she-devils caressed the wounds, pressed themselves sexily against them, made demonic love to them. Patsy had turned these old battle scars into proud trophies – more than that, he had turned them into depraved objects of lust. He was proud of his injuries. They were symbols of his manhood. They were a turn-on.
My God …
thought Sam, his blood running cold.
I’ve seen that tattooed devil face before! I’ve seen it swimming up like a shark out of the darkest waters of my psyche.
Patsy raised his arms and turned slowly, letting the crowd feast its eyes. The tattoos, like the scars, covered almost every inch of him – devils, skulls, snarling animals, naked women with bat’s wings and forked tails. A tattooed dagger pierced his left cheek and emerged, dripping blood, from his right. Around his neck was a tattooed noose. His bald head, shiny and hard as a bullet, was inked to give the illusion that his skull was cracked and fractured like shattered glass. Cunningly, his right ear had been tattooed to make it look as if it were ripped off entirely – until Sam realized that it
was
ripped off entirely, leaving nothing but a ragged, fleshy hole in the side of Patsy’s head. Patsy O’Riordan’s body was a walking monument to violence, lust and scar tissue.
So this is the demon I’ve seen leering at me from the dark. But why? Why have I dreamed this terrible man?
Sam recalled the photograph of Tracy Porter from Annie’s file. That slim, frail, hollow-cheeked girl was this ogre’s girlfriend. His girlfriend – and his punch bag. Looking at Patsy now, Sam thought that Tracy had got off lightly only to end up in A&E; a beating from Patsy could quite easily put her in the morgue. Why did she stay with such a creature? Was it fear that held her prisoner? Or did she – and this seemed inconceivable – did she actually
love
this man?
God knows. But one thing’s for sure: if anyone could beat a man like Denzil Obi to death, it’s Patsy O’Riordan.
Having shown himself to the crowd, Patsy turned to the boy who had offered himself as a challenger. They looked like creatures of different species; Patsy towered over the boy, his battered, ink-stained skin rippling, his eyes blazing more fearsomely than those of the devil-face on his chest.
‘What’s ya name, son?’ Patsy asked in a deep, low voice.
The boy in the ring quailed, took a step back, forced himself not to flee.
‘… Stu.’
‘And you reckon you can go one round wiv me, Stu?’
No,
thought Sam. And he sensed that the crowd were thinking the very same thing. And so was Stu.
But still the boy said: ‘Yeah, I reckon.’
He had jumped into the ring, he had accepted the challenge. His mates were watching. There was no backing down now.
Patsy nodded slowly and raised his fists. A tattooed scroll unfurling along his massive forearm read:
abandon hope.
Stu lifted two trembling fists in return.
‘O’Riordan’s a caveman!’ whispered Annie in Sam’s ear.
‘I don’t think he’s even evolved that far,’ Sam whispered back. ‘He’s going to batter that kid into next week!’
‘Didn’t that boy think twice before jumping up there?’
Sam shrugged. Whatever it was that compelled men like those in the ring to seek out violence for the sake of it, he didn’t understand it.
‘Can you make out Patsy’s hands?’ he asked Annie. ‘How small are they? Three inches across the knuckles?’
‘Hard to say. They’re not
huge,
but …’
‘How can we get close enough to find out?’
Before Annie could answer, a bell clanged. The round was on. The crowd roared as Stu lunged forward and threw a succession of rapid punches. He fought wildly, blindly, without style – an amateur brawler. His knuckles smacked against Patsy’s face. Patsy made no attempt to dodge, duck, or defend himself. He didn’t react. He didn’t even blink.
Stu threw everything he had at Patsy, jumped back to give himself a breather, then hammered in again. The crowd went
My God …
thought Sam, his blood running cold.
I’ve seen that tattooed devil face before! I’ve seen it swimming up like a shark out of the darkest waters of my psyche.
Patsy raised his arms and turned slowly, letting the crowd feast its eyes. The tattoos, like the scars, covered almost every inch of him – devils, skulls, snarling animals, naked women with bat’s wings and forked tails. A tattooed dagger pierced his left cheek and emerged, dripping blood, from his right. Around his neck was a tattooed noose. His bald head, shiny and hard as a bullet, was inked to give the illusion that his skull was cracked and fractured like shattered glass. Cunningly, his right ear had been tattooed to make it look as if it were ripped off entirely – until Sam realized that it
was
ripped off entirely, leaving nothing but a ragged, fleshy hole in the side of Patsy’s head. Patsy O’Riordan’s body was a walking monument to violence, lust and scar tissue.
So this is the demon I’ve seen leering at me from the dark. But why? Why have I dreamed this terrible man?
Sam recalled the photograph of Tracy Porter from Annie’s file. That slim, frail, hollow-cheeked girl was this ogre’s girlfriend. His girlfriend – and his punch bag. Looking at Patsy now, Sam thought that Tracy had got off lightly only to end up in A&E; a beating from Patsy could quite easily put her in the morgue. Why did she stay with such a creature? Was it fear that held her prisoner? Or did she – and this seemed inconceivable – did she actually
love
this man?
God knows. But one thing’s for sure: if anyone could beat a man like Denzil Obi to death, it’s Patsy O’Riordan.
Having shown himself to the crowd, Patsy turned to the boy who had offered himself as a challenger. They looked like creatures of different species; Patsy towered over the boy, his battered, ink-stained skin rippling, his eyes blazing more fearsomely than those of the devil-face on his chest.
‘What’s ya name, son?’ Patsy asked in a deep, low voice.
The boy in the ring quailed, took a step back, forced himself not to flee.
‘… Stu.’
‘And you reckon you can go one round wiv me, Stu?’
No,
thought Sam. And he sensed that the crowd were thinking the very same thing. And so was Stu.
But still the boy said: ‘Yeah, I reckon.’
He had jumped into the ring, he had accepted the challenge. His mates were watching. There was no backing down now.
Patsy nodded slowly and raised his fists. A tattooed scroll unfurling along his massive forearm read:
abandon hope.
Stu lifted two trembling fists in return.
‘O’Riordan’s a caveman!’ whispered Annie in Sam’s ear.
‘I don’t think he’s even evolved that far,’ Sam whispered back. ‘He’s going to batter that kid into next week!’
‘Didn’t that boy think twice before jumping up there?’
Sam shrugged. Whatever it was that compelled men like those in the ring to seek out violence for the sake of it, he didn’t understand it.
‘Can you make out Patsy’s hands?’ he asked Annie. ‘How small are they? Three inches across the knuckles?’
‘Hard to say. They’re not
huge,
but …’
‘How can we get close enough to find out?’
Before Annie could answer, a bell clanged. The round was on. The crowd roared as Stu lunged forward and threw a succession of rapid punches. He fought wildly, blindly, without style – an amateur brawler. His knuckles smacked against Patsy’s face. Patsy made no attempt to dodge, duck, or defend himself. He didn’t react. He didn’t even blink.
Stu threw everything he had at Patsy, jumped back to give himself a breather, then hammered in again. The crowd went
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