up the chant now.
Fight – fight – fight – fight!
‘We’ve got to stop this!’ said Sam, and he pushed forward, but the press of bodies was so tight now that he couldn’t get through.
‘Chris! Chris!’ called Annie, but her voice was swallowed up by the noise.
Fight – fight – fight – fight!
‘Get ya stuff off, boy,’ Patsy said, looming over Chris. ‘Strip down, to the waist.’
‘I can’t, I got a wheezy cough,’ pleaded Chris.
Patsy began to pose and posture again, displaying his battered, scarred, tattooed physique from every angle. Chris swallowed in a dry throat.
Fight – fight – fight – fight!
‘I tell you what,’ stammered Chris. ‘No need for fisticuffs. Give us an Indian burn and we’ll call it quits.’
Patsy raised his fists and adopted the stance of a boxer. Chris looked frantically about like a cornered animal.
‘Can’t we talk about this?’
Fight – fight – fight – fight!
‘We can do a deal, how’s that? You can’t say no to a deal!’
Fight – fight – fight – fight!
Chris leant forward to whisper something in Patsy’s ear, but found himself confronted by a gaping, fleshy hole. He pulled a horrified face and moved round to Patsy’s
other
ear; cupping his mouth, he whispered into it.
Patsy listened, paused, then turned to the crowd.
‘Thirty quid!’ Patsy declared. ‘Thirty quid he’s just offered me!’
The crowd went mental, booing and whistling and hurling abuse.
Patsy turned his terrible, fiery eyes back towards Chris and said: ‘Is that all your life’s worth to ya, young ‘un?’
Chris seemed on the verge of tears. He whispered again.
‘We’re up to fifty!’ Patsy relayed to the crowd.
Coward! Wanker! Fight – fight – fight, you spasmo –fight!
Chris fell to his knees.
‘I’ll pay you a thousand!’
He flapped at Patsy with his hands, a wretched supplicant before a barbarous, pitiless god.
‘A million!
Two
million! You can have me fags an’ all!’
Sam could see Chris’s mouth working away, but now his words were drowned by the furious mob. Even so, it was obvious that Chris was pleading. He grabbed one of Patsy’s hands and kissed it pathetically, like he was meeting the pope.
Degraded by this miserable creature’s presence, Patsy pushed him away, and Chris tumbled backwards out of the ring. The crowd jostled him, drubbed him, insulted him, shoved him, until at last he broke free and went stumbling off, disappearing from view behind a noisy generator that was feeding power to the rides. Sam and Annie caught up with him and found him shakily trying to light a cigarette.
‘Chris, what the hell did you think you were doing?’ Sam yelled at him. ‘You could have blown our cover back there, do you realize that?’
Chris gripped his lighter with both hands to keep it steady.
‘Sorry, Boss.’
A fart of terror escaped from his arse.
‘Sorry, Boss.’
He belched like a walrus, seemed about to be sick, managed to swallow down his rising gorge.
‘Sorry, Boss.’
Despite his anger, Sam had to feel sorry for him. His mood softened.
‘Well, at least you got out of there in one piece,’ he said.
Annie rubbed his arm – then pulled her hand away from his soggy clothing.
‘I was sweating cobs!’ Chris said.
‘Feels like it,’ grimaced Annie, wiping her hand with a Kleenex. ‘What did you think you were playing at, Chris?’
‘I was trying to measure the size of his hands.’
‘Well, full marks for the Dunkirk spirit, Chris,’ said Sam, ‘but next time, try not go about your policework like such a tit, okay? You risked the whole operation.’
‘
And
your own neck!’ put in Annie.
‘Yeah, but I got a result,’ said Chris. ‘Didn’t you see what I did?’
‘Yes, we saw. You laid eggs like a chicken and begged for your life.’
‘Ah! That’s how I
wanted
it to look! But that was all part of my cunning plan, Boss.’
‘Chris – that weren’t a plan – that was sheer screaming
Fight – fight – fight – fight!
‘We’ve got to stop this!’ said Sam, and he pushed forward, but the press of bodies was so tight now that he couldn’t get through.
‘Chris! Chris!’ called Annie, but her voice was swallowed up by the noise.
Fight – fight – fight – fight!
‘Get ya stuff off, boy,’ Patsy said, looming over Chris. ‘Strip down, to the waist.’
‘I can’t, I got a wheezy cough,’ pleaded Chris.
Patsy began to pose and posture again, displaying his battered, scarred, tattooed physique from every angle. Chris swallowed in a dry throat.
Fight – fight – fight – fight!
‘I tell you what,’ stammered Chris. ‘No need for fisticuffs. Give us an Indian burn and we’ll call it quits.’
Patsy raised his fists and adopted the stance of a boxer. Chris looked frantically about like a cornered animal.
‘Can’t we talk about this?’
Fight – fight – fight – fight!
‘We can do a deal, how’s that? You can’t say no to a deal!’
Fight – fight – fight – fight!
Chris leant forward to whisper something in Patsy’s ear, but found himself confronted by a gaping, fleshy hole. He pulled a horrified face and moved round to Patsy’s
other
ear; cupping his mouth, he whispered into it.
Patsy listened, paused, then turned to the crowd.
‘Thirty quid!’ Patsy declared. ‘Thirty quid he’s just offered me!’
The crowd went mental, booing and whistling and hurling abuse.
Patsy turned his terrible, fiery eyes back towards Chris and said: ‘Is that all your life’s worth to ya, young ‘un?’
Chris seemed on the verge of tears. He whispered again.
‘We’re up to fifty!’ Patsy relayed to the crowd.
Coward! Wanker! Fight – fight – fight, you spasmo –fight!
Chris fell to his knees.
‘I’ll pay you a thousand!’
He flapped at Patsy with his hands, a wretched supplicant before a barbarous, pitiless god.
‘A million!
Two
million! You can have me fags an’ all!’
Sam could see Chris’s mouth working away, but now his words were drowned by the furious mob. Even so, it was obvious that Chris was pleading. He grabbed one of Patsy’s hands and kissed it pathetically, like he was meeting the pope.
Degraded by this miserable creature’s presence, Patsy pushed him away, and Chris tumbled backwards out of the ring. The crowd jostled him, drubbed him, insulted him, shoved him, until at last he broke free and went stumbling off, disappearing from view behind a noisy generator that was feeding power to the rides. Sam and Annie caught up with him and found him shakily trying to light a cigarette.
‘Chris, what the hell did you think you were doing?’ Sam yelled at him. ‘You could have blown our cover back there, do you realize that?’
Chris gripped his lighter with both hands to keep it steady.
‘Sorry, Boss.’
A fart of terror escaped from his arse.
‘Sorry, Boss.’
He belched like a walrus, seemed about to be sick, managed to swallow down his rising gorge.
‘Sorry, Boss.’
Despite his anger, Sam had to feel sorry for him. His mood softened.
‘Well, at least you got out of there in one piece,’ he said.
Annie rubbed his arm – then pulled her hand away from his soggy clothing.
‘I was sweating cobs!’ Chris said.
‘Feels like it,’ grimaced Annie, wiping her hand with a Kleenex. ‘What did you think you were playing at, Chris?’
‘I was trying to measure the size of his hands.’
‘Well, full marks for the Dunkirk spirit, Chris,’ said Sam, ‘but next time, try not go about your policework like such a tit, okay? You risked the whole operation.’
‘
And
your own neck!’ put in Annie.
‘Yeah, but I got a result,’ said Chris. ‘Didn’t you see what I did?’
‘Yes, we saw. You laid eggs like a chicken and begged for your life.’
‘Ah! That’s how I
wanted
it to look! But that was all part of my cunning plan, Boss.’
‘Chris – that weren’t a plan – that was sheer screaming
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