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Gold Rings rushed at him. Low and fast. Like a rugby player going in for a tackle. The other two followed. Jack timed his swing well, bringing the poker round in a big, sweeping arc. It whooshed through the air. Connected with Gold Ring’s shoulder. Metal on muscle. A meaty thud that made him scream in pain and fall sideways across a table. Empty glasses crashed to the floor, shattering on the hardwood surface.

  Before Jack could think about winding up for another swing, the other two were upon him. They bulldozed him to the floor. Rained down blow after blow, into his face and guts, sucking the breath out of his lungs. Punch after punch. Kick after kick. The poker slipped from Jack’s grip. He wavered in and out of consciousness. The coppery taste of blood began to line his mouth.

  ‘Stop it!’ Reg said. ‘You’ll kill him!’

  ‘We haven’t even started yet,’ Gold Rings replied.

  He got up, holding his shoulder, grimacing in pain.

  Baldy knelt down by Jack and put a slab-like hand around his throat. Squeezed hard.

  ‘Still got something you want say?’ Baldy asked.

  Gurgling and choking, Jack coughed up blood. He could feel the colour draining from his face.

  ‘Take him outside,’ Gold Rings instructed. ‘We’ll finish this outside.’ Then he said to Reg. ‘We’ll be back for the money tomorrow. Make sure you’ve got it.’

  Jack was hoisted to his feet and dragged across the floor as he was escorted towards the door. His head hung forwards, chin resting on his chest. His previously white t-shirt was stained crimson.

  It was raining hard outside now. Sheet lightening lit up the sky like a giant photoflash. Thunder rumbled, low and ominous. The wind whistled across the car park and under the pub’s eves.

  Jack struggled with as much strength as he could muster. But it was no good; the goons were too strong. They took him around the side of the building, out of view. They continued the onslaught. Kicking and punching. Curled in a fetal position, Jack wondered if they would ever stop.

  Then they did.

  Ginger and Baldy stepped aside. As Ginger backed away, he spat on Jack.

  It was dark here, with only a cursory spill of light from one of the car park’s hooded arc-sodiums to highlight the approaching figure. His face was in shadow, but Jack could tell who it was from his bulky frame and the way he was holding his shoulder. Gold Rings reached into his back pocket. Jack caught a glimpse of silver.

  ‘Make it quick,’ he muttered. ‘Just make it … quick!’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ Gold Rings replied, shaking his head. ‘I’m going to have me some fun.’

  Jack’s head began to swim as, once again, unconsciousness threatened to take him. And then, mercifully, it did.

  ####

  Reg picked the phone up. Taking it back to the bar, he plugged it in and put the receiver to his ear. No dial tone. Dead.

  ‘Great!’

  He didn’t have a mobile. Couldn’t abide the things, or the people that had them glued to their ears. He’d have banned mobiles a long time ago if he hadn’t been sure it would annoy his customers.

  Staring at the broken phone’s receiver, he wondered what to do next.

  ‘I wouldn’t call the police if I were you.’

  It was the woman from the lounge. Standing in the doorway again.

  ‘Why is that?’ Reg asked. ‘Those thugs need to be reported.’

  ‘I take it you don’t recognise them, then?’

  ‘No. Why? Should I?’

  ‘They’re Charles Byron’s hoods. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?’

  Everyone who lived near Boxford City knew his name. The only ones who didn’t were those new to the area.

  ‘I’m aware of who he is,’ Reg said with a sinking feeling in his guts. ‘How do you know they’re his men?’

  ‘My father owns a restaurant in the city. Those thugs collect money from him every week. Have been for the last two years. It’s ruining his business; he’s close to going under, but he daren’t refuse. What right has Byron got to demand protection money when it’s him we need protecting from. The bastard!’

  She darted concerned glances about the place, worried someone might have overheard.

  Lightening flashed outside, illuminating the room. Thunder cannonaded across the heavens.

  Reg had been proprietor for seven years and was close to giving up. In the beginning, when he had taken over as landlord, things had been good. Custom had been brisk, the pub packed most nights. Every now and then there had been trouble. The odd drunken scuffle, that was all. Same as any other watering hole. But then, about four years ago, the economy had taken a nosedive and custom had dried up. Reg kept hoping things would pick up, but it never did. People just didn’t have the money. There was no sign things would improve, either. Quite the opposite. The country was in bad debt. And now Reg had the city’s biggest gangster wanting to cream off what little profit he was making. Profits he had worked hard for. Not happening.

  ‘Looks like he’s expanding into rural areas,’ the woman said.

  ‘What’ll his thugs do if I don’t pay?’

  ‘My father refused once. They threatened to burn his restaurant down and … and …’ The woman began to cry. ‘They told him that they’d put my mother in a wheelchair. Don’t mess with these people, mister. Don’t give them the chance to hurt you – because they will hurt you.’ She went to one of the windows. ‘There’s a black four-by-four leaving,’ she said, wiping the wetness from her cheeks. ‘I think they’re going.’

  Reg was pacing behind the bar. ‘What will they have done to that guy? Killed him?’

  ‘I doubt it. Taught him a lesson, more like. Given him a real good kicking. That’s what it’s all about with those kinds of people. If anybody crosses them, they have to make them pay. It sends out a message to anyone else who might get ideas about being brave. Keeps people scared. Under the thumb. McCarthy’s the main one to watch out for; he’s the guy with the gold on his fingers. The ginger bloke is Quinn and the other is called Gerard, I think. ’

  ‘They’ve got me scared, all right.’

  Before leaving, the woman said, ‘Whatever they want, give it to them. And don’t ring the police. That’s the worst thing you can do. Don’t mess with Byron, mister. Unless you’ve got a death wish, of course.'

  She disappeared into the night. Out into the lashing rain.

  Reg lifted the bar hatch up. He slipped through the gap. Went to the door. He watched her hurry towards her car, dodging puddles.

  While she fumbled in her pocket for her keys, he called out, ‘That man is going to need an ambulance. I don’t have a phone that works.’

  ‘I’m not getting involved,’ she replied. ‘Can’t risk it. Sorry.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  After she had gone, Reg got his waterproof mac from the cloakroom. He slipped it on. Put the hood up. He had a good idea where the thugs had taken the guy and knew how dark it was around there, so he got a torch from below the bar. He thumbed the switch to make sure it worked. It did, barely. No time to hunt for batteries.

  Lightening speared across the sky like a fissure as Reg rounded the side of the pub. The accompanying thunderclap came almost immediately, making him glance towards the sky. Raindrops in his eyes made him blink. The branches of nearby trees swayed in the wind, their boughs reaching out for him like knotted hands. He wasn’t keen on venturing here at night. Too dark. Too creepy.

  Spraying the torch beam around, he caught sight of a crumpled body ahead. He gasped. Clapped a hand over his mouth in shock. His face! he thought. What have they done to him! The blood was being washed away by rain, so Reg could see the deep cuts on the man’s face, even in the torch’s diminishing glow.

  Reg went to him. Knelt down beside him. Felt his wrist for a pulse. Nothing. Then he felt it. Faint, yes, but there was a pulse.

  Knowing he needed to do something quick, Reg searched the man’s pockets for a phone. He found one but couldn’t operate it as it seemed to be locked and he co
uldn’t figure out how to enable it. There was only one thing to do. It was a ten minute walk to the nearest house, so he set out, fast as he could. A hundred yards down the road he got dazzled by a car’s headlights. He flagged it down. Got the driver to call an ambulance.

  It turned up forty-five minutes later, which was good. Reg was surprised they arrived so quickly. A fast response from paramedics was a rarity these days, what with the NHS so undermanned after having its budget cut for the fifth consecutive year. Had the attack happened on a Saturday night, Jack could easily have been there for two or three hours. Possibly longer. Most likely would have died from blood loss.

  What wasn’t so good was the police turning up as well. After the paramedics had gone, the questions began. The officers wanted to know everything and Reg was vague with his answers. It was still tipping it down, so they talked in the pub, by the fire. PC Brookes took notes while PC Grainger did the questioning.

  ‘So there were four of them,’ Grainger said, ‘but you can’t remember what any of them looked like, is that right?’

  ‘It all happened so fast,’ Reg said. ‘I was in the lounge when it kicked off. By the time I got through to the bar area, they were dragging that poor bloke through the door. I didn’t get a good look at them, but I’m sure they can’t be local.’

  ‘You can’t recall what any of them were wearing?’ Grainger asked. ‘Hair colour? Build? Accent?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’

  ‘And there were no other witnesses?’ Grainger said. ‘Apart from the three men, the bloke who got carved up and you, there was no one else here?’

  ‘It’s always dead on a Monday, especially around closing time.’

  ‘Can’t remember much, can you?’ Brookes said.

  ‘My memory is not what it used to be, I’m afraid.’

  ‘So it would seem,’ Brookes said.

  ‘But you’re sure they’re not local, right?’ Granger said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  ‘I haven’t seen them before, which is why I assume they’re not from around here. I could be wrong. And, like I said, I didn’t get a good look at them.’

  The officers looked as if they had the smell of bullshit in their nostrils. Reg knew they would be wondering why he was being cagey. It was obvious what he was doing. Too obvious. But being arrested for withholding information or obstructing the course of justice was preferable to crossing Charles Byron. It was safer.

  ‘If you can think of anything that might be of interest, then call us immediately,’ Grainger said. ‘Anything at all. Even something that might not seem important, it could be a vital clue.’

  Reg assured them he would.

  24 HOURS LATER …

  When Jack woke he thought he was blind. He opened his heavily swollen eyes and, for the briefest moment, blackness filled his vision. Shadows danced and morphed. Before he could panic, the blackness faded to a dark haze. Began to brighten. He saw a white ceiling. Harsh fluorescents glared down at him like interrogation lamps, making him squint. A strong smell of antiseptic lingered in the air.

  Hospital, Jack thought. I’m in hospital.

  There was no part of his body that didn’t ache. If he could have mustered the strength to raise his head and push back the bed sheets, he would have seen that his body was black and blue. Covered in bandaged wounds. Pain killers had been administered, but they only dulled the pain, eased the discomfort. It was his face that hurt the most. Each time he attempted to use his facial muscles – to scowl, frown, raise his eyebrows – it felt like fissures were forming in his skin.

  ‘Crikey, someone really did a job on you, didn’t they? Or were you in a car crash or summink?’

  The voice came from Jack’s left. He turned his head slightly, as far as he could manage, and looked out the corner of his eyes. A man was sitting on the next bed, feet dangling above the floor. He smiled. He had no top on and the thickest mat of dark chest hair Jack had ever seen.

  ‘Can you see all right?’ the man asked. ‘Can you even see me?’

  ‘I can see you,’ Jack replied. ‘Just.’

  Someone to his right groaned, then belched.

  ‘Charming,’ Jack whispered.

  The man with the chest hair said, ‘I bet you’re in a lot of pain, aren’t you?’

  ‘Now, now,’ said a female voice from nearby, ‘leave Mr. Williams alone, please. The last thing he needs is you jibber-jabbering on at him, Michael.’

  A face appeared over Jack’s. A round, plump one framed with curly grey hair. Jack could just make out her name tag: Rose Walters. She regarded him with what he thought was a mixture of compassion and concern. Silver-framed glasses on a chain around her neck rested unused on her matronly bosom.

  ‘How are we feeling, Mr. Williams?’ she asked.

  ‘On top of the world,’ Jack managed. ‘Like a new man. How do you know my name?’

  ‘You had your wallet on you when the ambulance picked you up.’

  ‘What happened to you, then?’ Michael asked Jack. ‘How did you end up in that state, if you don’t mind me asking? Those cuts on your face are horrific ...’

  ‘Let him be!’ Rose hissed. ‘Go and take a walk, or read a book, or … something! Anything! Just leave him alone. The last thing he needs is you going on at him.’

  She pulled the privacy curtain around, but Jack could see from the shadow behind the fabric that Michael wasn’t going anywhere.

  ‘What does he mean, the horrific cuts?’ Jack said.

  He tried to raise his arm so he could feel his face. The pain was too much, though. He let out a cry of frustration as his arm flopped back to the bed sheets.

  ‘Try not to move,’ Rose advised. ‘You’ve taken quite a beating and your body needs time to recover.’

  ‘I want a mirror! I want to see my face!’

  ‘Are you comfortable enough?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Do I look comfortable!’

  A clipboard was hanging from the end of the bed. Rose picked it up. Perused it.

  ‘Would you like raising up?’ Would that make things any better?’

  ‘Probably not. But do it anyway. At least then I can see around me.’

  Rose pressed a button on the side of the bed and the bed hummed as it was slowly raised. ‘Is that high enough?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Now can you get me a mirror?’

  Rose placed the clipboard back on its hook. ‘I wouldn’t concern yourself too much with what you look like at this early stage. Let your wounds heal and just concentrate on getting your strength back. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. I guess somebody telling me I look horrific has killed my appetite.’

  ‘Are you thirsty?’

  ‘Yes. Parched.’

  There was a jug of water on the bedside table. Rose poured some into a glass. Held it to Jack’s lips. When he had drained the lot, she asked him if he wanted more.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Jack tried to move again. Pain filled his whole body.

  ‘You’re lucky the only thing that’s broken is your ribs,’ Rose stated.

  ‘Somehow, I don’t feel lucky.’ Jack thought of Eleanor and how worried she would be, not knowing where he was or what had happened to him. ‘I need to ring my girlfriend. Where’s my mobile phone? It would have been in my jacket pocket.’

  ‘Your girlfriend has already visited, Mr. Williams. You were asleep. She didn’t want to wake you and we didn’t want her to wake you either. You needed your rest. You still do. As for your phone, it’s being kept safe, along with your wallet. You can have them back whenever you like.’

  ‘I want a mirror,’ Jack said. ‘Please get me one.’

  ‘Don’t concern yourself with that now …’

  ‘I have to see what I look like!’ Jack blurted out. His face twisted in agony. ‘It’s my right, for fuck’s sake!’

  Rose stiffened as if she’d had electric shock. ‘There’s no need for that language. You do yourself no favours by getting upset like
this.’

  ‘Did Eleanor say anything to you? Did she say when she’d be back?’

  ‘No. She was very upset, obviously. She stayed for about half an hour. I didn’t see her leave.’

  ‘I did,’ a voice said from behind the curtain.

  ‘Shut up, Michael, stop ear-wigging,’ Rose chastised. She turned her attention back to Jack. ‘A doctor will be along to see you shortly. Meantime, if there’s anything you need, just press the buzzer and somebody will come.’ She pulled the curtains back. ‘Would you like anything to read? A newspaper? A book? We have a good selection of reading material, if you’re interested?’

  ‘Do I look like I can read a sodding book? I want a mirror!’

  Rose either didn’t hear or chose not to. ‘Just buzz if you need anything,’ she said, spinning deftly on one heel and disappearing down the corridor before Jack could say anything else.

  ‘Gimme a minute,’ Michael said. And then he disappeared as well.

  Jack glanced around at the six people he was sharing a room with. A motley crew if ever he had seen one. Some were tucked under their sheets, asleep. Some sat by their beds, looking bored. One guy with his leg in a cast was watching the pay-per-view flat screen TV that hung suspended above his bed. The man opposite just stared at Jack.

  ‘Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?’ Jack said.

  The man looked away.

  The ward was busy. Harried staff rushed past in the corridor. They were clearly stretched. Chitter-chatter from visitors and orderlies made Jack’s brain throb. He wanted to yell, tell them to shut up, but he felt like something in his head would pop if he did.

  Michael returned and handed Jack a small mirror. Jack saw his reflection and groaned. He slid down the bed, pulling the covers over his head.

  ‘It’ll be a lot better in a few weeks,’ Michael said. ‘When the wounds have healed and the stitches have been removed.’

  Jack’s body numbed over.

  For the first time since he was a child, he began to cry.

  ‘Go away,’ he said. ‘Please just go away.’

  Fifteen minutes later, the doctor turned up. He was a dour-faced, bored-looking man who spoke in a monotone drawl. Jack heard approaching footsteps, the swishing sound of the curtains being drawn around. He was still under the covers. His eyes were red raw, glistening. Cheeks still wet from crying. At first he ignored the doctor, hoped he would go away. But when he didn’t, when he just hovered at Jack’s bedside, Jack eventually emerged, sitting up and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Jack folded his arms. Stared dead ahead, focusing on a wall poster about flu jabs. Fuck it. So what if people noticed he had been crying. After seeing himself in the mirror, he didn’t give a toss. The doctor’s words of assurance that the wounds would look better when they had fully heeled went in one of Jack’s ears and out the other. Jack had seen the wounds, so he knew the doc was just trying to make him feel better. Nothing anyone said would make him feel better. The doc checked Jack’s pulse, which was running at a fine and dandy eighty beats per minute. Jack had his blood pressure analysed. Found it discomforting to have the inflatable cuff on his arm. He was glad when it was over and told that he wasn’t about to pop a gasket soon. Next came the penlight in the eyes (look straight ahead, please). Last but not least, the doc checked for concussion. He asked Jack how many fingers he was holding up (two), and Jack made the V for victory sign. He held his hand up again, displaying four fingers, and Jack said four. The doctor asked some questions. Jack answered them with no hesitation. What’s your name? Where do you live? Who’s the Prime Minister? Jack felt no sense of joy when he was given the okay. He was just glad it was over, so he could sink beneath the covers again. Cry some more.