Circle of Death - Strike Back Series 05 (2020) Page 5

  One of the other guests was slumped on the sofa next to the fireplace, his boots, socks and coat tossed casually across the floor. Sipping a beer while he warmed his feet in front of the wood-burning stove. The guy could have been Biceps’ paler, hairier twin. He had skin the colour of milk, an unkempt ginger beard and wild eyes. He was dressed in a pair of light denim jeans and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Bald noted that the guy had a crude rose tattoo on his forearm.

  The third guy was standing to one side of the sofas, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he ironed a denim cowboy shirt. He was a greasy-looking fucker, with lank black hair and a chinstrap beard. He wore a Green Day T-shirt and he had a braided leather necklace draped across his chest. In the background, Bald could hear music coming from one of the bedrooms. Some sort of grunge band.

  At the sight of Bald entering the room, Chinstrap and Rose Tat both looked up at him.

  ‘Here to unblock the sink,’ Biceps explained.

  ‘About fucking time,’ Chinstrap said, fixing his gaze on Bald. He rested the iron on the dock, took a long drag on his cigarette.

  ‘Shouldn’t take long, fellas,’ Bald said, trying to keep his anger in check. ‘I’ll be out of your hair in two minutes.’

  ‘Not good enough, is it, lads?’ Chinstrap looked questioningly at his two muckers.

  ‘Ain’t just the sink, either,’ Rose Tat said. ‘That ain’t even half of it.’

  Bald set down the bucket and plunger. ‘You lads have got other complaints?’

  ‘Yeah, mate,’ said Chinstrap. ‘We fucking do. Place is riddled with problems. Even this shitty iron doesn’t work properly. No bloody steam coming out of it.’

  Bald trudged across the room, snatched up the iron and inspected it. One of the fancy new cordless models that Magda had insisted on getting for the rooms. He twisted the plastic knob clockwise, placed it down on the shirt and depressed one of the buttons. A shot of hot steam hissed out of the iron. Bald set the iron back in the metal dock and nodded.

  ‘There’s your problem. Wrong setting.’

  ‘What about all the other problems we’ve been having?’ Rose Tat demanded.

  Bald turned to face the guy, grinding his teeth in anger. ‘If you’ve got other issues, I’m sure we can sort them out. Just tell us what’s wrong.’

  ‘How much time have you got?’ Chinstrap counted them off on his fingers. ‘For a start, the TV is ancient. Thing belongs in a museum. The Wi-Fi is slow and cuts out all the time. There aren’t enough towels, and the ones you’ve given us are too hard. There’s a draught coming through the window in my bedroom. I could go on all day.’

  Bald raised his hands. ‘We’ll fix everything, lads. If you’ll just give us a chance—’

  ‘You’ve had plenty of chances already. This place is a dump. Ain’t that right, fellas?’

  Biceps and Rose Tat, the steroid twins, looked at one another and nodded in agreement. Chinstrap flicked cigarette ash on the floor, dropped his stub into an empty beer can.

  ‘What kind of a joint do you think you’re running here, anyway?’ he went on. ‘Call yourself a B&B? Place is more like a fucking refugee camp. You should be ashamed.’

  Bald felt a powerful urge to tell the guests to piss off.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry won’t cut it.’ Chinstrap folded his arms across his chest. ‘In fact, I reckon you should waive our bill. Let us stay here for free. That should just about compensate us, for all the crap we’ve put up with.’

  ‘Brad’s right,’ Biceps put in. ‘You shouldn’t be charging us to stay in this dump.’

  Bald felt the rage simmering in his guts. ‘I can’t do that. But I can see you’re unhappy, so I could maybe offer you fellas a small discount. Say, five per cent of the total?’

  Chinstrap pulled a face. ‘You must be fucking joking. You ain’t fobbing us off that easily. Either you wipe the bill, or we’ll give this place a load of one-star reviews.’

  The guy pointed at Biceps. ‘Bailey here is a bit of an influencer. He’s got eighty thousand followers on Insta. One word from him and you’re finished.’

  ‘Come on, lads. Be reasonable. I’ve got a business to run here.’

  ‘I don’t give a toss. Either let us stay for free, or we’ll ruin your rep.’

  Bald shook his head. ‘You don’t want to do that.’

  Chinstrap chuckled. ‘Is that a threat, old man?’

  ‘Just telling you how it is.’

  The smile on Chinstrap’s face disappeared. ‘Be careful, Grandad. You don’t know who you’re fucking with.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Bald. Anger pounded between his temples. He took a step closer to Chinstrap. ‘I know exactly who I’m dealing with. A couple of morons who look like the missing link, and a greasy twat who’s too thick to know how an iron works. That’s who I’m fucking with. And if you think you can pressure me into dropping your bill, think again.’

  In the corner of his eye, Bald saw Rose Tat rising to his feet, standing close to the fireplace. Wrought-iron tools dangling from a stand next to the wood-burning stove. At the same time, Biceps moved to block the entrance.

  Closing in on him.

  ‘We ain’t asking,’ Chinstrap said. ‘We’re telling you, plain and simple. Let us off the hook with the bill, or me and the lads will shit all over your business. Got it?’

  Bald took in a breath.

  ‘Okay,’ he said calmly.

  Then he grabbed the iron and lamped Chinstrap in the face.

  At the age of fifty-six, Bald was nowhere near as well honed or as muscular as he had been in his youth. Back then, he’d possessed the body of a Greek god. Now, the decades of wear and tear were beginning to take their toll. His skin was leathery and creased. His cognitive functions had been damaged by a bullet he’d taken to the head at point-blank range several years ago, passing through his frontal lobes and leaving him with savage migraines. His shoulder joint was stiff from an old rotator cuff injury. The cartilage in his knees had been worn down to the nub.

  But he still knew how to win a fight.

  He moved in a rapid blur. He was half a metre away from Chinstrap, with the ironing board at his three o’clock. The iron was within easy reaching distance. So was Chinstrap’s face. There was no time for Bald’s opponent to block the attack or launch a pre-emptive strike. He let out a grunt as the still-hot soleplate smashed into the middle of his face and sent him staggering backwards, head tipped back, like somebody had just told him there was a fifty-pound note stuck to the ceiling. Bald struck him again, hitting him so hard the iron flew out of his hand. There was a dull thud as Chinstrap crashed back against the wall, driving the air from his lungs.

  In the next instant, Bald saw a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision.

  He spun round. Saw Rose Tat rushing towards him from the fireplace at his eleven o’clock, a slab of slow-twitch muscle and pent-up rage. Biceps was a few steps further away, standing in the entryway, still processing the scene in front of him. Chinstrap was at his six o’clock, momentarily stunned.

  Rose Tat had reacted fractionally quicker than his mucker. He had dropped his shoulder low and was lunging at Bald, his right hand balled into a fist the size of a kettle bell, ready to unleash a punch.

  Six feet away, Biceps also moved towards him.

  Bald sprang towards Rose Tat and thrust out his right arm, striking the guy cleanly across the face.

  There was a satisfying crack as his fist smashed into the side of Rose Tat’s jaw, shattering bones and teeth. Rose Tat grunted and fell away, arms flopping at his sides, his eyes rolling into the back of his head like symbols on a fruit machine. He dropped like an anvil next to the wood-burning stove, knocking over the stand holding the wrought-iron poker, shovel, tongs and brush.

  Two down, one to go.

  In the same breath, Bald whipped round just in time to see Biceps launching at him from a metre away.

  Fist d
riving towards his face.

  Bald was too slow to react. The effects of the three large whiskies in his bloodstream. The punch struck him on the jawbone. Pain exploded inside his skull as a billion different nerve endings flared up. He saw white briefly, then blinked and saw Biceps swinging at him again, aiming for the throat. Bald raggedly parried the blow and shovelled a left hook into Biceps’ midriff, momentarily winding the guy. Biceps scowled, his face twisted with rage as he came at Bald again.

  In a flash, Bald snatched up the iron poker and spun back round to his onrushing opponent. Biceps was shaping to throw a big uppercut. Going in for the knockout blow. He didn’t want to get dragged down into the trenches, clearly. He wanted the fight over.

  Bald grasped the rod with both hands as he twisted sharply at the hips, swinging the poker towards Biceps. Like a baseball hitter knocking out a home run.

  Biceps had no time to adjust his stance. Momentum carried him forward, straight into batting range. Bald cracked him across the skull, metal slamming against bone. His legs buckled and then his lights went out and he crashed to the floor, landing heavily alongside Rose Tat.

  The latter was spitting out bits of broken tooth and reaching for the shovel on the floor next to the fireplace. Bald circled round his floored opponent, lifted the poker above his head and brought it crashing down on the Aussie’s outstretched hand. Like a guy chopping wood. Rose Tat let out a howl of agony as the rod slammed against his wrist, shattering bone.

  Bald heard a scraping sound at his six o’clock. He snapped round, saw Chinstrap picking himself up. Ready for round two, seemingly. Bald struck out before the guy could stretch to his full height, belting him across the knees. Chinstrap hit the deck again. Bald followed up with a merciless flurry of blows to the legs, smashing his ankles. Chinstrap curled up into a foetal position, trembling hands covering his face in a pathetic attempt to shield himself.

  Bald raised the poker again.

  ‘Still want that fucking discount?’

  Tears streamed down Chinstrap’s face. He shook his head frantically, his body convulsing with pain and terror.

  ‘No,’ he whimpered. ‘Don’t. Christ, please.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Bald. ‘That’s what I fucking thought.’

  He held the poker above his head for a beat, tempted to unleash another torrent of blows on the guy. Then he saw the fear in Chinstrap’s eyes and turned away.

  Fuck him.

  Prick isn’t worth it.

  He looked back round at the other two. Biceps was out cold. Rose Tat was sprawled on the rug beside his mucker, blood running down his chin, pawing at his shattered jaw with his one good hand. He wouldn’t be pulling any pints in Walkabout for a couple of weeks.

  Bald stepped over Biceps’ limp body and made for the front door, the anger quickly subsiding. He glanced back. Chinstrap held his phone to his ear, speaking in a panicked tone to someone on the other end of the line.

  ‘Police. Get me the fucking police. We’re being attacked.’

  Bald swept through the doorway, crossed the gravel path and marched back towards the main guest house.

  No point trying to make a run for it. There were only three ways off the island, Bald knew. There was a ferry service from Port Ellen and Port Askaig, and regular flights to the mainland from the small local airport. Easy enough for the authorities to monitor the embarkation points. Better to simply wait for the local plod to arrive.

  The police station was down at Bowmore, several miles to the south. Bald figured he had maybe ten or twelve minutes until they responded to the call.

  He was in the shit, he knew. The injuries he’d inflicted on the three Aussies were severe. Nobody was going to let him off with a caution or a slap on the wrist. His business was surely fucked now. Chinstrap was probably already tweeting images of his messed-up face.

  But Christ, it had felt good.

  Bald wasn’t at the peak of his physical powers anymore, but he still had a few moves in his locker. The backpackers had figured he was a soft target. Somebody they could push around.

  They had figured wrong.

  But the voice in the back of his head told him something else. He had come close to losing the fight. On another day, Biceps might have knocked him out cold. The whisky, partly. But something else too. His age.

  You’re too old for this, John Boy.

  He headed back inside the guest house, breezed past Magda. Ignored her questions about the blood speckling his face and the torn flesh on his knuckles. Ducked back into the kitchen and poured himself another measure of whisky.

  Eleven minutes later, the police came to arrest him.

  THREE

  They arrived in a liveried police car, lights popping and cracking in the gloom. A pair of uniformed officers debussed, which Bald figured had to constitute almost half the force on the island. There was a red-haired sergeant who looked like a retired accountant, and a short round-faced woman with sympathetic eyes called PC Hourihane. They both looked terrified of Bald. He imagined they didn’t deal with a lot of violent crime on Islay. Drunk drivers, probably. And vandalism and petty theft. Brutal attacks by ex-SAS soldiers, not so much.

  Hourihane took statements from Chinstrap, Rose Tat and Magda, in that order. A short time later, an ambulance arrived to take the backpackers to the hospital to treat their injuries. Biceps had woken up by that point, but he was groggy and confused and they didn’t want to take any chances.

  The guy who looked like a retired accountant introduced himself as Sergeant James Tierney. He was tall, gentle mannered and soft voiced. He had a wary look in his eyes as he explained to Bald that he was being arrested on suspicion of aggravated assault. Tierney told him he had a right not to say anything other than his name, address, date and place of birth and nationality. He had the right to see a lawyer, if he wanted one. Bald said he didn’t. Then they slapped him in a pair of silver bracelets and took him away.

  They drove him six miles to the station in Bowmore. Which turned out to be a modest-looking grey bungalow with a neatly trimmed front lawn and a wooden fence. It could have passed for a pensioner’s home, except for the blue ‘POLICE’ sign fixed to a lamp post outside.

  Tierney steered the motor down a side entrance towards a car park at the rear. The two officers debussed and frog-marched Bald towards an entrance at the back of the station building. Led him down a plainly decorated corridor towards the duty desk, where a thin-lipped constable called Draper checked his keys, watch, wallet, phone and belt on arrival, sealing them in plastic bags.

  They took fingerprints and mugshots and searched him. Then Hourihane and Tierney escorted him to the cell-block facilities at the other end of the corridor. Which amounted to a pair of small custody cells, one for men and another for female detainees. Both were empty. The male suite had illegible graffiti scrawled on the walls, a porcelain toilet in one corner and a lumpy mattress mounted atop a plinth. Tierney was very proud of the cells. They had been recently refurbished, he explained. A complete facelift. A big moment in the history of Bowmore police station, evidently. There was a Bible if he wanted one, and a Koran and a prayer mat.

  Tierney added that food would be brought to him in due course. He stressed, again, that if he wished to speak with a solicitor he had the right to do so at any time. He seemed genuinely puzzled when Bald refused and asked for a cup of coffee instead. Hourihane obliged. She headed off to the staffroom and came back a few minutes later with a steaming hot black coffee in a Styrofoam cup. It was surprisingly strong. Not great, but not the worst he’d ever had.

  Then he sat on the mattress and waited.

  They came back for him three hours later. Tierney and Hourihane took him out of the cell and ushered him into a bland, brightly lit interview room located halfway down the corridor. It looked like every other interview room Bald had ever seen. There was a grey table in the middle of the room, with two plastic chairs either side of it, and a bulky piece of recording equipment against the wall, and cameras mounted
to the ceiling.

  Tierney led the interview. He said that they had finished gathering statements from the various parties involved. Then he asked Bald about the assault.

  So Bald told his side of the story. Or at least, a censored version of it. He painted Tierney a picture of a stressed-out B&B owner dealing with the guests from hell. He hinted that they had been aggressive towards Magda. He admitted to striking Chinstrap first but claimed that he had acted out of self-defence, feeling physically threatened. It had been three against one. He feared for his life.

  Tierney frowned at his notes. Hourihane stayed quiet.

  ‘Here’s the thing, John,’ Tierney said as he looked up from his notes. ‘We’ve got witness statements from Mr Metcalfe, Mr Irvine and Mr Dragovic, all claiming that you initiated the assault. We also have a statement from your housekeeper, Ms Lewandowski, claiming that you were drinking heavily shortly before you arrived at the guest cottage.’

  ‘I had a little whisky, that’s all. I wasn’t pissed.’

  ‘Please allow me to go on, John. We’ve also got a report from the hospital on the injuries suffered by your guests.’

  Tierney consulted another sheet of paper.

  ‘Mr Metcalfe was admitted with a broken wrist and broken jawbone. He’s also lost several teeth. Mr Irvine has a broken ankle, a fractured knee and significant bruising to the ribs and both arms. Mr Dragovic is suffering from concussion and remains under observation.’ Tierney looked up. ‘These are severe injuries, you agree?’

  ‘I’ve seen people dish out worse.’

  ‘But you don’t deny assaulting the guests?’

  ‘As I said, it was self-defence. They were threatening my business.’

  Tierney coughed. Hourihane shifted uncomfortably. ‘Our colleagues on the mainland have done some routine background checks. You’re ex-army, correct?’

  Bald nodded. ‘I spent eighteen years down at Hereford, aye.’

  ‘That must make you something of an expert in fighting.’