Blackstone and the Endgame by Sally Spencer Page B

said. He turned to the other boy. ‘Ain’t that right, Sid?’
    â€˜That’s right,’ Sid agreed.
    Sid was
definitely
the leader – the plan was only the plan when he’d confirmed it.
    â€˜Well?’ Sid demanded.
    Blackstone shrugged. ‘I’m not giving you the money. Do what you have to do.’
    â€˜Oh, I will,’ Sid said. ‘Believe me, I will.’
    One moment, his open hand was empty, the next it was closed and gripping a knife.
    â€˜Get him, Bill!’ the young thug shouted.
    But Blackstone knew it wouldn’t be like that, and that though he was supposed to turn to defend himself against Bill, it was Sid who would want to draw the first blood.
    He turned for a split second – as Sid had been expecting him to – then swung round again.
    Sid was rushing at him, the knife held high in his hand, ready for a downward stab.
    â€˜Amateur!’ Blackstone thought in disgust.
    Didn’t the thug know that, in a knife attack, the blade should go in upwards? Whatever
were
they teaching young criminals these days?
    Sid feinted to the right and then switched quickly to the left.
    It was his genitals that first learned the plan had gone wrong, though the message quickly spread to the rest of his body, and he screamed and then sank to his knees.
    Blackstone’s right foot, which had only just returned to the ground, lashed out again and caught him in the chest.
    That would hurt – but not as much as if the boot had struck its intended target, which was Sid’s face.
    He had less than a second in which to deal with Bill, Blackstone told himself, but even before he felt the blackjack strike his skull, he knew that he was not going to make it.
    His legs buckled beneath him, and he fell to the ground. He would have to move quickly if he was to survive, but he was already accepting that that would be almost impossible.
    Bill was on him, straddling him and pinning him down. Sid was struggling to his feet and looking around for his knife. Blackstone tried to break free, and realized just how hopeless it was.
    Sid had found his knife on the ground, and was now kneeling next to Blackstone and Bill.
    â€˜I’m not goin’ to kill yer,’ he said, in a cracked voice. ‘That’d be too quick. What I’m goin’ to do instead is cut yer eyes out.’
    He could find his way to the river with no eyes, Blackstone told himself – and a blind man can drown just as easily as a seeing man.
    â€˜If you’re going to do it, then get on with it,’ he said.
    â€˜You’d like that, wouldn’t yer?’ Sid taunted. ‘You’d like it to be over as quick as possible? But I’m goin’ to make yer wait. I’m goin’ to give yer time to
think
about it.’
    â€˜If this is an example of the much-vaunted British sense of fair play, then it is a rather bad one,’ said a voice behind them.
    They all turned. The speaker was a stocky man of about Blackstone’s age. He was wearing an opera cloak which had not been in fashion for at least a decade, and was leaning heavily on a walking stick with a silver handle.
    â€˜Are you a foreigner or somefink?’ asked Sid.
    Oh yes, he was a foreigner all right, thought Blackstone.
    Only a few days earlier, he had assumed that Vladimir was dead, but now, hearing the man’s voice for the first time in nearly twenty years, he recognized it immediately.
    â€˜Yes, I am a foreigner – I would have thought that was obvious when I spoke of your
British
attitude to fair play,’ the newcomer said calmly. ‘And now that I have made my point, I will leave you to your unpleasant – and, if I may say so, somewhat cowardly – business, and be on my way.’
    â€˜Hang on a minute,’ Sid said, ‘before you go, I want that walking stick and whatever yer’ve got in yer pocket.’
    â€˜I am afraid that will not be possible,’ Vladimir told