The Walking Dead

'Middle thirties, Arab but pale. Might be half-caste. Has a bag.'

'More.'

'Like he's in a trance, far away, doesn't see me.'

'Focus now, get me close.'

Naylor took Hegner's arm and pulled him up. Dragged him. The stick caught Hegner's legs, but Naylor steadied him. He led him away from the shelter and to the knee-high wall on the esplanade. The man was below them, level with them.

'You're close, Joe.'

It seemed to Naylor an age, but it was not. In his ear, Hegner murmured soft and private, 'I've come a long way to find you. Now I've found you and I'm going to fuck you. You are the Scorpion…'

The head turned. Naylor realized that Hegner had spoken in guttural Arabic. The head twisted as if it was tugged round.

'Reacted,' Naylor muttered at Hegner. 'Bloody poleaxed.'

The man took two paces, but shingle scattered under his feet and he stumbled. Naylor saw the confusion spreading on his face, then the head shaking — as if he was clearing it, his mind going at flywheel speed. Such a damned simple trick, so bloody basic, and Naylor had seen the reaction of hesitation at the Arabic language, in quiet talk, and the jerk of the head at the word that was 'Scorpion'. He would run — yes, of course — towards the pier…but he didn't.

His hands on to the wall.

The heave and the push, the scrape of smoothed stones flying from under him.

The man came up and over the wall. Naylor saw the power of him, saw him coil his body, as if he would break out. What threatened him? Naylor thrust Hegner back behind him, heard the sharp cry, and Hegner fell…What threatened the man, blocked his escape, was Dickie Naylor, who might or might not get to celebrate his sixty-fifth birthday the next day, and blind Joe Hegner, who was on the ground behind him. The man came near, crouched, was on the balls of his feet, poised, launched his bloody self.

They might do survival and self-defence with recruits, these days, might not…but they didn't do refreshers for old warriors.

Fists into Naylor's head and upper body, a knee into his groin, savage kicks at his shins and ankles. He had never before faced a beating — not in his youth, in his middle years, not now that he was old. He felt his breath wheeze out of his lips, he could not see and the pain surged. He collapsed. Going down made him an easier target. The fists beat at his upper head as he sank on to the paving, and the knee hit under his chin and the kicks were now in his stomach. He couldn't protect himself. He toppled further, felt the softness of Hegner's body under him, and the broken glass of spectacles slash his cheek, added to the blood that came from his mouth. Naylor thought it was where he would die. Old school, old chap, old warrior and saw duty. 'Made sure he was over Hegner. Cried out once, not again — had no wind left in him. More blows battered him. Scrabbled with his hand — not bloody ready to die. Felt anger.

The stick was in his hand, its glossed white paint in his fist.

Remembered little of what had gone before, but remembered the tapping hard beat of a stick, the story of a blind man's stick being removed from him — at the main door, s security check — because its tip would set off the metal detector alarm. Remembered that.

Naylor had the stick, drove it up. Smelt the breath over him, imagined the moment that the man readied himself for the chop blow to the neck. Not bloody ready to die. He pushed up with the stick in one violent thrust and felt it catch softness. Heard a gasp, then a choke. Somewhere soft, maybe in the throat. He braced himself, but the next kick did not come.

He heard a hacking, coarse cough, then the stamp of feet running away fast.

And he heard, 'You all right, Dickie?'

'Not really' The pain throbbed in him.

He looked up. Saw the back of the man, the pier and the parked car.

He tried to push himself up, failed, tried again, was on his feet and staggered, like a drunk does, and tasted blood. The man ran towards the pier. Without the stick he would have toppled. The man careered away, and Naylor saw that he had a hand raised to his throat, as if he had been badly hurt there. Who had seen it? Nobody. A milk cart went by Two children scurried for the beach, kicking a ball ahead of them. A dog ran into the surf in pursuit of a thrown toy. Nobody had seen him made into a punch sack.

'If you can, get me up…'

Naylor dragged Hegner to his feet, then leaned on him.

'…and give me my goddamn stick. Has Twentyman gone where I said he would?'

'He's getting there.'

'Talk to me. I've waited so damn long, Dickie. Tell me what's going on.'

They followed the man slowly. Hegner had the stick and took Naylor's weight. The sunshine was on his face and he used his tongue to lick the blood from his lips. He said what he saw.