The jukebox played Wonderwall. Oasis. Exactly what this pub was to Jack. An oasis. A bit too busy tonight for his liking, but it was his sacred local and the place he felt most comfortable. A second home, like McNair’s was when he was a kid. As the song wound to its fadeout conclusion, Jack beckoned to the barman.
‘One more please.’
A nod from Dave, some dexterous pouring, and the pint of Abbott Ale was placed lovingly before him. ‘Last one, orright Jack? You’re cutting up a bit rough.’
‘Sure.’ Not one to count his drinks, tonight he had been. This was pint number six. Or was it seven? Something like that. He stared at the black screen of his iPhone, willing it to do something. A call, a text, a Facebook alert. Anything. He’d asked a couple of copper colleagues to join him tonight, both had convenient excuses.
Clumsy fingers located Sarah’s number. ‘Hey babes.’ He heard the slurring in his own voice, tried to stifle it. ‘Fancy a quiet one at the boozer?’
‘Are you serious, mon?’ The Jamaican accent gave him a thrill even after two years. It was a tumultuous relationship, but somehow he’d managed to keep Sarah around. A bloody miracle. Her voice took him to a place of warmth and sunshine, white beaches and clean water. Even when she was angry. ‘Look at your watch, Jack.’
He did. 10:45pm.
‘Oh. Yeah, iss a bit late. Sorry babes.’
‘Don’t bother me wit your shite.’ She hung up.
Another night alone. Never mind. His own company was good enough.
Jack signalled for Dave to pour him another.
‘You said the last one would be it, mate.’
‘Make this one a half pint, and I’ll be on me way, OK?’
Dave shook his head while he pulled the beer, tut-tutted as he placed the glass on a coaster. Jack gave him weak smile. Indulge me. He cast a glance about the bar, sensed people were observing, judging. So what if he had been drinking for hours? He hadn’t been loud, obnoxious. Just a little unsteady on his feet. A stumble or two on the way to the gents. He noticed his shirt was untucked. He stood to tuck it back in, wobbled.
‘You OK, Jack?’ said Dave.
‘Right as rain, old son. I don’t suppose you could pour me a wee brandy, now? I can’t even taste the lager anymore.’
‘Let’s take a rain check on that. You can have one on the house next time if you promise to pack it in after that drink you’re making love to.’
Jack felt his lips dragging across the top of the glass. Probably did look like he was smooching the damn thing. If he’d been in another boozer and the remark had come from a different barman, Jack would have let fly. With words if not fists. Instead he chuckled. Dave was a mate and could get away with shit like that.
He fell to ruminating over the events at McNair’s yesterday. Gallagher had played him for a mug. What was Jack thinking, strolling in and chucking his weight around? Gallagher had the entire gym behind him – even Micky to a degree. But Micky could be worked on. The light at the end of the tunnel. Still, it was a rookie mistake expecting the tosser to simply hand over the cash. There was a chance Gallagher could turn the whole shitstorm to his own advantage and leave Jack grasping at straws. The trainer might go to the police – even worse, the media – and allege Jack had buried evidence in an investigation. There were other coppers implicated, but Jack would do the honourable thing and take the fall if other names came up. He’d never rat out his mates, not for all the tea in China. It’s one thing being a bent policeman, another altogether being a total cunt.
As far as applying pressure on Gallagher, Jack had to admit, he had nothing except bluster. He’d been relying on Gallagher to keep his promise. But what’s the word of a prick like him worth anyway? Jack had been naïve. Amazing what desperation to pay astronomical drug and gambling bills can do to a man’s thought processes. The first, and so far only £5,000 he got from Gallagher vanished in a week – a cocaine bender and topping up his bookie’s retirement fund.
Jack slammed his glass on the bar. ‘Fuck it!’ Shards of glass flew across the bar, beer sprayed in all directions. Jack sensed heads turning, dagger-stares of disapproval homing in on him. A hush fell over the bar. Dave picked up bigger pieces of broken glass with one hand, wiped a rag over the bar top with the other.
‘Time to leave, Jack.’ Dave’s eyes pleaded.
‘Not yet. That was an accident. Gimme another.’
‘C’mon, mate. You’re making a scene.’
‘Rubbish. No one gives a toss.’ Jack made a sweeping movement with his arm. ‘All self-absorbed in their little worlds.’ He tapped his coaster. ‘Let’s be having a replacement.’
‘You can have a lemonade.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Just go, Jack. I’m not pouring you another drop.’
Jack clambered off the barstool with the grace of a newborn giraffe. Dave was right. Lingering in the bar was doing Jack no favours. After three attempts, he somehow managed to shrug on his coat. On the way to the door he bumped into a well-muscled youth in a tight polo shirt.
‘Watch where you’re going, you daft git.’ The stranger smelled of expensive cologne.
Jack stabbed a finger at the man’s breastbone. ‘That’s the problem with society today,’ he slurred. ‘No respect anymore.’
‘Come again, granddad?’
‘You’ve just proved my point. No respect. Rude to people older than you but expecting the world in return. Not prepared to do a hard day’s graft, though.’
‘Excuse me,’ said the busty redhead hanging off the young man’s arm. ‘Do we know you?’ She screwed up her face like she’d trodden in dog shit.
‘That’s another thing. No one knows anyone anymore. When I was your age, this used to be a real community, now look at it.’
‘What a loser.’ The young man was pushing his luck.
‘If I wasn’t off duty, I’d think of a reason to haul you down the station.’
‘A copper are you?’ The young man laughed. ‘A fucking disgrace to the force. Piss off home, you drunk dickhead.’
Jack grabbed the man by collar. ‘Cheeky cunt. I oughta–’
The man pulled his head back slightly, butted Jack in the forehead with a crack. The DI reeled back.
‘That’s it!’ Dave leaped across the bar like an Olympic hurdler. He grabbed Jack in a bear hug.
‘What the hell are you doing? It was him that started it!’
‘Sorry, Jack. Enough’s enough. I’ll call you a cab.’
‘I can make me own way home, thanks,’ Jack shouted for all to hear. ‘Get me another drink, and pour the girl a vodka and lime to show there’s no hard feelings. You can sling her boyfriend to the kerb, though, arrogant prick.’ Out of the corner of his eye Jack saw the man he’d upset puffing out his chest, squaring for a fight.
‘Either you leave quietly, or I get Big Lenny at the door to toss you out.’ Dave’s voice was quaking. ‘And give us your car keys before you go. I don’t wanna read about an over-the-limit copper killed in a traffic accident.’
Dave released Jack from his restraining embrace. After some symbolic grumbling and swearing, Jack dug through his pockets, extracted a bunch of keys. With fumbling fingers, he peeled off his house key and returned it to a pocket. He dangled the remaining keys in front of Dave, but when the barman went to take them, Jack lobbed them back over the bar.
‘Why do you have to make everything so difficult?’ said Dave.
‘Gotta make you earn it, mate.’ Jack laughed and stumbled.
Big Lenny moved like a panther to catch Jack before he fell to the floor. ‘You sure you don’t want a taxi?’ said the bouncer. ‘No trouble to organise one.’
‘Nah, Len. I’m good. Just show me to the door and I’ll take it from there.’
Jack emerged blinking into the quiet street. Not a soul about. The brisk evening air had a sobering effect, though he knew it was illusory and in the morning he’d feel like eighteen different brands of shit. He staggered fifty metres or so, zigzagging more than a slalom skier, lurched into a narrow, dark laneway. Then down another. Disoriented, he had no clue where he was.
He patted every pocket in search of his mobile. For a frantic moment he thought he’d left it in the pub. Or maybe that smarmy git had nicked it. But no, there it was, inside coat pocket. Let’s try Sarah again. Surely she’d provide shelter to a man in need. Plus she lived a lot closer than he did. A ten minute walk to hers or nearly half a mile walk involving three stations on the Tube to his? It was a no-brainer, even for a man pissed to the gills. Once he figured out where he’d wandered off to. She picked up after the second ring.
‘Hi babes.’
‘What do you want, Jack?’ she hissed. ‘Do you know what time it is? I have to work a double shift at the beauticians tomorrow.’
‘Do you mind if I crash at yours? I’ve had a few too many. Don’t want to drive the car.’ He tried to sound casual but knew he was slurring every damn word.
‘Take the Tube.’
‘Why can’t I just stay with you? I’m nearly there, love.’
‘Not this time, Jack. I can’t be putting up with you when you’re ten beers deep.’
‘Come on,’ he whined. ‘Have a heart.’
‘Have a heart?’ Jack had to hold the phone away from his ear. ‘You must be joking. No wonder your wife left you all those years ago. Smart bloody woman.’
Every mention of his ex-wife was a knife to Jack’s heart. Not because he missed Debbie. It was because she’d been so expert at keeping him from their daughter. He hadn’t clapped eyes on Skye for three years. Her lawyers were an army of bastards he couldn’t defeat.
Before he had a chance to argue his case further with Sarah, she hung up. It wasn’t worth trying again. Once she made her mind up, that was it. Sarah was as stubborn as him like that. One of the reasons he loved her.
‘You need a lift somewhere, pal?’ A voice rang out from across the street. Two figures dressed head to toe in black pants and hoodies stood on the other side of the road, hands across their broad chests. They stepped from the gutter and marched towards Jack. A classic mismatch. Two large sober men against one drunken copper, bravado his only defence. At least being wasted meant he wouldn’t feel the full impact of the blows. He’d put up a token resistance, show them he wasn’t scared.
‘I’m good,’ Jack said. ‘I suggest you keep moving, boys.’
‘You suggest, do you?’ said the taller one. ‘Well, if you say so, I suppose we should keep our noses out of it.’
‘Smart thinking,’ Jack replied with a forced smile.
‘Shame. We was only trying to be helpful, like.’ The second spoke in a throaty Geordie accent that sounded like a scraping violin. The street light reflected off the man’s dark, evil eyes.
Jack had no clue which of the thugs struck the first blow. Hard and sharp on the back of his head, sent him sprawling to the ground. Stung like a motherfucker. He heard one of them burst out laughing. Too solid for a bare fist; probably encased in knuckle dusters. Fighting dirty.
He waited for kicks, more punches. But they hesitated few seconds. Played with him, cruel cats toying with a mouse.
One of the men grabbed Jack by the upper arm, yanked him to his feet. Jack struggled to regain balance, find his centre of gravity. Feet splayed at a crazy angle. He held up his dukes. Again, no punches came. The blow to his head had buggered his vision. Everything was a blur; it seemed there were a dozen enemies encircling him. Attack was the only option now. If he could hold them off for a couple of minutes, help might arrive. Surely someone leaving the pub would turn up this street. In the meantime, instinct took over. He pulled back his fist, swung wildly, missed everything. Again with the other arm; big roundhouse haymakers. Sloppy, ineffective.
‘Come on, mate, you can do better than that. I’ll catch a cold from the breeze you’re making.’
They were both laughing at him now.
‘You’re gonna have to kill me, you arseholes. ‘Cos if I ever–’
Smack. A powerful rip, low to the stomach. Jack dropped, gasped for breath. That one caught him by surprise; most street brawlers go for head shots. These guys knew exactly what they were doing. He decided to play dead. Hopefully they’d walk away thinking Jack had learned his lesson.
But no. The sadistic bastards weren’t done yet. They grabbed an arm each and dragged Jack between overflowing garbage bins into another alleyway, darker still. They continued to beat him methodically. Fists, boots and elbows connected with flesh and bone. He desperately tried to cover his genitals and face, but it was of little use. The assailants managed to breach his defences with ease. A relentless onslaught. It seemed like an eternity, but it probably only lasted a few minutes. He heard one of them give a gruff chuckle, and then their retreating footsteps. Thinking the amount of booze he’d poured down his gullet would anaesthetise him was a mistake; everything hurt, like he’d been stomped by elephants.
He pushed himself up from the pavement to a sitting position; each movement sent a searing arc of pain down his arms. Probably some hairline fractures in the forearms, maybe more serious. He only knew he had to stand up, walk, try to find help. Every ounce of effort expended rising to his feet, Jack leaned up against a lamp post to take stock of his injuries. No good. He dropped straight to the ground. His legs weren’t supporting his weight. He felt his face. Wet and sticky. Crimson blood covered his hand. He palpated his nose. Broken, and not for the first time. Bottom lip cut open so wide and deep he could poke part of his finger inside the hole; that was going to need sewing up. Again, not for the first time. The few real teeth he had left seemed to be intact; the implants on posts defiantly held strong. A couple more cuts to the cheek and forehead, and a massive lump forming above the left eye. He’d be lucky if Sarah would ever go out with him in public again after this reverse makeover.
He took a deep breath. A blinding pain in the chest made him wince. Could only mean a broken rib or two. The main thing was, he was alive. The thugs had smashed into every square inch of his body, yet somehow he wasn’t dead. Jack smiled inwardly; he could always take a punch better than the average brawler. It would take more than two brainless heavies to bring down Jack Lisbon. Now, to get to the hospital.
He grabbed the lamp post again, tried to haul himself up. Dammit. Something seriously wrong with the right lower leg. He suspected a fractured tibia. Nothing for it, wait for help. Focus on breathing, slow and steady. Stay calm. Five more minutes out here in the cold and he’d go into shock; hyperthermia became more of a danger than his injuries. He lay down as gently as he could on the pavement. He cursed himself for his decision; a giggling couple, arm in arm, appeared at the end of the alleyway the instant he’d made himself “comfortable” on the ground. Jack groaned as loud as he could and, bless them, they came.
‘Hey, are you alright, dude?’ A clipped, American accent. A face hovered inches from his, grinning like a moron. The smile vanished as the man recoiled, his mouth a rictus of concern. Jack’s wounds must be more horrifying than he imagined. The stranger turned to his girlfriend. ‘Holy shit, Mel. Call an ambulance.’
‘What’s the number in this country?’
‘Oh, shit. 999, I think.’
The woman dialled the number. ‘Please, quick. We’ve found a man almost beaten to death in an alleyway.’ A pause. ‘No, I can’t see a street sign. Wait a second.’ She ran off, returned in a few seconds. Gave the location to the emergency services worker. Looked down at Jack. ‘They’re on their way, sir. Just hang on.’
Jack growled something to convey his thanks. The pair stared blankly back at him. Through rapidly swelling eyes Jack saw the man reply something, but he heard none of it. The woman bent, touched his hand, a reassuring smile flitted across her face. His eyes began to close and he fell into the embrace of an alcohol-plus-savage-beating-induced oblivion.
Bloated eyes gently blinked, opened a few millimetres; only as much as the swelling would allow. He blinked them shut again as dazzling lights bore down from above. A steady beeping filled his ears; peripheral sounds of businesslike footsteps and chatter from all angles. The smell of disinfectant transported him back to McNair’s Boxing Club. Surely he wasn’t there! If so, he was well and truly fucked. His nose twitched, nostrils flared; this odour was clinically clean. A hospital. Thank fuck for that. He vaguely remembered the nice young couple, how they’d stopped to enquire about the welfare of a stranger. Not a common thing in today’s world. Most people were more like the arrogant prick who’d tested Jack’s patience in the pub. Self-centred, egotistical bastards.
As a clearer state of consciousness ascended through the brain fog, Jack scanned the hospital ward through the narrow slits separating his eyelids. A drip feeding into his arm, a bag full of fluid hanging from a mobile IV support pole. His heart seemed to be beating normally, pulse steady. Yet every minor movement was met by internal screams. A glance to the left. Someone had thoughtfully left his mobile phone on the table beside him. A bunch of chrysanthemums in a plastic vase. Summoning all his strength, he turned and picked up the phone. Five missed calls. Two from Sarah, three from the station. That could all wait for now.
He switched the camera app to selfie mode and pressed the button. No point smiling for it, he kept it deadpan. The image showed a man who looked like he’d been ten rounds with George Foreman. His skin was a collage of red, black, yellow and indigo. Normal flesh colour barely showed through, just a patch here and there. Stitches woven neatly into the bottom lip, above the left eyebrow, in the middle of his chin, on his right cheek. Bandaged like a mummy with a toothache. Frankenstein’s fucking monster.
He sighed, put the phone back on the table. His hands, every finger aching, gripped crisp bedsheets. He had to get out of there, but chances of being discharged were slim. Jack knew he’d been pounded to a pulp, but only a doctor could tell him the extent of the damage. When they did let Jack out, Gallagher was going to wish he’d instructed the boys to kill their target. Much of the time Jack was forced to spend in rehab would be spent hatching a plan of revenge. Gallagher would come crashing down, no matter the cost to Jack.
A tall man in a white coat pulled open the curtain, beamed a Hollywood smile.
‘Jack Lisbon? I’m Dr. Harris.’ The doctor held out a hand, withdrew it when the gesture wasn’t reciprocated.
‘How…’ Talking was going to be as hard as any physical activity. Jesus, what would it be like getting up and going to the toilet? He gulped, swallowed a dry lump of air, mentally prepared the minimum words to get his message across. ‘How long…in here?’
The lanky medico fiddled with stethoscope tubing around his neck.
‘Well, you won’t be checking out tomorrow, that’s for certain. You’ll be with us for a while yet. You’ve sustained serious injuries: deep cuts, contusions, three cracked ribs and hairline fractures in both arms and a compound break in the right leg. We’re mainly concerned about the knocks to the head. We’d like to keep you in for observations, make sure there’s no serious brain damage.’
‘C’mon doc. I’m…ex-boxer.’ Jack tried to confect an expression of pique from his busted features.
‘I’m well aware of your previous exploits.’ The doctor pointed at a vase of flowers on the bedside table. ‘A nice young lady told us all about you when she brought those.’
‘Who?’ He winced. Making the “oo” with his lips hurt like hell.
‘Said her name was Sarah.’
Wouldn’t let him stay the night, now she was feeling guilty. Good.
‘You gave us quite a scare, DI Lisbon,’ Dr Harris smiled. ‘We thought you weren’t going to make it at one stage. The beating you took would have spelled the end for mere mortals.’
‘Ta.’ Small consolation for having your face turned into a Picasso painting. ‘Who called…ambulance?’ God it was hard to speak. ‘I’d like to…thank…prop’ly.’
‘Two American tourists out on the town,’ Dr Harris revealed. ‘Rather an odd place for them to be at that time of night. Lucky for you, though.’ The doctor placed a business card on the bedside table. ‘The bloke’s business card.’
Jack gave a tiny nod, his head engulfed in a massive pillow. ‘Cheers.’
‘Relax and let the nurses do their job. That way you’ll be out of here quicker.’
With the doctor on his way to continue his rounds, Jack noticed a large card propped up against the flowers. A routine get-well-soon card sent to officers who fell ill or wound up in hospital. He’d had the exact same card a year ago when he contracted a serious case of pneumonia. Should be grateful for even that token. He hadn’t sustained his injuries in the line of duty, add in the uncomfortable fact he was steaming drunk at the time, so there was no risk of getting a medal for his suffering.
He’d be getting a visit from detectives soon. Questions about the assault. Jack would give them nothing. Perhaps CCTV had caught a glimpse of the offenders, but it was unlikely. They were dressed like ninjas and the beating occurred in the darkest and narrowest of alleys. It was all down to Gallagher, of course. No business of the Criminal Investigation Department. This was personal and he’d sort it out without anyone else’s help.
The phone caught his attention again. Maybe a call to Sarah was in order. Yes, she’d said no to his request for a sleepover, but it wouldn’t have saved his arse. Those goons would have grabbed him in any case. But she had brought him flowers. She did still love him. He inched towards the mobile, moaning with every movement, scooped it up and made the call.
‘Hello, Jack.’ Short, sweet and, for once, emotionless.
‘Hey babes, I wanna thank…for…flowers. They’re lovely.’
‘No need to thank me. They’s cheapies from the petrol station.’
‘Still, it’s the thought –’
‘Fuck you, Jack. Putting me through hell like that.’
‘Sorry babes, I wish you hadn’t come to see me…this state. I look a fucking…fright.’
‘Did you expect me not to come and see what condition you was in when your boss rang to give me the news?’
‘Babes, I can’t help what my boss does, can I?’
‘You can’t help what you do. Especially when you’s roaring drunk. No wonder you got beat up so bad. Too pissed to defend yourself properly.’
‘Be fair. I’d only had…a couple. They came at me from behind.’
‘You never have just a couple. Jesus Christ, mon. When are you going to wake up to yourself?’
It was going to take some fancy footwork to calm her down. ‘Babes, I was taken…surprise. Ambushed and mugged by a couple of randoms.’
Sarah gave a sarcastic chuckle. ‘You’s lying again, Jack Lisbon. They stole nothing from you. This was payback for some-ting bad you done.’
‘Sarah, just listen…me, please. I can–’
‘Jack,’ she barked. ‘I won’t be listening to you. Or visitin’. I hate to say this, but I don’t think we can go on anymore.’ They’d been on the rocks plenty of times before, but this time Sarah sounded more resolved than ever.
‘What the hell? I was attacked…fuck’s sake. Unprovoked!’ Pain ripped through his throat.
‘You never tell me the truth. There’s more to this than you’re letting on. I’m just over it. Don’t call me again.’
‘But.’
‘No buts, Jack. And don’t come to my door either or I’ll seek a restrainin’ order.’
‘B-babes,’ Jack stuttered. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Are you really that stupid? I’ve made it perfectly clear. You and I are over.’
‘Sarah, please. I love you.’
‘Get well soon, Jack.’
She hung up.
The one positive thing in his life was now gone. He could try to make her see sense, but something deep inside told Jack she couldn’t be won over. Not this time. He’d done his dash. Who could blame her? Not knowing if your man was going to finish the day at home in time for tea, blind drunk in the pub, in the hospital, or at the morgue on a slab. No woman in her right mind should have to put up with that bullshit.
Now he’d have to live with the consequences. For a moment he forgot the pain, the broken bones, the possible brain damage. He felt a creeping numbness. A tear trickled down his cheek. He licked it away, tasted the salt. Fuck it to hell. If he wasn’t flat on his back he’d be punching walls.
No wife, no girlfriend, no chance of seeing his kid, a job in disarray. What did he have left? One thing to hang his hopes on. The job. Even that was at risk of disappearing down the gurgler. And linked to the job – the opportunity to exact revenge against that bastard, Gallagher. After that, he’d go clean. No more bent copper. No more dodgy dealings. No more abuse of power. It might be too late to win back Sarah, but he’d turn his life around.