Get out. Now.
A heavy boot crashed into the rickety pub table, jolting it forward.
Ale sloshed out of its pint glass, foam snaking in rivulets down the battered wood.
Inside a cramped biker pub tucked at the edge of a drab Manchester suburb, the world froze.
Conversations choked off.
Pool balls coasted to a halt.
The ancient jukebox stuttered and fell mute.
At the back, an old man hardly stirred.
Sixty-five, maybe seventy.
Thin silver hair tucked beneath a battered flat cap.
A threadbare waxed jacket hunched on his stooped shoulders.
His handsweathered, knottedrested serenely around a pint of dark ale.
Not a flicker of surprise.
He nudged the pint back with two fingers.
Never looked up.
Never reacted.
Didnt give a toss.
Colin Maddocks edged closer.
Massive. Square-shouldered.
The sort of bloke convinced his frame put him out of reach.
Did you hear me? he rumbled. This isnt your local.
No reply.
The old man sipped slowly.
A couple of bikers behind Colin sneered; others eyed the table, wary, picking up on an unspoken threat.
He set his glass down.
Slow, deliberate.
Sit down.
It was soft, but it wasnt advice.
Colin blinked, then barked a tight, derisive snicker.
You gone barmy, old scrubber? a younger biker jeered, crowding in.
He slammed his palm onto the table, harder.
More ale fanned out.
You shouldnt be here.
Still nothing. The old man might as well have been alone.
He reached, unhurried, into his jacket.
A few men stiffened, hearts thumping.
He drew out a relic of a mobilescreen cracked, sides scratched.
Raised it to his ear, aloof.
A tiny click.
Im here.
He slid the phone away, picked up his pint.
Colin scowled.
Whod you just ring, then?
You wont believe what happened next.
Romans fingers froze, paused halfway round his whisky tumbler.
That was the warning.
Not the eyes.
Not the hush.
The hands.
Men like Roman Sutherland had long since learned the trick of keeping faces blank.
Their hands, however, betrayed them.
The pub watched, breath held.
A little girl stood just inside the door, under the flickering hum of neon. Rainwater sluiced from the bottom of her anorak onto the cracked wooden boards.
Roman let his gaze settle on mottled bruisestiny fingerprints ringed around a young wrist.
Fresh.
His jaw ticked.
Slight, but everyone in the bar caught it.
Muscles coiled, alert.
The big man by the pool table set his cue quietly aside.
Another biker leaned forward, bracing himself.
The barman ceased polishing the same glass hed mopped for the past minute.
Because everyone knew:
Roman didnt flinch at fear.
He only answered to cruelty.
The girl wiped her nose quickly on her sleeve, desperate not to cry.
My mum told me not to come here, she whispered, voice fraying. But she said, if anyone could stop him
She faltered.
Roman finally raised his eyes to her.
It was you.
Not a soul breathed.
The barman fixed the girl with a grave stare.
A biker murmured, very quietly,
No
There was something in her. Not at first look. But her eyesdark brown, sharp at the edges, just like Romans sisters, Sophie.
The sister laid to rest twelve years ago, beaten beyond recognition in some South London bedsit, no more bones to break before the ambulance gave up.
And three days later, Roman had found her boyfriend.
No one discussed it. They all knew.
The girl dug in her sodden pocket, the whole room tensing, but only produced a crumpled photograph.
Water-damaged. Corners bent.
She inched forward and set it by Romans glass.
He looked. And the pubs atmosphere shifted.
A woman in the picturebattered, terrifiedclutched the same girl tight.
Flanking them stood Louis Parker.
Romans face drained of all expression.
Which was far worse than rage.
Years back, Parker ran with Romans chapteruntil Roman booted him after he hospitalised a woman during a botched amphetamine deal in Leicester.
The little girls voice shook:
He said, if Mum tried leaving again
She couldnt say it.
Roman studied the photo a moment longer, flipping it over.
Six words scrawled on the back in desperate ink:
You said you still help people.
The silver-ringed biker at the wall stood.
Not with fanfarewith practiced duty, like a Guardsman on parade.
A second man followed. Then another.
Chairs scraped over weary floorboards.
The girls wide eyes darted from face to face, confusion and awe mingling as each hulking, tattooed man rose in silence.
Roman didnt budge.
Outside, rain lashed the windows.
At last, Roman reached for his tumbler, the hush absolute.
He looked at it, then upended the golden whisky in slow motion, spilling it over Louis Parkers face on the photo.
A burial.
A verdict.
He placed the glass down gently.
Clink.
Then he stood, taking up more space than seemed possible.
The girl inched back automatically, not out of fear, but because the air felt suddenly electrified around him.
Roman shrugged on his battered leather.
His voice, brittle:
Who else is in the house?
The child swallowed.
Two men.
Roman nodded once.
Engines coughed to life outside amidst the downpourseveral, not just one.
The bikers moved briskly:
Loading hardware.
Buttoning up parkas and jackets.
Sliding knives up sleeves.
No questions.
No speeches.
Only intent.
The barman snapped the till shut without counting it.
The enormous pool player snapped a shotgun closed, the metallic clack echoing around the pub.
The girl stared, shockedtwenty seconds earlier, these men seemed like brutes. Now they looked like something truly fearsome: men whod found their purpose.
Roman strode for the door, then paused beside the child.
For the first time since shed entered, his voice mellowedslightly.
Whats your name?
The girl looked up.
Sophie.
Roman closed his eyes momentarily.
That was his sisters name too.
When he opened them again, his stare was flint.
He extended one battered hand.
Stay behind me.
Sophie grasped it at once.
And the entire pub of hardened bikers marched out with Roman Sutherland into the wild northern storm.
