Free Breaking East by Bob Summer Page A

lemondrops.
    Stuart held my arm. ‘Atty please, stop. You can’t go in there. Jesus no. Please, Atty.’
    I shrugged him off. ‘Keep back, Stuart. I swear I’ll rip your face off if you get in my way again.’
    He let go and stopped at the entrance.
    I stood inside the door and waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. There were several lads sitting at a table in the corner, an old man at the bar, and a couple of creepy guys in old threadbare suits at a table by the back door. None were Carl. I searched the ceiling for the inevitable camera.
    A barman with a beer barrel belly came through a door to stand behind the bar. He looked me up and down, slack-mouthed and dull-eyed. ‘What can I do for you, love?’
    One of the lads in the corner said something which made the others laugh.
    ‘I’m looking for Carl James, worked down the plant, blonde, ugly like a pug.’
    The old man snorted, ‘Ain’t what he claimed, is she?’ He chortled until he coughed - a phlegmy smoker’s hack. ‘You Fran? He told us you were hot.’
    I kept my eyes on the barman. ‘Has he been in lately?’
    He shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’
    ‘Seen a poncy guy in a suit about? Gold tooth?’
    He put his hands flat on the bar and gave me the look all blokes did when they didn’t want to answer a straight question. ‘And what’s it to you?’
    I smiled. ‘Cause he’s got ISS Approval.’
    He stood straighter, his face greyed out, and he twisted a tea towel between his hands. I looked at the lads in the corner who had fallen quiet and were listening good and hard.
    ‘Yep, an Approved ISS agent. Hope you were all on your best behaviour.’
    One of them glanced, he didn’t move his head just his eyes, towards the bottom corner of the bar. I walked down the length and there, crouched in the corner, sitting on his heels, looking like some little kid who’d just shat his pants, was Carl. He stood and smiled, smiled. The group behind me jeered, one said, ‘Oops, caught red-handed, mate.’
    Carl squirmed a little and smiled again. ‘Hi, Atty. How’re −’
    ‘Did you forge Fran’s signature? Sign the baby away?’
    He shot a look at his mates and shrugged. ‘Seemed for the best.’
    My fist connected with his face, clean and sharp. His eye socket popped, my second knuckle squelched into the soft tissue behind his cheek bone, his head jerked back, cracking his neck and he got sent onto his scrawny arse.
    ‘Get up. Get up!’ I yanked at his hair, trying to drag him to his feet. ‘Call yourself a man, a father? You useless heap of freaking crap. Get up!’
    He grasped at my wrist trying to support his weight. I raised my knee and slammed it into his face, putting all the force of my grief for Fran behind it and blood and snot spattered in all directions. I flung him sideways. He crashed into the table, glasses flying, blokes stepping back, ‘Jesus Christ she’s gone mental.’
    I looked at them. My teeth ached with mad fury. ‘Too fannicking right I have.’
    And that’s when Gavin walked in the door. He stood staring at me, mouth open. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
    The barman grabbed me from behind. ‘Out.’ I dropped to a crouch. He let go. I leapt to my feet, span around thrusting the heel of my hand into his jaw, his teeth slammed shut. I threw my left fist into his throat and ground my heel into his right shin. Hard.
    Hands grabbed from all directions, pinned my arms to my side and dragged me kicking and screaming to the door. I spat at them all, the barman on his knees, Carl on all fours bleeding into the broken glass, and Gavin watching from the corner with his mouth drooping open.
    When the men got me outside they dragged me down the alley alongside the pub, behind the crates and threw me to the ground. I leapt up and they knocked me down. I tried again and again but each time they knocked me back a little harder. My lips grew tight, my nose turned numb, and my eyes transmitted everything through a tunnel of