Alice’s voice slashed through the muggy air: ‘EFFIE, CALL THE POLICE! CALL — Ulk...!’
The clatter and scrabble of dog claws on the linoleum.
‘Now, dear Doctor, I do believe I counselled against interfering.’
Alice.
I turned, teeth bared and there was Joseph, standing behind her, with his right arm around her throat, left arm locking her head in and forcing it forward. Chokehold. Shutting off the blood to her brain.
Henry charged at Joseph, jaws snapping, barks ringing out.
Then a whimpering yelp as Joseph lashed out with a foot, sending the brave wee lad flying as Alice’s face darkened. ‘I warned you!’
Right, that bastard—
Francis’s left fist cracked upwards into my ribs, nearly lifting me off my one good foot. Taking all the breath in my lungs with it. And the other knee gave way.
This was it.
The scarlet-spattered linoleum rushed up to meet me. Now the kicking would start. The stamping. The broken bones and fractured skull. The internal bleeding.
Clutching at the table didn’t help — it dragged the checked plastic cloth off, taking the sauces and salt and mugs and plate and chips and fish fingers with it. A shattering of crockery, the ping and clang of cheap cutlery bouncing.
Then BOOM.
The Tartan Bunnet’s front door burst open and Helen MacNeil charged over the threshold, screaming something without words in it, mouth wide, teeth flashing, all the cords in her neck standing out like the cables on a suspension bridge.
Francis got as far as, ‘Naw—’ before she crashed into him, knocking him off his feet and sending him flying into the nearest table with a crunch of buckling chipboard. He was bent backwards over it, hips jutting, arms flailing as Helen leapt on him — one knee slamming down into his groin. And that was it for the table. The entire thing collapsed and Francis thumped into the floor with Helen still on top as she grabbed his ponytail and battered her other fist off his face five or six times in rapid succession, like a jackhammer, sending up tiny spurts of scarlet with every impact. Re-breaking that squint nose, shutting his eye.
Then twisting around and onto her feet again.
Can’t have taken her more than a dozen seconds, and Francis was a groaning mess of battered skin, blood frothing at the side of his mouth and dribbling down his cheek.
Joseph swivelled, putting Alice between Helen and himself. Partially releasing his chokehold to dig a hand into his jacket pocket. ‘Now I know we haven’t been properly introduced, but I can assure you that this encounter will not go well for you if you don’t turn around and leave right now.’
She kept her eyes on him as she picked up one of the broken table’s metal legs, holding it like a baseball bat, slapping the other end against her palm. ‘You know who I am?’
‘I haven’t had the pleasure.’
‘Oh, it’s no pleasure, I’m pretty sure of that.’ Stepping closer. ‘See, I know who you are.’
‘Then you know that, much though it may pain me, I shall not hesitate to do the good doctor here serious harm if you don’t depart as requested.’
Helen shrugged. ‘Go on, then. She’s nothing to me. But this one?’ Pointing the table leg in my direction. ‘He’s mine. And you better pray he’s still useful to me, because see if he’s not?’
‘Unnnnnngh...’ Francis rolled over onto his front. Struggled up to his hands and knees. Blood dripping onto the linoleum beneath his face. Another grunt and he was sitting back on his haunches, face already swelling up. Wobbling in a circle, as if the whole café was swaying.
Welcome to the dance.
Helen didn’t even look at him. Instead she swung the table leg in a fast, flat arc behind her.
A muffled clang as the metal cracked off Francis’s head, and gravity reclaimed him. On his side, lying there, mouth open, eyes closed.
But at least he was still breathing.
Alice, on the other hand, was going a darker shade of red, hands scratching at Joseph’s arm, mouth opening and closing on nothing. Feet scratching across the linoleum. One arm wasn’t enough to cut off the blood flow, but plenty to make sure she couldn’t breathe.
I hauled myself up the nearest chair. ‘LET HER GO!’
‘Going to give you a choice, Joseph. Either you take your boyfriend and you run away, or I do the same thing to you that I did to Neil Stringer.’ The table leg slapped into her open palm again. ‘Five... Four.’
He licked his lips. Looked from Helen, to the length of metal in her hands, to Francis, then back again. Then closed his eyes and nodded. ‘I suppose there’s only one course of action open to me.’
‘Three... Two.’
Joseph’s left hand flashed up from his pocket, an old-fashioned cutthroat razor snapping open. Blade gleaming as he hurled Alice to one side. ‘You’ll regret your—’
‘One.’ The table leg rose, then fell, sharp and hard across the scarred crown of Joseph’s head. Enough weight behind it to bend the metal.
Joseph staggered back, thumping into the wall. Spitting out a gobbet of scarlet. Then lunged, cutthroat razor hissing through the air. Might have got her too, if she hadn’t leapt out of the way.
The table leg came crashing down again, on his left forearm, and this time that metal-tube noise was joined by a muffled pop and Joseph’s cutthroat razor skittered off across the linoleum, to thunk against a skirting board. The hand that’d held it hung at a very unnatural angle, as if his wrist started halfway up his arm now.
He sank down to one knee, grimacing as he clutched those shat-tered bones to his chest. ‘GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAARGH!’ Lurching to his feet again. Standing there, hissing breath in and out between his gritted teeth, red bubbles popping around those perfect veneers.
Alice scrabbled back against the wall, hands rubbing at her throat as she wheezed in ragged lungfuls of air.
A thump, and the kitchen door swung open. Effie, standing there, holding an old-fashioned beige phone to her ear, its curly flex festooned with greasy fluff. ‘The police’ll be here any minute!’
Helen nodded. ‘You’re lucky Mr Henderson and these women are here, Joseph. Otherwise you’d both be dead by now.’ A cruel smile. ‘You should say “thank you” to them. Or shall I batter your boyfriend’s brains out?’ Resting the tip of the table leg against Francis’s forehead. ‘Go on: say it.’
‘Gnnn...’ Joseph swallowed whatever it was down. Then forced the words out. ‘Thank you.’
‘Now, like I said: take your boyfriend and bugger off. Before I change my mind.’
‘Here.’ Alice wriggled back into the booth next to me, holding out a tea towel full of ice. Voice trembling and a lot higher than normal. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital, because I really think you should go to the hospital.’ Pressing the cold damp towel against my forehead.
I tried for: ‘Give me that.’ But what actually came out was a nasal mushy: ‘Gibbee dat.’ I held the icepack over as much of my face as possible. Breathing hot peppery breaths into the clammy fabric while my head throbbed like a monstrous heart. Every time I inhaled it was like being punched in the ribs again. Knowing my luck, Francis had broken a few of them. But I wasn’t all that keen on prodding the things to find out.
The Monk and Casket wasn’t the fanciest pub in Oldcastle, or the nicest, or most hygienic. But it was dark and relatively quiet, nestled down at the bottom of Jamesmuir Road. The kind of place that had mock-Tudor nonsense on the outside; scarred wooden tables, red vinyl upholstery, and sticky wooden floors on the inside. A couple of puggy machines flashed and dinged in one corner, a pub quiz one over by the toilets. As if anyone in the Monk and Casket gave a toss what the capital of Paraguay was, as long as the booze was cheap. Not that it was busy in here: a couple of elderly prostitutes with bottles of extra-strong cider, a pair of miserable middle-aged men hunched over pints of Export, and an old wifie nursing a port-and-lemon while feeding Bacon Frazzles to the wee Westie poking out of her tartan shopping trolley. Alice. Henry. And me.