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Frank watches them haul their victim from the gutter and drag him across the street. They drag him by his ankles with his arms trailing loose and his head wrapped up in a coat.
‘That man needs a doctor!’ shouts Frank. “You’ve got to get him to a hospital. He could have internal injuries.’
His voice sounds small and remote, like a cry for help from a locked room. He can’t believe this is happening.
‘It’s a waste of time,’ says the Beast mildly. ‘But don’t worry, Skipper, we’ll give him a decent burial.’ They cram the old man into the back of the car and try to cover him with a blanket to prevent him leaking into the pigskin upholstery.
“I’m calling the police!’ warns Frank. He glances up and down the empty street. He doesn’t know where to turn. Why doesn’t someone run out to help him? He wants to see large and angry women, dressed in pinafores and slippers, emerge through the rain like a battle fleet, armed with rolling pins and pokers. He wants to see big-bellied men in shirtsleeves, horse brasses on belts, marching shoulder to shoulder towards him. He wants the world to be different. He doesn’t want to be Gary Cooper. He begins to limp towards the nearest house with a lighted window but, as he approaches the privet hedge, the light flicks out before him.
The Beast shakes his head and turns away from the car. He is holding a baseball bat in his fist. As he moves towards Frank he raises the bat against his chest. He advances with a queer little dancing stride and the rain seems to spark on his black leather shoes.
‘Did we kill him?’ asks the first of them as they approach Frank. His name is Harry Cocker but everyone calls him the Beast. He bends his head and grins. His green eyes shine with satisfaction.
The corpse groans and blows a glistening bubble of blood.
‘No,’ says Frank. ‘Thank God, he’s still moving!’ He glances up at the two men. His breath is a soft explosion of steam.
‘Stubborn bastard!’ says the second stranger. His name is Lloyd and he’s proud to be Harry’s half-mad brother. He pushes Frank aside and begins stamping on the old man, snorting and clapping his hands like a murderous flamenco dancer.
‘Leave him alone!’ shouts Frank. He is so astonished that he runs forward to knock Lloyd Cocker from the old man’s chest, catching him with his shoulder and pushing him away. He’s forty years old next birthday and that’s too old to brawl in the street. But he won’t stand and watch an old man beaten to death.
‘I’m trying to kick-start his heart,’ grins Lloyd. stepping aside and watching Frank spill onto the pavement.
Frank scrambles to his feet and nurses his elbows in his hands. He’s twisted a leg and his knuckles are bleeding. He hobbles in circles, trying to shake out the fire in his bones. The Cocker brothers ignore him.
'Help me get the bastard into the car,’ says the Beast as Lloyd returns to the trampled corpse.
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