Tiger Men by Judy Nunn Page A

here.’
    ‘Peg,’ he said. ‘I’ll remember it, and I’ll surely be asking.’
    Peg reluctantly turned her attention to the foul-breathed man who was kneading her right buttock with one hand and jangling coins in the pocket of his breeches with the other.
    The fiddler played another tune. He was joined by a man with a tin whistle and the music became even more infectious as women twirled enticingly, selling their wares, inviting men to join them in the dance. Some of the younger men willingly did, while others more intent upon drinking shooed them away like flies.
    Mick, although he was not standing in the forefront of the crowd, was singled out by several of the women, but he demurred with a smile for each, gesturing to his half-finished ale. He was not in the mood to dance. He finished his drink, dumped his mug on the bar and made his way out to the lane at the rear of the pub to relieve himself.
    As he stepped outside he was vaguely aware of a couple in the gloom up ahead. They appeared to be copulating against the sandstone wall of the pub, but he took no notice as he undid his breeches and started to urinate in the gutter. Then he heard the woman’s protestations. She obviously had no wish to call the attention of others to her plight for the pitch of her voice was low, but her tone was nonetheless urgent.
    ‘I said no,’ she hissed. ‘Get away, you bastard. Leave me be.’
    Mick peered into the darkness. He could make out their shapes about twenty paces away, and he could see now that the woman was putting up a fight.
    The man, a huge brute of a fellow, had her pinned against the wall. He’d hoisted her skirts up around her waist and was fumbling with his trousers. Within seconds he’d freed himself and, lifting her bodily off the ground, he spread her thighs with his hips, thrusting for his mark.
    ‘I don’t want your filthy cock,’ the woman snarled through clenched teeth, fighting with all her might to push him away. ‘Keep it to yourself, pig.’ She was young and feisty, but her struggle was ineffectual, and the man simply grunted with satisfaction as his thrusts hit home.
    Then she stopped trying to free herself. Instead, she raked the claws of her fingers down his face, her nails tearing the flesh of his temples and his eyelids and his cheeks before losing themselves in the mass of his beard.
    Her attack was successful. The man roared in rage and as he broke his hold on her she staggered free.
    Upstairs, a shutter was opened and someone peered down from the lamp-lit room to the laneway below, but the man was undeterred by the presence of an onlooker. The woman had angered him now. He grabbed at her, slamming her against the wall.
    ‘Slag,’ he roared, ‘cunt,’ and he smashed his fist into her face.
    The woman’s knees buckled. All fight had left her. The man hoisted her skirts up once again and was about to take her, when Mick stepped out of the shadows.
    ‘You shouldn’t hit a woman like that,’ he said. He didn’t know why he was interfering; as a rule he avoided trouble whenever possible.
    The man peered through the gloom, puzzled more than anything. ‘What’s it to you, Irishman? Mind your own fucking business.’ And he redirected his attention to the woman.
    ‘She doesn’t want you, my friend,’ Mick said. ‘Let her be.’
    The man released the woman, who slowly slid down the wall, to remain in a huddled heap, semi-conscious, broken-nosed and minus several front teeth. ‘Let her be?’ he queried threateningly as he turned to face Mick. He was not one accustomed to taking orders, and certainly not from a man half his size. ‘Who says?’
    ‘I believe I do.’ Mick put down his kitbag. Oh God in heaven, he thought, why am I behaving so foolishly? What sort of trouble had he landed himself in now?
    Upstairs, Ma Tebbutt brought the oil lamp to the window in order to get a better view of the proceedings. Weight for weight it’s certainly no contest, she thought as she looked