saw Hannah facing off with the knife man in a similar position, the man’s arm darting slashes at her.
The problem with a chain as a weapon was that it was inherently unwieldy. A landed blow could cause intense pain and considerable damage, blindness, even, but the flailing end was difficult to control.
Purkiss watched the links at the end of the chain, not the man.
They described a sudden figure-of-eight and lashed towards Purkiss’s face. He spun, his back momentarily to the man, moving in past the chain and aiming a reverse kick at the man’s head. His aim wasn’t quite true and he caught the man’s shoulder, heard the grunt of pain. The man staggered back but kept his footing.
Purkiss hoped the blow to the man’s shoulder would take some of the force out of his swing, and it proved to be the case: the next flick of the chain was slower, less snappy. Purkiss watched the link at the end until the very last moment before he seized the chain in both hands, wincing at the pain in the one the chain had connected with. The metal was slippery in his hands but he held on, winding it around his fists as he pulled.
The smaller man was strong, and stood his ground, his tiny black eyes blazing. For a few seconds the bizarre tug-of-war seemed to have reached an equilibrium, both men gripping the chain, three feet apart, neither able to pull the other any closer.
Then the man released the chain and leaped forward.
The sudden release of the chain caused Purkiss to stumble backwards. He used the bunched mass of links in his hands as a shield of sorts, but it didn’t stop him losing his footing as the man collided with him. Purkiss landed hard on his back on the dusty, stony ground. The man jackknifed his body around the chain mass and sank his teeth into Purkiss’s upper arm.
In his time with SIS and since, Purkiss had been in more fights than he could remember, or cared to. He’d been punched, kicked, throttled, garrotted, and slashed with sharp objects of various kinds. He’d taken headbutts to the face, elbows to the throat, and knees to the groin.
But he’d never before been bitten.
Somehow, the outrage was worse than the agony. His instinct was to pull his arm away but he understood that if he did so, he’d lose a chunk of flesh from his arm. Instead, Purkiss used his other arm, the right, to bring across the length of chain he was gripping in his right fist. It was an awkward move because he had to sweep his arm round the back of the man’s bristly scalp, but he managed.
The fire in his arm was relentless; he could see blood darkening the material of his suit jacket, staining the man’s face. Like a feral creature the man was snarling, his eyes wide open as he hung on.
Purkiss couldn’t bring the chain through under the man’s chin because there was no room. Instead, he reached between them and looped it up across his assailant’s chest. He grabbed the end and pulled to the right, tightening it.
The man’s snarls grew louder. He began to shake his head, like a dog with a downed duck.
Purkiss hauled on the chain, feeling the links inch themselves across the man’s chest.
A few yards away, Hannah and the knife man were continuing their macabre, circling dance. She closed in every now and again, landing blows but not incapacitating ones. She didn’t seem to have been cut yet.
The man was strong, more so than Purkiss would have expected. Despite the tightening of the chain around his chest he hung on, and kept his legs inside Purkiss’s so that Purkiss had no opportunity to bring his knee up into his opponent’s groin.
Purkiss heaved on the chain with renewed force. His right fist, with the end few links of the chain wrapped around it, was up beside the man’s head. Summoning all the strength he could, Purkiss slammed the chain-clad fist into the man’s left ear.
The pain must have been exquisite, because the man relaxed his jaws around Purkiss’s arm and gave a yelp. It was all the opportunity Purkiss needed.
He wrenched his arm free, wincing as a gout of blood spilled down the torn material of his jacket- and shirtsleeve. Again he punched the man’s ear, splitting the skin of the scalp. He hauled on the chain again, heard the man wheeze, his breath quicken as his ribcage was compressed.
Purkiss heaved, rolling the man off him, and staggered to his feet, still holding on to one end of the chain. The man tried to rise with him and Purkiss kicked him in the stomach, doubling him up. Purkiss swept his feet out from under him with a second kick, and flung the length of chain on top of him.
Satisfied that the man writhing on the ground was out of action for the time being, Purkiss turned to see Hannah kneeling on her opponent, who was prone on the ground, his arm twisted behind him, Hannah’s knee in the small of his back. Her clothes and face were dusty but Purkiss couldn’t see any blood, except at the man’s nose. The switchblade lay in the dirt, several feet away.
Hannah caught Purkiss’s eye and nodded a warning over his shoulder. He saw the big man, the one whom he’d floored first, on his feet and groping for the crowbar.
As Purkiss advanced, another figure appeared at the entrance to the car park. The unmistakeable ratcheting sound of a slide-action shotgun made the big man look round.
The newcomer strode forwards, the shotgun aimed squarely at Purkiss. He stopped ten feet away.
It was Arkwright, but his face bore only a basic resemblance to the picture Vale had sent Purkiss. The features were horribly distorted by a scar that criss-crossed from one ear to the corner of the opposite jaw, cutting across the mouth and dragging the lips sideways. The man’s head was shaven, and also white with scar tissue.
His eyes were bright points.
‘Back down,’ he said thickly.
The big man glared at Purkiss and made to swing the crowbar. The scarred man snarled: ‘You too, Dave.’
He looked down at the smaller man, who was on his knees, taking long, hesitant breaths, spitting blood. My blood, Purkiss thought.
The scarred man raised the barrel towards Hannah. ‘And you. Let him up.’
Hannah stood, the prone man leaping to his feet, grimacing, and turning on her. But he kept back after a glance at Arkwright.
Arkwright searched Purkiss and Hannah with his gaze. Then, as though making a decision, he said: ‘All of you. Come with me.’
Twenty-five
Sometimes coincidences happened, and could be used to great advantage.
Tullivant had spotted them as they stepped out of the Peugeot next to the village green: Purkiss, and the woman Tullivant had seen earlier, when the car bomb had gone off. The woman who’d knocked Purkiss down, and probably saved his life.
Tullivant was walking back to his own car at the time, which he’d left in the pub car park. He didn’t dodge out of sight, because there was no need; his face would mean nothing to either Purkiss or the woman. So he continued towards the car park at an unhurried pace, watching the pair as if he was innocently looking at the green.
They headed in the direction Tullivant had come from, with that typical appearance of people who were looking for a particular address. And Tullivant knew exactly the address they wanted, because he’d just been there himself.
In the car park, he got his car, a VW Golf, and drove in a circuit until he was heading down the street off which Arkwright’s cottage stood. There were Purkiss and the woman, peering down the lane which led to the cottage. Now they were heading towards it.