I Love My Smith and Wesson by David Bowker Page B

club from under the counter and swung it at Little Malc, missing his head by a fraction. Rawhead caught the barman’s hand, held it against the counter with his left, and hit the barman in the center of the face with his beer glass.
    Apart from the shard of glass protruding from his left cheek, the barman was relatively unhurt. But he was surprised, which was why his mouth was open when Rawhead punched him. Rawhead heard a crack and knew he’d broken the barman’s jaw.
    The barman held his left hand to his face and Rawhead twisted the club out of his grip and swung it round, almost hitting an old man in a cardigan who had got up to object to Rawhead’s comment about His Holiness the Pope. Realizing he might get hurt, the old man changed his mind and hurried back to his stool.
    One of the mechanics ran up next. A little guy with jutting ears and a long James Joyce chin. He seemed to have been influenced by James Joyce, too, because he was shouting something that sounded like, “I what dogs turd wanker!” Little Malc held out his fist and the guy ran straight onto it. Then his friend, huge and longhaired, weighing about twenty-four stone, lunged at Rawhead and he fell to the sawdust with the fat mechanic on top of him.
    For a moment, Rawhead couldn’t move or breathe. The mechanic was gritting his teeth and bouncing up and down on him. It was like he was trying to fuck him. Rawhead could smell motor oil and dirty cock, and the beer on the guy’s breath. He could see the hairs up the bastard’s nostrils, thick and tufted like tobacco.
    Someone was shouting, “Kill him, John; fucking smack him!” in a high-pitched Mancunian voice. Rawhead tried to find his gun, couldn’t reach it. But he groped in his pocket and found his lighter. He held it up to the mechanic’s nose hair and set fire to it.
    The mechanic screamed and jumped off Rawhead. The James Joyce look-alike sloshed a pint of beer in the mechanic’s face. A moment later, while he was rubbing his eyes, Rawhead hit the mechanic so hard that he slid over the floorboards, smashed the back of his head on the jukebox, and blacked out.
    Little Malc had seen enough and was edging toward the door. Rawhead followed. A stout red-faced woman with an outraged expression tried to bar their way. Little Malc stopped to reason with her, but Rawhead could see the barman was back on his feet and hungry for vengeance.
    Rawhead was afraid that if they stayed around any longer, things might get violent. So he hit the woman, right in her outraged expression. The woman went down.
    *   *   *
    They got in the Rolls, Rawhead at the wheel.
    â€œYou punched a lady,” said Little Malc. “I can’t believe you sunk that low.”
    â€œShe was about to deck you.”
    â€œAre you seriously implying a woman could beat Malcolm Priest Junior?”
    â€œYep,” said Rawhead.
    â€œRight!” said Little Malc. “That’s it. Stop the fucking car and get out. I’ll drive meself home. I’m stronger than any fucking woman and you’re fucking sacked.”
    Rawhead ignored him. He drove south out of the city, all the way to Macclesfield Forest. When they parked, Little Malc refused to get out. Rawhead sat there in silence, just staring at him. The power in his eyes was so intense that Little Malc had to look away. He was getting scared now, having finally deduced that the man at his side was not remotely like anyone else he’d ever met.
    Suddenly a little fresh air seemed like a good idea. They walked for about half a mile, meandering through the trees, Little Malc complaining that the ground was frosty and he could feel the cold through the soles of his Italian shoes. Rawhead was dressed more sensibly, in heavy walking boots.
    Squirrels chased and chattered in the trees above them, claws scrabbling as they raced upside down, apparently defying gravity. The light was fading, the sky streaked