And so Mr. & Mrs. Lutman began
the second week of their honeymoon, with Miami next on their itinerary. They
checked in at a luxury hotel a few minutes from downtown.
As they prepared for their evening,
Deanne emerged from the bathroom of their honeymoon suite in her new, red, shoulder-cut
dress. David Lutman’s jaw dropped; she was even more beautiful than that first
day he had met her.
He also dressed the part, wearing a
brand-new tailor-made tuxedo.
After cheerfully depositing their
keycard, they jumped into their hire car and set off to a quiet and
well-recommended restaurant serving typical American cuisine in a
not-so-familiar area of the city.
*
It was well past midnight, much later
than they intended, when they eventually emerged with the handful of remaining
diners from the restaurant. Lutman cheerfully said goodnight to the maître d',
and he and Deanne left arm in arm for their car.
It was a pleasant, warm, but slightly
sticky evening. The sky was clear, and the stars were clearly visible despite
the large and powerful street lighting that swamped the street. After he had
looked up, Lutman began to notice that everyone else had gone in the opposite
direction to them, or had leaped straight into waiting taxis; they were alone.
Only the occasional car raced past them as they walked hand-in-hand.
The fact that they were now left
alone made him feel decidedly uneasy. The shops had looked very attractive upon
their arrival, but now they had all been replaced with ominous-looking solid
Graffiti-strewn metal shutters that covered every pane of glass at ground
level. It may have been only a short walk to the car, but Lutman and Deanne's
pace had notably quickened.
And then a young, unshaven skinhead,
around Lutman’s height, and wearing a dirty blue bomber jacket, approached them
from around a corner with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. Whether
Lutman or Deanne liked the idea or not, it was clear that they were going to be
engaged in conversation.
‘Got a light?’ he sneered, gawping at
them malevolently.
‘Erm, no we haven’t,’ Deanne
responded apprehensively.
‘‘kay,’ then the skinhead
nonchalantly walked by, seemingly to have accepted their nervous response.
But what mild sense of relief they
had felt soon turned to intense apprehension when a black man with distinctive,
short bleached blond hair suddenly emerged from around that very corner where
Lutman and Deanne’s car was parked a further three hundred feet up. Dressed in
a black leather jacket with the inscription ‘Free Spirit’ on the backside, this
individual’s face was covered with an intimidating number of facial piercings.
He was also about two inches taller
than Lutman.
He smiled a
bright yellow smile.
And then from a holster, he swiftly
produced a switchblade knife, and pointed it in their direction. ‘Say, you sure
you ain’t got no lighter… or wallet, maybe?’
Lutman and Deanne froze in fear. Then
they turned, only to find that the skinhead who had appeared to have ignored
them just a few moments earlier was now standing only a few feet away, blocking
their escape. He was also holding a large blade.
The only direction left was the road,
but even this option had been blocked. Two more individuals in black leather
were now standing there and were ominously heading towards them.
The skinhead who was known to his accomplices
as Staib – and who still had the dangling cigarette from his mouth – walked
towards them slowly, his knife brandished menacingly. He slowly took the stick
out of his mouth to reveal two gapped front teeth. ‘Listen,’ he sneered as he
stood in front of Lutman, whose expression told him that this boy had clearly
never experienced such a confrontation, ‘we’re in a pretty good mood today, you
know what I mean? We don’ wanna hurt anyone, certainly not you lovely people.
So all you guys gotta do is just giz your money pronto and we’ll leave you
alone. I can’t be fairer than that, can I?’
Still in a state of shock, Lutman
made the fatal error of not removing his wallet. To the thugs, making
absolutely no movement whatsoever was the worst thing he could have done.
Patience was not a virtue regardless of their mood, good or not.
Now whatever had masqueraded as
friendliness disappeared completely in an instant. Their language became
considerably more colorful and threatening: the knives, only inches away, even
more menacing. Staib shrieked at them to give them his money.
‘For Gods sake David!’ shrieked
Deanne, ‘just give them your money!’
‘Listen to your pretty lady, man!’
taunted Staib, ’cos I ain’t got no more time to hang about! Gizzus your wallet!
And now!’
Unwisely, Lutman tried to reason with
them. ‘Look, come on, this isn’t fair, is it?’ he stammered, struggling to
muster some kind of courage. ‘There’s four of you, and only two of us!’
The clear British accent was not lost
on the thugs. ‘What’s fair? Welcome to freakin’ Miami. We dictate what’s
freakin’ fair.’
‘Didya hear that accent?’ shouted one
of his accomplices. ‘He’s a freakin’ limey!’
‘Well, for a limey,’ added Staib,
glaring at Lutman, ‘you sure got yourself a pretty woman.’
The skinhead put out his hand to try
to touch Deanne’s bare arm. She backed away, petrified. ‘Aww, I wouldn’t hurt
you, pretty lady!’ he scoffed.
‘She’s got a pair of nice tits an’
ass!’ shouted Shaif, the black man with a cigarette that had been lit by Wag,
one of the other youths that were both shaven-headed and dressed in casual
black clothes. They appeared to be unarmed.
Shaif’s hand stroked Deanne’s right
arm. ‘Keep your hands off of me!’ she screeched.
At that moment a blue saloon slowly
went by, slow enough in that there was no way its occupant could have not seen
what was happening. But it was clear the driver was not going to get involved.
As their muggers inched inexorably
forward, Lutman found himself backed up towards a brick wall and a garbage bin.
He looked to his right. Someone was walking towards them, but then having seen
the youths quickly turned in the opposite direction. Shaif also looked that
direction, noted Lutman’s expression, and smiled. ‘Now that’s a sensible guy,’
he said threateningly to Deanne, ‘as you can see, ain’t anybody gonna help you
now, pretty lady.’
Shaif turned his threatening gaze to
Lutman. ‘You had your chance to giz your money,’ he said slowly, ‘and now we’re
gonna take what we want.’ He smiled a nicotine-stained smile, one front tooth missing,
and gaps either side of his grin. He grabbed Deanne’s arm. Deanne screamed.
‘I wan’ her first,’ shouted Brag, the
fourth attacker.
‘No worries!’ retorted Shaif. ‘We
want a show!’
‘For God’s sake someone help
us!’ Deanne sobbed, her voice almost at a
whisper. She could not shout; fear had consumed her to the point she could
hardly breathe; she was almost gasping for air. She truly believed she was
about to be violated and killed.
Then something snapped in David
Lutman’s mind. His whole being just told him that he clearly no longer had a
choice in the matter. These animals were obviously hell-bent on finishing him
off permanently. They were about to inflict serious, psychological, and sexual
injury upon Deanne.
And then he was going to die.
And Deanne was going to be violated
several times over.
And he had a mission to
complete.
He was scared, but he also felt
anger. Extreme anger.
There was nothing to lose. He had to
fight like a madman, or die.
In complete desperation, or by
compulsion - even he did not know what it was - Lutman placed his hand into the
open garbage bin. Miraculously, he had grabbed something large, heavy, long,
and very solid. He smoothly and quickly, without catching the sides of the bin,
pulled out a heavy, long piece of solid wood that resembled an old but very
solid, table leg.
And then he screamed.
He swung the wooden bar wildly, and
viciously. He smacked the cheek of Staib, the shock of which forced the mugger
to drop his knife and fall to the ground, totally shocked and bewildered at the
reaction of his victim.
This totally unexpected attack caught
the gang completely unawares. Before they could even think of retaliating, the
same stick had swung viciously into Brag’s groin.
He collapsed into absolutely agony.
Two more cars swept by.
Two down.
Buoyed by his attack, Lutman stood in
front of Deanne. He waved his makeshift weapon threateningly at Shaif and Wag.
Shaif grinned, trying to mask the fact that even he had been stunned by what
happened.
But he remained confident. ‘Very
good,’ he sneered, ‘Very, very good. You sure is a lucky English man.’ He
glared at Lutman, positive his experience would get the better of his victims.
Shaif attempted to grab Deanne.
‘KEEP YOUR DIRTY HANDS OFF MY
WIFE!!!’
This
Englishman, this man that should have been one of their easiest pickings of the
night; this Englishman, who should have been a pushover the moment he even
clapped eyes on them; this Englishman, who initially seemed to be incredibly
stupid, was crazy.
And this Englishman, who clearly was
no longer that straight forward, was brandishing a particularly solid looking
wooden bar, and was clearly intent on taking them all on. He had successfully
felled two of them,with one still writhing on the sidewalk and the other
totally dazed, his face drenched in blood from the impact of the bar to his
cheek, which had been cut open.
Nevertheless, Shaif reasoned, the
other two should recover quickly enough to restore the uneven status quo. He
had to let the Englishman know the odds were still in their favor.
‘You shouldn’t have shouted at me.
You made me very angry,’ he said slowly. But his voice very definitely had a
note of uncertainty. ‘Now you’re gonna freakin’ well –’
But before
he had the chance to complete his sentence, the wooden bar was swung with
astonishing speed onto his knife arm. The crack was audible. Shaif quickly
backed away, clutching his arm in agony. ‘My arm! Man, you broke my freakin’
arm!’
At that very moment Lutman hit
Shaif’s arm, Wag had tried to make a grab for the makeshift club. But the
momentum and confidence was with Lutman, and as if reading Wag’s mind, stabbed
him hard in his stomach with another vicious swing.
Although his other attackers were
coming to their senses and recovering their composure, Lutman was ready, now
supremely confident of his ability and superiority.
Although another car avoided the
opportunity to watch a spectacular display of self-defense directly under the
floodlit gaze of the street lighting, residents from the surrounding apartments
above the shops, having been woken up by the commotion, were also watching,
fascinated.
As Staib slowly got up from the
ground, Lutman kicked away his knife and let out such a vicious kick onto his
chin that he rendered him totally unconscious.
Shaif, handicapped by a broken arm,
had his nose split by the bar before he could react. Off-balance, he tumbled
off the curb and onto the road.
Lutman was not interested in admiring
the result. His adrenalin was overflowing, and his confidence sky-high.
No need for the wooden bar now. He
handed Deanne the stick and walked up to Staib, who was sniffing and spitting
blood. His eyes were now of fear rather than menace.
But there would be no mercy. In
Lutman’s mind, these thugs had never given their victims that luxury. He
continually kicked him in the stomach, causing him to lay flat onto the road.
His head cracked on the tarmac.
With increasing rapidity and madness,
David Lutman laid siege on the hapless thug, foot cracking into his side, his
ribs, his face, anywhere that could be booted. For the coup de grace, he
grabbed Shaif’s jacket lapels, picked him up, and smashed him in the face with
his fist.
Deanne’s
expression had rapidly turned from extreme fear to extreme horror. These
were not the actions of a normal man! Her husband was crazy with anger,
shouting and swearing at his hapless attacker.
She glared as he picked up Shaif once
more and hit him once again with his right fist. And then again.
He would not, or could not, stop
hitting him. ‘You bastard! You bastard! You bastard!!!’ he screamed with
increasing ferocity.
Staib, however, was not fighting
back. He had not been able to do so for some time. His body was limp, but that
did not stop Lutman.
Oh my God, Deanne thought with panic. ’David!!!’
Lutman’s arm suddenly stopped as he
was about to smash into that face again.
He glared at Staib, and paused,
breathing heavily. He released his shirt lapels, the head cracking onto the
road once more and into a rich pool of blood.
Lutman then
stood up, then turned to see the now-conscious Shaif staring at the mess.
‘And now you!!’
He turned to Shaif and looked into
his eyes, and then purposefully marched over to him.
With no
support from his cohorts, fear completely took over. Shaif turned and ran, his
nose desperately blooded and clutching a broken arm.
Lutman knew he could have easily got
him, but this thug was not going to come back.
Besides, in his mind, there was one
other conscious psycho to sort out.
He snatched the stick from Deanne and
made for Brag, who was still clutching his groin in agony.
‘And now I’m gonna make sure
you’re never ever gonna get the chance to rape my wife or anybody else again.
YOU’LL HAVE NO, AS YOU PUT IT, FREAKING BALLS LEFT WHEN I’VE FINISHED WITH
YOU!!’
Both Brag and Deanne had seen enough.
Like a frightened child, Brag turned to run away as fast as he could.
Lutman was all set to run after him
and meter out the same relentless and merciless treatment as he had done to
Staib, but Deanne, who was clearly shaken by the fact that the difference
between attacker and victim had now become blurred, grabbed the bar from him.
She threw it away, and pushed Lutman forcibly in the direction of the car.
He glared at her in complete
astonishment as she pulled his jacket.
A minute later, he was bundled into
the passenger seat. Police sirens could now be distinctly heard in the
distance.
Despite coming to some of his senses,
Lutman was still under the influence of a full adrenaline rush, and appeared
not to notice Deanne sit in the driver’s seat. She was making no attempt to
start the engine.
‘Shit, did you see that?’ he cried
out excitedly. ‘I’ve never fought like that… the closest thing I’ve ever had to
a fight was in the school playground… but with four of the bastards…’
‘Who the hell do you think
you were?’ Deanne screamed, shocked and
terrified. ‘You could’ve had us both killed!’
‘But I didn’t!’ Lutman countered
firmly, ‘and besides, I’m absolutely certain we’d’ve both been dead if I hadn’t
done something, or reacted, or at least’ve spent the next few weeks in some
hospital. Are you going to start the car?’
‘Those bastards could’ve had guns!
Didn’t that even occur to you?’
Lutman could
now hear the sirens. The only thing that occurred to him now was that they were
not moving. ‘Come on, Deanne! Let’s get out of here!’
‘Answer me!’
‘But they didn’t have guns, did
they?’
‘All right David,’ said Deanne, her
voice now sounding dangerous. ‘Tell me now, right now, and don’t give me any
crap. What the hell’s going on?’
‘Deanne, start the bloody car! Let’s
get out of here!’
‘TELL ME WHAT THE HELL IS
HAPPENING!’
‘What the hell are you
talking about?’ he yelled back indignantly.
He really did not know what point she was trying to make. The sirens were
getting louder, but Deanne still resolutely refused to start the car.
‘Just tell me. Where the hell did you
learn to fight like that?’ she said, almost hysterical. ‘And how the hell did
you know there’d be a weapon in that trash can? That was an incredibly handy
place to find one, wasn’t it?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Did you set
this whole thing up? You know, that was a really remarkable coincidence, wasn’t
it? There just happened to be a nice handy wooden club in the trash can
that you just happened to find, and then you start acting like… like…’
She began struggling for words, her frustration fuelling her anger further. ‘…like
a… a raving lunatic!!’
Lutman’s adrenalin rush, having reached a peak with
incredible rapidity, was now doing the same in reverse. ‘I… I don’t know what
came over me… and the stick, the table leg or whatever it was, I swear, Deanne,
I had no idea it’d be there! And those guys...’
‘Did you set them up? Tell me! Are
you one of those specially trained super soldier killing machines or
something?’
‘W-what?’ He started breathing harder, and was no longer in the mood
for an argument. ‘You think I’m what? Of course I didn’t set them up!
Who do you think I am?’
‘I’m not sure I know any more.’
It was becoming an almighty struggle
to concentrate as his head began to spin. ‘Please Deanne,’ he said wearily, but
with as much composure as he could muster. ‘Let’s go. Please.’
It still took her a few more seconds
before she eventually started it as it occurred to her that the police, despite
his heroism, might see the situation differently after viewing the mess.
As the sirens were almost on top of
them, she decided that contact with the police would have to wait, and
uncharacteristically span the wheels and set off towards their hotel.
But she hadn’t finished lecturing
him. ‘Don’t you ever, ever, do that again!’ she screamed, her foot hard down.
‘D’you hear me? Never, ever, AGAIN!’
David Lutman was silent. He really
did not want to talk any more. He was not feeling too good.
As his breathing rate began to
increase, he opened the passenger window and took in the rush of sticky,
moisture-filled sweaty air. Deanne’s anger-fuelled erratic driving and the
state of the roads were doing nothing to help him.
Deanne desperately wanted to hate him. She wanted to tell
him further how stupid he was, and that he should have just given them the
money without hesitation. What he did was neither big nor clever.
But he had seen off four thugs. They
were both safe, in one piece, and totally intact. She could not ignore that.
She began to wonder if she really
knew or even understand him, this man she had married almost at a whim, this
mild mannered Englishman. Was there something about his history that he had not
told her? How much of this had to do with this whole time travel thing, and
everything that had happened to her so far since she met him? Was he actually
dangerous? Was she even safe to be in his presence? Should she turn him over to
the police?
She desperately wanted more answers,
but she knew she was not going to get them imminently, plus her husband was
clearly in no state to give any. In the meantime, she thought, the best thing
to do would be to keep quiet and just ignore him. That would surely be enough
to let him know how she felt.
*
The rest of the ten-minute journey to
their hotel was conducted at speed, but in silence.
On arrival, Deanne was about to get
out of the car, lock it, and intended to march straight to their room without a
further word. But as she pulled the ignition key out, she changed her mind and
turned to her husband for one more stern look and lecture, only to find that he
was noticeably shaking. The adrenaline rush was well and truly over as waves of
nausea swept his head.
Her expression now changed to one of
anxiety. ‘Are you all right?’ she said, concerned.
Suddenly, he opened the door, and vomited
onto the hotel parking lot.
When convinced his retching was over,
he sat back up in the passenger seat, looking very sorry for himself. He did
not want to talk.
‘Come on
David,’ said Deanne, her hostility turning to sympathy, ‘let’s get inside,
washed and changed. And then we’ll talk.’Chapter 27 >
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