Another knife went flying, and this time the man didn’t move in time, the knife slicing the arm of his coat. He looked down at it meditatively. “I happen to like this jacket.”
“You won’t need it when you’re dead,” MacGowan snarled.
Beth stood frozen in the kitchen, uncertain what to do, and MacGowan reached for another of the butcher knives.
She hit him, hard, with the leeks, so that vegetation went all over the kitchen. “Leave my knives alone,” she snapped, hoping it hid her terror. “If you’re going to kill him do it hand to hand.”
The look MacGowan gave her made her blood freeze. And then with a roar he launched himself at the newcomer.
“Dude!” Dylan protested, grabbing the DVD player and jumping out of the way as the two men went down in a tangle of furious, thrashing limbs.
Someone else had appeared in the door, and Beth looked up, prepared to launch herself at the newcomer if he came armed.
To her surprise it was a young man, maybe Dylan’s age, clearly of middle-eastern origin, watching the ensuing melee with resignation. His eyes met Beth’s. “Hey,” he said in greeting.
“Hey.” Her voice was weak.
Dylan had set down the DVD player, eyeing the newcomer like a junkyard dog surveys someone who’s invaded his turf. At least, that’s what she guessed he looked like, since she’d never seen a junkyard dog, or a junkyard, in her life.
Dylan circled around the two of them, coming up to the newcomer. They were about the same height, though Dylan was younger, and the unknown boy was slim and elegant and cynically amused by the battle. “Who are you?”
Dylan wasn’t charmed. “Who are you?” He had to raise his voice to be heard above the grunts and breaking furniture.
“Mahmoud.” He jerked his head toward the battle. “That’s my father.”
The words must have penetrated the haze of battle. For a moment the man named Madsen lifted his head to stare at the boy in astonishment, long enough for MacGowan to get in a blow hard enough to knock him away from him. For a moment Madsen didn’t move, then shook his head.
That’s was all MacGowan needed. He launched himself again, and Beth had had enough. “Stop it!” she shrieked. They paid no attention. Oh, sure, they could react when the kid said something in a normal tone of voice, but her screams were nothing.
“Try a jug of water,” Mahmoud suggested. “Either that or a frying pan.”
“A frying pan’s probably a better idea,” she snapped, heading back to the kitchen to fill a saucepan with the coldest water she could find. She stomped back over to the men and flung it.
MacGowan rose with a roar, lashing out, catching her on the side of the head, and she went flying, ending up on the floor against the sofa, the breath knocked out of her.
For a moment MacGowan simply stared at her with horror. A moment later he was beside her, pulling her into his arms, murmuring endearments. “Baby, I’m so sorry! Speak to me, Beth, tell me you’re all right. Did I hurt you?”
She finally managed a deep intake of breath, coughing, and he hugged her so tightly she almost couldn’t breathe again. “Darlin’, don’t ever step into the middle of a fight again. I could have killed you.” He was kissing her, and she decided being tossed across the room was worth it.
She looked at him and managed a woozy smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse. Are you still going to kill him?”
Madsen had pulled himself to a sitting position. His mouth was bleeding, one eye was rapidly swelling shut, but he seemed to be in one piece. The cut on MacGowan’s head had opened up again, he had a bloody nose and a split lip, but he seemed surprisingly cheerful.
“Nah. He’s not worth it.”
“You cocksucker,” Peter snarled. Then glanced at Beth. “I beg your pardon.” Then looked at the boys. “Jesus,” he muttered.
“I think they’ve all heard the word before,” MacGowan said. “What the fuck are you doing here, besides almost getting yourself killed? And who’s the kid?”
Madsen glanced at Mahmoud. “The kid, apparently, is my son.”
MacGowan raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t know?”
“I knew. I just didn’t think he did.”
“Adopted,” Mahmoud clarified. “I come from a long line of Arab warriors who would make mincemeat out of Madsen. But he’ll do.”
He clearly wasn’t endearing himself to Dylan, but that was the least of Beth’s worries. She started to get up, but MacGowan still held her, his strong arms cradling her. “I’d better get back to dinner,” she said, not really wanting to move. She glanced at the newcomers. “I assume you’re staying?”