Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

Darky stood as if his legs, like steel bands under his grey trousers, were flexed to catapult him onto his opponent. It was a magnificent gesture, worthy of the occasion. But Darky’s inner feelings belied his manner. His heart seemed to be beating unevenly and his knees felt weak. Good as ever I was? These words formed a question mark to beat at his temples. Well, we’ll soon find out. Anyway, they won’t let us fight for long in here — and we can’t fight in the dark outside...

Suddenly, Darky dropped his hands to his sides and walked deliberately towards Younger. Drinkers moved aside to clear a path. He swaggered, his fists held wide apart from his thighs as if the great muscles at his armpits would not allow his arms to hang by his sides.

As Darky came within a few feet of Younger, a shrill scream, emanating from Mrs. O’Connell, ripped the air. She leapt from her stool by the till and ran from the bar yelling: “I’ll ring the police!”

Her husband followed her calling: “Don’t ring the police, Margo. It’s no use, anyway. They’re all at the Dillingley Carnival.” In the back of his mind were thoughts of several convictions against his licence for illegal betting and after hours trading, which had been chalked up in spite of largesse. He wanted to avoid calling the police.

O’Connell returned to the bar. Finding Darky standing beside Younger, he took up a position opposite them behind the counter.

Jimmy Younger did not move except to relax his muscles a little.

Darky threw a two shilling piece on the counter. “Give us a pot of beer,” he demanded in a husky voice.

O’Connell looked at the clock above the door. It showed three minutes past six o’clock, closing time; “Sorry, Darky,” he said, “the beers orf.”

Darky looked at the clock in his turn. “It’s only six o’clock,” he said, “Your clock’s always fast. Yer never stop serving till harf past six, as a rule.”

The argument over time and beer; the tension heightened by the very incongruousness of the debate; the menacing air of impending violence; the nervous onlookers at the same time repulsed and attracted by the scene.

Younger’s cronies gathered close round him. Quickly assessing the situation Ernie Lyle moved close behind Darky.

“Break it up, Darky,” Ernie Lyle said, hoarsely and without conviction.

The elements existed for an all in brawl. But it wasn’t the kind of fight that would start with a direct challenge. It would arise somehow out of the situation.

The more timorous souls amongst the drinkers took the opportunity to beat a retreat out onto the footpath.

“I’m thirsty!” Darky shouted foolishly, but he was findin confidence in the not unfamiliar air of impending fisticuffs. Good as ever I was! Younger has his right elbow on the counter. If he hits, he must throw a left lead. If I can slip it, I might end the fight in one punch — my only hope! His eyes met those of Younger. Each knew this moment had to come. Each welcomed yet feared it. Neither dared flinch from it now.

Acting on a strange impulse, Darky said: “This beer’ll do me!” He picked up Younger’s glass of beer and drank it down in one gulp. His fears and doubts were gone. His eyes didn’t leave Younger’s face. And his thoughts ran clear: if I can get him to lead, I might end it in one punch.

Before Younger could react, Darky replaced the glass on the counter. Intimidated mentally by Darky’s reputation and apparent confidence, Younger merely snorted and said: “Yer’ll buy me another beer!”

“Not me!” Darky replied quietly.

“Well, yer’ll give me fivepence.”

“I’ll give yer nothin’.”

Because it was a real life fight in the making, it was developing unlike a fight in a book or a film. But a fight it would be and those nearest the antagonists stepped away a little.

“Yer’ll give me fivepence, I said,” Younger repeated.

“I’ll give you nothin’!” Darky insisted. And he raised himself slightly into the balls of his feet as he found the words that would provoke Younger to punch. “I got no money to give a bludger and a scab.”

Quick as the eye could see, Younger propelled himself off the bar rail on his right heel and swung a slightly rounded left lead at Darky’s face. Darky slipped inside the punch but not quickly enough to avoid a stinging, glancing blow on the right ear. Younger was wide open to Darky’s right cross, a murderous punch in his heyday. Darky threw it now with all his strength. But his reflexes were too slow and Younger managed to take the blow on his upraised left wrist.

Younger closed on Darky wrestling with him until they fell to the floor locked together, Darky on top. Younger’s cronies clamoured, pulling Darky off violently. A crowd milled round separating the fighters, Kevin, Ernie, one of the barmen, Younger’s cronies and a few of those good souls who always take the thankless task of trying to stop a bar brawl.

O’Connell roared: “All out! The bar’s closed!”