Free Cherringham--Last Train to London by Neil Richards Page A

straps.
    It was now or never.
    “So what’s with the puppets?” he said.
    The man spun round incredibly fast and launched himself at Jack who just had time to swing the baton. It caught his attacker on the shoulder with a loud crack but before he could raise his arm again the man had punched Jack hard in the kidneys.
    Jack gasped and fell forward, his height and weight pushing his opponent back against the galley worktop. Plates and cups went flying, smashing against the floor. Riley barked.
    They hit the ground together and Jack rolled and brought his knee up against the man’s groin. His spare hand punched against the side of the man’s head. From the wheelhouse Riley leaped at the intruder, tearing at his feet, his teeth bare, snarling. But then the man’s hand smashed up into Jack’s face and he felt a punch land in his stomach.
    Jack felt his baton go flying.
    He knew the man was younger, stronger, fitter. And now he had no weapon. The edge was gone.
    And he realised with a jolt that he was going to lose this fight – and unless help came it could all go very badly wrong.
    He was about to call out, when suddenly the guy broke free and scrambled away up the steps into the wheelhouse. Riley raced after him barking. There was a smash of broken glass and Jack knew the wheelhouse door had been kicked out.
    The man had gone.
    Riley came back down the wheelhouse steps. Jack lay on the galley floor panting, adrenaline rushing through his veins.
    Riley whined and Jack felt him licking at his face. He held the Springer’s face between his hands.
    “Nice work Riley,” he said. “We sure had him beat – didn’t we?”
    He knew that in just a few minutes his whole body would hurt like hell.
    But for now he was thankful he was still alive. And aware that he’d been a real fool. He was way too old to be brawling on a kitchen floor …

14. The Morning After
    “You should have seen the other guy.”
    “Not funny, Jack,” said Sarah, dabbing his cut eye with cotton wool. “You’re too old to be rolling around on the floor fighting.”
    “Funny you should say that …”
    Sarah dabbed again and Jack winced. She decided to ignore it. She had come over as soon as Jack had called and told her what had happened, and now she was tending to his wounds as he sat in a deckchair on the top deck of the Grey Goose.
    She stretched across the little table and pulled the bowl of antiseptic closer.
    “I think Riley and I put up quite a show,” he said.
    “Some show,” Sarah snorted. “From the sound of it, the guy beat you up then left when he was ahead on points.”
    She saw Riley give her a baleful look from where he lay in his basket in the morning sunshine. Then he looked away, as if embarrassed.
    “You were lucky I got here so quickly,” she said, carefully sticking a plaster on Jack’s cut. “I had a run in with the cricket committee up at the ground. Daniel and I turned up for his game and he was given the third degree because he and his mates had opened up the drinks store in the pavilion on Monday.”
    “Was that the day he was up there practising?” said Jack. “Doesn’t sound like Daniel.”
    “ Exactly ,” said Sarah. “Apparently some booze went missing and the committee didn’t know who to blame. Eventually they saw the light and let the kids off. Anyway – he’s going to be batting soon so I’ll need to get back up there. Don’t want to miss his star turn.”
    “Of course,” said Jack. “You can’t get these years back.”
    “Now – lean forwards,” said Sarah, inspecting the back of Jack’s head where blood was still matted. “I guess you’ll live. But I wish you’d taken me more seriously when I warned you yesterday.”
    “Aw come on Sarah,” said Jack, getting up from his deckchair. “Short of staying up all night, that guy was going to get in.”
    Sarah shrugged, then gathered the used bandages and ointments and went below to dispose of them. Though Jack had swept up down below