Finding an Edge. A Fight Scene.

Yesterday I was at a beach bar near Tarifa. The customers were all surfers and the man serving the drinks was from Hawaii. Surfers and Hawaii are a natural fit. That’s the home of the biggest and best waves anywhere. The barman was no surfer. He was immense. About six-foot-ten or so and must have weighed three hundred pounds. He was an immensely jovial man, but part of me kept thinking, ‘what if he wasn’t? Suppose he’d been an opponent. What then?’

Okay, I write thrillers and these odd thoughts occur to me, but I once lived a life where questions like this were a regular occurrence. I’d been shown how to fight and then I’d been shown how to win. The work was occasionally dangerous and ‘having an edge’ was crucial. The man who taught me all the dirty tricks of street fighting was as hard as nails despite being in his forties. He laid great stress on ‘finding an edge.’ Seeking an advantage. He was six inches taller than me and I’m over six-foot and outweighed my by fifty pounds at least. He told me how to handle men his size and even larger. The dirty tricks, the way ordinary objects could be used as weapons, all that stuff I used to know. His name was Sid and I never knew his other name.

I asked Sid once about a situation where I had to fight a man like himself with no access to a weapon of any kind.  I asked his advice. ‘That’s an easy one.’ He said with a throaty chuckle. ‘Bigger, stronger, you’ve got nothing to give you an edge? You’re fucked, mate. Well and truly fucked.’

I thought of Sid when I saw the barman. Sid would find a way to defeat him, no mater what. I mused on this for a while and then wrote a fight scene for a possible novel. I’ve posted sections of this one in my blog before. The main character’s not a nice guy. Far from it. Even so, perhaps the people he’s after are even worse. I wrote in the First Person as that’s the way it came to me. Some of the episodes to date are in 1^st person, others in 3^rd. Confusing? Possibly, but that’s the nature of my writing: no method and no plan in place. Later, I’ll polish it, refine it, hopefully improve it.

As ever, this is exactly as it comes. No polishing or editing. Plenty of time for that.

 

 

Tommy was proving harder to find than I’d imagined. When I was in prison, I’d heard men talking about Tommy. He was the Big Man now and many within the prison walls had reason to fear his vengeance if there was any hint of collaboration. Tommy had earned respect through violence and I  never heard a word said against him. Talk like that could get you killed just as easily in prison as on the street. In some ways, prison was more dangerous with a large supply of dangerous men eager to do a favour for the Big Man.

Once, I’d been the one at the top of the pyramid. My rule had been very different. Very few people knew my name or anything about me. That had worked for a long time. Offenders were dispatched without drama. One day they were walking around and the next day nobody saw them any more. I didn’t trust others with the necessary chore of discipline. I did it myself. All the killing. It was no hardship. I liked killing people. I still do.

After prison there had been the years in the secure hospital where I’d made my plans. Tommy had once been my only confidante. He didn’t know it all, but he knew enough. I’d been grooming him to take over from me one day, but Tommy didn’t want to wait. He passed the word along the line. When the police caught me, I had a knife in my hand and three dead men lay on the floor. Two more bodies, this time wearing uniform, joined those already there, but eventually they had me.

My plans had been detailed and effective. A free man again I gave no thought to those seeking to recapture me. Tommy was all I wanted.

The house was in darkness and I’d checked carefully for alarms. I was inside and Tommy was almost within my grasp. He’d be well guarded. I knew that and was surprised I’d got this far without seeing a soul.

As if prompted by the thought, a thin man in jeans and black tee-shirt appeared at the end of the corridor. No more than twenty, skinny and obviously unarmed, he took two steps forward before my presence sank in. He turned to bolt, but I was already on the move. His jeans hung low on his skinny flanks, a fashion I’d come to despise, and I reached forward and yanked them down. His hands flew downwards and I reached forward, grabbed his greasy hair and heaved back. His feet went from under him and he landed solidly on his bare arse. I still had firm hold of his hair and it took only a moment to expose his scraggy neck. I stood well clear as the blood spurted and he sank to the tiled floor.

Behind me a light switch clicked and I whirled round to see a well dressed man in his thirties pointing a gun directly at my chest.

‘Tommy said you wouldn’t go away,’ he said. ‘He won’t be pleased when he hears you’ve topped his best bum boy.’

I raised a curious eyebrow and the other man laughed. ‘No, Tommy’s not here,’ he said.

The man pointing the gun at me didn’t look friendly. My experience has been they rarely are. He wasn’t interested in conversation. It was a solid gun and appeared to have been well cared for. In the hands of someone who knew about guns it was a good weapon and the man holding it looked as if he knew what he was doing.

I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing more. He was the one with the gun. He was too far away for me to get to him in time so I waited him out.

‘You were told to stay away. Told more than once.’ He had a harsh Manchester accent that didn’t match the sharp suit. I said nothing. Still his call.

‘Chico’, the man in the suit called and I heard the noise of a Sherman tank approaching. When Chico appeared in the doorway, he filled it. In fact, he more than filled it as he had to turn sideways to get his shoulders through the entrance. A shaven head, tattoos on both cheeks and wearing a nylon jump suit, Chico had to be one of the biggest men I’d ever seen. The face was flat and expressionless and the way he walked confirmed my first impressions. He was maybe a tad below seven feet tall and some would think him fat. The walk said otherwise. The bulk was all muscle and not the type you put on lifting weights in a gym. Chico was one of those men who’d always been big and didn’t need to work on it. Natural bulk and strength on this scale is rare and I could see why Tommy kept him around. The man was a one man army.

‘Take this piece of shit to the basement and get rid of him,’ the man with the gun said and Chico nodded, his face impassive.

‘Drop the knife first.’ An imperious wave with the gun and I let the knife drop to the floor. ‘Kick it over here.’ I did so and it clattered along the tiles until it met the immaculate shoes of the man giving the orders.

‘Chico doesn’t say much, but he has other virtues,’ said the man with the shiny shoes. ‘It’s not his name, but we call him that because it means…’

‘Little one,’ I interrupted, looking bored. The other man had a gun and Chico didn’t. I liked the odds better with Chico, big as he was.

‘Yeah. Take him, Chico. Oh, and don’t hurry. Make him beg to die.’

Chico smiled, the vast planes of his face shifting. He walked towards me and caught hold of my shirt collar. Without apparent effort he yanked me off my feet and started to drag me towards the door I’d entered by. As we reached the gunman he reversed his hold on the gun and hit me with the butt very hard in the face. A tooth cracked and blood burst from a split lip, but I managed a smile.

‘See you later,’ I said, spitting out a piece of tooth on his immaculate shirt. He hit me three more times, but I’d been pistol whipped before. It never killed anybody yet.

‘I’ll close up here and take the Range Rover,’ the gunman said to Chico, breathing hard. ‘When you’ve finished with him, bring the Jeep and go back to the club. We’ll meet you there. Okay?’

Chico nodded, but said nothing. Outside, I made a token effort to release the hold on my collar, but the man with the gun was still standing in the doorway, desperate for a chance to shoot me so I gave up and let Chico take me wherever it was he was going.

About twenty yards from the doorway was a set of steps down to a basement. Chico relaxed his grip for a moment and as I was about to take a pace forward, threw me down the steps. I heard the other man laugh and then I was tumbling down a set of stone steps and crashing into a solid door at the bottom. Before I could attempt to rise, Chico was there, as fast as a mountain lion. He lifted me bodily, opened the door with his free hand and threw me inside.

The walls were covered in white glazed tiles with solid quarry tiles underfoot. A storeroom, perhaps, but then I saw a battered sink unit and marks on the floor where a table and chairs had once been. A dining room, possibly for the use of the staff, now abandoned. A window set high on the far wall provided the only illumination. It was too high to be an escape route and by the time I climbed to my feet Chico’s vast bulk barred the only door. He smiled and held out his hands. The forearms were like hams, but it was the hands that got my attention. Three times the size of my own, the backs covered in dark hair, they were intended to send me a message and I was receiving it loud and clear. Chico was unarmed because he didn’t require guns or knives to kill me. This would be mano a mano and only one would be walking back up those stairs.

I rushed him, seeking an element of surprise, and a good punch found its mark, bloodying his flattened nose. Chico dipped his head as the second shot arrived and I felt a knuckle pop. Stupid. Always a risk, throwing a punch anywhere near a head. Liable to sustain more damage than the intended recipient. Now being a case in point. Hollywood has a lot to answer for with its constant barrage of good guys knocking over the villains with a good sock to the jaw. Odds are, you end up with a busted hand and an opponent very much still in the game.

He feinted a punch and as I moved aside he grabbed hold of my arm with one of those massive hands, pulling me in close. I fought the encircling grip, but could do nothing to prevent his arms from linking around my chest. He was behind me, almost toying with me to judge from his throaty chuckle and when he pulled in tight I felt like a double-decker had just fallen on my chest. I couldn’t even think of drawing a breath.

Crack! I felt a rib go and, judging by the chuckle, he felt it too. I punched him in the kidneys, but reaching behind myself was not ideally suited for power or effectiveness. I threw my head back, trying to butt him, but he was too tall and the back of my head only thudded into the broad expanse of his chest. Useless.

He took the pressure up another notch and I felt my senses swim. Red dots danced before my eyes. Desperately, I kicked back at his shins, but it was like kicking railway sleepers.

As I was about to go under, one final desperate move, I stamped down hard with my right leg and felt the satisfying crunch as the solid leather sole of my shoe found his instep. He sighed, deeply, and the pressure eased just a fraction. Three quarters of the bones in the human body are in the feet and many of those tiny bones are delicate.

I stamped again, but Chico was wise to me now. I kicked backwards, trying anything, and he eased himself away just a fraction more. As I was weighing up my chances of spinning free, the pressure eased and he let go. I whipped round, thinking he was more damaged than I’d imagined and Chico was there, waiting for me with a smile on his bovine face. I never saw the punch arrive; a straight left that came out of nowhere. Not his best shot, I’d have thought. No more than a flick by his standards, but it sent me crashing to the ground just the same. I’ve been punched before. Many times. This was proving to be very far removed from any other fight I’d had.

I lay flat on my back, defenceless, and Chico laughed. The great booming laugh of a natural bully who’d never lost a fight in his life and wasn’t about to start now. I waited, but he did nothing. Just beckoned me to my feet so he could knock me down again and I felt a tiny glimmer of hope.

What he should have done – what I’d have done if I’d had his advantages of size, weight, strength and just about everything else – was drop on top of me, smother me with his bulk and turn it into a wrestling contest. There’d have been no way I could beat him once trapped on the floor with those great arms crushing the life out of me. Literally.

Instead, Chico obviously just wanted to play. He was evidently enjoying himself. So far I’d broken a rib and a bone in my hand. He may have broken a couple of bones in his foot, but had already shown himself to be my superior in every department. I couldn’t argue with that.

He’d moved forward as I rose to my feet, backing me into a corner and negating my comparative speed and manoeuvrability. He was calling the shots right enough. In a fair fight, there could only be one winner and we both knew it.

I needed an edge and I couldn’t see one. I swung a right hand and hit him hard under the ribs. A good punch. I’d hit people there with punches nowhere near as good as that and all the fight had gone out of them. He blinked, but that was about all. If my best punch was a mere gnat-bite, I definitely needed an edge.

I threw a flurry of quick, sharp punches, all with my right hand as the left hand was swelling massively from the damaged knuckle, to no avail. He actually looked as if he was enjoying being hit and certainly showed no evidence of being inconvenienced. It was like punching the heavy bag at the gym. Good solid punches but the target just absorbed them and came back for more.

Another flick, not even a proper punch, and I was down again. That time I saw it coming, but couldn’t get out of the way. I half rose, trying to buy time and again he stood off; waiting for me to clamber to my feet. He was enjoying this and, like a cat playing with a mouse, wanted the fun to continue.

I took a moment longer and out of the corner of my eye saw something glint under the sink unit. I shook my head as if regaining battered senses and saw it again. This was where people ate and washed up afterwards. Washers-up and diners drop things from time to time. Cutlery, in particular. I couldn’t reach it from here, but I knew a way to work my way closer. I stood and beckoned him forward. He blinked in surprise and then grinned. I threw a tame punch that did no damage at all and knew when I half turned, he’d hit me again. I just hoped it wouldn’t be the punch that ended this ill-matched contest.

Chico hit me on the chest with the palm of his right hand and I felt a surge of agony from the broken rib that was renewed, massively, as I hit the floor. I scrabbled backwards as if seeking purchase to get up again and he watched me with an almost benign expression his face. My gameness was all that was keeping me alive. The minute I stopped getting up, stopped being a plaything, he’d kill me.

My right hand banged against the sink unit base and the door swung partly open. I reached behind me and my hand closed on a plastic bottle. A minute ago, I had nothing; now I had a potential weapon. Greedily, I wished for oven cleaner or bleach; something caustic, but this was better than nothing. I forgot about the glinting cutlery as it was still out of reach and sprang to my feet, taking three quick steps forward.

There wasn’t even time for his face to register surprise before the spray from the bottle hit him in the face. His hands flew to his eyes and in that momentary lull I found time for a glance at the label. Just an own-brand multi surface cleaner from Tesco, but whatever it contained certainly wasn’t kind to eyes. I stepped even closer, within reach of those dangerous hands, and sprayed his face again as he tried vainly to bat away the liquid.

He was grunting now, those hands that had the power to kill me occupied in rubbing at his streaming eyes and I whirled swiftly away and dropped to one knee alongside the sink unit. There it was. I drew it out from its place of concealment, covered in fluff and grease, and the bitter disappointment on discovering a fork and not a knife added to the pain from my ribs and hand. I pressed the tines of the fork into my palm and they drew blood. It was sturdy, stainless steel and a decent weapon. Maybe it would prove as useful as a knife after all.

My initial plan was to try and go for his eyes, but the flailing hands barred the way. I needed more time and there wasn’t going to be any.

In the hospital, the library wasn’t the best, but I’d read just about everything in there. A book by some long-dead big game hunter came to mind. Always have sufficient firepower was the gist of his advice to anyone contemplating the hunting of lion, elephant or rhino. Most of the animals he pursued had an innate fear of man. A bullet that wasn’t up to the job or was poorly aimed would wound, but not kill. A wounded animal may turn and attack its tormentor. The prey becoming the hunter was every big game hunters’ nightmare.

Chico wasn’t my prey, but the part about the dangers of enraging a wounded animal was born out in the next instant. Even half blinded there was nowhere to hide in this confined space and he was still standing between me and the door. He rushed me and I barely had time to dodge aside before he went crashing into the far wall. I followed and as he turned round, punched him with all the strength I still had left. Without thinking, I’d hit him with my left hand and as my fist connected with the fleshy area below his ear the pain from my shattered knuckle shot up my arm to my brain and I screamed in agony.

It was a good punch and almost worth the pain as his streaming eyes lost focus for an instant. Defying my own pain I stooped slightly and then brought my undamaged hand, holding the fork uppermost, up between his splayed legs with every ounce of strength I possessed. He made a noise that was barely human and I hit the two inches of the fork handle that remained visible with the heel of my hand and it disappeared from view.

Chico’s great hands scrabbled at his groin, those fingers like huge sausages totally unsuited to the task of trying to withdraw the fork. He sank to the floor, still making that unreal sound of an animal in mortal pain, and lay there in a foetal position. I kicked him in the head, twice; more to release tension than anything else, and walked through the door. There was a key on the outside. I turned it, threw it into the bushes, and walked away.

I needed somewhere to lie low for a few days. Recovery time. The broken rib was painful, as they always are, but I couldn’t feel any sharp edges rubbing together, lessening the chances of puncturing a lung. It would heal. My hand was screaming at me. It looked like a piece of raw meat and was almost double its normal size. That may need attention, eventually. For now, it could wait. The pain would go away in time.

I could have contacted the Emergency Services; an anonymous caller reporting a seriously injured man locked in an abandoned room, but they’re busy people. There could be a young child with his head stuck in park railings who needed their help more. Priorities. If I listened hard I could still hear him screaming. I set off, whistling, and within a short time I couldn’t hear Chico any more.