The Forgotten Holocaust. Scott Mariani

       Chapter Seven

      As Ben swept fragments of broken glass into the dustpan, he was considering the wisdom of pouring himself another drink. In fact, he was contemplating opening another bottle after the remnants of this one, and keeping it company for the rest of the evening. It seemed like a very inviting prospect.

      You’ve had plenty enough already, said one part of him.

      Don’t know about that, said another.

      ‘What the hell,’ he muttered out loud. He carried the remnants of the smashed tumbler through into the kitchen, dumped it in the recycling bin with the collection of empty bottles he’d already accumulated, chucked the dustpan and brush back in the cupboard and headed back into the living room with the thought of another generous measure of cask-strength Laphroaig looming large in his mind.

      The night was young. He was just getting started.

      He reached for the bottle and poured himself the last of its contents. He put the tumbler to his lips.

      That was when he heard the sound outside.

      A woman’s scream.

      He slammed the bottle and tumbler down on the dresser and hurried over to the window. His movements weren’t perfectly coordinated and he bumped his hip against the corner of the table as he went, making a lamp sway on its pedestal. He stared out of the window and saw a figure, eighty or so yards from the cottage, running towards it for all she was worth.

      Kristen.

      Behind her, chasing her across the rocks, were two men. Both white, both fit and lean, both around Ben’s age or a little younger. One had dark hair shaved into a military-style buzz cut and wore a navy-blue jacket; the other was in a green hooded top. They were running fast. The one with the blue jacket had a distinctive cloth bag over his shoulder that Ben recognised as Kristen’s.

      Ben blinked. For an instant he just stood there, unable to react or move.

      Kristen screamed again, calling his name. Her voice was hoarse with fear. ‘Ben! Help me!’

      Suddenly spurred into action, Ben raced to the door and burst outside. Kristen was just fifty yards away now, but the men had almost caught up with her.

      He ran down the path towards the front gate, crashed it open and went bounding over the rocks towards her. He tripped on a boulder and almost went sprawling on his face. You bloody idiot, he seethed inside. Whatever the hell was happening here, this was the wrong time to be pissed.

      The men caught up with Kristen. If they’d noticed Ben racing towards the scene, it didn’t seem to put them off. The one in the navy jacket grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her violently around, then shoved her harshly to the ground. She cried out as she fell.

      Ben sprinted faster. His heart pounded and his breathing rasped in his ears. He saw Kristen trying to struggle to her feet and tear herself away from her attackers. Saw the second man, the one in the green hoodie, kick her brutally back down.

      But now Ben was on them. He ran straight into the hoodie without slowing down, twisting slightly to ram his shoulder into the guy’s chest. Ben heard the grunt as the impact drove the wind out of him. Up close, he smelled a minty smell on the man’s breath. The man staggered but stayed on his feet. He reached behind him to draw a stubby black cylindrical object from his belt. Clutching it at one end, he gave it a sharp flick and the extending law-enforcement baton whipped out to its full length: an impact weapon prohibited from civilian use in most countries and capable of belting a man’s brains to jelly with a well-aimed strike.

      Ben had been in dozens of fights against multiple armed attackers. In situations like these, gaining control of the weapon was always the first priority. He shouldered his way inside the arc of the coming blow and made a grab for the hand clutching the baton. But while years of training had sharpened his instincts to a fine edge, weeks and months of drinking and self-neglect had dulled them back down. Not all the way down to the defenceless, vulnerable level of Joe Public, but enough to make the difference when up against two men like these.

      They were quick and determined. They weren’t afraid of him. They’d done this before.

      Ben’s lunge for the weapon was too slow. The man side-stepped him and came back with a downward baton strike that hissed through the air an inch from Ben’s face.

      He ducked back. Suddenly he was on the defensive. The other man was coming at him from the side, ripping an identical baton from his jacket and extending it with a practised flick of the wrist. Ben skipped backwards over the rocks, dodging a blow that would have smashed his collarbone. But as he moved, his heel caught a rock behind him and he fell. He rolled, twisted, ready to spring back to his feet.

      Too slow again. A boot lashed out at him and his vision exploded white as the hard kick caught him in the side of the head. Pain bursting inside his skull, he managed to get upright just in time to see the guy in the navy jacket make another move at him. He was lucky this time. His right fist closed on the guy’s wrist. Yanked it sideways and downwards while he twisted the elbow upwards with a rising blow from the heel of his left hand. The man cried out and dropped the baton. Without letting go of his opponent’s wrist, Ben threw a kick and caught him in the belly. But it was a bad kick with not enough drive and power behind it, and failed to bring him down.

      The next thing, it was Ben’s arm that was being trapped. He twisted his body around to wrench it free. The man had a strong grip. Ben punched him in the face and saw blood.

      But now the other one was rushing back into the fight, and Ben didn’t react in time. The baton flashed towards him in a dark blur that his senses were too blunted to block quickly enough, and connected hard with his cheekbone.

      Ben went straight down, blinded by agony.

      Then the baton hit him a second time, and a third, and the lights went out.