Dead Men's s Boots читать онлайн

He got my elbow in his face while he was still bringing his guard up. Then I barged him and tripped him, landing heavily on top of him with my knee on his chest in case he had any more fight left in him.

He didn’t, though. He made a noise like the last gasp from an untied party balloon, then opened and closed his mouth a few times without managing to get out another sound.

I had my fist raised to deliver a knockout – which, with the assistance of the pavement, was virtually assured – but I hesitated. These guys had folded so quickly it was frankly embarrassing.

In my mind’s eye I’d had an image of Lou Beddows’s bat-wielding thugs, which was why I’d gone in so hard and so fast: belatedly, I began to wonder if this time I’d got the wrong end of the baseball bat.

I reached into the guy’s corduroy jacket and searched the inside pockets, coming up with his wallet on the first pass. Flicking it open I found an NUS card in the name of Stephen Bass of University College, London. Wolves in sheep’s clothing? How hard could it be to fake an NUS card?

A glance over my shoulder showed me that the first guy – the one whose sex life was likely to be theoretical for the next few weeks – was still down.

The one I was kneeling on was trying to speak again, but only the first syllable – ‘My – my – my –’ – was making it out as he gulped for air.

I removed my knee from his chest, backing off and standing up. He rolled over onto his side and drew a few shuddering, raucous breaths.

‘My – brother’s – van!’ he gasped. ‘You’ve- Eurghhhh! Bastard! Bastard! My – brother’s—’

‘You think I give a stuff about the van?’ I growled. ‘You tried to kill me, you psychopathic fuckwits! You’re lucky I didn’t torch the fucking van with the pair of you in it!’

He tried to sit up, failed, tried again and still couldn’t make his bruised chest muscles bend sufficiently to reach the vertical. He was staring at me in horror, and now he shook his head in tight, trembling arcs.

‘No!’ he moaned.

‘Didn’t – didn’t—’

Righteous wrath was still propelling me, but with less and less momentum by the second. ‘What about the graffiti?’ I demanded. ‘Exorcist equals deceased! You left me your fucking calling card. You wanted me to know you were setting th Kered. is up.’

The guy finally managed to get semi-upright. He looked across at his comrade, who was still curled up in a tight spiral like a dead woodlouse. ‘I told you, Martin!’ he wailed.