they walk over anyone in the way. People like that, the hell with them. What happened with you – it was just one thing leading to another.’
After the trial, it was Novak – even more so than Hannah – who was his link to the outside. And when Callaghan came out of prison it was Novak who gave him work and arranged the apartment, Novak’s wife Jane who bought the sheets and the towels and stocked the fridge
‘Look – I don’t want you to think I’m taking all this for granted.’
‘All what?’
‘I can’t imagine a better friend.’
‘You got a bad break.’
‘I fucked up.’
*
Danny Callaghan, age 23, is six feet away from the big fat man in the red check shirt. The one kid still on his feet has taken advantage of the distraction, and all that’s left of him is the fading sound of his running feet. The kid who’s been punched out is on his back, still and pale. His friend is on the ground a few feet away, half-sitting, one hand held to his nose, failing to staunch the flow of blood from his nose.
‘Be smart,’ the fat man is telling Callaghan. The way the fat man is standing, the kid with the bloody nose can’t stand up without risking a kicking. The fat man looks like he’s savouring the prospect.
‘They’re kids,’ Callaghan says.
‘Walk away.’
The first blow is the one that counts. If it’s fast and hard and accurate enough it can settle everything right off.
Trouble is, throw a sucker punch and if it’s not fast or hard or accurate enough there’s no going back from what follows. And that’s going to be nasty and dangerous. Every fight hurts, even the ones you win.
In that silent moment, Danny Callaghan knows that if he waits too long the chances are that the fat man will start it and maybe finish it right off.
Move now or he will
.
Which is when Callaghan feels a hand grip his left forearm, another hand grip his left bicep, just a fraction of a second before the same thing happens to his right arm. He instantly lunges to elude the grasping hands, jerking his left shoulder, then his right shoulder, but the men he can see on either side are big, their hands are like steel grips on his arms, and his struggle lasts just a few seconds. The fat man is smiling. ‘I told you to be smart.’
He looks first at the man on Callaghan’s right, then the other one, and he says, ‘Hold tight.’
His arms held firm, his body tilted off balance so he can’t lash out with his feet, Callaghan’s belly and chest are totally unprotected.The first blow feels like the fat man’s fist has punched right through to Callaghan’s spine. Callaghan needs to go down, curl up, protect himself, but the hands on his arms hold him in place.
The judge looks down from the bench. The distaste in his features is not for his task but for the defendant below him, convicted and awaiting sentence. Danny Callaghan looks up and sees a smug man who has never felt pain or humiliation. All through the trial Callaghan has felt like he’s been describing what happened in a language that makes no sense to the judge or the lawyers or the jury.
‘Your able counsel made the case that when you went to Mr Brendan Tucker’s apartment two evenings later you intended nothing except to remonstrate with him. In the alternative, he argued, you sought at worst to deliver an appropriate physical response to the beating you had received. I cannot – as the jury did not – find the former explanation credible. You don’t bring a golf club to someone’s home in order to give him a piece of your mind. And while you’d been subjected to a vicious assault by Mr Tucker, the extent of your retribution went far beyond any notion of a manly physical rebuke.’
He outlines the medical evidence – that at least one blow to the victim’s abdomen, from the golf club, had been so severe as to penetrate to his pancreas, pushing the organ against the spinal column and causing a bleed that later contributed to Mr Tucker’s sudden
After the trial, it was Novak – even more so than Hannah – who was his link to the outside. And when Callaghan came out of prison it was Novak who gave him work and arranged the apartment, Novak’s wife Jane who bought the sheets and the towels and stocked the fridge
‘Look – I don’t want you to think I’m taking all this for granted.’
‘All what?’
‘I can’t imagine a better friend.’
‘You got a bad break.’
‘I fucked up.’
*
Danny Callaghan, age 23, is six feet away from the big fat man in the red check shirt. The one kid still on his feet has taken advantage of the distraction, and all that’s left of him is the fading sound of his running feet. The kid who’s been punched out is on his back, still and pale. His friend is on the ground a few feet away, half-sitting, one hand held to his nose, failing to staunch the flow of blood from his nose.
‘Be smart,’ the fat man is telling Callaghan. The way the fat man is standing, the kid with the bloody nose can’t stand up without risking a kicking. The fat man looks like he’s savouring the prospect.
‘They’re kids,’ Callaghan says.
‘Walk away.’
The first blow is the one that counts. If it’s fast and hard and accurate enough it can settle everything right off.
Trouble is, throw a sucker punch and if it’s not fast or hard or accurate enough there’s no going back from what follows. And that’s going to be nasty and dangerous. Every fight hurts, even the ones you win.
In that silent moment, Danny Callaghan knows that if he waits too long the chances are that the fat man will start it and maybe finish it right off.
Move now or he will
.
Which is when Callaghan feels a hand grip his left forearm, another hand grip his left bicep, just a fraction of a second before the same thing happens to his right arm. He instantly lunges to elude the grasping hands, jerking his left shoulder, then his right shoulder, but the men he can see on either side are big, their hands are like steel grips on his arms, and his struggle lasts just a few seconds. The fat man is smiling. ‘I told you to be smart.’
He looks first at the man on Callaghan’s right, then the other one, and he says, ‘Hold tight.’
His arms held firm, his body tilted off balance so he can’t lash out with his feet, Callaghan’s belly and chest are totally unprotected.The first blow feels like the fat man’s fist has punched right through to Callaghan’s spine. Callaghan needs to go down, curl up, protect himself, but the hands on his arms hold him in place.
The judge looks down from the bench. The distaste in his features is not for his task but for the defendant below him, convicted and awaiting sentence. Danny Callaghan looks up and sees a smug man who has never felt pain or humiliation. All through the trial Callaghan has felt like he’s been describing what happened in a language that makes no sense to the judge or the lawyers or the jury.
‘Your able counsel made the case that when you went to Mr Brendan Tucker’s apartment two evenings later you intended nothing except to remonstrate with him. In the alternative, he argued, you sought at worst to deliver an appropriate physical response to the beating you had received. I cannot – as the jury did not – find the former explanation credible. You don’t bring a golf club to someone’s home in order to give him a piece of your mind. And while you’d been subjected to a vicious assault by Mr Tucker, the extent of your retribution went far beyond any notion of a manly physical rebuke.’
He outlines the medical evidence – that at least one blow to the victim’s abdomen, from the golf club, had been so severe as to penetrate to his pancreas, pushing the organ against the spinal column and causing a bleed that later contributed to Mr Tucker’s sudden
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