For a moment he stopped dead. He shook himself, tried to loosen the stress that tied his muscles and loosened his gut. He took a deliberate, steadying step forward.
He saw only what was ahead of him, the shelter where two men sat and the darkness of the pier. His mind was blurred.
Each step forward was harder than the last, but he did not run.
'He's coming.'
'No one's coming.'
'And I'm telling you, he's coming.'
'Don't you listen? No one,' Naylor said, with snapping impatience. 'I hear him.'
'The last time I tell you — I can see four hundred yards away, and it is empty. Is that clear to you? No one is coming. What I reckon is, you've made a major error of judgement.'
Dickie Naylor stared up the length of the esplanade, past streetlights and past benches. He saw gulls and blowing plastic bags. Surprising, really, with the sun out, but not a living soul was there. He scratched round his eyes, blinked, looked again. Of course the American wanted to believe his man was coming: a bloody reputation hinged on it. Two reputations in reality. He glanced down at his watch, did the mathematics.
'I'm as sorry as-you are, Joe. I can't conjure a man up when he's not there. That boat's going to sail without him. I've as much to lose as you, maybe more.'
'You don't hear him, but I do. I'm just going to sit and listen for the both of us.'
As if to humour a child: 'What can you hear, Joe?'
He was jabbed hard in the ribs with the stick's curved handle. 'I can hear feet on loose stones.'
Naylor stiffened and straightened. He heard the gulls' cries, the wind against the lamp-posts and the surf rumbling. He heard the feet slip and dislodge shingle and fracture shells. He stood. He stared down at the beach, at a man's head and the shoulders where the straps of a bag were hitched.
'There, Joe…' A panted whisper. 'On the beach, almost level, coming to us.'
'Description? Quickly.'
'Middle thirties, Arab but pale. Might be half-caste. Has a bag.'
'More.'
'Like he's in a trance, far away, doesn't see me.'
'Focus now, get me close.'
Naylor took Hegner's arm and pulled him up. Dragged him. The stick caught Hegner's legs, but Naylor steadied him. He led him away from the shelter and to the knee-high wall on the esplanade. The man was below them, level with them.
'You're close, Joe.'
It seemed to Naylor an age, but it was not. In his ear, Hegner murmured soft and private, 'I've come a long way to find you. Now I've found you and I'm going to fuck you. You are the Scorpion…'
The head turned. Naylor realized that Hegner had spoken in guttural Arabic. The head twisted as if it was tugged round.
'Reacted,' Naylor muttered at Hegner. 'Bloody poleaxed.'
The man took two paces, but shingle scattered under his feet and he stumbled. Naylor saw the confusion spreading on his face, then the head shaking — as if he was clearing it, his mind going at flywheel speed. Such a damned simple trick, so bloody basic, and Naylor had seen the reaction of hesitation at the Arabic language, in quiet talk, and the jerk of the head at the word that was 'Scorpion'. He would run — yes, of course — towards the pier…but he didn't.
His hands on to the wall.
The heave and the push, the scrape of smoothed stones flying from under him.
The man came up and over the wall. Naylor saw the power of him, saw him coil his body, as if he would break out. What threatened him? Naylor thrust Hegner back behind him, heard the sharp cry, and Hegner fell…What threatened the man, blocked his escape, was Dickie Naylor, who might or might not get to celebrate his sixty-fifth birthday the next day, and blind Joe Hegner, who was on the ground behind him. The man came near, crouched, was on the balls of his feet, poised, launched his bloody self.
They might do survival and self-defence with recruits, these days, might not…but they didn't do refreshers for old warriors.
Fists into Naylor's head and upper body, a knee into his groin, savage kicks at his shins and ankles. He had never before faced a beating — not in his youth, in his middle years, not now that he was old. He felt his breath wheeze out of his lips, he could not see and the pain surged. He collapsed. Going down made him an easier target. The fists beat at his upper head as he sank on to the paving, and the knee hit under his chin and the kicks were now in his stomach. He couldn't protect himself. He toppled further, felt the softness of Hegner's body under him, and the broken glass of spectacles slash his cheek, added to the blood that came from his mouth. Naylor thought it was where he would die. Old school, old chap, old warrior and saw duty. 'Made sure he was over Hegner. Cried out once, not again — had no wind left in him. More blows battered him. Scrabbled with his hand — not bloody ready to die. Felt anger.
The stick was in his hand, its glossed white paint in his fist.
Remembered little of what had gone before, but remembered the tapping hard beat of a stick, the story of a blind man's stick being removed from him — at the main door, s security check — because its tip would set off the metal detector alarm. Remembered that.
Naylor had the stick, drove it up. Smelt the breath over him, imagined the moment that the man readied himself for the chop blow to the neck. Not bloody ready to die. He pushed up with the stick in one violent thrust and felt it catch softness. Heard a gasp, then a choke. Somewhere soft, maybe in the throat. He braced himself, but the next kick did not come.
He heard a hacking, coarse cough, then the stamp of feet running away fast.
And he heard, 'You all right, Dickie?'
'Not really' The pain throbbed in him.
He looked up. Saw the back of the man, the pier and the parked car.
He tried to push himself up, failed, tried again, was on his feet and staggered, like a drunk does, and tasted blood. The man ran towards the pier. Without the stick he would have toppled. The man careered away, and Naylor saw that he had a hand raised to his throat, as if he had been badly hurt there. Who had seen it? Nobody. A milk cart went by Two children scurried for the beach, kicking a ball ahead of them. A dog ran into the surf in pursuit of a thrown toy. Nobody had seen him made into a punch sack.
'If you can, get me up…'
Naylor dragged Hegner to his feet, then leaned on him.
'…and give me my goddamn stick. Has Twentyman gone where I said he would?'
'He's getting there.'
'Talk to me. I've waited so damn long, Dickie. Tell me what's going on.'
They followed the man slowly. Hegner had the stick and took Naylor's weight. The sunshine was on his face and he used his tongue to lick the blood from his lips. He said what he saw.
The man ran in full flight, approaching the car. Suddenly its doors opened fast. Boniface and Clydesdale came out of the car. Their view would have been blocked by the shelter and they would not have known that he was down, and Hegner, would have known nothing until they saw the man charge on the esplanade towards them with Naylor and the American in hobbling pursuit: but they'd reacted. The man swerved to avoid the near side door, and lost his footing as it smacked against him. He fell against the little brick wall that held ornamental shrubs. Boniface and Clydesdale were on him; one at the upper body and one at the knees. The cluster of them dropped. He saw the fight. Arms, legs, buttocks heaved up, down, and writhed, as if it was a haphazard playground scrap. Naylor could not tell whose body was uppermost, but he saw punches flail. He pulled Hegner after him, gripping his arm. Far beyond the pier, two young women pushed prams and talked, never looked ahead. And then it was over. He saw the pinions go on to lifted arms and on to the ankles. They knelt on him, and the man's bag lay discarded.