Road Kill (39 page)

Eventually, we crossed the River Lagan and started heading east, past the Stormont parliament building, for Newtownards. Daz seemed to have settled now. He let Paxo overtake him and, when the smaller guy realised that he wasn’t going to get a battle out of him, he calmed down a little, too.

At Newtownards we turned off onto the smaller A road that skirted the eastern side of Strangford Lough. The ride took us through more stunning scenery as we wended our way through Comber and Greyabbey.

I’d no idea the place was so pretty. Not exactly a side to it you ever used to hear about on the evening news, where the only images you ever saw were of six-year-olds hurling Molotovs at burning APCs against a backdrop of balaclava’d funeral salutes and paramilitary murals on the ends of terrace houses. The reality was a revelation.

Even our tail seemed to have backed off. The Vauxhall was notable by its absence and, though I looked hard at all the bikes we met, I didn’t spot the Lucky Strike Suzuki among them.

By the time we reached Portaferry it was six o’clock and I was beginning to feel the effects of my largely sleepless night. I was glad when we finally turned off the road into a small private car park by a cosy looking hotel right on the harbour side.

There was an awkward moment when we checked in, owing to the number of rooms that had originally been booked against the number of people who’d actually turned up. That and who, in the light of the day’s events, was prepared to share with who.

William’s snoring was obviously preferable, in Jamie and Paxo’s eyes, to the alternative of sharing with Daz. The clearly confused girl on the reception desk handled it all with remarkable patience, nevertheless.

Eventually she managed to allocate a family room that had two twin beds and a pullout sofa for the three lads, and two single rooms for Daz and Tess. Then she looked at Sean with a resigned expression on her face. He smiled at her. “We’ll just have a straightforward double,” he said and I realised I’d been holding my breath.

We unloaded the bikes and carried our bags upstairs. Nobody seemed to have brought more than a small tank bag, a rucksack, or throw-over panniers. No point when we were only here for another two days. It struck me then that half the trip was nearly gone already and so far the Devil’s Bridge Club hadn’t done anything that might require them to need a pair of bodyguards in tow.

Tomorrow we were due to cross the border for the run down to Dublin.

What the hell did they have planned then?

***

The bar at the hotel was small – too small for the seven of us to sit round in comfort. Instead, once we were showered and changed into our civvies, we headed out into the evening sunshine and walked up the steep main street in search of another watering hole.

“At least this way,” Tess said, puffing out a breath as she eyed the climb, “we’ll be going downhill on the way back.”

“Yeah,” Paxo put in, grinning at her. “Have too much to drink tonight and we can just roll you back down to the hotel instead of having to carry you.”

We found a pub at the top of the hill which, after an initial moment of restraint, proved welcoming. Nevertheless, Sean and I steered the group to a corner table with a clear view of the door. We also made sure we grabbed the chairs that meant we could keep an eye on the rest of the room without making it obvious.

We chose from the menu and Daz went to order the food from the barman and get the first round of drinks in.

“You must have come across a load of queers when you were in the army, eh?” Paxo said to Sean. He was watching Daz move across the other side of the room like he was trying to spot the difference in the way he walked.

“They’ve only just changed the rules to allow it,” Sean said calmly. “When I was in, the Powers That Be took a very dim view. If they found out you were gay, you were out. Counted as ‘dishonourable conduct’, apparently.”

“Maybe it’s because they didn’t do pink camouflage,” Tess said, waspish.

“The Spartans positively encouraged homosexuality in their soldiers,” William said reflectively. “They reckoned it made them fight more fiercely alongside each other.”

“Yeah,” Paxo said, “and look what happened to
them
.”

“One of the guys who works for me now is gay,” Sean said, making me automatically do a mental review of his staff, trying to work out who. “It makes no difference.”

“A gay bodyguard?” Paxo repeated. He shook his head in disbelief. “Ah mate, what kind of a bloke would want someone protecting them who might make a pass at him?”

“What’s the guy’s sexual orientation got to do with how well he does his job?” Sean asked, sounding impatient now. “Charlie’s a bodyguard. Are you trying to tell me she can’t protect men for the same reason?”

“Yeah, but she’s not gay,” Jamie said with a grin. “I mean, if she was, would a woman want her looking after them?”

“Now
that
would be different,” Paxo said with a hint of glee, flicking his eyes from me to Tess and back again. “Everyone knows lesbians’ll shag anything in a skirt. Bring it on!”

“My sister’s gay and she’s been in a steady relationship for the last eight years,” William said, his voice suddenly cold. He fixed Paxo with an icy glare and watched his confusion for a couple of beats before adding, “Confucius say: when in hole, mate, stop digging.”

“Well how was I supposed to know?” Paxo muttered, still rather pink around the ears. “I thought they were just flat-mates.”

Daz came back with the first of the drinks and raised his eyebrows at Paxo’s scowling face and William’s equally stony expression.

“Well,” he murmured, wry. “This looks like being a fun-packed evening, doesn’t it?”

***

The first signs of trouble lit up about an hour later. The boys had come to an uneasy truce and, after a couple of beers each, the conversation had relaxed back onto something like its old footing. Tess now seemed to be making a play for Jamie and he wasn’t resisting too hard, although he did keep shooting little worried glances in Daz’s direction, as if just making sure he really didn’t object.

The pub had filled up gradually and all the tables were now occupied. The demographic was younger than I’d expected for such a sleepy little place, mostly young men who could well have been other visiting bikers. Out of leathers it was hard to tell.

Sean subjected everyone to the same casual scrutiny when they arrived and, sitting next to him, I could tell the moment something changed.

“What is it?”

“There’s a table of lads over near the far window,” he said to Daz. “Without making it obvious, can you have a look and tell me if you know them?”

To his credit, Daz made a reasonably convincing job of glancing around as though to check the location of the gents’ but, when he turned back, he leaned forwards conspiratorially. The others did the same and I saw a flicker of annoyance on Sean’s face.

“Not a clue, mate,” Daz said. “Why, what’s the problem?”

“They keep looking over here and nudging each other,” Sean said, his voice low. “I think we should drink up and find another bar.”

“Suits me,” Paxo said, shrugging as he reached for his beer and sat back.

I let my eyes pass over the group Sean had indicated. I hadn’t noticed anything amiss about them but, now I looked more closely, I could see they were quietly egging each other on. Question was, to what?

It didn’t take long to find out.

Before we’d had time to polish off our current round of drinks, the biggest of the group got to his feet and came swaggering across like he had a six-shooter and spurs. The others followed a few paces behind and what worried me was the fact that, although they’d finished their drinks, they hadn’t put down their bottles and glasses. As unobtrusively as I could, I eased my chair back.

“So, which one of you fuckers is the fucking queer?” The big man spoke with an aggressive local accent.

For a moment there was utter silence. It lasted for maybe no longer than a year – or it felt that way, at least. During that time a whole string of interconnected thoughts whipped through my brain. Everything from the way the group moved, both individually and as a whole, to who else had noticed what was going on. The barman had frozen like a terrier that scents a fox, instincts honed by years of dealing with belligerent drunks.

Then there came the hollow scrape of a chair going back. I flicked my eyes sideways and found, to my surprise, it was Paxo who’d got to his feet, hands clenched and chin thrust forwards.

“Who wants to know?” he demanded.

The big Irishman grinned nastily. If he’d been able to pick which of us he’d wanted to take on, Paxo would probably have been his first or second choice.

Before the man had the chance to express his glee, another chair went back. This time it was William who got to his feet. I saw the Irishman take a mental step back as William rose to his full height. William’s dark face was the same ominous mask he’d worn when I first encountered him at the hospital.

William didn’t speak, just stood with his arms folded, rocked back on his heels slightly, head a little on one side. A second later Jamie was on his feet next to him.

“Whoa, hold up guys.”

Daz put down his drink and stood, looking shaken. Nothing to do with the challenge, I realised. Everything to do with the response.

He faced the Irishman, defiant. “You got a problem with me?” he asked, his voice quiet.

“So you’re the fucking queer, then?” the man said, glancing back to make sure his mates were right behind him before he took the final step.

“That’s right,” Daz said.

“Me too!” Jamie threw in, his voice a little high and wild. He sounded breathless, but that would be the adrenaline shot. The fight was almost inevitable now and his system was cranking up for it, the tension racking his nerves tight as rigging.

“No, no,” William murmured, “I think you’ll find that
I’m
Spartacus.”

The Irishman laughed without understanding the joke. His mates joined in, the sound loud and primitive, pumping them up, driving them on. Then Sean stood up and they stopped laughing.

You couldn’t deny there was something inherently violent about Sean. It wasn’t just the size of him or even the way he moved, it was the way his thought processes were wired. There were times when, in some subtle way, he could make them show on the outside. It was what made people step into the gutter to avoid a confrontation with him when he was walking down a narrow pavement.

But now I noticed his stance was different. He was keeping it open, hands up a little, fingers outstretched. Hardly anyone in that room would have noticed that he could have turned passive appeasement into aggression in an instant.
Walk away now and I’ll do the same
, he was saying,
but take me on and I
will
flatten you.

The Irishman was either too drunk, or too inexperienced, to respond to this escape route when it was offered to him. He took another step forwards.

“OK now lads, let’s have this outside,” the barman called across. “Go on, in the street with you – I’ll not have you brawling in my place! The po-lice are on their way.”

It was the perfect opportunity for a climb-down and, just when I thought the Irishman might still be just sober enough to take it, Daz took a step forwards.

“You heard the man,” he said softly to the Irishman. “You up for this, or what?”

The fight kicked off almost before we were all out of the door. The pub had no car park, so the entrance spilled us all straight onto the heavy slope of the street, across a metre of pavement, then into the road.

Daz went for a pre-emptive strike, launching a fast but amateur blow to the Irishman’s head. After that, it was a messy free-for-all. I grabbed Tess and got her out of the firing line, then stayed on the outskirts. Sean saw what I was doing and gave me the slightest fraction of a nod in response.

Group fights are hard and fast and dirty and you’re as likely to get thumped by one of your own team as you are by the opposition. You need a sniper who can stay on the periphery and only join in when things are going badly for your side.

So, when the guy who Daz had hit waded in using his empty beer bottle as a club, I edged in behind them and kicked the back of the guy’s knees out from underneath him, then ducked away again.

Paxo had clearly done martial arts of some description. He fought with more balance and style than I would have expected, but made the mistake of getting too fancy and took a nasty couple of hits to the ribs as a result. As soon as his opponent had his back to me, I slammed a couple of short hard shots into the guy’s kidneys. He grunted but by the time he had the breath to look round, I was gone.

William was relying on brute force and sheer weight, swinging his fists wildly and missing his target more than he was hitting it, but at least his swatting fists kept the blows away from him.

Jamie had seemed to be holding his own, but I saw him go down out of the corner of my eye. Next thing he was curled on the ground with two of them getting stuck in. One was laying in with his boots, but the other had picked up a piece of smashed glass.