Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Seven - Part Nineteen

Jack turned the corner into the alley at the side of the restaurant and Sam followed just behind.

It was very dark. There was a layer of moisture from the mist over the bricks and the tarmac, tinting the colours darker but giving them a sheen that glimmered in the light from out on the street. A row of dustbins on each side was filled with restaurant scraps. Overflow rubbish was piled next to one of the bins on the left.

“I know you want to kill me,” said Jack, “despite what you said inside. I know you want to.”

From behind him, Sam didn’t say a word.

“And you’ll have your chance,” continued Jack. “But I want to talk to you first Sam. Lucy told me things about you. I want to talk about what she said.”

He heard metal scrape against metal very quietly behind him and to the left. He started to turn then something smashed against the side of his face.

Jack staggered to his right. His leg crumpled slightly but he was still on his feet. Sam was just a shadow to his left, then the shadow burst and lengthened; it contracted and the massive metal thing crashed against Jack’s head and back. His right leg gave way, his knees came forward too slowly; they hit the tarmac. His hands out to save his head, barely stopped it connecting with the ground. His mouth was hot, his face was wet; he gagged, spitting liquid over his lips. Sam dropped the dustbin lid. It clattered into the crease at the foot of the wall then stopped moving.

“Wait,” gasped Jack, holding out his hand.

Sam’s foot dug into his side, lifting him clear off the ground.

He was on his back. The kick came again. Sam stepped away, circling round near his feet. “I don’t want to talk to you,” he said, a sneer in his voice. “I don’t care why you did it. I don’t want to hear your pleas of sorrow or bullshit about forgiveness.” He kicked Jack again, across the cheek this time. “I’m just going to kill you and then I’m going to walk away.”

Jack put his hand out to get up. Sam kicked it clear. The tarmac came up against his face and he gasped from the jet of pain. Then another kick came, in his gut. Sam was laughing. Another. But Jack was getting up. The beating didn’t matter. Another blow: fist to his face. But he was on his feet now.

Blood was coming from a cut above his eye, breath exploding from his chest. Sam was only a couple of feet away. He was staring at him; staring as Jack straightened up. Sam’s head shook just a fraction, his eyes were cracked and wild. His slick hair was all over the place. Jack stepped forward, the breath raising and dropping his whole body.

The tiny array of muscles in Sam’s jaw tightened, then he shot forward, his fist driving at Jack’s face. Jack stepped back, bringing his own fist up; his left. Sam overshot. Jack’s smashed hard into the side of his face.

He twisted, left arm whipping back. Sam staggered. Jack grabbed the collar of his overcoat then brought his fist up into Sam’s stomach. He brought it up again, then he took hold of the front of Sam’s shirt, drawing him close and drove it straight into Sam’s cheek. His body was whipped from Jack’s grasp and as he released his fingers Sam hit the tarmac and rolled, out of control.

Jack stood still. Sam’s chest and stomach were still moving with his breath. He was alive; nothing more than winded and stunned. There was pain in Jack’s head and down his back, adding to the battering of the mugging.

He stepped backward, still watching Sam. He looked down at his hand – fingers curling, wet, flecks of blood in his palm – and he knew that he could kill this man now. He could kill Sam. There was no one on the street; no one would see him do it; Sam wasn’t moving. He had tried to kill Jack; it would be self defence.

Sam was gasping for air, trying to turn his head, face against the wet ground, he brought his eyes up to stare straight into Jack’s. He could barely catch his breath and was struggling to get his hands to lift him.

There was nothing to stop Jack finishing it now, but he took another step away, then he turned his back on Sam and left him lying there... not because of pity or remorse, but because he knew what Sam was now. He wasn’t a man in the simple way despite his physical form and mind and background. He had become something symbolic; something Jack needed.

He was the avenging angel sent down to stop Jack from going on with his quest. He was an ever-present opportunity for God or Fate to stop him if that was what was meant to be.

Either Sam was going to hunt him down and kill him, or he wasn’t going to succeed. Either way, Jack realised… so be it.