style="font-size:15px;"> Callum leapt. Arms out – rugby-tackle style.
His shoulder caught Dugdale just above the waist, arms wrapping around the top of the big sod’s legs. Holding on tight as they both crashed onto the pavement, rolling over and over. Grunts. More swearing. A tangle of arms and legs. Then something the size of a minibus battered into Callum’s face.
Now the world tasted of hot batteries.
Another punch. ‘GET OFF ME!’
Callum jabbed out an elbow and connected with something solid.
‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH!’
‘FIGHT, PIGGY, FIGHT!’
Then the pavement battered off the back of his head and a fist slammed into his stomach. Fire roared through his torso, accompanied by the sound of a thousand alarm clocks all ringing at once.
He swung a punch and Dugdale’s nose went from broken to smashed.
‘Gahhhh!’ Dugdale reared back, blood spilling down over his top lip. He lashed out blind, eyes closed, and that massive fist came close enough to ruffle the hair above Callum’s ear.
Distance. Get some distance.
A big black Mercedes slid past, the sweaty-sweet scent of marijuana coiling out from the back windows, a deep BMMTSHHH, BMMTSHHH, BMMTSHHH of hip-hop bass rattling the air. It stopped in the middle of the road, where they could get a good view of the fight. But did anyone get out to help? Of course they sodding didn’t.
‘KILL HIM, PIGGY, FINISH HIM!’
‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH!’
Callum scrabbled back against a rusty Volkswagen. Yanked out his handcuffs. ‘Ainsley Dugdale, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure – Scotland – Act 1995—’
‘FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!’ The kids pulled up their bikes, blocking the pavement, making an impromptu brawl-pit in the space between the Volkswagen and a garden wall. ‘COME ON: KILL HIM!’
‘Shut up!’ Back to Dugdale. ‘Because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment, namely the—’
‘HOOH! HOOH! HOOH!’
‘GAAAAH!’ Dugdale lunged, but not at Callum. He grabbed the wee girl by the throat and yanked her off her bike.
Her tin of cider hit the deck and bounced, sending out a spurt of frothy urine-coloured liquid. ‘Ulk …’ Eyes wide, both hands clutching onto Dugdale’s forearm, legs pinwheeling and kicking at the air.
Oh sodding hell. And things had been going so well right up till that point.
‘No, no, no!’ Callum scrambled to his feet. ‘That’s enough. Let the girl go.’
Her wee mate hurled his roll-up. It burst against Dugdale’s chest in a little hiss of sparks. ‘LET HER GO, YOU DIRTY PAEDO!’
‘Come on, Dugdale … Ainsley. You don’t want to hurt a kid, right?’ Hands out, open, nice and safe. ‘You’re not that kind of guy, are you?’
‘PAEDO! PAEDO! PAEDO!’
Callum hissed the words out the side of his mouth. ‘You are not helping.’
Dugdale stuck out his other hand. ‘Money!’
‘Come on, Ainsley, let the girl go and—’
‘GIVE US YOUR MONEY!’ He gave the girl a shake, sending her legs swinging wildly as her face turned a darker shade of puce. ‘NOW!’
‘OK, OK. Just let her breathe.’ Callum dug out his battered old wallet. The one with the threadbare lining sticking out. He took the last tenner and crumpled fiver from inside. ‘Here.’ He placed the cash on the floor.
‘Is that it?’ Dugdale glowered at the two sorry notes. ‘ALL OF IT, OR I SNAP HER NECK IN HALF!’
Baboon Boy’s chant died. ‘Paedo …?’
The kicks were getting weaker: those Nike trainers barely moving.
Her wee friend snivelled. Wiped his top lip on the back of his sleeve. ‘Please, mister. Don’t hurt my sister …’
‘That’s all the money I’ve got, OK? Now let the girl go.’
Dugdale growled, then chucked the little girl at Callum.
He ducked for the fifteen quid as Callum dropped the tatty wallet and caught her wee body before it hit the pavement. And that’s when everything slowed down.
The tatty wallet bounced off the paving slabs, spinning away, its torn lining waving like a flag.
‘Aaaggggh …’ She hauled in a huge whoop of air, both hands wrapped around her throat – as if Dugdale hadn’t done a good enough job throttling her and she was having a go herself.
But Dugdale didn’t snatch up the money, he kept on going, smashing into Callum and the wee girl, sending them slamming back into the Volkswagen. Rocking it on its springs.
A fist connected with Callum’s ribs. Arms and legs tangled. Flashes of sky, then concrete, then rusty metal, then sky again.
Then bang – everything was at full speed again.
Callum yanked the pepper spray from his jacket pocket. The little girl wriggled her way out from between them, trainers digging into his thigh as she went. Callum flipped the cap off the spray and thumbed the button, sending a squirt of burning pepper stink out at Dugdale’s face.
Missed.
Dugdale didn’t. He rammed his hand into Callum’s crotch, grabbed hold, and squeezed.
Oh God …
But when Callum opened his mouth to scream, all that came out was a strangled wheeze – eyes wide as every single ache and pain in his body disappeared, replaced by the thermonuclear explosion going off in his scrotum. It raced out through his stomach, down his legs, up into his chest – a shockwave ripping out from ground zero as Dugdale twisted his handful like a rusty doorknob.
Oh sodding Jesus …
Dugdale let go, but the nuclear war still raged.
No …
Water filled Callum’s eyes, making the word go all soft focus, but the pain remained pin-sharp. He lashed out with the pepper spray, swinging it in an arc with the button held down.
Someone bellowed in pain.
Then scuffing feet.
Argh …
The clatter of a very large man tripping over a fallen bicycle.
A dull thunk, like a watermelon bouncing off a coffee
