Chapter 6: Advance to Contact

The next week passed with me going over in my mind moves to inflict the most damage on Martin Hodge in the shortest possible time.

I also needed to make arrangements to obviate serving a long spell as a guest of Her Majesty. My defence stratagem was planned, but I required a top notch defence lawyer to bring the plan to fruition.

As ever when I was in a bind I called on Harry Ledbetter. He was now a Lieutenant Colonel at the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall. In fact his spell in Afghanistan was connected to his job at MoD, Harry being a hands-on type of officer. I had his number at MoD and gave him a call.

"Dave, how good to hear from you. How's the leg?"

Typical Harry; he always asks how I am, never 'what the fuck do you want now?'

I told him the story of my return home, and what I intended doing to my brother-in-law. When I finished my tale of woe there was a moment of silence before Harry spoke. "Bloody hell, Dave, you've certainly had the worst of times. I wish you had let me know sooner, I could have come and commiserated, and help you sort out the scum bag."

I explained my plan, gave him the address of my solicitors, Butcher, Baker, and McCandless, and asked him to contact them and arrange a number one counsel for my defence; my house was up for sale so I could afford the best. I told him Alf Tupper, from the Crown, would contact him after my arrest, and I hoped to be bailed before standing trial.

"Leave it to me, Dave. I know a couple of first class QCs, and I'll get one on your case as soon as you need him."

Harry Ledbetter is the best mate a bloke could have, and I thanked God he was mine.

The week passed slowly, with me still working out and going through the moves intended to do Hodge a great deal of damage. I practiced the kicking technique of using the heel of the foot rather than the toe. It causes less damage to the kicker and worse damage to the kicked. After closing time in The Crown I sharpened up my reflexes by having a kitbag, suspended from a beam in the snooker room and filled with weights, swung at me by Alfie.

After giving me an energetic and exhausting workout he would go upstairs and give Maggie the same.

Friday: The Day of Reckoning, dawned bright and sunny ... a good day for a maiming.

I drove to the White Swan and parked near the fire exit door. It was 6.45 p.m. on the 12th of June; I was thirty eight years old and now no longer a member of Her Majesty's armed forces, merely another ex-squaddie.

For reasons, which may seem obvious, I do not celebrate my birthday. Well, not since my 18th, which I 'celebrated' by killing an Argentinian marine about the same age as me. However, today was different, as I intended commemorating this particular anniversary by crippling Martin Hodge, hopefully for life.

I made my way into the smaller lounge, where the girl serving behind the bar was neither as attractive nor as welcoming as Sharon, but you can't be lucky all the time.

I ordered a pint, and scoped the larger room through the mirror behind the bar. The place was about as busy as the same time last week, and I noted some of the alcoves were occupied, but fortunately none either side of the entrance.

Sharon saw me standing at the small bar, and after serving a customer in the main bar came over to me. "I looked for you in the week," she said, with her sweet smile.

"I've been arranging my move," I said, "did you miss me?"

Before she could reply Hancock called her back to the main bar to serve, but the smile she gave me over her shoulder as she left made me think that perhaps she had.

'Get a grip, Dewey', I told myself, 'she's young enough to be your daughter, and in any case there's the little problem of Martin Hodge to deal with'.

Talk, or think, of the Devil; Hodge entered the pub at that moment. Once again the pouty girl with the long slender legs accompanied him. They sat in the same alcove as on their last visit, which was fortunate for my plan. If they had sat on the other side of the entrance Hodge might not see me when I make my way to the exit. His present location meant I would pass right in front of him to get to the door.

As the week before the pouty girl went to the main bar to order a Mexican beer and a cocktail; Sharon asked for her ID, and again it passed scrutiny.

Hodge and Miss Pouty didn't seem to be the lovebirds of last week. The girl appeared sullen as Hodge wagged a finger at her, his face red and his neck swollen with anger. Obviously Miss Pouty wasn't flavour of the day.

She might be on the blob, and Martin Hodge missing his daily shag, not that her being on the blob would have deterred him, and any way he had plenty of girls on the game to supply him with grumble and grunt, with my wife as back up. Whatever, Martin Hodge in a two and eight was a bonus for me.

At 7.15 the same tall, well-dressed, gent of last week entered the large lounge and ordered a drink at the main bar. Miss Pouty, still sullen and pouting, left the alcove and trotted down the corridor towards the fire exit. Five minutes passed before the Armani suited man took a mobile phone from his jacket pocket. He glanced at the screen then replaced the phone. Moments later Miss Pouty re-entered the large lounge and ordered another Mexican beer from Sharon. The well-dressed man finished his drink, slipped an envelope into Miss Pouty's bucket bag and made his way to the exit. Miss Pouty carried the bottle of Mexican beer over to Hodge, placing her bag on the seat and handing Hodge the bottle of beer. He fished out the envelope from her bag and dropped in the next packet of cocaine. All weighed, all paid.

Just like last week. Just like clockwork.

I allowed five minutes for the customer to be well out of the White Swan car park. This was it. Over the top.

I took a deep breath, finished off my pint, and said "Good night" to the girl behind the bar, who barely acknowledged me, and made my way to the exit.

I didn't look directly at the alcove, but using the corner of one eye I saw Hodge staring in my direction. As I got nearer recognition dawned on him.

"Hello," he said, "it's Little Dicky Desmond." He turned to Miss Pouty. "This bloke's dick is so small he can only fuck ants." She gave a titter of nervous laughter.

"At least I don't use it to bugger little boys, or turd burgle babies, you nonce." My reply was a direct hit. His face went a furious scarlet and his eyes bulged with rage. "I'm going to fucking kill you, you bastard," he bellowed.

He grabbed a bottle off the table with his right hand — oh bollocks, was he ambidextrous? — then came out of his seat like a fighting bull charging into a bullring. As he got from the alcove he changed the bottle to his left hand.

Phew, what a relief.

I back pedalled and shouted over my shoulder. "Get the police. This man wants to kill me." Hancock was already on the phone, he must have reached for it as soon as Hodge uttered his threat; in fact due to the volume of Hodge's bellowing most of the pub would have heard him.

He swung at me with the bottle, employing a back hand stroke of which Pete Sampras would have been proud. And from then on the whole thing went as choreographed in my mind.

I ducked under the bottle, and then stood up and kneed Hodge in the groin with my right knee, at the same time jabbing his eyes with the first two fingers of my right hand. I then took a half step back and kicked with my left foot, heel forward, into the knee of Hodge's left leg. I heard the knee cap fracture, and sinews and tendons part, as the joint was forced in a completely different direction than which it was designed. He fell to the floor, the momentum of his swing and the collapse of his left leg caused him to roll over onto his back.

Time for part two of the maiming process.

I dropped on him like a concrete block. My left knee landed on his face, breaking his nose, jaw and several teeth. My right knee landed further down, on his chest, the objective being to fracture his sternum and /or ribs, and hopefully puncturing any bags of cocaine Hodge carried on his person.

As I got off his body to stand up I managed to tread on his right hand, fracturing several fingers. Mission Accomplished.

It took no longer to carry out my assault than it does to read this account.

I stood up and turned to face the room full of horrified people.

"You all heard him threaten me, and saw him attack me? I acted in self-defence." I had to raise my voice, shout in fact, over the hysterical shrieking of Miss Pouty and the agonised screaming from Martin Hodge.

The rest of the room was in a stunned silence, shocked by the ferocity of the violence, as I had banked on. Witnesses would be shocked by what they had seen, or what they thought they had seen, and when they came to give an account of what happened I wanted them to have my version.

I appealed to them again. "I thought he was going to kill me. What else could I do but defend myself?"

Sharon was standing behind the bar frozen with fear, her eyes wide with shock and with hands covering her mouth. The expression on her face was a mixture of terror, horror, and maybe disgust.

Hancock was the first to react, which confirmed my suspicion he was an ex-copper. "The police are on their way. No one is to leave until they obtain witness statements." He pointed at me. "You, go and sit down over by the bar, and don't think of running off."

"I'm not going anywhere," I said, "and what sort of clientele do you cater for in this boozer? I came in for a quiet pint and got set upon."

The sound of sirens heralded the arrival of Plod. Three hatless policemen burst into the room, a sergeant and two constables, the latter with truncheons drawn, as if expecting a riot. I had a momentary flashback of Angela from The Lemon Tree 'I want your truncheon all the way up inside my cunny, ' and bit my lip to stop from bursting into hysterical laughter: I must have been in something of a state of shock myself.

"Hell fire, Bill, what the fuck happened to him?" The police sergeant asked Hancock, pointing to the screaming figure of Hodge writhing on the floor.