Free The White Room by Martyn Waites Page B

wouldn’t call the police. They would ask him too many uncomfortable questions.
    Kenny held the snooker cue across his body, grasped it in both hands.
    â€˜No deaf little cunt tells me where to go.’
    Brian balled his fist, felt the metal around it, his body charge, swung.
    Kenny Bell ducked to his left, the swing went right, catching him on the shoulder. Ignoring the pain, he turned, arcing the air with his cue. Brian stepped back out of range.
    â€˜Right, lads, that’s it. I’m callin’ the police.’
    With that, the barman made his exit.
    â€˜Howay!’ said Brian.
    Eddie and Brimson waded in. Kenny’s brother Johnny picked up his cue and swung. It connected with the side of Brimson’s head. Brimson hit the filthy floorboards with a crash and a moan, hair exploded, a DA atom bomb.
    Johnny allowed himself a small snigger that annoyed Brian all the more.
    Kenny Bell was coming at him again, swinging the snooker cue at his face. To his left, one of Kenny’s gang was making his way quickly towards him. Brian darted around the side of the snooker table, laid a quick punch to the advancing gang member, catching him in the throat. His hands went towards the injury, Brian was in again, another punch. Same place. The man went down.
    Brian’s head was yanked swiftly back. He couldn’t breathe. He put his hands to his throat, found Kenny’s cue constricting air, Kenny pulling hard, pushing his knee into Brian’s back. Air and spit gurgled in Brian’s throat.
    â€˜Cunt …’
    Brian heard Kenny Bell’s voice in his ear, smelled his beery, tabby breath. Black spots danced before his eyes. He was choking; air cut off from his lungs, blood from his brain. He had to do something.
    He felt up his sleeve for his blade. Sweeney, hidden in his sleeve. He worked the blade out, let the handle fall into his palm. Turning it backwards, he thrust it with as much strength as he had left. It connected with Kenny’s thigh, sunk in. Nothing for a few seconds, then, as the pain hit, Kenny screamed and let loose his grip. The cue fell to the floor. Brian pulled the knife free, turned. Kenny was standing, both hands on his leg trying to stem the blood with his fingers.
    â€˜Fuckin’ ’ell, man. Look what you’ve done …’
    Brian heard movement behind him: breaking glass, feet. Johnny Bell was charging at him, the jagged neck of a brown ale bottle stretched outright in his hand, anger twisting his face. He lunged.
    Brian sliced the knife at the air in front of him, missing the bottle’s arc. It caught Johnny on the arm. He dropped the broken bottle. It hit the faded baize of the snooker table and rolled away, clanking lightly against the white.
    Johnny grasped his arm where the cut had been made. Brian swung again. Johnny put his hand out to ward off the blow. The knife caught the palm of his hand. Blood spurted. Brian, seeing that, seeing the expression on Johnny’s face, laughed.
    â€˜Ha! Like that, eh? Want some more, do you?’
    He sliced again. Johnny stumbled back, dodging the impact. Hit a stool, fell.
    â€˜Not so fuckin’ big now, are you, cunt?’
    Brian aimed a kick at Johnny’s balls. He tried to move away but was too slow. The kick connected. Fear etched itself on Johnny’s face, fear and pain. Brian kicked again. And again. Not caring where he hit, only that he connected. Again. And again.
    And then a searing pain lanced across the small of his back. He fell to his knees, dropping the knife on the floor as he went. He turned his head. Kenny Bell, blood soaking through his suit trousers, running up his arms, stood there, cue in hand.
    â€˜Leave him alone, you bastard.’
    He swung the cue again. Brian dodged out of the way. The cue landed painfully on his leg. He pulled his leg away, rolled under the table. He saw two pairs of legs at the other side, saw Brimson’s prone body on the floor, saw the