Stone Fist

by J. D. Weston

  “Jack,” called John, as Blake shoved his chair back, “stand aside, will you, and let young Blakey out.”

  Jack did as requested, and John watched as Blake’s hand grabbed the door handle and pulled the cold air into the room once more.

  “Oh, one more thing, Blake,” he said, taking another sip of his brandy. “Before you go.”

  The big man turned to face John with the dark, wet night waiting behind his huge frame that filled the doorway. John nodded at Mick who pulled a single photograph from his pocket and handed it to him.

  “Your little girl,” said John, studying the photograph. He waited until he had Blake’s attention and saw the big man moving towards him in his peripheral vision. “She’s very pretty. She’s the image of her mum, isn’t she?”

  A blanket of leaves lay on the damp ground in chronological layers of death. Fresh leaves crunched under Harvey’s boot, while older generations that had been exposed to the wet turned to pulp and became an unidentifiable part of the environment.

  Rows of headstones stood upright like proud sentries guarding their posts while below them, the cycle of life and death rolled on. The deterioration of the leaves on the surface, the unending quarrel of insects below, and below them, the bodies of the dead in their long journey of decay, as piece by piece, their bodies returned to the earth.

  The East London Crematorium and Cemetery spanned thirteen acres of hallowed ground. It was a pride of green, a walled-in escape from industry, evolution and the chaos of city life, a pocket of peace for those who rested.

  An avenue of trees greeted Harvey along with the calm aura of eternal rest. Beyond the avenue, shrouded by oaks and elms, was the chapel and to the sides of the avenue lay the dead. Some of the headstones had fallen with age. The dark and crumbled stone had cracked or broken. But some fresh graves shone bright white with the gaiety of a freshman, naive to the realm of eternal peace. Slowly, they would too fade and succumb to the cycle of life, as day by day, week by week, and year by year, they perished, as do all things.

  Standing tall among the older graves, adorned with great Celtic crosses, the faded, once-cherished names of the dead stood between carved angels, saints and the ever-present Jesus, nailed to a cross, a symbol of sacrifice.

  The grave of Julios Saville was not guarded by an angel reaching for the heavens, nor was Harvey’s mentor’s journey to the afterlife accompanied by an ornate saint, carved in granite by the loving hands of a mason. Instead, a simple plaque, seven inches squared, was fixed to a lump of marble and set in the earth beside identical markers with identical plaques.

  It was a government burial ground offering the minimal contribution of memory to lives who, in the eyes of society, deserved less. Although the simple markers were uniform, Julios’ grave was unique. Neighbouring graves were overrun with weeds, seeking a place to hold onto and fighting for light to thrive among the memories, and hide the names of the shunned from the honour of the dead. But Julios’ grave was clear as if somebody had pulled the imposing weeds from the earth and exposed his name for all to see. It was the work of pride.

  No flowers lay across the bare earth, but the contrast of dark soil against the neighbouring battle of plant life honoured Julios’ simple and clutter-free life.

  In all the years Harvey had known Julios, his mentor had never once shown an affection for possessions. The cars he drove were simple and cheap. The clothes he wore were bland and nondescript. Not once had Harvey ever visited Julios’ home. But he’d imagined it hundreds of times as a basic one-room apartment with an armchair, a bed, perhaps a table, and a landlord willing to ask no questions in return for a monthly cash payment.

  On his walk through the graveyard, Harvey had tried to picture what the grave might look like. He’d expected nothing grand, knowing that a state burial would offer the minimum viable option. But what had been clear in Harvey’s mind had been the name. In his mind's eye, the carved letters portrayed finality and reflected the greatness of the man Harvey had admired and looked up to more than anybody else during his childhood.

  But the stark reality hit him hard. The small chunk of synthetic marble with a template plaque punched out in some factory by a cold-hearted machine to form the words ‘Julios Saville’ and the date of his death offered no sense of the person.

  It had been Julios who had trained Harvey to be the man he’d become. Stealth, defence, and attack were at the core of those lessons, as was the power of barely existing until it was time to strike. But when he did strike, he was taught the ability to read an opponent before either man made a move, which added weight to the perfection in every placement of his feet and accuracy in every delivery of a blow. Julios Saville was a dangerous man to stand toe to toe with, and over years of training, Harvey had taken those skills, and added his own blend of prolonged suffering.

  Defence and attack were not the only attributes Harvey had gleaned from his mentor. Their work required a state of mind, and a clean life free of the complexities that the average man collated. There could be no routine for anyone to follow. There could be no item out of place. And there could be no emotion.

  But it had been emotion that killed Julios in the end. Harvey thought back to the time when he’d found Julios in the mud, his huge face torn apart by the wheels of a Range Rover. His body riddled with bullet holes. It hadn’t been Julios’ emotion that killed him, it had been Harvey’s. He’d added complexities to what was a very simple job, and it had gone wrong. In the blink of an eye, Julios had been torn from Harvey’s life.

  Ironically, as Harvey stared down at the pressed plaque and Julios’ name, emotions stirred somewhere deep inside. It triggered some hidden part of him that barely existed save for two people: Melody and Julios.

  A single tear formed in the corner of Harvey’s eye. But as it did, a shape, out of place among the surrounding green, moved at the edge of Harvey’s vision.

  He glanced up but saw no movement. A trick of the tear?

  With a final look at the only evidence that Julios Saville ever existed, Harvey whispered his name. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was to substantiate the synthetic block and pressed plaque. Perhaps he was sorry. But Julios would scoff at sorrow. Mostly, thought Harvey, he spoke Julios’ name for his own closure. The greatest man he had even known would be remembered in Harvey’s heart, as alive as if Julios walked beside him every day, but rarely would his existence ever breach Harvey's lips.

  Harvey looked back once more at the plaque, but this time he just nodded at his old friend. Then he walked away. He made his way between two rows of headstones. They were new plots and had retained the glossy sheen of machined marble and granite. It would be years before nature wore down the surfaces to a dull matte finish, and the carved epitaphs would outlive the memories of those who lay beneath them.

  At the end of the row, at a crossroads of pathways, all silent, solemn and carpeted with the same broad oak leaves, he glanced back once more at Julios’ marker three hundred yards behind him. Bent on one knee and using his hands to clear the earth around Julios’ grave was a man. He wore a black jacket and a hat. As if he felt Harvey’s stare from afar, he slowly turned his head, and they locked gazes.

  Harvey turned to face him. He cocked his head and tried to find some kind of recognition. But the man stood up, glanced back once at Harvey, then took to his heels and ran in the opposite direction.

  The card reader beeped to unlock the door to the two flats, but it was already open. The lock had been forced. But there was no sign of any other damage. The warm smell of home-baking greeted Tyler when he pushed open the security door on the ground floor. The scent still hung in the air as he sprinted up the single staircase and onto the small landing that split into two entrances, his own flat and his neighbour’s flat. He’d recognise the smell of his mum’s cooking anywhere. He opened the front door and peered around the frame, unsure of what he’d find.

  “You’re home late, dear,” said his mum from the kitchen.

  Tyler c
losed the door behind him and gave his mum a hug and a kiss.

  “Mum, you’re up again. What’s going on? And you’re baking. Mum, you should be resting.”

  “Oh, leave off,” replied his mum. “If I can get up, I will get up. Tomorrow could be my last.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Well, don’t tell me what to do. Besides, I made some cakes. Your favourite, cherry cupcakes.”

  “Ah, Mum, I’m training.”

  “You might be training, Tyler, but you still need food inside you. I haven’t seen you eat in god knows how long.”

  “I eat at work, Mum.”

  “So you don’t want the cakes then?” She glanced across at them on the cooling tray.

  “How can I refuse? Thanks, Mum. But seriously, you should be resting. You could have had an accident.” Tyler took a cupcake from the tray.

  “They’ll be hot,” his mum warned.

  “That’s when they’re the best,” said Tyler with a smile. “Next time you want to get out of bed, can you call me at least?”

  “At least what? So you can check up on me?”

  “No, Mum. But if I know you’re up and about, I can try and get home quicker. It’s great you’re moving, but you know it only takes one fall. I could even ask Sami next door to pop in and make sure you’re okay.” He swallowed the remainder of the little cake.

  “Well, when you put it like that,” she said. Then her face brightened. “How is it?”

  Speaking with his mouth full to emphasise the point, Tyler mumbled that the cake was fantastic and gave her two thumbs up, then made his way to his room.

  “You didn’t tell me where you’ve been anyway,” his mum called from the little kitchen. “You’re normally home earlier than this, aren’t you? Are you training tonight?”

  “Yeah, I’m just getting changed and then I’ll go,” said Tyler. He walked from his room, pulling a clean t-shirt over his head. “Are you going back to bed? Or shall I get you set up in your chair?”

  “Well, I might stay up now I’m awake. I might do some cleaning.”

  “No, Mum. I’ve done it all. I did it last night when I got home. Please leave it. Just relax and let me take care of you. Here is your blanket. Here’s the TV remote. Do you want a cup of tea before I go?” Tyler held out the blanket, waiting for his mum to sit in her armchair. She walked over slowly. She was frail but far more active than he’d seen her in a long time.

  “No tea, dear,” she said. “I’ll be up and down to the loo all night. Are you going already? Why don’t you tell me about your day before you go?”

  “Ah, Mum, I’m running late,” said Tyler. He threw his bag over his shoulder. “The old man will be waiting for me. But if you’re up and about when I get home, we can have a chat then. Okay?”

  “Okay, dear. I don’t want to stop you doing what you need to do,” she said. “I might go back to bed in a while.”

  “Okay, Mum,” said Tyler, and he bent to kiss her on her head.

  “That’s if I don't get disturbed again.”

  “What do you mean? Who disturbed you?” said Tyler, his hand holding the door catch.

  “Oh, I don't know,” his mum replied. “Just two men came knocking.”

  Tyler remembered the broken door downstairs.

  “What did they want?”

  “You know, the funny thing is, they never said. I let them in, of course, and offered them a tea. But they were more interested in the photos on the wall.”

  Behind Tyler, fixed the hallway wall, were three frames. One was of Tyler and his mum at a family wedding a few years before. Another was of Tyler at his first junior fight. The photo was taken before the bell. It showed Tyler with his gloves on the ropes looking down at his mum taking the picture. A nervous but excited boy. He’d been stocky for his age but had still been just a boy. The third photo was of his dad. A three-quarter-length leather jacket, which was old and worn, hung from his huge shoulders and in his arms was baby Tyler.

  “Mum, lock the door behind me and don’t let anybody in,” said Tyler, and he slammed the door closed.

  6

  Checkmate

  “Is there any news?” said John. He sat back in his office chair and pulled his right foot up onto his left knee. He licked a tissue and wiped a smear from his Oxfords, then tossed the tissue in the bin behind him.

  “News, John?” asked Mick.

  “News about our new boy Blake. Is he looking good? Is he a winner? Jack, take a seat, mate. You’re making the place look untidy,” said John. “Sorry, Mick. You were saying?”

  “He hasn’t lost a fight yet and hasn’t seen anything further than round two.”

  “Knockouts?”

  “He’s got a punch like a mule, John,” said Mick, smiling at the good news.

  “But has he got what it takes though, Mick?”

  “A few sessions with Jerry, and Blake will be unstoppable, John.”

  “Good,” said John. “Good. That’s what I want to hear. When is he meeting Jerry?”

  “Tomorrow morning. He’ll have the whole day with him.”

  “And why is he going to do it?” asked John. He left a pause to allow Mick time to consider his answer, then lowered his voice. “What have we got on him? Tell me his weakness.”

  Mick smiled once more at the opportunity to deliver favourable news.

  “He owes money, John. He can’t pay his loans.”

  “So?” said John. “There’s a lot of people out there who owe money without the means to pay.”

  “Most of them are drunks or have gambling habits. Blake has a wife and a young kid and a little bird tells me they might lose their little flat soon, unless they come up with some rent.”

  A cruel grin spread across John’s face, wrinkling his leather-like skin.

  “That’s the type of news I like to hear, Mick,” said John. The news appeased him, and he relaxed back in his chair. “Tell me about our number two. I want him ready too. I want nothing left to chance. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal, John,” said Mick. “We paid his mum a visit yesterday.”

  “His mum?” said John. “What was you doing? Asking permission?”

  “She’s sick. I get the impression she’s terminal.”

  John understood where Mick was going with the conversation.

  “And the boy? How does he feel about that?”

  “We haven't caught up with him yet. But she’s all he’s got. The dad died when he was a kid.”

  “Right,” said John. He rested his chin on his steepled fingers and ran the scenarios through in his head. “And he can fight?”

  “He’s the size of a bleeding house, John. All muscle.”

  “Who’s training him?”

  “Old Man McGee in Limehouse.”

  “That old bastard?”

  “He might be old, John, but he knows his stuff. He’s had more of his boys go pro than any other trainer I know.”

  “Who is this boy?” asked John.

  “Tyler.”

  “Is that his first name or his last name?” asked John.

  “It’s Tyler Thomson, John.”

  “Right. So make sure Old Man McGee doesn’t get wind of this. He’ll know people who know people, and if he finds out we’re putting his boy up against Dixon’s in a fight to the death, he’ll bring the bleeding house down on us, and we’ll all be putting wagers on cockroach races in Pentonville bleeding prison.”

  The phone on John’s desk lit up, but the ringer was set to silent. John answered the call but said nothing.

  “Boss, you might want to come down here,” said Northern Mike, John’s pub manager. “You’ve had a delivery.”

  John replaced the handset and stood up from his seat. He threw on his jacket then pulled his cuffs and cufflinks down so they showed. His tailor-made shirts and jackets were all cut to show an inch of white cuff, just enough for his diamond cufflinks to make a statement and to offer a glint of his platinum Breitling watch.

&n
bsp; “Let’s go, boys,” he said. “Mike reckons we have a delivery.”

  The three men, led by John, made their way down the rear stairs of the Golden Ring and through a door that opened out into the family side of the pub. The muffled sounds of men laughing and talking with the percussive chink of pint glasses being washed and stacked came from the bar next door.

  At the entrance, Jeff the Plumber, one of the regulars, held the door open, letting in the cold night air. Outside on the pavement, Northern Mike was hunched over a man lying on the ground. He looked up as John approached and shook his head, his face solemn.

  The body of Blake Green lay on the wet ground. His lifeless eyes stared up at John.

  “Get him inside, boys,” said John to Mick and Jack, then he checked the street for nosy passers-by.

  They hauled the huge man inside by his arms and dropped his lifeless body on the carpet beside the fruit machine.

  “I just found him like it, John,” said Jeff, as he shut the doors and slid the bolts to lock them. “I don’t know how long he’d been there.”

  “Did you see anyone else? Any cars?”

  “Nothing, John. I swear.”

  “Alright, mate,” replied John. He flicked five twenty pound notes off a roll of cash bound with a silver money clip and stuffed them into Jeff’s top pocket. “Do me a favour, yeah?”

  “I won’t say anything, John. You know me.”

  “I do, Jeff. Thanks, mate. We’ll take it from here. Tell Debbie to put your drinks on my tab.”

  Jeff slipped past the group of men and through the door, letting the noise of the public bar fill the space for a few seconds. Then it faded as the door closed. Northern Mike locked it and turned to face John.

  “Do you know him, John?” he asked.

  John nodded.

  “Yes, Mike, I do.” He thought for a few seconds then verbalised his plan.

  “Right, Jack, get this pile of crap out the back and into the motor. Dump him in Epping Forest. Somewhere he’ll be found by a dog walker. Mick, as soon as you see the discovery on the news, pay his wife a visit. Slip her five grand in an envelope.”