Free Rule of Night by Trevor Hoyle

back of their minds seeking it, ferreting it out – but this came out of the blue: when a bloke with long greasy hair and a leather jacket with studs passed a remark about Andy. Andy confronted the lad who had made the remark but Kenny stepped between them. He had only been waiting for the opportunity, and now his patience was rewarded.
    There was the usual terse dialogue spoken in an undertone consisting of ‘what did you say?’ and ‘I was talking to him,’ and ‘what’s it to you?’ and ‘if you want to pick a fight pick it with me’, and ‘don’t come it’, and ‘none of your business’, and ‘don’t get smart with me’, and ‘say that one more time’, and ‘I wasn’t talking to you’, and ‘when you insult him you insult me’, and ‘keep your nose out of it’, and ‘let’s see if you’re as tough as your talk’ and ‘who do you think you’re pushing?’ and ‘let’s have you outside’, and ‘you and whose army?’, and in no time at all a space has cleared around them and they are alone in a circle and the rest of the pub has gone quiet and the barmaid has run through to the tap-room to fetch the landlord.
    Kenny and the lad with the greasy hair stare at each other, their eyes inches apart, pushing the other in the chest, at first gently and then with increasing force. On the fringe of the clearing the others stand shoulder to shoulder facing their opposite numbers across the worn carpet, several of them slipping their hands casually into their pockets. It has the makings of a right old barney.
    â€˜Outside,’ the landlord says crisply, grasping their elbows and pushing them towards the door. Kenny and the lad with greasy hair half-resist, still staring hard at each other, still murmuring threats under their breaths, being propelled reluctantly to the cold outer air and the slick-wet pavement and the lights gleaming through the haze of drizzle.
    Fester closes in behind Kenny’s back; Kenny’s eyes don’t betray a flicker as the transfer of the sharpened spindle takes place from hand to hand. He already has the broken half of a hacksaw blade in the back pocket of his Levis but he’s not averse to consolidating his armoury. Also he has the boots with the reinforced toecaps and the chunky steel washers that fit snugly on to the fingers of his right hand. His shoulder bangs against the door, there’s a glint of reflection from the massed bottles behind the bar, a shaft of cold airtouches his legs, the door-hinges creak, and the two of them are thrust into outer darkness.
    The other’s eyes are hidden in shadow but Kenny can remember them: blue slits beneath eyebrows that bridge the nose and meet in the middle: a naked animal hatred coming at him through the holes in the skull. Kenny slips his fingers through the washers; the spindle is partly concealed behind his back in the folds of his jacket. They tentatively circle round like two dogs sniffing each other before a fight.
    â€˜You called my mate a nigger,’ Kenny says. It is important not to let the cause of the dispute be forgotten. There has to be a reason; it must be spelled out and made to bear the weight of their mutual hatred. It must generate anger.
    â€˜I said it to him, not you.’
    â€˜Now you’ve got me.’
    â€˜What’s up, is he chicken?’
    â€˜You’ve got me,’ Kenny repeats. ‘So you’ll never know, will you?’
    â€˜Thinks he’s a tough nut,’ calls one of the lad’s mates.
    â€˜You’re next,’ Kenny says.
    â€˜Have him, Neil.’
    â€˜I’ll fucking have him,’ Neil says.
    â€˜Come on then,’ Kenny goads him. ‘Fucking come on then.’
    â€˜Right.’
    â€˜Right then.’
    â€˜They’re here,’ a woman’s voice says, and quick as magic a Panda car is at