Brechalon by Wesley Allison

a shot and the two
batsmen, including the big chap went running.
    “ Would you like something to
drink?” Terrence asked.
    “ Is there a waiter?” wondered
Iolanthe, looking around.
    “ No, there’s a snack kiosk over
there.” He pointed to a small shed just beyond the visiting team
hutch. “What would you like?”
    “ I don’t suppose they have any
wine.”
    “ I doubt it.”
    “ A beer then.”
    Terrence took his place in the queue, only
occasionally looking back at the game. He wasn’t really that
interested in cricket, even though he had played it at university.
There was no point in telling Iolanthe though. Once she had her
head set on something, it wasn’t likely to change. He purchased two
bottles of beer, which came in tall brown bottles with cork
stoppers.
    Just as he turned around to leave, he was
approached by a young woman with long red hair. She was dressed in
a long brown skirt and a white blouse and looked as though she
might have just come from a factory job. She was pretty, in a
course sort of way, and she wore no makeup.
    “ Can you help me, Sir?” she asked,
and then turned and began to walk away before Terrence could
answer.
    He shrugged and followed her, a beer bottle in
each hand, around the corner of the kiosk and between a pair of
small sheds. As he made the second corner, Terrence came face to
face with three men. Two of them were brandishing knives. For a
second he didn’t recognize them. Then suddenly he did. They were
three men outside Blackwood’s. The memory of the white opthalium
made his eyes water slightly. What was it that Blackwood called the
first fellow… Mickey, Mikey, Mika?
    “ Thanks luv. Hurry on your way,”
said Mika to the girl, who quickly left. He then turned and smiled
unpleasantly at Terrrence. “You’re so happy t’see me your eyes are
waterin’ eh?”
    “ I’m sentimental,” Terrence
replied.
    The toughs had chosen their spot well. They
were shielded from the street by a hedgerow and from the cricket
game and the spectators by the sheds. Without conscious thought,
Terrence’s mind ran through his options. He could drop one of the
beers and go for the pistol in his pocket. He could simply bash the
bottles into a couple of skulls. In either scenario, he’d probably
take at least one knife blade. He could always yell for help. There
were plenty of people within earshot, probably even a copper.
Again, he’d probably get stabbed. Besides, he’d never yelled for
help in his life.
    “ Care for a beer?” he
asked.
    “ I’m goin’ t’enjoy lettin’ the air
outa you.”
    Suddenly there was a loud report followed by a
wet smack and the man behind Mika, Mika’s brother Terrence suddenly
remembered, dropped to the ground with a massive hole in his chest
pouring out blood like a johnny pump. Before anyone had time to
think or to move or to think about moving, three more shots rang
out. The beer bottles in Terrence’s hands exploded and a good
portion of Mika’s jaw was ripped off his face. He dropped to the
ground with a gurgled scream, while the third man in the group
turned and ran. Terrence turned to his left, still holding the
shattered remains of the bottles, to find Iolanthe in a cloud of
gun smoke, a forty five caliber pistol pointed in his general
direction. It was an exact match to the one in his pocket save only
that hers had a pearl handle.
    “ Kafira’s tit, Iolanthe! You almost
hit me.”
    “ You’re welcome,” she replied,
closing her left eye and taking a bead on the fleeing man’s
back.
    “ Let him go,” he said, and looked
down at the sad remains of Mika, now whining pitifully.
    A police constable came jogging up from behind
Terrence, followed by a few cricket players, one carrying a bat, as
well as a few stout fellows from the grandstand.
    “ These men were trying to rob my
brother,” said Iolanthe, stepping forward.
    “ Oh, it’s you, Miss Dechantagne,”
said the constable. “Are you injured?”
    “ No PC, thank you