A Fistful of Knuckles (25 page)

Unless …

Sam swallowed uneasily.

Unless they’re both intending to fight for real.

As Patsy snorted and threw blank punches, Sam raised a hand to his mouth and thought hard.

Does Patsy intend to ignore the deal and kill Spider here tonight? And does Spider intend to forget the operation and go instead for revenge on Patsy? Have both these fighters decided, independently, to use me to get to the other?

That was madness, surely. It was in Patsy’s interests to see Spider take the rap for the Denzil Obi murder, just as it was in Spider’s interests to see Patsy arrested for the crime he had committed. What the hell would a fight between them achieve?

Maybe they don’t think like that. Maybe all they think about is vengeance … battering each other’s heads in.

‘Patsy,’ Sam said carefully. ‘You do remember the deal we made, don’t you?’

‘All deals are off.’

It wasn’t Patsy who spoke. It was Spider. Without warning, Spider was stepping into the arena, stripped to the waist, revealing his lithe, tight musculature and pale skin, so blank and clean compared to Patsy’s inked and elaborate palimpsest of flesh.

Sam’s temper flared. What the hell was Ray playing at, sending Spider in so soon?! He needed time! He needed time to get Patsy to speak – and God knew he hadn’t said a
word
so far – he needed time for the lumbering thug to incriminate himself … and Annie needed time in the caravan alone with Tracy, persuading her, winning her trust, making her see sense.

Glaring around, Sam saw that in the gaps between the ring of parked vehicles there were faces – men’s faces, peering in – the faces of fairground folk, travellers, luggers, grafters – the faces of Patsy O’Riordan’s people, come to see the showdown, come to witness all the fun of the alternative fair. In that moment, Sam realised he’d been duped. Patsy had no intention of being part of some police scam to frame Spider. All he wanted was to be alone in the ring with the man who once tried to kill him.

And at the same time, Sam understood that Spider had used him too, that he had never intended to play along with the operation but instead wanted to get his revenge on the man who killed his blood brother – or die in the attempt.

Patsy and Spider stared silently at each other from opposite corners of the arena. Sam stood there, uncertain, dithering, feeling at once like the referee in a boxing match.

But this is no boxing match. And there’s no call for a referee because there’s no rules …

‘Ray!’ Sam hissed into the hidden microphone beneath his shirt. ‘It’s all gone tits up! Get down here now! And call for back-up!’

Instinctively, he waited for an answer – and then had to remind himself this was not a police radio.

I’ll just have to trust that he heard me.

But just as he thought that, he heard voices – Chris’s voice, and Ray’s – coming from just outside the arena.

Through one of the corner gaps, Sam saw them. They were being dragged roughly by large men. Ray was glowering fiercely, blood streaming from his nose where it drenched his moustache and dripped thickly from his chin. Chris was hollering and complaining, and as he turned his head from side to side Sam saw that one of his eyes was swollen shut from a huge, black bruise.

‘Ray! Chris!’ Sam called out instinctively. And at once he heard his own voice coming back to him from the radio receiver that was held aloft by one of the thugs. The receiver was hurled roughly to the ground and trampled. It smashed.

‘They sprang up outta nowhere, boss!’ howled Chris. He was silenced by a clip round the ear. ‘OI! Watch out!’

‘The bastards rushed us,’ Ray growled, trying to staunch the flow of blood down his face. ‘They got us …
all
of us …
as you can see
.’

Sam caught his meaning at once –
they got all of us, as you can see
…

Annie’s not here. He’s telling me that they didn’t get Annie. She’s okay. She’s clear.

That was something, at least.

Sam turned sharply on Patsy and bellowed: ‘What the hell’s going on here, you moron! These are my officers your thugs have assaulted! Let them go – right now! We had a deal, Patsy!’

And now, at last, Patsy became aware of him. He turned his nasty, misshapen, green-and-blue inked head, and bared his teeth in a vicious grin. His eyes flashed wickedly.

‘Patsy! I
demand
your monkey crew get their mitts off my officers!’

‘You’re in the arena,’ Patsy growled, his voice low and bestial. ‘
My
arena …’

‘The deal, Patsy! Remember the deal!’

‘No deals … Not here …’

Sam turned towards Spider: ‘Back off, Spider! This isn’t the way!’

But Spider couldn’t hear him. His entire will was fixated upon his enemy. His eyes were blazing. Every muscle was pulled tight. He was locked on, like a missile – primed, ticking, seconds from detonation.

With his heart hammering and his mouth dry, Sam strode boldly towards the two men and planted himself between them.

‘I’m arresting both of you,’ he declared. ‘I’m arresting
everybody
!’

Patsy held out his right hand and placed it on Sam’s chest, right where the bug was taped. But it didn’t matter about that anymore – the operation had gone to crock. Patsy’s small, bruised, scabby, painted hand rested on Sam for a moment – lightly, as if he were checking his heartbeat – and then, with a sudden show of strength that seemed to come out of nowhere, he shoved Sam back. Sam stumbled and fell, landing heavily on his backside in the churned-up mud of the arena.

Looking up, he saw Patsy and Spider launch at each other like head-on express trains. They slammed together with a shocking impact, and then it was all fists, a firestorm of fists, so fast and frenzied that they became a blur of colour. Blood splattered against the side of one of the caravans.

Sam clambered to his feet and scrambled away, like he was avoiding the spinning blades of some murderous machine run amok. He saw the faces of men pressing in at every gap between the vehicles, their eyes wide, their lips drawn back, their teeth bared as they lapped up the ferocious violence exploding and thudding in the arena. He even saw Ray’s face, streaming with blood, as he peered in. And for a moment he glimpsed Chris, trying to see what the hell was going on with just his one good eye.

Turning back to the fight, Sam saw Spider hurling a series of truly monumental blows against Patsy’s face. His fists slammed into the bigger man like hurled mallets, flinging Patsy’s head back and to the side, over and over. Patsy flailed blindly, trying to defend himself, but he was retreating blindly. He slammed against the side of one of the caravans, struggling to keep himself upright against it.

I don’t believe it! Spider’s battering him! He’s winning!

As Patsy raised both arms to cover his face, Spider switched his attack, firing rapid blows one after the other into Patsy’s stomach and ribs. As Patsy doubled up, Spider switched again, blazing away at his face and head once more.

Nobody can take much more of that – not even O’Riordan!

Sam felt a sudden elation, an exhilarating joy in seeing so much violence up close. Or was it that? No – it was something else – it was the deep, vicious pleasure of seeing the Devil in the Dark being battered to a pulp. That enigmatic and nightmarish force which had been reaching out with such malice towards Annie, and which had found its expression in the tattooed body of Patsy O’Riordan, was being beaten into submission, mashed, smashed, battered, broken.

Destroy him, Spider!
Sam found himself thinking, his blood ablaze with fury.
Rip him to pieces! For Annie! Do it for Annie! And me! Do it for us!

In that moment, Sam wanted nothing – could think of nothing – except the ecstasy of seeing the enemy of all his happiness being systematically punched to death. He was dimly aware that Spider must be feeling exactly the same thing.

Do it for Annie! Do it for Annie!

Annie.

Her name was like cold water dashed into his face, bringing him back to his sanity.

Murder,
he thought.
I’m witnessing a murder.

And then:
You’re a copper, Sam. Act like one.

And then:
Annie would be disgusted to see you revelling in this violence. Stop this fight, Sam. Do it for her – do it for Annie – be a man – be a
real
man, not a bloody caveman – stop it, stop it, stop the fighting – do it for Annie!

He ran his hand over his face, shook his head to clear, and moved forward to stop the fight. It had gone on long enough.

But at that very moment, Patsy decided it had gone on long enough too.

Patsy was sagging, slumped up against the side of one of the caravans, his head lolling as he absorbed a ferocious pounding from Spider – and then, without warning, he was battering Spider with his small, hard fists, lunging powerfully forward, driving Spider backward with bone-breaking strength.

He was playing possum!
Sam thought, aghast, keeping his distance.
Patsy was swallowing all those punches whole – he was just toying with Spider, lulling him into a false sense of superiority … just like he lulled
me.

Spider was thrown hopelessly off-guard by Patsy’s sudden revival. He took a terrifying cannonade of fast, shuddering punches to the side of his head, his chest, his stomach, his rib cage, which sent him staggering and veering wildly until he slammed against one of the caravans and slithered down it, half senseless. He left behind him a huge smear of blood shaped uncannily like Australia.

Patsy loomed over Spider and smothered him with his whole body, like he meant to absorb him; he clamped his arms around Spider’s body and squeezed, throwing his head back and roaring as he did so. Spider made no sound; his mouth opened wide, the blood vessels in his face and neck swelled and stood out. Sam saw the spider tattoo along his neck rippling and bulging, saw the veins thrusting out from beneath it, but the only sound that came from Spider was a muffled, sickening crunch.

With a cry, Patsy hurled Spider to the ground, and at once he planted one of his heavy, steel-capped boots onto the back of Spider’s neck and drove his face down into the mud.

Sam found he was frozen. An inner voice was screaming at him –
get in there, you’re a copper, break that fight up, nick Patsy before he kills Spider, do something!
– but his body refused to react. The horror of what he had seen had locked his joints, stiffened his muscles, unmanned him.

All around, he could hear the bellowing of excited men as they jostled and clambered to get a better view of the action in the arena. They drummed their fists against the sides of the caravans, creating a deafening timpani in every direction.

His foot still planted on Spider’s neck, Patsy flung his arms into the air and roared. The crowd of men roared back. The lights of the fairground flashed in the sky beyond the confines of the arena, but to Sam they seemed to be flames lashing and whipping against the night; the low clouds reflected the smouldering glow of great lava flows that spread sluggishly across the face of the planet; the city itself was on fire, the buildings falling, the pavements melting, the very ground itself erupting in shattering bursts of hot lava and fragmented clinker. A million black balloons bobbed against the sulphurous sky.

Sam covered his eyes with his hands, forced himself back from this hellish vision, forced himself to be sane. Furiously, he opened his eyes again and glared about. The lights of the fairground were just that – coloured lights – and the city was no longer burning and dying. It had been nothing; another of the Test Card Girl’s phantom visions – indeed, would he now glimpse the brat’s face staring sadly at him from the men in the crowd?

I don’t give a damn if she’s there or not. Spider’s under my protection, and Patsy O’Riordan will not kill him. I will not permit it. I will stop it – NOW.

Before he had a chance to lose his nerve, Sam strode forward with the intention of – somehow – arresting Patsy and calling for police back-up.

But now Patsy was glaring right at him, his massive torso rising and falling with every breath, his tattoos glistening beneath a sheen of sweat and blood. His eyes blazed. If he was still just Patsy O’Riordan, or if he had become some other creature, the Devil in the Dark itself, Sam could no longer tell. The two monsters had, in Sam’s eyes at least, become one. His heart quailed. He thought of Annie, told himself that it was he and he alone who stood between her and the evil intentions of this ogre. He was the thin blue line that defied the advance of chaos.

‘Patsy O’Riordan, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Denzil Obi. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.’

The men whooped, jeered, brayed, hooted. Something was thrown into the arena, landing heavily next to Patsy, but Sam’s attention remained on that inked and inhuman face.

‘You’re coming with me, O’Riordan. You’re nicked.’

Patsy leant over and picked up the object that had been thrown at his feet. It was a white plastic carton containing a transparent liquid.

‘Get your foot off Spider’s head, O’Riordan. That man needs an ambulance.’

Patsy unscrewed the cap of the carton and started sloshing the liquid onto Spider’s back and legs, dousing him.

‘Don’t make me use force with you, O’Riordan,’ Sam heard himself say. ‘Come quietly. I’m warning you.’

Emptying the carton, Patsy cast it carelessly aside. It was then that Sam was struck by the chemical stink of liquid paraffin. Pasty began groping in his trouser pocket for something. The men gawping into the arena from all sides had fallen silent. Nobody moved. Nobody blinked. Distant screams and laughs and music reached them from the fairground as Patsy produced a cigarette lighter.

‘O’Riordan,’ said Sam, his voice low and even, completely devoid of emotion. ‘Patsy. Stop.’