the ears. The carpet lurched and buckled like the deck of a ship.
I let go of his throat, staggered back a couple of steps.
Blood bubbled from the flattened mess of Mr Pain’s nose, little scarlet droplets flying from swollen lips. ‘Fucker!’ The mace flashed up for another blow.
What the hell was he made of?
Sod this. I turned and ran, leaping the wheelie suitcase, out the bedroom door – pulling it shut behind me. Hauling on the handle to keep it that way.
Get to the bathroom. Rip the front panel off the bath, grab the gun … And then what? It wasn’t loaded, the bullets were in a separate box. Was it even in one bit, or did I take it apart for cleaning? Shite – I did. It was in half a dozen pieces, each stored in a separate zip-lock freezer bag for extra freshness.
Fuck.
OK, think, think, think, think—
BANG. The jagged end of the pipe carved through the bedroom door, chunks of fibreboard and cardboard insulation burst out into the little landing. Cheaply built shitey council houses …
I grabbed the pipe, below the nut-and-bolt spines, and yanked.
Something large and ugly slammed into the other side of the door. Then the hinges gave way, tearing out of the frame as the whole thing cracked down the middle and Mr Pain toppled out. Eyes wide. Blood dripping from his chin. Hands grabbing at thin air as he kept on going.
He blundered straight into me, shoving me back into the handrail. The wood bent, cracked, snapped with a BANG.
We clattered into the stairwell, a second of freefall and then THUD. It was like being kicked between the shoulder blades by an angry horse. All the breath rushed out of my lungs, taking a groan with it. Then I was tumbling down the stairs, arms and legs tangled with the big smelly bastard. Grunting and swearing.
CRUNCH.
The floor slammed into my chest. As if it wasn’t already hard enough to breathe …
Jesus, that hurt.
Get up. Get up before he starts swinging that bloody pipe again.
GET UP!
I dragged in a breath, coughed, gritted my teeth, and shoved till I was on my knees.
The hallway was a mess, the carpet littered with bits of door and snapped balusters, a smear of blood on the curling wallpaper. Mr Pain was lying on his back by the front door, groaning, his left arm twisted and bent the wrong way at the elbow.
Looked sore.
Good.
I dragged myself up the wall, swayed on the seasick carpet for two deep breaths, then staggered over and stamped on the joint.
The big man didn’t scream. He lay there, eyes wide, mouth working up and down, then grabbed the arm and clutched it to his chest. ‘Agghghhhhh …’
Served him right. He could—
The kick came from nowhere, pistoning up into my stomach, lifting me off my feet and sending me smashing back into the wall. The plasterboard cracked, a faint dusting of powdery white drifting out into the air.
My knees buckled, fire blazing through my guts as I scrabbled to stay upright.
Mr Pain grunted his way to his feet and stood there, swaying back and forwards, blood and spittle dripping from his open mouth. And then he started to laugh.
I grabbed what was left of the stairs for support. ‘What … What the fuck … are you … are you on?’
The big man cricked his neck from side to side, voice all bunged up and soggy. ‘You’ve been a naughty boy. Gotta take yer spankin’.’ The left arm dangled limp at his side, but the right ended in a huge fist.
He lowered his head and charged.
His right shoulder caught me in the chest – his head jammed underneath my arm as we slammed backwards into the wall. The plasterboard erupted in jagged shards, dust swirling out in a cloud.
A fist hammered into my stomach.
Breath hissed out between my teeth, taking a little spray of spit with it.
Of course the bright thing to do, the safe thing, would be to wrap my arms around the big bastard’s neck. Ride out the blows and keep squeezing until there was no oxygen getting to his warped Neanderthal brain … Unless the spiky-pipe wasn’t the only weapon Mr Pain had brought to the party. It was a lot more difficult to ride out a knife in the guts.
Another punch, same place, twice as hard.
Go for the arm.
I grabbed his left bicep and forced the arm back and up – reached across that broad, stinking back with my other hand, caught hold of his forearm and hauled. A grating, popping noise sounded somewhere inside.
The next punch was barely a pat. Mr Pain dragged in a huge breath, but there wasn’t a scream to follow it. Instead he dropped to his knees, panting, right arm held out horizontally to his body, the fingers splayed, as if he was waving to the devil all the way down there in hell.
I kneed him in the face.
A grunt and he rocked back. I let go of the buggered arm and took a handful of hair at the back of Mr Pain’s head, then introduced the front of it to the third step from the bottom.
Thunk.
‘One’s a wish …’
I pulled him back up, and did it again, putting all my weight behind it.
Thunk.
‘Two’s a kiss …’
Blood spattered across the stairs.
‘Three’s a disappointment.’
THUNK.
He went limp.
I let go and staggered back a couple of steps, panting. ‘Should’ve done … done your homework, you thick … bastard, and brought … a few friends … I was kicking … kicking the shit out of … arseholes like you back when … back when …’
Ah fuck it. I slumped against the wall.
The hall was completely trashed, the staircase ruined, the carpet covered with bits of shattered wood and blood, the air reeking of plaster dust, copper, and rancid-oniony sweat.
His plumber’s mace glinted in the corner, by the coat rack.
I wobbled over, bent down, and grabbed it. The world waltzed when I straightened up again, something pounding inside my skull, threatening to pop my brain out through my ears.
Lean on the kitchen door for a bit. Get my breath back. Try not to throw up.
OK.
Any minute now.
Deep breaths.
Ow … Adrenalin was a great anaesthetic, but see when it started to wear off? The knuckles of my left hand pulsed and throbbed, my shoulders felt as if they’d been wrapped in hot barbed-wire, the small of my back stung, my stomach burned, and everything else ached.
Getting too old for this kind of thing.
Right. Time to take care of my visitor.
I turned, the length of spiky-pipe swinging loose at my side.
He was lying at the foot of the stairs, curled up in a ball, shuddering, clutching his twisted left arm, face a ruptured mess. For someone calling himself ‘Mr Pain’, he didn’t seem to enjoy it very much.
I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him through into the kitchen