The Darkest Hour (11 page)
R
OSSETT COULD FEEL
the gloom surrounding him. He felt like a man climbing a mast on a sinking ship, barely able to keep ahead of the rising sea of depression. It always happened when he was deep in drink; it was why he hated boozing at home. He wanted to maintain a distance from his revolver and the chair by the window, where he’d sat too many times in the past, scared that that toothpick lamppost and the grime on the window would be the last thing he would ever see.
He wasn’t sure how many drinks he’d had, but he knew he was drunk. He guessed he could still drive, although he would have to bank on the fog still being outside and slowing everyone else down enough for them to avoid him. He’d smoked half a pack of cigarettes, drunk a belly full of bitter, and spilt a fair few glasses of Scotch. He’d be sorry in the morning, but then, he was sorry every morning.
He stared at the inch of bitter left in the bottom of his glass and then looked around the bar, in full swing now, offices and businesses closing having brought in a few more on their way home. Someone burst out laughing a few feet away and he felt someone else push into his back as he tried to squeeze past. It was time to go and get the petrol from Charing Cross.
He swallowed the last of the bitter and slid the change off the bar into his pocket, brushing his hand against the pouch full of sovereigns, there again, there to remind him.
He took the change out of his pocket and tapped it on the bar. Barbara looked down from the other end, and he nodded to her and left it as a tip. She smiled but looked like she didn’t mean it. He didn’t smile back.
Rossett turned to leave and walked straight into the broad back of one of the dockers. It felt like he had hit a stone wall. He placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and tried to push his way past. The docker didn’t give way; he just turned slowly, pushing against Rossett’s hand, scowling at him.
“You’ve just knocked my pint all over me.”
Another night Rossett would have raised his hands and apologized. He might have even put his hand in his pocket and bought the man a pint.
But not tonight.
Tonight he stared at the docker and thanked God, because tonight, just when he needed it, tonight he was going to have a fight.
Rossett stared at the man, maybe in his late fifties, broad of shoulder and thick of back from hefting weights all his working life. He was holding his pint glass in his right hand and Rossett could see the stain of spilled beer across his chest. He smiled.
“So what?”
“So what?” The docker looked at Rossett, confused, and then at his friends, who, by now, were also staring at Rossett.
“So what if I spilled your pint?”
“So what?” the docker repeated, thrown that the conversation was not going as he expected.
Rossett stared at the docker for a moment and then subsided inside. The man wasn’t a fighter; if he had been they would already be on the floor. The man was just having a pint on his way home from work. Rossett’s anger ebbed like a wave on the shore, and he regretted the way he had reacted.
“I’m sorry.” Rossett spoke softly, and the docker looked even more confused as he stepped to one side to allow Rossett to pass.
“Yeah, well, be more careful, all right?”
Rossett nodded and passed through the group and out the door, pausing on the pavement to take out another cigarette.
Maybe I’m not as drunk as I thought,
he said to himself as he lit up,
or maybe I’m going soft in my old age?
He looked up and down the street. It was dark and the fog was down, thick and heavy and smelling of dirty riverbank and soot. He thought about leaving the Austin, then remembered he had to get the fuel before he went home and wondered if he should eat something before driving over to Charing Cross.
He heard the door swing open behind him as the sounds of the pub grew loud, then faded again, causing him to look back over his shoulder as he put his match to the cigarette.
The docker he’d knocked into was staring at him.
Rossett stared back. Maybe he’d got the man wrong: maybe he was a fighter after all, or maybe he had been whipped up by his friends and had had to come out to save face. Either way, the urge to fight had gone from Rossett, and he half smiled at the man and shook his head by way of apology.
“I think I’ve had too much, pal. I’m heading home.”
The big man stared back, and Rossett noticed the balled fists and the swollen chest. He took a few steps away from the docker to get a reaction space and then turned side on as he spoke, taking the cigarette from his mouth as he did.
“I’m sorry about knocking into you. It’s been a hell of a day. Let me buy you another drink?” Rossett pointed to his pocket but didn’t put his hand in; he knew better than to be caught by an onrushing man while reaching for his wallet.
“Not so tough now, are you?” The docker lowered his chin as he spoke, fists still tight. He took a deep breath and a half step forward.
Rossett held out an open hand and took an equal step back toward the Austin, maintaining the distance between them.
“I don’t want to fight.”
“You should have thought of that.”
“We’re both drunk, just leave it.”
Another half step forward, another half step back.
“You ain’t acting hard now, are you?”
“Look, I don’t know if your pals have wound you up, but just go back inside and tell them you chased me off and we can both leave it there, eh?”
The docker took two steps forward and Rossett took one back and raised both hands in front of him, careful to keep them open, palms out.
“I’m a policeman. Trust me, you don’t want the trouble.”
“I don’t care if you’re Sherlock fucking Holmes.”
Another step forward.
Rossett planted his back foot and kept his hands outstretched. The docker raised his fists and lowered his head even more, and Rossett knew there was no going back now. They were going to fight.
Drunk or not, a clarity descended on him. He felt everything else slipping from view and only saw the big man in front of him. The sounds of distant traffic faded. Even the fog seemed to lift. Jacob drifted from the place at the back of his mind where he’d been all day, and even the weight of the sovereigns seemed to lighten. He could feel the pavement under his feet through his shoes, feel his toes curl to find purchase, and feel the adrenaline reach out from his core to fuel every part of his body.
Rossett knew one thing in life, one thing more than any other: he knew how to fight.
The docker stepped in again and this time Rossett took a half step forward, dropped his head, and slammed his open palms against the massive chest, sending the other man stumbling backward three or four steps. Rossett didn’t advance; he just drew back his hands, right held open next to his cheek, left extended eighteen inches in front of his face, still holding the lit cigarette.
He didn’t speak or move, he just waited.
He didn’t wait long. The docker regained his balance, paused, then charged back across the ground he had just given. Rossett dipped his left shoulder and with a slight pivot on his toes slipped his right fist through the big man’s hands and landed it square on his nose.
The docker’s head recoiled and he stumbled back. Rossett withdrew one step back and a half to the left, both hands open, exactly where they had been before the rush, as he waited to see how the docker reacted.
A lot of men have never been punched square in the face. They might have had fights in the school yard or scuffles in a pub, but most have never felt the mind-numbing explosion of pain that comes with a good right fist square on the nose. They’ve never had their brain shut down for a second and then spark back to life with a white-hot flash of pain that makes their eyes water and their ears ring. Rossett had learned over the years that there are two types of men in a fight: those who you can stop with one good punch . . . and those that keep coming.
He stood, hands held high, and waited to see which one he was facing.
The docker reached a tentative hand to his nose and tilted his head forward to meet it. Rossett took another step to the left and waited and watched as the docker inspected his fingers for blood, finding none. He looked up at Rossett, confused by the speed of the punch and the pain that was making his eyes water.
Rossett considered stepping in and finishing the fight but decided to wait. He wanted to give his opponent the chance to go back into the pub, finish his drink, and lick his wounds as he told his pals he’d chased Rossett off with a kick up the arse.
Rossett didn’t want to fight anymore.
Unfortunately, the docker did.
The big man grunted and raised his hands. Moving slower than he had before, he turned to face Rossett. Having learned his lesson from the charge he’d made before, he slowly took a step forward as Rossett took another to the left.
“I don’t want to fight,” Rossett said, aware now that words were useless but trying them anyway.
The docker tracked Rossett as he took another step to the left.
“Stand still.” The docker finally spoke, his voice thick and nasal as he tried to catch his breath.
Rossett decided to finish it.
“Sounds like I’ve broken that nose, do you want me to straighten it for you?” Rossett said, and the big man snorted and charged forward again.
Rossett feinted left and took a half step to the right. The docker, who was by now used to turning left, followed the feint and caught a left hook from Rossett as he closed in. Once again the punch landed square on that broken nose. The docker’s legs gave way as his brain shut down for the second time in a minute. He landed face first on the pavement after dropping like a dead weight. Rossett danced away, enjoying the punch he’d just thrown but casting a glance toward the pub in case reinforcements were coming out.
The docker lay on the wet cobbles for a moment, groaning; he slowly rolled onto his side and reached up to his face to check if it was still there. Rossett lowered his hands and watched. Fight over, adrenaline high, he realized he’d enjoyed the moment, then suddenly felt guilty as he looked at the man in front of him on the ground.
Rossett noticed the squashed cigarette still half held in his fist and flicked it away, then rubbed his hands together, feeling for the first time that the knuckles of his right were sore.
He crossed and offered his left hand. The docker stared in confusion for a moment, his senses still muddled, then recognized Rossett and waved him away,
“I’m all right.”
“You’re not. Come on, here.” Rossett offered his hand again but the docker ignored it and somehow managed to push himself onto all fours. He knelt there for a moment, head bowed, and then looked up at Rossett, who offered his hand again. This time the docker took it.
Rossett heaved the big man to his feet and steadied him as he swayed, senses still scrambled. His nose was a mess, swollen and red with a deep cut at its bridge, blood and snot bubbling from one nostril. On his forehead, Rossett could see a swelling he guessed was a result of hitting it on the cobbles when he went down. The docker touched the lump, flinched, then touched his nose and looked at his fingertips, which now were dipped bloodred.
“I’m sorry.” Rossett took out his handkerchief.
The docker took it and wiped his nose, pulling a face, and, as he did, a thick greasy bubble of snot and blood popped from his nostril and soaked the cloth, and his nose began to bleed hard as something unseen gave way. The docker swayed at the sight of the blood. Rossett took his arm, led him toward the Austin, and leaned him against its side.
“Hold the hankie against it and tilt your head. Should I go get one of your pals?”
The docker shook his head.
“I’m surprised they didn’t come out to help you.” Rossett glanced toward the pub, whose doors remained firmly closed.
“I fight my own battles,” the docker replied, looking up into the night, bloodred hankie clutched to his face like an oxygen mask.
“Well, you look like you fought this one all right. Do you want me to help you back inside?”
The big man shook his head. He’d just been humiliated outside, he didn’t want to be humiliated inside as well.
“I can’t leave you here on your own. That bump looks nasty.”
The docker touched the lump again. It had visibly swollen in the seconds since he’d last checked. He lowered the hankie and looked in it like someone panning for gold, then up at Rossett.
“I don’t live far. I’ll walk home,” he lied badly, as another snotty bubble burst forth.
“Let me drive you?”
“I’ll walk.”
“You can’t stand up, let alone walk. Look, I’m sorry, please let me drive you.”
Rossett opened the door of the car and eased the big man toward the seat before he had a chance to resist. Still dazed, the docker gave way and almost fell into the car, allowing himself to be led like a child. Rossett slammed the door, causing the docker to flinch, and another fat gob of blood dripped out onto his top lip as Rossett ran around the car and jumped in. He glanced across at the docker, who was leaning back in the seat, hankie raised and eyes closed.
“Are you all right?”
The docker nodded slightly but didn’t open his eyes.
“Where are we going?”
“Battersea.”
Rossett started the car and edged his way out into the fog and toward the main road. The adrenaline was subsiding and he was suddenly aware that he was drunk, very drunk. The car’s headlamps did little more than bounce back off the dirty yellow fog, and he was relieved to find he could just about make out the rear lights of the cars on the main road when he turned onto it. The two men overheated the interior of the car, and Rossett had to wipe at the window with the back of his hand as he drove. He risked the odd glance at his passenger, who remained silent. After a few minutes, he was relieved to see the docker tilt his head forward and inspect the handkerchief again.
“Has it stopped bleeding?”
“Just about. That was a corker of a punch you got me with.”
“I’m sorry.”