By the time George Shuttleworth staggered down Barnes Street to the shabby front door of number four, Patrick was surrounded by cigarette butts and memories, and rage.
He resisted rushing up to the man. Instead he watched, biding his time as George stood swaying, mumbling to himself and slapping his hands against first his jacket and then his trouser pockets, looking for keys.
Patrick waited.
George gave up searching and banged on the door before peering through the bay window, shouting and swearing. When there was no reply he gave up and weaved his way to the gate and turned to walk along the road.
Patrick followed him to the narrow lane at the back of the houses. Casting a glance around to make sure they were on their own he shouted, ‘Oi!’
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ George swayed and squinted at Patrick through his cigarette smoke. He took off his cap and rolled it up, smacking it against his thigh.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Patrick said. ‘Someone told me you’d buggered off but here you are.’
‘So? I’m back. What’s it to you where I’ve been?’
Patrick shrugged. ‘Remember our Tom?’ He saw the almost imperceptible flicker of nervousness, the innate aggression falter for a second before re-establishing itself and he knew Mary was right. This was the bastard that killed Tom. ‘Tom Howarth,’ he said again, his tone soft, ‘my brother. Remember him?’
‘Huh?’
‘You deaf?’
George moved his shoulders. ‘Heard about him. Wasn’t he the conchie? The bloke too fucking scared to fight? And, from what I hear, a dirty poof?’
Patrick’s neck reddened. ‘Shut your mouth.’
Since Mary told him about George Shuttleworth, he’d searched all around town for the bastard. He’d no other plan but to beat the living daylights out of the man. To make him pay for what he’d done and to hell with the police. They were no bloody good. He needed to sort this for himself. For Tom.
Now he looked beyond the man and glanced over his shoulder. There was still no one in sight.
‘Come on, then.’ George appeared to have sobered up rapidly. Shrugging off his jacket, he threw it and the cap on the ground and raised his fists. ‘Come on… You want a fight, so come on.’
Patrick noticed the heavy square signet ring on his right hand. Shuttleworth could do some damage with that given half a chance. But he wouldn’t get it. He showed all the signs of a heavy drinker, the purple veins on the nose, the rolls of fat under his chin, the tight press of stomach against his shirt. Shuttleworth’s movements as he circled in front of him were lumbering and slow. Patrick knew he could play for time, make sure the man knew just why he was going to get the beating of his life. He straightened up, dropped his arms to his sides.
Shuttleworth stopped. ‘What you doing?’ Uncertainty flickered and then he grinned. ‘What’s the matter? Bitten off more than you can chew, huh?’ He stepped forward, jabbing his finger at Patrick’s chest. ‘Runs in the family eh, being a coward?’
Spittle hit Patrick in the face with each word. He turned his head away, his lips thinning. Let the fucker talk. He’d talk himself into an early grave.
‘Like a rabbit in the headlights, he was.’ The man tittered, still prodding at Patrick. ‘Couldn’t believe my luck when I saw him. Took me the best part of the day to find the place. Never have found him in a month of Sundays if that Nazi hadn’t come back to look for his tart.’
That was it. Patrick stopped trying to control himself. He grabbed the man’s finger and viciously snapped it backwards. ‘What did you say?’
George yelped. ‘Sodding hell.’ He staggered and lost his balance. He tried to hold on to Patrick’s arm but was viciously shaken off.
‘What did you say?’
George dropped to the ground and Patrick brought his knee up. There was a loud crack as Shuttleworth’s nose broke, splattering blood and mucus. He screamed, rolled over, his hands over his face. Blood poured through his fingers. Patrick studied him for a moment. Then, looking around again to make sure they were still alone, he adjusted his jacket, pulled at the cuffs of his sleeves and, with great concentration, kicked him.
‘I’ll. Teach. You. To. Fucking. Mess. With. Me.’ He ground the words out each time his foot came into contact with the other man’s body.
Building up the force behind each attack, he took his time, taking in gulps of air to steady his breathing, pushing back the strands of hair that fell over his face.
The man’s screams faded into grunts with each assault.
Patrick gave him one last kick, straining for breath. ‘Arsehole.’ Then he walked away, his legs faltering.
‘Bastard!’ The word was slurred but loud enough for Patrick to hear.
In two strides he stood over George, grabbed him by his jacket and hauled him within inches of his face. The man’s eyes were swollen and closed.
‘What?’ Patrick spoke through clenched teeth.
‘Bastard.’ The man spat two teeth out, flecks of blood landed on Patrick’s hand.
Patrick threw him back onto the ground, wiped his fingers on Shuttleworth’s shirt. He placed his boot on the man’s chest, pressing down, emphasising each word. ‘Every fucking time I see you, this is what you’ll get.’
Shuttleworth moaned, pushed ineffectually at Patrick’s foot.
‘We’ll keep the coppers out of it but you remember – I know. I know you ran my brother down. I know you murdered him.’
He gave one last kick. The man gave out a long winded breath and lay still.
‘So, like I said, you see me anywhere, anytime, you give me a wide berth. You cross the road and you run.’