technique.
He struggled against me for a moment longer but I grabbed the point of his shoulder with my other hand and carefully applied a touch more force. It was only as he felt the joint start to tear apart that he gave up. I relaxed the pressure a little but didn’t let go.
Eamonn meanwhile, despite making noise like he was mortally wounded, took advantage of the distraction to rear up far enough to take a swing at Sean. He caught the baton, sending it flying. It clattered away across the forecourt and disappeared under Isobel’s Mercedes. If Eamonn thought that Sean would be easier to tackle without a weapon, however, he was to be severely disappointed.
Sean never blinked. He reached down and roughly picked Eamonn up by the lapels of his jacket, throwing him about like a dog worrying a lamb. Eamonn came down sprawled on his knees, facing away from Sean, who stepped over his legs and took hold of a big handful of the other man’s shirt collar, using it as a tourniquet on his throat.
Eamonn’s colour rose as he started to choke, his fingers scrabbling at his own clothing. Sean immediately shifted his grip so his forearms were clamped on either side of the man’s neck, just below the jawbone, and started to pile on the pressure.
Restricting the blood flow through the carotid artery that feeds the brain will cause loss of consciousness in around ten seconds. It was a method I’d been taught a long time ago – by Sean as I seem to recall – for silently and effectively dealing with an enemy, but it was not something I’d ever shown to my self-defence students. Because when you’re scared and under pressure, it’s easy to misjudge the time and hold on too long. Somewhere around forty seconds, the starvation of oxygen to the brain starts to have permanent effects.
But already Sean had held onto Eamonn for more than ten seconds. The other man had ceased to struggle but I could see Sean’s arms bunched with the effort of keeping the lock in place. And I knew full well that he wasn’t under pressure and he certainly wasn’t scared.
“Sean,” I said sharply. He looked over at me but his eyes were blank and empty.
“ Sean !” I said again, and this time the anguish and the pleading in my voice seemed to reach him where anger had not. He abruptly relaxed his grip and Eamonn slid limply to the ground at his feet.
Isobel gave a fearful cry and knelt alongside the Irishman, cradling his head. I let go of Jamie. He wrenched himself away from me, rubbing his shoulder reproachfully, but didn’t make any moves to continue his attack on Sean, nor to help his mother.
Isobel gave Eamonn a couple of businesslike slaps across his cheek. He started to come out of it, limbs spasming as life and control returned. He knocked her hands away angrily and instinctively tried to get to his feet, but his co-ordination was shot.
“You bastard,” Isobel spat at Sean.
He shrugged. “He brought it on himself,” he said, indifferent. He took a step forward as Isobel started to hoist Eamonn to his feet. “Wait, I’m not done with him yet.”
“Oh yes, I think you are. We’re leaving – unless you plan to keep us here by force,” she said, with surprising dignity. “Help me get him into the car,” she ordered her son in a peremptory voice. Jamie did as he was told without making eye contact with anyone.
Eamonn allowed himself to be shovelled into the passenger side of the Mercedes with ill grace. Isobel slammed the door on him and went round to the driver’s side, starting up the engine with her foot heavy on the accelerator. She stuck the big car in reverse and it shot backwards across the forecourt, sweeping round to head off up the drive, sending up a cloud of dust. The baton must have been lying close to one of the tyres. As she set off it was sent skittering away across the mossy stone cobbles.
And all the while Eamonn stared at us through the glass,
He struggled against me for a moment longer but I grabbed the point of his shoulder with my other hand and carefully applied a touch more force. It was only as he felt the joint start to tear apart that he gave up. I relaxed the pressure a little but didn’t let go.
Eamonn meanwhile, despite making noise like he was mortally wounded, took advantage of the distraction to rear up far enough to take a swing at Sean. He caught the baton, sending it flying. It clattered away across the forecourt and disappeared under Isobel’s Mercedes. If Eamonn thought that Sean would be easier to tackle without a weapon, however, he was to be severely disappointed.
Sean never blinked. He reached down and roughly picked Eamonn up by the lapels of his jacket, throwing him about like a dog worrying a lamb. Eamonn came down sprawled on his knees, facing away from Sean, who stepped over his legs and took hold of a big handful of the other man’s shirt collar, using it as a tourniquet on his throat.
Eamonn’s colour rose as he started to choke, his fingers scrabbling at his own clothing. Sean immediately shifted his grip so his forearms were clamped on either side of the man’s neck, just below the jawbone, and started to pile on the pressure.
Restricting the blood flow through the carotid artery that feeds the brain will cause loss of consciousness in around ten seconds. It was a method I’d been taught a long time ago – by Sean as I seem to recall – for silently and effectively dealing with an enemy, but it was not something I’d ever shown to my self-defence students. Because when you’re scared and under pressure, it’s easy to misjudge the time and hold on too long. Somewhere around forty seconds, the starvation of oxygen to the brain starts to have permanent effects.
But already Sean had held onto Eamonn for more than ten seconds. The other man had ceased to struggle but I could see Sean’s arms bunched with the effort of keeping the lock in place. And I knew full well that he wasn’t under pressure and he certainly wasn’t scared.
“Sean,” I said sharply. He looked over at me but his eyes were blank and empty.
“ Sean !” I said again, and this time the anguish and the pleading in my voice seemed to reach him where anger had not. He abruptly relaxed his grip and Eamonn slid limply to the ground at his feet.
Isobel gave a fearful cry and knelt alongside the Irishman, cradling his head. I let go of Jamie. He wrenched himself away from me, rubbing his shoulder reproachfully, but didn’t make any moves to continue his attack on Sean, nor to help his mother.
Isobel gave Eamonn a couple of businesslike slaps across his cheek. He started to come out of it, limbs spasming as life and control returned. He knocked her hands away angrily and instinctively tried to get to his feet, but his co-ordination was shot.
“You bastard,” Isobel spat at Sean.
He shrugged. “He brought it on himself,” he said, indifferent. He took a step forward as Isobel started to hoist Eamonn to his feet. “Wait, I’m not done with him yet.”
“Oh yes, I think you are. We’re leaving – unless you plan to keep us here by force,” she said, with surprising dignity. “Help me get him into the car,” she ordered her son in a peremptory voice. Jamie did as he was told without making eye contact with anyone.
Eamonn allowed himself to be shovelled into the passenger side of the Mercedes with ill grace. Isobel slammed the door on him and went round to the driver’s side, starting up the engine with her foot heavy on the accelerator. She stuck the big car in reverse and it shot backwards across the forecourt, sweeping round to head off up the drive, sending up a cloud of dust. The baton must have been lying close to one of the tyres. As she set off it was sent skittering away across the mossy stone cobbles.
And all the while Eamonn stared at us through the glass,
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