Damien’s lungs burned from the cold, and his eyes stung from the thick smoke that had blanketed downtown Loch Lomond.

The billowing clouds of smoke were made all the more disorienting by the alternating lightning flashes of red and blue as every fire engine, ambulance, and police car in the sleepy little town converged on the blaze.

Pushing his way through a crowd of fellow rubberneckers and lookie-loos, Damien grew more certain of his suspicions the closer he got to the fire.

Not that he could get especially close. If the police cordon hadn’t been enough to stop him from getting within a few hundred metres of the blaze, the heat that radiated from it certainly would have. Even at this distance, his skin sang with the pain of its radiating waves. The heat had a sort of sick feeling to it, nothing like the soothing warmth of his own fireplace.

And the sound! He had never realised just how loud a fire could be, and the roaring of the flames was only worsened by a cacophony of shouts, howling sirens, and honking horns.

Even from this distance and through the haze of smoke and heat, he could see that Sam’s shop was one of the half-dozen buildings being consumed by the fire. The hair salon and bakery on either side were also on fire, as was a house, a real estate agent, and an art gallery.

His worst fears confirmed, Damien scanned the gathering of emergency vehicles, looking for some sign of his friend amidst the chaos. He couldn’t see any body bags, but he had no idea if those were really a thing or just something from Law & Order. He did not see Sam perched on the tailgate of an ambulance with a blanket over his shoulders either, although that was almost certainly a TV thing.

A police officer he recognised stood a few metres away. The younger brother of one of Damien’s teammates, he was splitting his attention between watching the crowd of onlookers and the firefighters hard at work trying to contain the blaze. They had abandoned hope of saving the buildings already on fire and were instead dowsing the next closest buildings with water. Ironically, one of these buildings was their own firehouse.

“Oi! Mitch!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the sussurous of muttering from those around him. After a moment of confusion, Mitch turned towards him. shot him a smile, and made his way over.

“Damo! How the hell have you been, mate? I heard you were back in town. When are you gonna come join us down at the Royal for a beer?”

“Soon, mate.” Damien lied, quickly changing the topic. “Listen, has anybody been hurt?”

Mitch shook his head. “Nah, mate. Ambos are just here for smoke inhalation and heatstroke. Everybody had already lit out for the evening when the fire started. Shame about the bakery, though. They made the best sandwiches.”

Damien felt immense relief. He had not realised quite how much he cared about his old friend until he saw the smoke.

Mitch waffled on, talking about his preferred combination of bread and ingredients at Sarah’s Bakery and then moving on to talk about how his girlfriend would be having some time off work now that the hairdresser’s was gone.

Damien went through the motions of nodding and listening, occasionally chiming in with an “Oh, yeah?” or a “Too right,” but his attention was elsewhere. Standing in the crowd on the corner opposite was Matthias. The oddly dressed man had not noticed Damien; his attention was solely on the fires. He watched with a kind of rapt attention, not letting the jostling of the crowd or the movement of emergency vehicles take his eyes off the scene.

He was smiling.

It was a ridiculous leap to make, yet Damien found himself suspicious of the strangely friendly newcomer. Who smiled at a scene like this?

“Excuse me, mate,” he apologised to Mitch, already moving through the crowd. “Just spotted somebody I need to talk to.”

“What about beers, mate?” the sandy-haired officer called after him. “When are we doing beers?”

“Soon!” Damien shouted back over his shoulder. “I’ll give you a buzz next week.”

Even with his formidable frame, the crowd did not part easily for him. Most were too distracted to see him coming, while others seemed annoyed that he would cut across the crowd like this. Of these, the majority simply grumbled or snapped at him, but a few sneering jackals - old “friends” from his high school days - actively tried to trip him up or slow him down.

He ignored the first few, reluctant to engage in the undercurrent of viciousness that had always dogged his returns to Loch Lomond, but eventually felt his anger building. These arseholes were acting like it was still high school, and he was still some awkward loser nervously walking the hallways on his own. He’d always moved about school on the verge of panic, ever ready to duck into cover or run should he see one of his myriad bullies. Some part of him still felt that way whenever he was in his hometown, which was a large part of the reason he had avoided the place like the plague until circumstances banished him there.

He ducked into the loading dock behind the grocery store and moved to cut across the now empty parking lot, but a trio of local drunks barred his way forward.

“Where are you goin’, mate?” one of them, a classic Napoleon-complex dickhead who Damien recognised as one of his former classmates, Benji. The sandy-haired little guy, no more than 5’3”, sneered. “Where’s the fire, mate?”

Hoarse laughter followed. Benji, as always, was backed up by his identical twin brother, Drew, but he also had a lanky redhead in his little posse. Damien recognised the redhead but didn’t know his name. Benji and Drew had been amongst his bullies in high school, while the ginger had been a year or two above him.

“Hilarious, mate,” Damien deadpanned. Do you mind getting out of my way?” This last was not a question, and he did not find any amusement in Benji’s little joke.

“Aw, but I wanted to get your autograph,” Drew interjected, moving to flank his brother. “You’re famous, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” the redhead chimed in, “You’re real famous. I seen you on telly. What was it for again?”

They knew, of course. Drew and Benji had been on the high school footy team right up until they’d dropped out in the tenth grade to do… whatever it was bullies end up doing after school.

“I don’t have time for this. Get out of my way.”

“Ooh,” Benji mimicked fright. “The big guy is angry. We’d better get out of his way!”

The three of them, now lined up alongside one another, must have thought their wall quite impenetrable, but when you’ve run into the brick wall that is an Australian representative forward, a trio of dickheads doesn’t present as much of an obstacle. He dropped a shoulder and moved through them, confident that his height and weight advantage would encourage them to move before he needed to use any actual force.

The redhead, while of a similar height to Damien, was all skin and bone. He moved easily enough. The twins, though, perhaps drawing confidence from their sibling’s presence or thinking they were still in high school, didn’t move. Without a running start, he couldn’t exactly shove them aside and instead tried to sidestep them. He really didn’t want to get bogged down in a fight with these two right now, as much as it might have been cathartic to beat the shit out of them.

They quickly moved to stay in his path, puffing out their chests and sneering at him with the cocksure confidence of guys who had never left their small pond.

“Get out of my way,” he snarled. “I don’t have time for your shit.”

“Somewhere important to be, mate? Late to meet your bookie?”

Damien saw red. He felt his jaw clench and his hands form fists. He could ill afford to get arrested for assault - that would violate his probation - but damn, would it feel good to pound some sense, some respect, into these two arseholes.

Counting to ten in his head, he let his fists and jaw relax before replying. “Nah, mate. Your missus’ place. She said you’d be two busy jerking one another off tonight, so gave me a ring.”

It was a low blow. A childish one.

But children didn’t need wit.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Benji seemed completely incapable of realising the foot height advantage he was giving up to Damien, let alone the obvious weight advantage. Benji and Drew had been wingers - mirror images on opposite sides of the field. They had been built for speed and agility, which, in their post-football years, had been dulled somewhat by what Damien could only assume was a healthy diet of beer and meat pies.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Damien, on the other hand, had been a ball-playing back-rower. He might not have been as large as a prop forward whose job it was to run it up the guts of the field, but he was a close second.

Like a chihuahua up against a larger dog, however, neither Benji nor Drew seemed intimidated by the gulf in physical size that existed between them. Maybe they truly still perceived him as the scrawny kid they’d picked on in high school, or maybe they were just too dumb and too drunk to think about the consequences.

Either way, Benji stepped forward and struck Damien with a two-handed shove to the chest. Damien did not move.

“What did you say about me missus?”

“That’s the mother of his children,” Drew chimed in. “You can’t disrespect the mother of his children.”

“I doubt they’re his children. How tall are they?”

The crunch of boots on bitumen was all the warning Damien needed to know the redhead had summoned up enough courage to try and punch him in the back of the head. He quickly dodged to the side, pivoting on a heel and using a hand to not-so-gently accelerate the ginger’s momentum so that he careened into a startled Benji.

“Off you pop, lads. Go find somebody else to entertain you.”

No comeback was forthcoming. The three of them fanned out, all red faces and pent-up rage. Damien knew a thing or two about pent-up anger, but he didn’t have the time to indulge in catharsis. He needed to catch up to Matthias.

“Right,” he growled, “let’s make this quick.”

The twins darted in first, each of them attempting a quick jab - one at his jaw and one at his midsection. He weaved away from the fist aimed at his head but had to wear the rabbit punch in his kidneys. Pain surged through his body.

No fancy cards to play here.

Deprived of fancy, he went for old-fashioned: a haymaker that caught the bug-eyed redhead square in the cheek. A fountain of spit and blood followed him all the way to the ground, although the blow had not knocked him out.

However, his triumph came at a price, with Benji and Drew rushing at him in tandem, seeking to bear him to the ground. They may have been smaller than him, but they’d had to contend with men his size and bigger in their footballing days, and they knew how to drop a shoulder and drive up from underneath to get him off balance. A pair of clubbing blows to Benji’s back sent Tweedle-Dum staggering back, but Tweedle-Dee was a tenacious little bastard, hooking an arm under one of Damien’s legs and lifting one of his legs off the ground. It was brief, but the change in balance was enough, and Benji quickly rushed in from the side, hitting him with an elbow strike that sent stars dancing across his vision and hot blood across his tongue.

The ground came up to meet him, but he held onto Drew’s arm as they fell, pulling him down into the dirt, asphalt, and cigarette butts that littered the car park.

The boots came next. Redhead and Benji alike joined the fun, their steel-toed workboots a far more painful prospect than sneakers or footy boots had ever been. He instinctively covered his neck and head, curling up into a ball to protect his vulnerable areas.

“Fuckin’ cunt,” the redhead was shouting. “Fuckin’ dickhead prick.”

“Still a fuckin’ loser,” Benji added. “Little pussy bitch.”

There was that red again. He rolled away from them, ignoring the way the asphalt cut at his arms and tore at his work shirt until his momentum had carried him underneath the twin bars of a trolley drop-off.

The moment’s reprieve from their kicks allowed him to stagger to his feet, his entire body one giant bruise.

“Run at me!” he roared. “Come get some, you dwarf mother-fucker.”

Having been a victim of a few boots of friendly fire, Drew was still staggering to his feet, but Benji took the bait. However, he didn’t skirt the trolley return and instead took a running dive across it that caught Damien completely by surprise. Only his weight advantage kept him on his feet, but the human torpedo had knocked the wind out of him.

Even so, he had the presence of mind to grab the back of Benji’s head, forcing it down towards his knee. The two met with spectacular force, and Damien gave Benji a few more taps before the little man fell away from him, dazed but conscious.

While he’d been occupied by Tweedle Dum, Tweedle Dee and the gingerbread man had gotten back into the fray, and it looked like the redhead had pulled a pocket knife.

Not good.

Size didn’t matter much now, especially since none of them were trained in anything more refined than barroom brawling.

Damien took a step back.

“Yeah, you’re scared now, aren’t you?” the redhead sneered. “Not so big now, are you? You gonna run away?”

“Easy there, mate,” Damien soothed, raising both hands with palms towards the trio. Let’s not do anything we’ll regret, eh?”

“Fuck him,” Benji spat, wiping blood away from the swollen mess that was his face. “Fuckin’ get the cunt.”

Damien’s knee had done a real number on Benji’s face. His eyes were already swelling shut, and his nose, never the most attractive part of his face, was a bloody wreck. It was almost certainly broken.

The redhead didn’t quite know what to do now. His beady little eyes darted back and forth between Damien and the twins. Which was greater: his fear of their disapproval or his fear of spending the rest of his life in prison for killing a guy in a drunken fight?

Behind him, the roaring blaze silhouetted the Old Mill, making it look like it was on the verge of hell. Embers and smoke were thick in the air, causing all four men’s eyes to water and throats to burn. If this kept up for much longer, they stood a very real chance of passing out.

“What are you waiting for?” Drew barked. “Do the prick!”

“You don’t want to do that,” Damien countered. “At the moment, we’ve just had a bit of a blue. You stab me, and it’s a lot more than that. I don’t even know you, mate. Do you really think cutting me is something you want to do?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Benji shouted. “Don’t fuckin’ listen to him, Rohan. Cut him!”

Rohan! That was his name. He sat two seats in front of me in history class, and he never seemed to be paying attention.

Damien frantically scanned his memories of high school, looking for some interaction they’d had that might have given Rohan cause to hate him. Something more tangible than “He was a loser in high school” or “Benji and Drew don’t like him.” As far as he could recall, they’d never even exchanged words. Rohan might have shoved him a time or two in the hallway to impress his mates, but nothing more serious than that.

You hope.

Rohan wavered. His desire to look like a badass in front of his friends warred with his common sense, screaming at him not to do something he’d regret. How much had he had to drink? Was a few beers all he’d had? Ice - crystal meth - was a growing problem in the area, and while Damien hadn’t crossed paths with many tweakers, he had strong doubts about their rational thinking abilities.

The four of them remained motionless for a second that stretched out for what felt like an eternity. The two smaller men, yapping and snarling like rabid dogs, tried to goad their “friend” into doing their dirty work while Damien simply maintained the space between them.

He could run - he should run - but stubborn male pride made that a difficult path to take. If he couldn’t fight or talk his way out of this, he was quite confident he could just turn tail and run, but that came with its own set of complications. Did he want to go back to being known as a coward? Worse, did he want people saying he’d run to the cops and cried to them, much as he’d sought out teachers in high school?

Something had to give, and, for a sparkling moment, it looked as if it was going to be Rohan’s burgeoning bloodlust. The hand holding the knife dropped at the same moment his shoulders did, but there was little time for relief as Benji snatched the knife from his hand and darted towards Damien with surprising speed.

Fuck.

Had it not been for Matthias’ intervention, there was a good chance Damien’s blood would have been spilt.

The oddly dressed men appeared out of nowhere. His hand intercepted Benji’s thrusting arm and twisted it in the same motion. There was an audible crack as a bone broke, and the knife clattered to the ground.

Drew shouted in anger and rushed to his brother’s aid but found his advance met by a sharp kick to the midsection from Matthias. He doubled over as the air was forced out of his lungs, his down-swinging head meeting a running knee from Matthias. The impact sent him flying backwards, where his head cracked sickeningly against the metal bar of the trolley return.

All thirst for violence had left Rohan. The tall, gangly man turned tail and ran.

To Damien’s awe and surprise, Matthias didn’t let him get away. “Where are you going, friend?” Matthias asked amiably, even as he ran after the fleeing figure. He stooped and slapped at Rohan’s trailing leg, executing an ankle tap that would have made Damien’s coach proud. The blow caused Rohan’s legs to tangle, and his momentum did the rest. He fell face-first onto the asphalt, sliding a few feet as jagged stone and broken glass tore at his skin.

Not satisfied, Matthias jogged up alongside him and planted a boot on the back of his neck.

“I think you owe my friend an apology.”

“Sorry! Sorry!” Rohan sobbed. “I didn’t mean nothing!”

Drew and Benji had no apologies. The former was unconscious - maybe dead - while the latter rolled around in the dirt, alternately cursing and shouting in pain. From the look of the bulge on his forearm, the bone had come dangerously close to breaking the skin.

Who the hell is this guy? Damien wondered. He’s like something out of one of Sam’s stories.

“Louder.” Matthias barked. “I don’t think he heard you.”

“I’M SORRY! I’M SORRRRY!”

“Fucking asshole,” Benji suddenly lurched to his feet, his non-dominant hand gripping the knife as he charged Matthias from behind. “You broke me fuckin’ arm!”

Damien moved to intercept the smaller man, but he needn’t have bothered. Matthias met the charge with almost casual confidence, a sharp chop to the wrist knocking the knife out of Benji’s left hand even as his other hand grabbed the broken arm and yanked it hard to the side. Bone and blood tore through tortured skin.

Jesus Christ!

It was all over in a matter of seconds. Rohan sobbed and crawled towards the flames, Benji screamed and writhed around, and Drew was unmoving.

For his part, Damien grew suddenly light-headed, the unspent adrenaline in his system combining with the shock of seeing a man’s arm so viciously broken.

Don’t you fucking faint…

But he did.

The ground came up to meet him.