Owen Blackhead was a big man, standing over six feet tall, but it was a long time since he’d been involved in any trouble of a physical kind. He was in his forties, and the last time he’d been in a brawl was in his teens. He’d been slim, strong, and quick, when he was a teenager, and he hadn’t enjoyed the experience of fighting even then; now, as a middle-aged man, carrying, as he admitted himself, some timber he could do without, he knew that he was ill-equipped for this sort of thing. Still, he couldn’t let it go on without at least trying to help in some way.
He decided to remonstrate with the youths, and set his face determinedly. Then he turned towards the door, his heart pumping a little faster at the prospect of the confrontation that lay ahead.
“I wouldn’t go out there if I was you.”
It was Marjory, the shopkeeper.
Owen stopped, grateful for the excuse to delay his mission.
“Why not?” He asked.
“That lot are the Savages, one of the gangs from the council estate up the road. If you try to help Bob Slawit, and I can see that’s what yer minded to do, they’ll ’ave yer. They’ll get you on the floor and they’ll kick lumps out of you. You’ll be leaving the village of Nobblethwaite in an ambulance.”
Owen froze to the spot, his heart beating even faster. He looked out of the window again. The boys were prodding Slawit now, as well as laughing at him. The old man was cursing and making futile gestures with his white stick. One of the youths darted up to him and slapped him in the face, so hard that it spun Slawit’s head to one side. Owen saw a trickle of blood leave the old man’s mouth.
That’s it, he thought, I’ve got to do something. I can’t let this go on.
He left the bakery and marched with the most confident gait he could muster up to the gang of youths. As he approached them, he realised that even though they were all probably only in their mid-teens, four of them were the same size he was, and one of them was considerably bigger than him. At least two of them were larger than he was.
Owen’s stomach dropped into his knees, which became oddly weak. He forced himself through the fear barrier and carried on going until he was within a few feet of them. Close enough to make his presence felt, but out of arms reach so that none of them could sucker punch him.
He wondered whether he should threaten them or be diplomatic. He decided to try diplomacy.
If I do that, he thought, I might get away without any argy-bargy.
“Lads,” he said. No-one took any notice.
“Hey, you! You lot! That’s right, you! I’m talking to you!” He shouted. They all turned towards him.
Five pairs of eyes were directed at him, none of them friendly.
Owen wondered if he’d done the right thing. But there was no going back now.
Behind the gang of unfriendly youths, he was vaguely aware of Bob Slawit leaning on his white stick and shaking.
“It’s not fair, five of you picking on an old man,” said Owen, adopting a tone of voice that he hoped would sound like the voice of reason.
“We could pick on someone younger, couldn’t we, lads?” Said Bigfucka, grinning.
“Why don’t you find something better to do with your time?” Owen asked, wondering how he could climb out of the deep pit he felt he’d fallen into.
The gang forgot about the old man and advanced on Owen.
“There must be something more constructive for you to do,” Owen ventured, a note of desperation entering his voice.
“Aye, there is,” said Bigfucka. “But we prefer demolition to construction, don’t we lads?”
His crude joke provoked evil guffaws amongst his companions. Owen knew now that whatever he said, he’d have a fight on his hands. It was such a long time since he’d been in a fight, he didn’t know what to do. He mixed in middle class circles now, not like he used to when he’d been growing up in Barnsley, and his new values hadn’t equipped him to deal with this sort of situation. His current lifestyle was all about being reasonable, and debating your differences with other people, not flattening them if you disagreed with them.
He tried to remember how he’d handled these situations in his teens. Not well, he remembered, not even then, when he’d been at the height of his physical powers, but at least he’d been able to run away, and to lash out if he was cornered. He had bad knees these days, so running away was out of the question. As for lashing out, he lacked the reflexes he’d had in his youth.
He struck up a fighting pose with his fists raised and hoped against hope he wouldn’t have to use them.
“See that, lads?” Said Bigfucka, all thoughts of Bob Slawit having gone from his mind for the time being. “He thinks he’s a boxer. This is going to be fun.”
Oh fuck, thought Owen. I should have stayed in the shop.
Bigfucka came towards him with the others close behind.
This was it.
Owen drew back his right fist, hoping he could at least land one blow, preferably a haymaker, before they got him on the ground and kicked him half to death.
Then he heard a strange noise, a noise that changed everything.
CHAPTER 4
It was a deep growl, like that of a lion, or a tiger.
Owen and the Savages all turned their heads in amazement to look at the source of the noise.
It was Bob Slawit.
His face was twisted and angry, but not angry the way a human being gets angry; his features had taken on a feral quality. He growled again, and this time it was more threatening than before.
Bigfucka laughed.
“What the fuck does he think he’s playing at?” He asked. “Does he think he can scare us by growling at us?”
Slawit dropped his stick and held up his arms with the elbows bent and his fingers curled as if they were claws.
“He’s gone fucking bonkers!” Said Nipper Davies.
“I always knew he was bonkers,” said Bigfucka.
Slawit opened his mouth, stuck his head forward and hissed loudly.
That was when they saw his teeth. He’d developed long canines, like a big cat, and the rest of his teeth had become pointed. He dropped on all fours and hissed again, his face twisted even more, if that was possible.
“I’m not having this,” said Bigfucka. “If he thinks he can scare us by putting a set of joke teeth in his mouth and hissing like a tabby cat, he’s got another thing coming.”
Bigfucka took a short run up and drew back his right leg and booted Slawit full in the mouth. But Slawit, even though he was blind, he sensed the kick coming, and opened his jaws to receive Bigfucka’s foot and closed his teeth on it. He clamped them down, and blood sprayed in all directions from Bigfucka’s foot.
“AAAaaaargh!” He cried. “He’s a fucking nutter. Fucking ’elp me.”
He tried desperately to extricate his foot from Slawit’s mouth, but Slawit held on to it.
Nipper Davies picked up Slawit’s white stick and began beating on his back, but it didn’t seem to hurt Slawit, who closed his jaws even tighter, and severed Bigfucka’s foot in two. He turned his head to one side, and chowed down on the half-foot he had in his mouth, including the half boot that had come with it.
Bigfucka’s blood surged like a fast-flowing river from the remains of his boot. He fell to the ground and cried, while nursing his leg in his arms.
Owen backed away, baffled by the strange turn that events had taken. He’d felt out of his depth before, but this wasn’t a matter of depth. It was a matter of something else — something alien. The situation was totally outside his experience. Bigfucka had got no more than he deserved, Owen thought, and now it was he who needed Owen’s help. But, Owen wondered, was he willing to stay around and give his help with that thing on the loose, whatever it was?