The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) by Robin Barratt Page B

him on his left ear and cheek, opening it to the bone. Recover and WHOOF – back swing to the right elbow. Must have hit the funny bone; he lets out a howl and has to drop the knife. Recover and WHOOF – strong forward swipe on to his left knee-cap – “GAAARRH!”
    Blood is pouring down his face, right arm hanging by his side, useless, and he’s still limping towards me making guttural animal noises.
    “I’ll ’ave you now … I’ll ’ave you now, yah bastard!”
    He dives in on me, grabbing on with his left. I still have the nunchaku in my right, too close to use. I would have tried a judo throw but I panic, the flail frozen to my hand. Anyone else would have been right out of the game but not this fella. This is my introduction to the drug-crazed ones. I come too, drop the nunch and grab him back. His breath is on my face, trying to grab hair that isn’t there now. I feel his mouth on my ear, slobbering on it, trying to get the breath to bite it off.
    “I’ve fucking got you now, you little cunt. I’ll fucking kill ya!”
    “No, you won’t!” I scream back at him.
    Grabbing on tight, I draw back and head-butt him twice, as hard as I can. His nose explodes into his face. I push back off him and put two groin kicks into him, in once, then bounce the ball of the foot, in again. “ARHHH!”
    More noises come out of him, bent over double, unbelievably still up. I am so scared, I’m going mad. I grab him now by the hair and run his face into the wall, spin him round, knee him under the heart, step in and hip-throw him – he’s down, but still not out. I’m off the planet. I set into him. No way was he getting up again.
     
     
    On Sunday mornings we’d all go to nine o’clock mass. I used to watch out for Gillian just so I could walk near her. I just loved everything about her. There was this inner beauty and strength that exuded out of her.
    The ten o’clock mass was the most popular in our parish because it would finish around the time the pubs opened. All the Irish-Catholic men would pat their broods on the head outside church. They’d give them a couple-o-bob for holy water – usually spent on lollies – and off to the pub till 3 p.m. closing. Certain suburbs of Liverpool were like the second capital of Ireland. The single men would then wander off to the park for drunken “footy”. The married ones would come home to a big roast meal then upstairs for a cuddle with the wife. This worked very well for the Catholic Church’s “Withdrawal method” policy (at the point of climax – withdraw ). The O’Reagans had ten kids, the O’Briens eleven and the Delaneys twelve.
    The church was bursting at the seams. “Oh well! If you can’t convert, go forth and multiply.”
     
     
    The blood was splashed over the white wall in the alley. I looked down at the glistening stains on my trouser legs. My shoes, as well, had a wet look to them. My hands face and shirt had blood all over them.
    I walked back down toward the door. There was another one of the four, sitting down in the entrance way, head down, legs splayed. He was unconscious and sounded like he was snoozing. The fingers of his right hand were grotesquely bent. A cosh lay next to him. His face was mincemeat. I looked around for the other two. One was sitting down on a small wall on the end of the alley, Gary and Rolo standing before him.
    He put his hand up in submission to them, then put his head in his blood-covered hands, and gobbed out a mouthful of blood and teeth. He was shaking his head to get rid of the galaxy in front to his eyes. Both his cheekbones were done, eyes closing up, blood running down his face, dripping on to the pavement.
    The taxi was still there, the driver frozen.
    Where was the fourth one? I walked down to the taxi, door open, and looked in. Number four was sitting in the back, wide-eyed, grinning and rocking. He’d run away when the night didn’t go the way it was planned. That wasn’t fair. Grabbing both sides