gasping, clutching the side of the pool with almost no strength left to get out at the steps. This wasn’t normal. But then, he reckoned, nothing was normal anymore.
His hours in the water were time out: a reptile locked on the blue ahead and the black line along the bottom. A crocodile. No past, no future, no thoughts. Only action, only the movement of his arms and his legs, the turn of his head to draw air. The efficiency of his body propelled smoothly through the water, noiseless, churning bubbles, intent only on motion. Mace the reliable, he thought of himself. Who got things done.
After the session the men dressed more or less in silence. Maybe some comments on if they could’ve done a better time, no suggestion yet that Mace was slowing them down. On the way out he stopped for a fruit juice at the health bar, Tyrone and Allan giving it a rain check.
It was dark when Mace left the centre, the Spider parked to the side of the parking ground near a hedge. No overhead lights, no perimeter lights at all. A number of cars still in the lot, but not a soul else around. He threaded his way through, thoughts of Sheemina February and the bomb she’d have her minions set off uppermost in his mind. Also that she’d recognised him. That he should’ve recognised her.
The kids, a pack of boys, were about him like they’d been conjured from another dimension, hissing, whispering, tugging at his sport’s bag and clothing, feral, stinking of booze and meths and glue. He didn’t sense them, glimpse them, hear them. They had him cold. In the Spider’s boot was a forty-five, but a forty-five in the Spider’s boot was about as much help as a prayer, Mace thought, taking in the situation.
They were a pack of fifteen or more, swirling among the cars, on the hunt. One jumped at his back, smaller boys either side, two bigger rat-faces blocked the gap. Crouched there, grinning.
He dropped the bag as a diversion, and the kids fell on it like jackals ripping bones from a carcass. He had house and car keys in his left hand, slid out the metal shafts to protrude from his fist. Before the kids could pinion this arm he slashed a backhander at the nearest rat-face, opening his cheek. Turned on the boy behind, knocked him down, put a boot to his head. It was the only advantage he got before they packed him. Yet he worked in two more jabs with his fist, from the screams believing the keys had punctured skin.
The boys clawed for his eyes, trying to drag him down. He tasted blood, felt its stickiness on his hands. His blood, their blood. Their blood thick with HIV, most of them rentboys for the rough-trade punters. The thought of mixing blood gave him comeback strength to shuck those racking at his chest and the momentum to crash back against a car, those behind him going down. The other rat-face was dancing foot to foot, feinting with a knife. He came in low meaning to spill Mace’s guts. Fast for a glue head, except Mace knocked his arm, the blade snagging on Mace’s belt-buckle, slid upwards through his shirt, finding skin. He felt it as heat. The boy skipped away, darted back to stick him. Again Mace feinted, the blade opening a cut along his arm.
From the centre came shouts. A shot. Rat-face hesitated but the pack scattered. Then he made off.
A guy ran up. ‘You alright?’
Mace looked at the blood dripping off his fingers.
‘Best thing would be to give them a chopper ride out to sea,’ said his saviour. ‘Drop them in the deep.’
10
Mace got cleaned up at the centre. The cut on his stomach needed only ointment and a plaster patch. The forearm slash was deeper. Merited a stitch or two, thought the first-aid guy. Definitely an anti-tetanus. On the HIV score he didn’t think there was too serious a risk.
‘Lucky,’ he said. In his experience he’d seen incidents where the corpse had his hands full keeping his guts from sliding about in the dirt while his valuables were stolen.
‘Who’s a corpse?’ Mace
His hours in the water were time out: a reptile locked on the blue ahead and the black line along the bottom. A crocodile. No past, no future, no thoughts. Only action, only the movement of his arms and his legs, the turn of his head to draw air. The efficiency of his body propelled smoothly through the water, noiseless, churning bubbles, intent only on motion. Mace the reliable, he thought of himself. Who got things done.
After the session the men dressed more or less in silence. Maybe some comments on if they could’ve done a better time, no suggestion yet that Mace was slowing them down. On the way out he stopped for a fruit juice at the health bar, Tyrone and Allan giving it a rain check.
It was dark when Mace left the centre, the Spider parked to the side of the parking ground near a hedge. No overhead lights, no perimeter lights at all. A number of cars still in the lot, but not a soul else around. He threaded his way through, thoughts of Sheemina February and the bomb she’d have her minions set off uppermost in his mind. Also that she’d recognised him. That he should’ve recognised her.
The kids, a pack of boys, were about him like they’d been conjured from another dimension, hissing, whispering, tugging at his sport’s bag and clothing, feral, stinking of booze and meths and glue. He didn’t sense them, glimpse them, hear them. They had him cold. In the Spider’s boot was a forty-five, but a forty-five in the Spider’s boot was about as much help as a prayer, Mace thought, taking in the situation.
They were a pack of fifteen or more, swirling among the cars, on the hunt. One jumped at his back, smaller boys either side, two bigger rat-faces blocked the gap. Crouched there, grinning.
He dropped the bag as a diversion, and the kids fell on it like jackals ripping bones from a carcass. He had house and car keys in his left hand, slid out the metal shafts to protrude from his fist. Before the kids could pinion this arm he slashed a backhander at the nearest rat-face, opening his cheek. Turned on the boy behind, knocked him down, put a boot to his head. It was the only advantage he got before they packed him. Yet he worked in two more jabs with his fist, from the screams believing the keys had punctured skin.
The boys clawed for his eyes, trying to drag him down. He tasted blood, felt its stickiness on his hands. His blood, their blood. Their blood thick with HIV, most of them rentboys for the rough-trade punters. The thought of mixing blood gave him comeback strength to shuck those racking at his chest and the momentum to crash back against a car, those behind him going down. The other rat-face was dancing foot to foot, feinting with a knife. He came in low meaning to spill Mace’s guts. Fast for a glue head, except Mace knocked his arm, the blade snagging on Mace’s belt-buckle, slid upwards through his shirt, finding skin. He felt it as heat. The boy skipped away, darted back to stick him. Again Mace feinted, the blade opening a cut along his arm.
From the centre came shouts. A shot. Rat-face hesitated but the pack scattered. Then he made off.
A guy ran up. ‘You alright?’
Mace looked at the blood dripping off his fingers.
‘Best thing would be to give them a chopper ride out to sea,’ said his saviour. ‘Drop them in the deep.’
10
Mace got cleaned up at the centre. The cut on his stomach needed only ointment and a plaster patch. The forearm slash was deeper. Merited a stitch or two, thought the first-aid guy. Definitely an anti-tetanus. On the HIV score he didn’t think there was too serious a risk.
‘Lucky,’ he said. In his experience he’d seen incidents where the corpse had his hands full keeping his guts from sliding about in the dirt while his valuables were stolen.
‘Who’s a corpse?’ Mace
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