...I was waving the bottle at him and Barbara reached out to push my arm down, saying, ‘It’s all right, Larry. It’s all right. He won’t do it again.’
‘No, he bleeding-well won’t, I’ll make sure of that,’ I shouted, and a couple walking by arm-in-arm looked round at me, then hurried off.
I must have looked dangerous because Brian was cowering away with one foot up on the bench, clutching the back, as if he was climbing over it towards the parapet, while Barbara stood between us, eyes flashing in the yellow light from the street lamp, hands palms up towards me, begging me to stop.
‘You’re not used to that beer,’ she cried. ‘None of us are. Put that bottle down, Larry.’
Something made me do just that. I dropped the bottle and saw it splinter at my feet, but it was as if my anger was feeding my anger, as if the bottle fragments were an invitation to fight. I moved to the left to avoid Barbara and rushed at Brian.
‘What you got against me?’ he gasped as I pushed him so that he was folded backwards over the bench. ‘You’re under the influence, that’s what. ‘Had one too many. Taking after your Dad, that’s what.’
I wouldn’t have punched him, at least not so hard, if he hadn’t said that. I saw his head jerk backwards, his arms flail upwards, and he fell to the other side of the bench.
‘You’ve hurt him, you’ve hurt him too much,’ screamed Barbara, but Brian was getting to his feet and backing towards the parapet, his fists up now. I moved round the bench towards him, me with my fists clenched, and he came at me. He didn’t know my nickname was Lightning. I dodged his first blow and gave him one to the head, just below the ear. He punched as we both bent over the parapet, but his fist was deflected by mine and I clouted him in his left eye.