Death Row - Mark Pearson [7]
‘I’ll be fine.’ The woman held the card out but Kate shook her head.
‘You keep it. Call me any time you need anything. Any time.’
‘You heard her – she don’t need your fucking card. What are you, some pussy-eating lesbian ain’t got no man to do her right? Maybe you should come back one night, just you and me. I’ll sort you out.’
Kate turned round and looked at the Mexican stepping closer, watching his nostrils flare, watching the jaunty jut of his chin, the cockerel breath swelling his thin chest. She knew exactly what he was capable of, exactly what would happen when she left, and she pretty much decided there and then that this was one time she wouldn’t walk away. She looked at the man and spat on the floor. ‘What are you, some homo with balls the size of peanuts? You think you’re a man hitting a woman, I think you’re a faggot pansy who can’t get it up and takes it out on her because you know what you really are and despise yourself for it.’
‘What did you call me?’
‘I called you a cock-sucking faggot.’
And the Mexican lunged forward, his fist flying towards Kate’s face. Time slowed for her. She watched the punch coming and flicked his arm away at the wrist with an open left palm. As it passed she drove her right fist hard into his sternum. Years spent keeping fit with karate paying off in spades. The man grunted and fell to his knees, his face beetroot-red now as he struggled to draw breath, his eyes flicking with shock and panic. Kate had to fight really hard to suppress the urge to kick his head and really hurt him. She took a deep breath and calmed herself. She turned and nodded at Bob Wilkinson. ‘He just attacked an officer of the law. That’s an offence, isn’t it?’
Bob grinned back. ‘It is in my book. What did you say to him?’
‘I was just asking him what he recommended on the menu in the restaurant he works at. Thinking about picking up some takeaway. I might have pronounced a word wrong. It’s been a long time since I vacationed in Spain.’ Kate smiled innocently.
Bob nodded dryly. ‘These Latin types, they sure do fly off the handle sometimes.’
‘It seems so. It’s the climate, no doubt. Maybe the chillies?’
Bob Wilkinson pulled out his radio ‘I’ll call for backup.’
As the sergeant moved to the door and put the call through, Kate turned back to the woman, who was still holding her card, clutched hard in her small fist – crumpling it, but not wanting to let it go. ‘Come in and see me tomorrow. He’s not going to be doing anything for a while.’
The man on the floor was making a whistling sound now as he finally managed to coax some air painfully in and out of his lungs. His hand was clutched to his stomach as he rocked back and forth on his knees, like one of the faithful called to prayer, and a low mewing groan could be heard under his rasping breath. Bob walked back to him as the man struggled to his feet, putting one hand on the table and wiping tears from his eyes with the other. Bob winked at him as he unclipped handcuffs from his belt. ‘They’re going to take you for a little ride in the nice police van. And then, when we’ve got you nice and cosy in a little room of your own, we’ll see if your papers are all proper and correct. You wouldn’t believe it but some people try and sneak into this country without proper permission.’
*
Twenty minutes later, downstairs and outside on the pavement of Camden High Street, the sound of a police siren dwindled into the distance. It was twelve o’clock but the night was bright and raucous with noise. Laughter, raised voices and music spilling from the pubs that were starting to close and the late-night clubs and pubs that were beginning to fill up. Takeaway fast-food joints were doing a roaring trade as burgers, kebabs, greasy fried chicken, chips and pizza slices were ordered to assuage lager- and alcopop-fuelled hunger. Doctor Kate Walker