A blow of this kind is transferred along the jawbone to the cerebellum, or small brain, an apt term in this case, Harry thought, where an undulating movement accounts for a number of minor short circuits, but also, if you’re lucky, instant loss of consciousness and/or long-term brain damage. In Rod’s case, the brain seemed to be unsure what it would be, a loss of consciousness or just concussion.
Genghis Khan didn’t intend to wait for the outcome. He grabbed Harry by the collar, lifted him up to shoulder height and tossed him away like a bag of flour. The couple who had just had today’s special for seven dollars got more meat than they had bargained for and jumped back when Harry landed with a crash on their table. Christ, hope I faint soon, Harry thought as he felt the pain and saw Khan advancing towards him.
The clavicle is a fragile bone and very exposed. Harry took aim and lashed out with his foot, but the treatment he had been given by Rod must have affected his vision because he kicked thin air.
‘Pain!’ Khan promised, raising his arms above his head. He didn’t need a sledgehammer. The blow hit Harry in the chest and immediately paralysed all coronary and respiratory functions. Accordingly he neither saw nor heard the dark-skinned man coming in and grabbing the ball Australia had used against Pakistan in 1979, a rock-hard Kookaburra weighing 160 grams and measuring 7.6 centimetres in diameter. His arm whipped through the air with phenomenal power and the ball whirred straight towards its target.
Unlike Rod’s cerebellum, Khan’s didn’t entertain any doubt, as the missile hit him in the forehead just below his hairline. It was instant g’night. Khan started to topple, then he fell like a skyscraper rocked by an explosion.
Now, however, the other three round the table had stood up and they looked incensed. The new arrival stepped forward with his arms raised in a low, nonchalant guard. One of the men rushed at him, and Harry, who, through the haze, appeared to recognise the newcomer, guessed right: the dark man swayed back, stepped in and executed two well-aimed left jabs, as if to test the distance, then the right powered up from below in a crunching uppercut. Fortunately it was so cramped at the end of the room that they couldn’t all go for him at once. With the first man down for the count, the second launched his attack, a touch more cautious, holding his arms in a way that suggested he had a belt of some hue in a martial art hanging on the wall at home. The first tentative attack was met by the newcomer’s guard, and as he whirled round to complete the obligatory karate kick, the man had moved. The kick met open space.
However, the swift left-right-left combination sent the karate exponent crashing against the wall. The dark-skinned man danced after him and hit him with a straight left, knocking his head back with a sickening crunch. He trickled floorwards like food leftovers thrown against the wall. The cricketer hit him one more time on his way down, though it was hardly necessary.
Rod was sitting on a chair following the events through glazed eyes.
There was a click as the third man’s flick knife snapped into position. As he advanced on the dark man with hunched back and arms out to the sides, Rod puked over his shoes – a sure sign he had concussion, Harry observed with pleasure. He felt a bit nauseous himself, especially when he saw Andrew’s first opponent had taken the cricket bat off the wall and was closing in on the boxer from behind. The knifeman was standing next to Harry now, but was unaware of him.
‘Behind you, Andrew!’ Harry yelled, hurling himself at the man’s knife arm. He heard the dry thud of the bat as it made contact and tables and chairs were knocked over, but he had to concentrate on the knifeman, who had slipped out of his grasp and was now circling, him, sweeping his arms theatrically, an insane grin on his lips.
With his eyes fixed on the knifeman, Harry fumbled on the table behind him for something he could use. He could still hear the sound of the cricket bat in action from the bar area.
The knifeman laughed as he approached, tossing the knife from one hand to the other.
Harry lunged forward, stabbed and withdrew. The knifeman’s right arm fell down by his side and the knife clattered to the floor. He gazed at his shoulder in amazement, at a protruding kebab skewer with a piece of mushroom on it. The right arm seemed paralysed, and he pulled cautiously at the skewer with his left hand to check it really was there, still with the same dazed expression on his face. I must have hit a bundle of muscles or nerves, Harry thought as he let loose a punch.
All he felt was that he hit something hard, and a flash of pain ran up his arm. The knifeman stumbled backwards, looking up at Harry with wounded eyes. A thick line of dark blood oozed from one nostril. Harry was clutching his right hand. He raised his fist to strike again, but changed his mind.