Horace’s eyes narrowed. Poe didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t fight everyone and even if he could, he was a police officer. He wasn’t supposed to get into public brawls. He was supposed to be oil on water. He was supposed to calm things down. But theCarry On Vikingscrew didn’t want to be calmeddown. Even if they hadn’t been drinking, the average dog turd had more brain cells than a crowd of indignant, entitled white men in fancy dress. He wondered what the male equivalent of a ‘Karen’ was. Kevin, maybe? Bradshaw would know, and it was Bradshaw he was thinking about. TheCarry On Vikingscrew had weapons. Yes, they were replicas, but a replica sword was still made of steel. A replica axe was still a blunt instrument. You could still get stabbed with a replica dagger. He didn’t want Bradshaw to get hurt. He rolled his shoulders and cocked his fist. He’d take out Horace the Viking first. He seemed to be in charge.
Which was when a voice cut through the crowd. It wasn’t loud but it silenced everyone like it was Quint’s nail down an Amity Island blackboard.Jawswas one of the few films Poe liked, although he preferred the book. In the book Richard Dreyfuss’s annoying character got eaten by the shark.
‘I didn’t think they let nonces congregate any more,’ the voice said. ‘Come on, room for a small one?’ A tall man, a clear head above everyone else, was scything through theCarry On Vikingscrowd like the great white’s fin.
Poe recognised him.
It was Matthew, Archie Arreghini’s bodyguard.
Chapter 33
Matthew did jazz hands.
‘Surprise,’ he said to Poe.
Matthew’s appearance didn’t put a full stop to what was about to happen, but it certainly paused it. The quiet menace Poe had sensed at Archie Arreghini’s had been amped up tenfold. It was overt now. Poe felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Matthew was a dangerous man. And again, Poe had the feeling that he should know who he was.
Matthew threw a thumb over his shoulder. ‘So, Fatty here’s got a two-inch dick, has he? Surprised he was bragging about it to be honest. Then again, it’d be a dreary world if everyone thought the same.’
‘This is nothing to do with you,’ Horace the Viking said out of the side of his mouth. ‘I’m not leaving here without an apology.’
‘Fuck off, mate,’ Matthew said, without turning round.
Horace put his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. Poe winced. Matthew looked at the hand in amusement. Horace removed it like he’d put it on a hot griddle.
‘Don’t ever touch me again,’ Matthew said. He rubbed his hands together. ‘Now, if this two-incher is worth bragging about, I reckon it’s worth seeing.’
Horace said nothing.
‘Go on then, whip it out,’ Matthew said. He folded his arms. Tapped his foot.
He’s goading him, Poe thought. He’s goading him into doing something. Poe glanced up. Saw the myriad dome cameras on the roof. He wants to be reactive, notproactive. Proactive people go to prison. Reactive people don’t.
Matthew was six-foot three. He was lean, didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. Horace the Viking needed a bra. He looked like he’d get out of breath reaching for his family pack of cheesy Wotsits. Matthew looked like he wrestled bears in his spare time. Horace looked like he made his own Christmas cards.
But, just as Matthew had wanted, it turned out that even pretend Vikings could only be pushed so far. Particularly when they’d been drinking mead for two hours. Horace put his hand on his replica sword. It had an ornate pommel and grip. He said, ‘My name is Odin, the All-Father, first of the Aesir.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Matthew said. ‘And Vikings don’t wear hearing aids.’
Horace unsheathed his replica sword and shouted, ‘’Til Valhalla!’
Matthew didn’t hesitate. He took a step forward, grabbed Horace’s jerkin and headbutted him with a ferocity Poe hadn’t seen in a long time. Crushed the replica helmet against his nose. Horace dropped his sword and fell to the floor, clutching his face. Blood spurted through his fingers. He started bawling.
‘Shut up or I’ll stamp on your tiny mouse balls,’ Matthew said.
Horace shut up.
‘Gosh,’ Bradshaw said.
Matthew addressed the rest of theCarry On Vikingscrew.
‘Listen up,’ he said. ‘I need you all to piss off. And I don’t mean to another part of the NEC, I mean piss off back to your basement rooms and your call-centre jobs.’ He paused. ‘The next person to take even a single step in my direction gets a life-changing injury.’
A glassy-eyed man in horn-rimmed spectacles, not reading the situation as well as he ought, stepped forward anyway. He eyed his fallen comrade and said, ‘I don’t think you realise just how many of us are solicitors. What’s your name, because you’re going to prison for a long, long—’
Matthew barely moved. Just his leg. It shot out like a dart. Connected with the side of the guy’s knee. There was an audible snap as the joint shattered. He collapsed. Started shrieking.
‘Anyone else want to play?’ Matthew said. He ran his eyes over the crowd. ‘No? Then off you fuck.’