The Sister(39)

‘Is it because I’m Irish you think you’re in danger? You think I’m wit the f*ckin’ IRA or something, eh – is that it?’

The American garbled his words. ‘I – I wasn’t talking about you.’

‘So, I f*ckin’ imagined it all, did I?’ The Irishman didn’t care there were two of them. He was spoiling for a fight.

A moment of dread silence hung between the Americans.

A voice called out, ‘Jack? Jack Doherty?’

The big man turned round. ‘Mickey f*ckin’ Flynn!’ he said and the two of them shook hands vigorously.

‘Can’t you see I’m busy, Mickey?’

Flynn took in the scene instantly. ‘Uh-huh, leave the poor fellas be. C’mon let’s be getting some drinks in!’

Doherty glared at the two men, who abandoning their unfinished drinks and left in a hurry.

Flynn and Doherty drank together for another couple of hours, after that, Flynn made his excuses. ‘I gotta go, Jack. The missus, well you know, we only married last month.’

Doherty put his thumb onto his friend’s forehead, stuck out his tongue and said, ‘I thought you was a real man, Mickey!’

Flynn walked out backwards, still bantering; he bumped into a stranger at the bar. He apologised instantly. The stranger eyed him coldly.

Doherty watched from further up the bar; he didn’t like the way the stranger looked at Flynn. With Mickey gone, he could have a bit of fun. Easing away from the edge of the group of Irish he stood with, he headed in the other man’s direction.

He brushed past the stranger making body contact with the whole of his top half, and although the force and friction was enough to make the stranger adjust the plant of his feet; he did not stagger as most men would have. He felt solid, heavier than he looked, but Doherty wasn’t worried. At a full head taller, he’d easily knock him out if it came to it, no trouble at all.

‘Watch where you’re going, all right?’ the Irishman warned him.

The man turned to face him. Up close, he had the look of a fighting dog, scarred face and mashed lips. There was no fear in his eyes. They were dark like black stones, empty, but alert. He shrugged nonchalantly. The way he stuck his chin out, an invitation; he wasn’t scared. He wanted it. Warning bells echoed at the back of Doherty’s mind, and he thought better of it. He looked around quickly; no one was watching. ‘Don’t let it happen again,’ he mumbled, before joining the rest of his group at the bar.

‘What happened there, Jack? I thought it was going off?’ Davey O’Connor said.

Someone had seen.

‘Just a little skirmish that’s all. I gave him a chance to drink up and go.’

‘What Jack Doherty giving out second chances?’ Davey looked at the others, in mock amazement. ‘I must be f*ckin’ dreaming – somebody pinch me.’

‘I’ll do more than pinch you, O’Connor – I’ll put you in the land of dreams for a week!’

A few minutes later, watching as the man bought another drink, the group of men looked around at each other. A series of nods, winks, and half-shrugs, decided their course of action. They goaded a reaction from Doherty.

‘Holy Mother!’ Davey rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘He’s only gone and got himself another pint, Jack.’

‘I see your man is still there,’ O’Connor’s brother said. ‘I don’t think he’s going, big man.’

Doherty put his pint down and wiped his lips. Most people wouldn’t hang about when they'd had a friendly warning like that from him. The way the stranger stood there looking like he’d not a care in the world, infuriated him. He made a beeline for him, approaching from behind. I’ll f*cking teach him.

This time as he squeezed past, he cranked his hips and wound the upper left side of his body back as if cocking a spring and then released it with perfect timing, his shoulder slamming into the smaller man, who, about to take a sip, almost knocked his teeth out on the glass.

‘Sorry about that!’ Doherty said sarcastically, with a wink to his friends and a grin to a big-breasted girl wearing a nurse’s uniform. Her dark eyes flashed back at him, registering interest. Distracted, the big Irishman veered towards her to try his luck.

Her eyes widened as the stranger came into view from behind, with bad intent written all over his face. He never said a word, instead exploding a mighty punch that bounced off the back of Doherty’s head; it made a sound like dropping an overripe watermelon onto the floor. Although he’d anticipated some sort of retaliation, he hadn’t expected that. The power buckled his knees; he stopped himself short of colliding with the nurse, putting his hands on the wall either side of her.

Silence descended over the pub.

Shocked by her unexpected and precarious position, the nurse stood open-mouthed. This close the Irishman’s eyes, so full of life just a few moments ago, were now dull and empty. He didn’t look at her; he was in survival mode.

Unable to finish the onslaught without risking injury to the girl, the stranger pulled his opponent round by the shoulder. She edged along the wall to safety.

Those few split seconds allowed Doherty a degree of recovery and the chance to launch a last ditch attack on the stranger. For a man of his stature, he struck with surprising speed. Three powerful, short and choppy head shots, left – right – left, the crowd gasped; the stranger rode the punches, taking the brunt of the power out on his forearms, but the last one hooked around his block and glanced off, catching him square on the temple. The stranger shook his head to clear it, his eyes briefly out of focus. He sensed victory and moved in for the kill – one more shot would finish him – he lined him up carefully, getting into range, ready to deliver the final blow.