Daisy in Chains(28)

‘Don’t want any trouble, guys.’ Eyes down, palms held outwards, Wolfe takes a couple of steps backwards. There might still be a chance – slim – that he can make it out of this, but if that isn’t happening, he has a plan:

One – let them think it’s going to be easy.

Make yourself look small, easily threatened, cowardly. Don’t square up. Don’t make eye contact. Let them expect a walk in the park.

‘Murdering scumbag,’ says the murdering scumbag walking towards him. He’s big and strong but he’ll be slow. A fighter who likes to crush. Wolfe backs up further. His eyes still down, he can see just three pairs of legs approaching. A fourth, feet facing the other way, stands guarding the door.

Two – keep calm, keep breathing.

The biggest danger to an inexperienced fighter is that fear takes over. First hint of trouble, you feel anxiety, followed quickly by panic. You stop thinking, hold your breath. You quickly lose energy, you’re a dead man in minutes. So the air has to keep coming in and going out.

Three – assess the situation.

Wolfe has done this already. No windows. One door and that’s being guarded. Three open lavatory cubicles behind him. They’ll want him in one of those, where the chances of avoiding blows will be non-existent. Prison staff will prefer it too – easier to wash away the blood.

Wolfe is two large paces from the edge of the cubicles. No further. This is where he makes his stand. Directly in front, a row of metal washbasins that could work in his favour; and a line of steel mirrors, in which he can see the three men coming for him. Crusher is first, followed by a man of similar size who is wringing and flexing his hands. Bringing up the rear is a younger, slimmer bloke.

Wolfe keeps his eyes on the mirrors. If he doesn’t look directly at his attackers, he can’t give anything away.

Four – don’t let your body betray you.

Most fights are lost because of telegraphing, unconsciously signalling to your opponent the exact move you’re about to make. He’ll see the leap in your eyes when you’re about to throw a punch, the sharply indrawn breath, the backward pull of the shoulder. He’ll see the bounce of a leg before a kick. Be very conscious of what your body is doing and of what his is doing, because he’s going to be telegraphing too.

Right now, Crusher is squared on to Wolfe, keeping his distance, too far away to throw a punch, which is good because:

Five – use your fists as little as possible.

There is a reason why boxers wear padded gloves. Fists are delicate pieces of machinery. Twenty-seven small, fragile bones bound together in a complex structure that, in a street fight, you’re expecting to make contact with the hardest bone in the human body and do some serious damage. It rarely happens. Pit the skull against the fist and the odds are stacked against the fist. Break a fist in the first punch and the fight is over.

Six – stay on your feet.

Most street fights end up on the ground, and Crusher will want him down as soon as possible, because once Wolfe is on the urine-soaked floor, Crusher can bang his head repeatedly down, kick him in the face, stamp on his hands, bring the full force of his weight on to Wolfe’s ribcage. His buddies, Wringer and Slim, can weigh in with their boots. They might only have minutes before the guards feel obliged to step in, but minutes will be enough.

Seven – be ready.

Wolfe can hear the indrawn breath. Crusher has mild asthma. Any second now.

Crusher launches himself at Wolfe. Wolfe hurls himself at Crusher. Crusher must weigh seventeen stone but Wolfe is no lightweight and he’s a hell of a lot fitter. He has speed on his side and, at the point of impact, it is Crusher, not Wolfe, who is driven backwards. They crash into the sinks and from the grunt of pain Wolfe knows he calculated right and that the metal rim has just done significant damage to Crusher’s kidneys.

No fists. The elbow. A sharp, upward stab, right on to the centre of the mandible, sending a shock sensor up into the cerebellum. Done right, this move can cause immediate unconsciousness, but Wolfe doesn’t quite have the momentum. Though Crusher is stunned, he stays upright. Wolfe slams his left hand, side on, into Crusher’s laryngeal prominence, his Adam’s apple. Now the big man is suffering serious pain and he can hardly breathe.

Shin kick. Groin kick.

Seven and a half – never take off your boots. Never.

Wringer and Slim are coming in fast. Wolfe grabs Crusher by both ears, yanking hard.

Eight – go for soft targets.

There are no rules in street fighting. Wolfe swings the big man round by his ears and into the path of the next. Crusher hits Wringer and they both stagger back. Slim is wary now, knowing what he’s up against. He’s also younger, lighter, fitter than the other two. He throws a punch, another, another. Wolfe dodges, skips from one foot to the other, staying just out of reach. A minute of this and Slim will tire – throwing failed punches takes a huge amount of energy – but he doesn’t have a minute. Crusher and Wringer are getting up. This isn’t the movies and the bad guys don’t wait their turn. Come on, come on, you can’t punch me, you have to – yes!

Nine – get the other guy to kick you.

Kicking is bad news. For the kicker. Kicking throws fighters off balance. Kicking is easy to predict and avoid.

Wolfe grabs Slim’s leg and pulls. Slim loses balance, begins hopping around in a desperate attempt to stay on his feet and it is the easiest thing in the world now to go for his groin. Wolfe kicks hard and Slim is out of the fight.