Gordie Howard always drank at the Pig’s Head with his crew all around him. Everyone knew that Gordie was tooled up as a matter of routine because of the bayonet thing when he’d pasted Charlie. No one ever mentioned the bayonet thing, not in Charlie’s hearing and certainly not in Terry’s. But Charlie’s boys all knew, and approached the problem accordingly, arming themselves with knives, machetes, spiked knuckledusters and a few leftover service revolvers.
When Charlie was better and his scars healed, he made a plan. He had to take Gordie out, he knew that. And he didn’t want to leave any other members of Gordie’s gang loose about the place to take over where Gordie left off. Charlie made this plain to his boys, and they all nodded their agreement and set off on the evening’s entertainment.
‘I’m going to enjoy this,’ said Charlie as they trooped out into the night, mob-handed.
‘Too right,’ said Terry. ‘Arsehole’s got it coming.’ But he wasn’t sure. He feared Gordie Howard’s crew and thought Charlie a fool not to.
As soon as Gordie and his heavies emerged from the pub, Charlie’s boys dived in. Soon the bodies were piling up on the pavement, but Charlie wasn’t letting anyone else have Gordie Howard but himself. Some of Gordie’s boys ran off when it looked like things were going against them, leaving a hardcore few grouped around Gordie like guards around an emperor. Blood flew and before long there was no one left but Gordie, on the ground, dazed and reeling from tens of punches, cut to ribbons. Then whistles started blowing.
‘Get him up,’ said Charlie, gasping and blood-covered. ‘Let’s go.’
They hefted Gordie into the back of Beezer’s old Ford van and had it away before the coppers could arrive on the scene and start making trouble. They drove him down to the docks and hustled him, barely conscious, into an empty warehouse.
At Charlie’s instruction, Terry slapped Gordie around until he came out of his stupor. Then they tied him to a chair and Charlie stood in front of his enemy in triumph, staring down at him where he sat beaten, all the colour draining out of his face because he knew this was going to be bad.
One of the boys handed Charlie an iron bar.
‘Christ,’ panted Gordie, and seeing the man’s terror, Terry stepped forward.
‘I’ll put him out of his misery, eh, Charlie?’
Charlie stepped back a pace. Glared at his fallen enemy. Then he nodded, once.
Terry hit Gordie hard in the jaw. They all heard the snap as it broke. Gordie’s head flew back, and then he was out of it, unconscious. Terry gave Charlie a nod and got out of the way. Charlie stepped in and swung the bar back and crashed it into both Gordie’s legs and then his arms, pulverizing his limbs. Finally, satisfied, he threw the bar aside. It hit the dirty cement floor with a clatter. Charlie was breathing hard with the effort.
‘He won’t give us no more trouble,’ said Charlie. ‘Get him out. Dump him back by the pub when it’s clear.’
After the Pig’s Head incident, no one heard of Gordie Howard around town any more. He was – literally – a broken man. For a full month after the event, Charlie’s boys cruised the manor in their cars, herding up any stragglers from Gordie’s gang and seeing them out of town, until there was no one left and there was a change in the air. Now everyone knew Charlie had taken control.
The manor was his.