Tiger Men by Judy Nunn Page B

down at the bulk of the brutish oaf and the slim figure of the young man. But then, the young man looked fit, and he had twenty years on the other. He’d be more agile. If he could land a few punches and avoid getting hit, he might just stand a chance. Ma was a Londoner, born within the sound of Bow Bells, and she admired a man who could use his fists. As a betting woman she was interested in the outcome. She might even put her money on the lad, she decided, he looked like a cocky young devil. Then she saw the oaf’s hand dive behind his back to the sheath that hung from his belt. Different odds altogether, she thought as the knife flashed silver in the lamp-light.
    She paddled her way to the door – the combination of age, weight and arthritis rendering movement awkward these days – and, popping her head out into the hall, gave an order to one of the girls who’d just come upstairs.
    ‘Tell Len he’s to bust up a fight in the back lane,’ she said. ‘He’ll need Billy with him and tell him to take a pistol. Evie’s copped a bashing and the bloke’s got a knife.’
    Then she returned to the window to watch. A good fight was one thing, but she would not have murder on her turf. Not if she could help it anyway.
    Mick was grateful for the spill of light from the overhead window. He could see the knife quite clearly now. It had taken him by surprise, he had to admit, and he wondered if he would have acted with such gallantry if he’d noticed the man was carrying a blade. Bit late to ponder the fact though, he thought as he circled warily, dodging each time the man lunged at him.
    Mick dodged the lunges with ease, second-guessing the man, catching him off balance, changing direction, then circling again, waiting for the next lunge. This is where my strength lies, he told himself, in the man’s clumsiness, for strong though the man no doubt was, he did not use his weight well. Mick decided he would use it for him and, biding his time, he continued to lead the dance.
    Mick O’Callaghan was an accomplished fighter when cornered. He preferred to avoid physical conflict if possible, but when necessity dictated he was a canny opponent. His use of tactics and quick wit had bested many a formidable adversary.
    The man was becoming angered beyond endurance: his laboured breathing was now mingled with snarls of frustration. All he needed was one stick of the knife. One stick and then I’ll gut the little prick from top to toe, he told himself. One stick and he’d disembowel the bastard. He’d pull the guts from his belly before his very eyes and feed them into his fucking mouth. With a bellow of murderous intent he charged.
    Mick feinted and the man barrelled past, missing him by only inches, as had been Mick’s intention. The fury of his aggressor was essential to his plan.
    The man staggered and recovered himself, then turned to charge again, during which time Mick backed off, creating more space between them. He started to circle in the opposite direction. Now, he thought, now’s the moment. Both the positioning and the distance were perfect. He just needed the man to get a good run at him.
    Tantalised by his near miss, the man didn’t pause for breath but charged once again, hurtling towards Mick like an enraged bull. When he was nearly upon him, Mick stepped to one side and, grasping a fistful of the man’s hair with one hand and the back of his belt with the other, he whirled him off course, altering the trajectory of his charge and heading him straight towards the sandstone wall of the pub. The sheer force of the man’s weight did the rest. He hit the rock-face head first and crumpled to the ground unconscious. The fight had lasted exactly two minutes.
    There was a round of applause from the upstairs window.
    Mick looked up. He couldn’t quite make out who it was, but he was distracted as the back door of the pub opened and two men appeared, one of them bearing a pistol.
    ‘You’re too late, Len,’ a