Bullets & Bowes

"I'm eighteeee - eeen, with a bullet"

Late Friday night - or was it early Saturday morning by now. Nobody cared too much as the Karaoke system at the Mason's Arms belted out the backing to an ancient Pete Wingfield number. Bobby pointed his air-guitar suggestively at the cheerful, clapping audience. Most of them were at least as drunk as he was by that time of night, free of whatever natural inhibitions or reserve they might have had when they entered the pub that evening. The imaginary lick his gyrating hand and arm struck on non-existent strings could equally have been the action of a sharpshooter slamming the bolt of the magazine closed on an assault rifle. Some of the crowd, caught in the spirit of the song, began imaginary shootouts with their immediate neighbours.

" ......... Got my fin-geeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer on the triggeeeeeeeeer, anamgonna pullit!" Bobby added, in a warbling falsetto. The mouth-music of automatic fire from the audience threatened to drown the backing tape. Bobby rotated his hips in a camped-up exaggeration of a glam-rocker's sinuous, suggestive stage sashaying, raising a lewd cheer from the floor. At the same time he achieved his goal, which was to regain control rather than let the crowd upstage him.

It was too easy, he thought as he pocketed the [tax-free] hundred quid his act had earned him that evening. His natural good looks, together with a much-better-than-average singing voice had combined to see off the not-very-talented competition, as it invariably did .... Waving his goodbyes, he was already thinking about where he might go to supplement his Dole on Saturday night. Without warning, he felt something hard and unresisting  placed between two ribs, close to his spine.

"Keep moving, turn next right and don't look round if you know what's good for you."

‘Next right' took Bobby and his unseen assailant into Ulster Road, a quiet residential side street which at this time of night was completely deserted. It runs some two hundred yards south from the main arterial road connecting town centre with St. Helens and all points east.

His good looks and silver tongue wouldn't save him this time. He cleared his throat to speak: the hard object between his shoulder blades dug in more firmly. He was almost certain it was a knife.

"Don't speak! Don't even think about it: just keep walking!"

At the north end of the road cars had to swing left, past the sheltered accommodation on the site of the old Cubbons' bakery: pedestrians also had the option of turning right.

Someone had forgotten to lock the alleygate immediately opposite the end of the road: Bobby felt himself forced to enter the rubbish-strewn back entry. He slowed his steps. This would be the only opportunity he was going to get. The pressure on his spine increased fractionally: he was certain that the discomfort he felt was being caused by a genuine sharp point: a knife, then, not a bluff.

Gambling that most people are right-handed, he deliberately fell away to his left as he angled his body past the half-open alleygate and kicked blindly with his right leg as he did so. It connected squarely with the edge of the gate: there was a satisfyingly solid sound of snapped wristbone and the clatter of a light metal object hitting the floor, accompanied by a thin scream of pain. Bobby hit the floor and rolled, hitting his shoulder against the narrow alley's wall. The alley was pitch-black: his eyes hadn't compensated yet for the sudden loss of street lighting.

"Shurrup, Mick: keep on like that an' some soft git's gonna have the Filth here!"

Bobby's heart sank. One (injured) yob he'd fancied his chances with: but if the second as-yet-unseen attacker was also armed ......... he sensed rather than saw movement at the end of the alley. Against the skyline, aided by the faintest illumination of starlight, he saw the alleygate move, heard its hinges protest.

"Nowhere to go, mate: I'll effin' teach you to come in our pub an' walk off wit' the karry-okie dosh. Then y' break our kid's wrist on him! Who d'yer think y' effinwell are? Smarmy, smart-arsed poncy out-o'-towner, only Swannites is s'posed t' win that cash!"

It was as well Bobby had rolled,, and equally fortunate he'd stayed when he fell to catch his breath. a muzzle flame erupted from a waist-high position by the open gate, and simultaneously an explosion which was magnified by the confines of the walls of the service alley. Brick dust fell in Bobby's eyes from the point inches above him where the bullet struck before ricocheting off further along the alley. Close at hand a dog began barking: lights went on along Donegal Road as people reacted to the unmistakeable sound of gunfire.

"Fercrissakes, Sammy, yiz said I was makin' too much noise: what d'yer wanna go ‘n' do that for?!"

A lucky shot, thought Bobby. He obviously doesn't know exactly where I am yet, but he soon will as the lights go on ...........

While the shooter's attention was elsewhere, Bobby acted on instinct. He kicked at an empty can sending it spinning off against the opposite wall as a diversion, then threw himself hard and low at the alleygate, pinning the shooter's body against the wall. The gun fell, loosing off a second round as the trigger hit the floor. Fortunately, it did as little damage as the first. On an adrenaline high, Bobby placed several savage, painfully accurate kicks to various parts of Sammy's anatomy. Background sounds gradually filtered into his consciousness: vaguely he was aware of a dog from the house on the corner of the alleyway leaping over the yard wall and preventing the knifeman (Mike? Mick?) from escaping. Panting from exertion, he stepped back and stopped punishing his  assailant just as the first resident (the dog's owner, apparently) arrived on the scene. He didn't want a witness to get the impression that he was the aggressor....!

By the time the police arrived he'd explained himself briefly to one of the local residents, and repeated the same story to one of the attending officers. He opted to leave out any reference to winning the Karaoke competition, for the moment: the last thing he wanted was grief from the JobCentre about undeclared earnings ...........

"Anyone recognise the two guys that jumped me?"

Neither appeared to be carrying any form of ID, and neither seemed willing to co-operate with the police by giving a name and address.

"They're the Bowes brothers: Mike and Sammy Bowes" offered an unidentified voice from the back of the small crowd. A stream of abuse from one of the brothers sufficed to confirm the accuracy of this information, and Bobby resigned himself to spending the remainder of the night making a formal statement at Eaton Road police station.