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More WIPipeeks

13 May, 2013

I am reviewing and editing at the moment and thought you might like a peek at this excerpt from Chapter eight. I won’t tell you what caused the disagreement as I wouldn’t want to spoil it for when you buy the hardback.

 

Rick felt the burst of energy, the coursing of adrenalin as his fist powered once, hard, into Michael’s face. Michael staggered back into the bar, releasing his grip on Rick’s arm and covering his face in an instinctive act of self-defence against further blows. The first drips of blood were already beginning to seep through his fingers as he held his hand against his nose. But Rick’s anger had begun to subside, the one outlay of rage and violence had been sufficient to quell his mood for now, and without waiting to ask after Michael’s health, he walked, no he stamped, off towards the quiz machine.

He only managed a few steps though, before he felt a tug on his arm. With his right hand clenching again in readiness to lash out, Rick turned. But before he had time to raise his fist, Michael’s retaliatory punch slammed into his ear, the word ‘wanker’ barely audible through the ringing. A second blow caught Rick’s stomach and as he doubled over, struggling for breath, a third caught his chin. The sound of shouts filled the pub as the two grabbed hold of each other, pulling and tugging, and those surrounding them shouted encouragement or implored them to leave it. No real punches were being thrown now as the pair, bouncing and thudding from table to table, clattering and tumbling from chair to chair, from quiz machine to bar, tried to gain an upper hand.

A loud metallic clanging sounded clear above the muffled exclamations coming from the pair as Helen rushed to the far end of the bar and rang the bell frantically. A wooden chair gave way as they toppled onto it, and the two, still clutching at each others’ clothing and occasionally flailing an arm in a wild and inaccurate punch, thudded to the floor, still rolling and rucking. As some of the other drinkers, mostly employees of Palmer Carlton, made attempted lunges towards the brawling pair to grab hold of them and pull them apart, Malcolm the landlord, summoned by Helen’s panicked campanology, burst through the staff entrance next to the bar.

‘WHAT THE FUCK,’ he bellowed in a gravelly Cockney voice, deepened by years of cigars and encouraging shouts to various footballers, horses, dogs and occasionally even cockerels and foxes, ‘IS GOING ON IN MY PUB?’

Instantly, the group surrounding the maul separated as Malcolm strode towards them, and grabbing one shirt collar in each ham-like fist, he dragged the combatants from the ground and from each other. In a fluid movement, and without another word, his strides continued across the bar to the door, which he pushed open, using the two as a pair of battering rams. Their feet stumbled and tripped as they tried to regain their balance and keep up with Malcolm’s pace. He dragged the pair through the car park at the front of the pub, and to the alley at the side of the building where the large yellow and green commercial wheelie bins were kept. He threw the pair of them against the bins, dusted down his shirt with his hands, and then raised a reproachful finger with which he punctuated the sentence he handed down.

‘Fuck off out of it,’ he said, his voice and manner menacingly calm, ‘and if either of you so much as Googles my pub during the next two weeks, I will personally pull your fucking arses off.’ His finger and his threat hovered in the air for a few more underlining seconds, his glare oscillating between Rick and Michael, before he turned and walked casually back into the pub.

 

 

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From → Fiction, Writing

2 Comments
  1. love the ‘google’ bit lol

    • Thanks Paula. That was one of those great writerly moments where i watched the action happening and wrote it down. Malcom said that to them all by himself and i thought “I’m having that line!”

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