Joe let go of Duffy, who fell in a heap on the floor. His face was a sight. The little guy knelt down. “Where’s the camera, bright boy?”
Duffy mumbled something, but his mouth was so swollen that the little guy couldn’t hear what he said.
“Lay him up on the couch, Joe, we’ll have to get him into shape.”
Joe pulled Duffy across the floor by his arm and dumped him on to the over-stuffed couch.
“Get some water, Clive, and a towel,” the little guy said.
Clive went out of the room into the bathroom. Duffy lay with his eyes shut, his breath coming in shuddering gasps.
Joe went over to the wagon and poured himself out a drink. He took it neat, then punched himself on the chest with his fist.
Clive came back with a wet towel. The little guy held out his hand, but Clive walked over to Duffy. “Let me do it.”
“Well, well, did you hear, Joe?” the little guy was surprised. “Clive wants to do it.”
Clive went on one knee beside Duffy and mopped his swollen bruised face with the towel. Duffy looked at him through a puffy eye. Then Clive put his hand on the side of Duffy’s head, made his fingers into claws and dragged his nails down Duffy’s face.