Page 33 of The Final Vow (Washington Poe #7)

Matthew did jazz hands.

‘Surprise,’ he said to Poe.

Matthew’s appearance didn’t put a full stop to what was about to happen, but it certainly paused it.

The quiet menace Poe had sensed at Archie Arreghini’s had been amped up tenfold.

It was overt now. Poe felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

Matthew was a dangerous man. And again, Poe had the feeling that he should know who he was.

Matthew threw a thumb over his shoulder. ‘So, Fatty here’s got a two-inch dick, has he? Surprised he was bragging about it to be honest. Then again, it’d be a dreary world if everyone thought the same.’

‘This is nothing to do with you,’ Horace the Viking said out of the side of his mouth. ‘I’m not leaving here without an apology.’

‘Fuck off, mate,’ Matthew said, without turning round.

Horace put his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. Poe winced. Matthew looked at the hand in amusement. Horace removed it like he’d put it on a hot griddle.

‘Don’t ever touch me again,’ Matthew said. He rubbed his hands together. ‘Now, if this two-incher is worth bragging about, I reckon it’s worth seeing.’

Horace said nothing.

‘Go on then, whip it out,’ Matthew said. He folded his arms. Tapped his foot.

He’s goading him, Poe thought. He’s goading him into doing something. Poe glanced up. Saw the myriad dome cameras on the roof. He wants to be reactive, not pro active. Proactive people go to prison. Reactive people don’t.

Matthew was six-foot three. He was lean, didn’t have an ounce of fat on him.

Horace the Viking needed a bra. He looked like he’d get out of breath reaching for his family pack of cheesy Wotsits.

Matthew looked like he wrestled bears in his spare time.

Horace looked like he made his own Christmas cards.

But, just as Matthew had wanted, it turned out that even pretend Vikings could only be pushed so far.

Particularly when they’d been drinking mead for two hours.

Horace put his hand on his replica sword.

It had an ornate pommel and grip. He said, ‘My name is Odin, the All-Father, first of the Aesir.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Matthew said. ‘And Vikings don’t wear hearing aids.’

Horace unsheathed his replica sword and shouted, ‘’Til Valhalla!’

Matthew didn’t hesitate. He took a step forward, grabbed Horace’s jerkin and headbutted him with a ferocity Poe hadn’t seen in a long time.

Crushed the replica helmet against his nose.

Horace dropped his sword and fell to the floor, clutching his face.

Blood spurted through his fingers. He started bawling.

‘Shut up or I’ll stamp on your tiny mouse balls,’ Matthew said.

Horace shut up.

‘Gosh,’ Bradshaw said.

Matthew addressed the rest of the Carry On Vikings crew.

‘Listen up,’ he said. ‘I need you all to piss off. And I don’t mean to another part of the NEC, I mean piss off back to your basement rooms and your call-centre jobs.’ He paused. ‘The next person to take even a single step in my direction gets a life-changing injury.’

A glassy-eyed man in horn-rimmed spectacles, not reading the situation as well as he ought, stepped forward anyway. He eyed his fallen comrade and said, ‘I don’t think you realise just how many of us are solicitors. What’s your name, because you’re going to prison for a long, long—’

Matthew barely moved. Just his leg. It shot out like a dart. Connected with the side of the guy’s knee. There was an audible snap as the joint shattered. He collapsed. Started shrieking.

‘Anyone else want to play?’ Matthew said. He ran his eyes over the crowd. ‘No? Then off you fuck.’

They did.

Matthew sauntered up to Poe and Bradshaw. He thrust out his hand. Nonplussed, Poe shook it.

‘What the hell is going on?’ Poe said.

‘My name’s Towler,’ he said. ‘Matt Towler.’ He looked at the two men he’d put on the floor. ‘Come on, let’s get a brew.’