It slammed into Lightfoot’s chest, glanced off and cracked against his chin. The broken glass flew across the floor and the blow lifted Norman off his feet, even though he was big and solid. He jolted backwards and crumpled onto the floor. A group of bar staff, bouncers and club members burst out onto the balcony and came at Jordan. Before he could react, they had him by the arms. He didn’t strike out again. Shocked by his own power, he didn’t want to hurt anyone else. A yachtsman helped Norman Lightfoot up and supported him as he walked away. “No!” Jordan cried. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m the good guy. He attacked me.” “Sure,” one of the men replied. “Fifty-year-old attacks teenager. That’s a turn-up for the books.” “How come he’s hurt if he’s the thug?” someone said. “We’ve called the police.” Jordan shouted, “You didn’t see.
