A Good Day To Die (10 page)

The car went into a very large Puerta Galera-style pothole, jarring my whole body and giving me an
even bigger headache. But we were slowing down rapidly and I got the feeling that we were nearing our destination. Wherever that was. I wondered whether I was going to get a beating - a warning perhaps that my adversaries and erstwhile employers weren't messing around - or whether it was going to be more than this: a loose end being tied up.

Pope's trap had been a sweet one, I had to give him that. He'd lured me into the open, to a supposedly neutral venue, pretending to make a reasoned approach, so that I would let my guard down, before striking just as I was pondering over what he'd said. Apart from her incompetence at the end, that waitress had been an inspired choice of attacker. There was no way I'd have ever suspected her. Even when plan A had gone wrong, Pope still had a B and a C. I was clearly dealing with someone who was well organized as well as ruthless.

I pulled the can of CS gel loose from my pocket, and placed my thumb over the release button as the car hit another pothole before slowing to a halt. A couple of seconds later the boot flew open, and daylight came rushing in. A hand grabbed me roughly by the collar and pulled me upwards. My headache intensified and my vision blurred again as I moved properly for the first time since the blow.

I made out a white hard hat, and vaguely recognized its wearer as the man who'd attacked me
with the piping. I could see through the fuzz that he was grinning and that there was a crooked, glassing scar round his lip. He pulled me closer and started to say something. His breath smelt of eggs and bad coffee, and I wrinkled my nose while simultaneously raising my arm and pushing down on the can's release button, the action automatically breaking the security seal. A line of white gel shot out and got him right in the eyes.

The effect was immediate and incredibly satisfying. He staggered backwards, screaming and slapping at his eyes, and while he was otherwise occupied I hauled myself out of the boot, looking round for any further assailants.

Unfortunately, I'd been wrong about the numbers. There were three men altogether, and the other two were coming towards me from either side of the car. The one to my left was the other workman from the cafe, a stocky guy with a long head and a small moustache. Those were the only details I got, because I was too busy concentrating on the black baseball bat swinging casually from one hand. From the other side of the car and out of vision, I heard number three shout that I had gas.

Time's of the essence in these sort of situations. I sprayed the gel again, aiming at Moustache, but he turned his head to one side and I only managed an indirect hit. He rubbed at one eye and cursed. I'd stopped him, but he wasn't going to be out of the equation for long.

I swung round, the effort making my vision blur again, and tried to aim at number three through the fuzz. I sprayed wildly as he came towards me but I think I missed, and then I was pressing the button and nothing was happening. The gel had run out. I'd been told you didn't get much for your money. One or two sprays and that was that.

I turned to run as assailant number three's baseball bat came into view. He was holding it two-handed, and seemed to know what he was doing. He lashed out, striking me hard on the back of my legs before I could get out of range, the force of the blow sending me stumbling to the ground. I fell forwards into mud, fumbled momentarily in my pockets, then rolled round so I could see what my chances were.

They weren't looking too good. I was in woodland. A wall of pine trees rose up on either side of the muddy track that the car - a silver four-wheel drive, the same one from outside the cafe - had come down. I could make out the sound of an aircraft flying unseen through the unbroken white cloud, miles overhead, but there was no hum of nearby traffic. Moustache continued to rub his right eye, but still held on to the baseball bat. Assailant number three, shorter and thinner than his friend, with more hair, was smiling and swinging his bat jauntily. Number one, Scarface, was on his knees a few feet to my right, head in his hands. 'Fucking bastard,' I heard him hiss. I guessed he'd be out of
the equation for another five minutes or so, by which time I'd have either escaped or been battered back into oblivion. At the moment, it looked like the latter.

I shut my eyes, then opened them again, focusing on the two men coming towards me. My vision began to clear at what some might argue was exactly the wrong time.

'How's yer head?' asked number three in a thick Glaswegian accent. 'Must be hurting.'

'It's going to be hurting a fuck of a lot more in a minute,' said Moustache, gripping his bat as if he was getting ready to hit an almighty home run. His accent was East London, and he was still blinking aggressively against the effects of the gel.

They stopped on either side of me, looking down. 'You're harder than we give ye credit for,' said number three. 'But nae hard enough, ah'm afraid. Now shut yer eyes and we'll make it quick.' He lifted his bat, as did his colleague. 'That'll do you nae good, son,' he added, motioning to what he thought was the empty CS gel canister in my hand as I raised it slowly.

From somewhere off to the left, I heard a noise in the trees. Something running, getting closer. Then a man's voice, calling out, 'Tex, get back here!' The voice was still some distance away but the dog was a lot nearer. Perhaps he'd heard the commotion and was coming to investigate. If he had, I was grateful. I'd always liked dogs.

'Whattae fuck?' cursed the Scotsman, looking towards the trees.

Still lying on my back, I squeezed the button on the second canister and the gel shot upwards and straight into the face of Moustache, who I'd identified as the most immediate threat. He jumped back, but his muffled curses suggested I'd got him this time. I swung my arm round, still depressing the button, and more gel hit the Scotsman.

But he'd had that one second to react while I took out his colleague, and he used it to jump back out of the way. As the spray sputtered and died all too quickly, he came back fast, striking out with the baseball bat. The blow caught me on the arm as I tried to protect myself, then connected with the fleshy area between my neck and my chin, some of the force at least taken out of it. It hurt - it hurt a lot - but nothing was broken.

He stepped back, his face determined rather than angry, making me think that he in fact was the most dangerous of the three, and raised the weapon above his head for a better shot. But at that moment Tex, who was a young Alsatian, came bounding out of the trees, wagging his tail, and jumped up at my attacker. I don't think he was performing a Rin-Tin-Tin-style rescue; more that he thought what was happening was a game, and wanted to join in.

The effect was the same, though. The Scotsman panicked, kicked out at the dog, knocking him backwards, then went for him with the baseball bat,
managing a glancing blow to Tex's side as the dog dodged out of the way. This only served to make Tex angry, and he began barking wildly and trying to find an opening in which he could extract a bit of canine payback. The Scotsman tried to keep an eye on me and deal with the dog at the same time, but by attempting to do both he was managing neither. I grabbed Moustache's baseball bat, and although the Scotsman saw me do it, he had to fend off Tex, who'd managed to get his teeth round the end of his bat and was now involved in a tug of war over it.

I'm a lot fitter than I used to be, but I'd taken something of a beating that morning and my head was still banging away, so when I came at my opponent and hit him across the shoulderblades with the bat I'd liberated, I don't think I did anything like the same damage I'd done to his friends with the CS gel, even though I had a clean shot.

The Scotsman lost his footing, but righted himself quickly and proceeded to kick the dog very hard in the throat. This time, the connection was far better and Tex went over on his back. Ignoring me, he made the most of his advantage and landed a sickening blow with the bat on the animal's head and I knew that this was the end of Tex's resistance.

'My dog! What the hell are you doing to my dog?'

Tex's owner stood by the track, ten yards away, his hair and clothes wet from walking through
the undergrowth, the shock on his face as all-consuming as that of any crime victim I'd seen. He was a big man, a couple of stone overweight, and on the wrong side of middle age. He had the look of the long-term office worker about him, and I knew he wasn't going to be able to offer much in the way of assistance, bar calling for help, which was the last thing I needed. He also looked like he was about to break down and cry. His eyes were watery behind the thick-rimmed glasses.

'Get ta fuck, old man!' snapped the Scotsman, already turning back to me with the air of someone keen to complete unfinished business.

Which was when I summoned the last of what strength I had, leaned back with the bat as if ready to hit my own home run, and smacked him round the side of the head.

It still wasn't the best of blows, but at least I managed to daze him. He fell to one knee, clutching his head with one hand, but still holding on to his weapon with the other.

I went to whack him again, but out of the corner of my eye I saw the first guy I'd sprayed getting to his feet, his eyes now uncovered. He was pretty stocky as well, with the scar giving him the sort of face that you could imagine appearing on the cover of a book about pub brawls. He didn't look very happy either.

He turned in my direction and took a step forward, starting to say something less than
complimentary, so I threw the bat straight at him and scored a direct hit right between the eyes.

'You fucker!' he yelped, stumbling backwards into a pothole on the track and losing his footing.

At that moment, Tex's owner howled an obscenity of his own and charged down the Scotsman like an ageing buffalo, grabbing him in an all-enveloping bear-hug that appeared highly effective. 'You're not getting away with this!' I heard him shout as he wrestled with the other man, using his ample weight in an attempt to smother him. He was crying too - loud, violent sobs - and I suddenly felt very sorry for him.

But this wasn't the moment for expressing sympathy. It was time for me to make a move, since this was a battle I was never going to win. Shouting to the owner to get out of here himself before the others recovered, and adding the immortal lines, 'It's too late for the dog! Save yourself!' I ran over to the four-wheel drive, slamming the boot shut. I hoped that the assault I'd launched from it a few minutes earlier had surprised the driver enough that he'd left the keys in the ignition.

He had.

I jumped inside and started the engine, slamming it into first and accelerating away. In the rear-view mirror, I saw that Tex's owner still had the upper hand, but that Scarface had now recovered and was going over to assist his mate. He also had the bat I'd chucked at him in his hand. Tex
meanwhile lay motionless in the middle of the track, in the same position he'd fallen in.

I cursed. It wasn't my problem. The owner should have run while he'd had the chance. Why take on men like that, however upset you are? In the end, you've got to be pragmatic. Retreat when the odds are against you. But the guy was still an innocent who'd done nothing wrong, and if I left him there God knows what would happen. I was a copper for a long time - getting close to twenty years - and even if for a lot of that time I hadn't been a particularly nice one, I still didn't like to see an obvious injustice being committed when there was something I could do about it. I felt sick and I felt exhausted, but it didn't stop me from looking for a space to turn round.

I'd driven about a hundred yards when there was a break in the trees to my left. I changed down to second, swung the wheel and mounted the bank before reversing straight back into a tree on the other side of the track. Turning the wheel as far as it would go, I just managed to manoeuvre the vehicle round, and then I was heading back in the direction of the fight. I'd been gone no more than twenty seconds.

I was in third gear and coming fast when I rounded the corner and saw Scarface standing in the middle of the track, bat above his head, ready to strike. Beneath him, the Scotsman was now sitting astride the dog-owner, pummelling him with his
fists. The dog-owner's arms were in front of his face as he tried to protect himself, and his feet were only inches from the prone dog's head.

Scarface looked up when he heard the engine and he blinked rapidly as his reddened eyes tried to focus. He shouldn't have bothered. If he'd had any sense he'd have used the time to get out of the way. Instead, for me it was third time lucky. First the CS gel; then the bat; now the car, which put bluntly was more like a tank.

I hit him head-on and he flew over the bonnet and banged against the windscreen with a satisfying thud. He seemed to hold that position for a second, and then I slammed on the brakes and he rolled off the front, leaving a dirty stain of blood on the glass. I didn't bother flicking on the wipers. Instead, I flung open the driver's side door so that it was fully extended, and shoved the car into reverse.

The Scotsman was just getting off his victim to make a break for it. However, he'd also taken a bit of a beating so wasn't as quick as he should have been, and was only three quarters upright when the edge of the door struck him full in the face. The momentum sent him crashing over backwards with a pained yelp not unlike the one Tex had made when he'd been hit. I turned the wheel slightly, only just managing to avoid hitting the dog-owner's feet, before coming to a halt again.