The Last Big Job by Nick Oldham Read Free Book Online Page A

roar, the man lunged for Spencer. The youth got another
good punch in before they both grappled into each other’s arms.
There then followed a scrap which spilled out on to the aisle,
across seats, across other passengers, on to the aircraft
floor.
    Bedlam ensued. Cabin crew raced to the scene, by which time
Spencer had bloodied the man’s nose and knocked a tooth
loose.
    The crew grabbed both participants and hauled them
apart.
    But Spencer had flipped. He head-butted a stewardess on the
nose, kneed a male steward in the testicles and struck, slapped,
punched and scratched anyone else who came near him. Eventually
force of numbers overwhelmed him. The staff, assisted by some
helpful passengers, began to subdue him - a situation which
unfortunately provoked another reaction. This time from
Cheryl.
    ‘ Let go of my boyfriend, you poxy slag!’ she screamed, and
launched herself like a wild cougar at the Chief Stewardess; the
woman crashed to the floor, stunned. This did not stop Cheryl, in
the tight space available, from raining kicks into her curled-up
body.
    This new attack startled and distracted those who had been
restraining Spencer. He broke free with a surge of angry energy,
scrambled to his feet and raced headlong down the plane with some
wild thought in his mind of bursting on to the flight deck and
having a go at flying the plane.
    Blocking his way was the effeminately-mannered male steward,
holding out his right hand in a number one stop signal: hand raised
to shoulder height, arm extended, elbow locked, palm facing
out.
    Spencer’s expression turned to a scornful snarl as he hurtled
towards the petite man. A roar grew in his throat and he adjusted
his pace to deliver a flying kick, aimed somewhere around the
steward’s midriff.
    Had it connected, the force behind it would, at the very
least, have broken bones and could possibly have damaged internal
organs. However, rather like a balletic bullfighter minus the cape,
the steward side-stepped gracefully out of Spencer’s flight path at
the last possible moment. As the youth hurtled past him, the
steward delivered a well-aimed blow on the side of his head which
had the immediate effect of making Spencer think he’d slammed
against a brick wall. He crumpled and thudded down into the aisle,
a quivering blob.
    Within seconds, the steward had skilfully turned Spencer over
on to his stomach, wrenched his arms behind his back and secured
his wrists with a pair of clear plastic handcuffs which resembled
the plastic rings which kept six-packs of beer together.
    Halfway down the plane, Cheryl was continuing to cause havoc.
She bit, scratched, kicked, clawed and continually broke free from
the fingers of would-be captors. She connected several good punches
and many of the people around her were bleeding or
bruised.
    The steward who had successfully subdued Spencer left him
pinned down by a colleague - knee jammed hard down between the
shoulder-blades - and turned his attention to the wildcat down the
aisle.
    He approached on the balls of his feet, lightly, with a
spring. He cut in at the right moment and seemed only to touch
Cheryl on the side of the head, underneath an ear somewhere. Her
legs gave way instantly. She wobbled to her knees and before she
hit the deck, the steward eased her head down, cushioning the fall.
He applied a second pair of handcuffs to her.
    It was the first time he had ever used his skills in anger.
The first time that fifteen years of Kung-fu training had been
transferred into a real-life fight. Modestly, the steward
acknowledged the appreciative ripple of applause and few cheers and
whistles from the passengers.
     
     
    Ten minutes ahead of the Tenerife flight into Manchester was a
cargo flight from Brussels, bringing in a few tons of electrical
equipment. With a total of only three people on board - pilot,
co-pilot, navigator - the flight had been uneventful, boring even.
It was landing bang on schedule, the weather had been fine and the
plane