by J. D. Weston
Mackie came to a stop. He strode up to Harvey, weaved in and out, from left to right, then issued a new series of punches, two body blows and the last aimed at Harvey’s face. With relative ease, Harvey took hold of Mackie’s arm and used the boy’s momentum to force him into the rope, and once more, pinned him down with the heavy rope against his windpipe. It was only when he began to cough and splutter that Harvey let him go and moved to the far side of the ring to give him space to recover.
“You’re not even fighting me,” said Mackie. “What are you doing?”
Harvey collected his jacket from the corner and pulled it on.
“Where do you think you’re going?” said Dixon.
“Does the boy want a lesson or not?” said Harvey. “Does he want to survive tonight? Because if he does, he needs to pay attention to what I’m doing.”
“And what is it you’re doing?” said Mackie. “And of course I want to survive.”
“Listen, Mackie, you’re a great boxer, or you will be one day.”
“But?” said Dixon. “The boy has won every fight he’s had.”
“Boxing?” asked Harvey.
“Of course boxing,” said Mackie. “Del, is this guy for real?”
Harvey listened to the boy’s last words, then stepped over to him and watched as he scurried away until he was cornered.
“You’re a good boxer,” said Harvey. “You’re quick, you’re accurate and you follow through. Don't let them recover, whatever happens. No matter how good the punch was, don't admire it. Destroy the opposition.”
“Cheers,” said Mackie, unsure if Harvey’s praise was genuine.
“But it’s not enough,” said Harvey.
“What’s not enough?” said Dixon. He followed Harvey around the edge of the ring and stared up from the concrete floor below.
“The fight is not an ordinary boxing match. It’s not even an ordinary bare-knuckle fight. It’s a fight to the death.”
“Right?” said Dixon.
“So what are you saying?” asked Mackie.
Harvey removed his jacket once more and hung it on the ropes. He rolled his neck from side to side, took a deep breath, and then coaxed Mackie to his feet.
“No dancing,” he said.
“Right,” said Mackie, and he stood on the balls of his feet with his guard up.
“Good,” said Harvey. “Now forget everything you know about boxing.”
“Eh?” both Dixon and Mackie said together.
“Put your guard down.”
Mackie lowered his guard with a nervous look at Dixon, who was lighting a new cigar and looking on with growing interest.
“I don’t know who you’re going to be up against tonight. If Del’s right, John Cooper will have found a replacement. He’ll be a boxer. He might be good. He might not. But that’s not a chance you can afford, is it? So let’s assume he’s very good.”
“I guess so,” said Mackie. He began to rub his arms as the chill of the huge power station found his white, sweaty skin.
“But you’ll have the advantage, won't you?” said Harvey.
“Will I?” said Mackie, with another glance at Dixon.
“Whoever it is that stands in front of you tonight, Mackie, will try to out-box you. He’ll fight dirty if he has to. There’s no rules in these matches. Am I right, Del?”
Dixon nodded.
“But you’re not going to box him. You’re going to watch his every move, dodge, duck, weave, whatever it is you need to do to work out how he fights.”
“And then what?” said Mackie.
“When I’m done with you, Mackie, you’ll no longer be a boxer. Being a boxer isn’t good enough for what you need to do. In fact, I don't know how you’ve survived this long. I can only assume you’ve been up against like-minded mediocre boxers. But, like I said, being a boxer isn’t good enough.”
“So what do I need to be?” asked Mackie with apprehension in his voice.
Harvey closed the gap between the two men, stared the boy in the eye, and then shot his hand up once more to his throat.
“What you need to be, Mackie, is a killer.”
14
Showtime
The car ride from the old slaughterhouse to the Golden Ring was short, but Tyler felt every bump in the road and swayed giddily with every turn they took. Nausea hung at the back of his throat with a wave of hot acid behind it. A layer of cold sweat formed on his brow in contrast to the hot, damp patches beneath his arms and the burning heat in the centre of his chest.
He stared at his open hands on his lap as if they weren’t his own anymore. They were now like two good friends that had betrayed him. In the background, John Cooper spoke, slow and rough. Blurred slices of Jerry’s rapid Irish filled the gaps.
Before his previous fights, his trainers had kept him focused, relaxed him with massages, and drowned him in sickening positive energy. John and Jerry’s conversation was clouded in a deafening hum, and all Tyler could hear was Harvey’s voice.
‘Control it.’
He’d spoken the words matter-of-factly. It wasn’t some hippy state of play on the mind. It was real.
‘Use it.’
Although his sweaty hands were empty, they pulsed with electric tension. The fingertips twitched as unspent adrenaline sought a place to break free. The crunching of gristle and breaking bones from Jack’s neck played on repeat. It was a feeling Tyler would never forget. How the man’s head had reached its limit. How the muscles had stretched in Tyler’s hands until the only resistance had been the spinal column, which snapped after the third brutal wrench.
Even Tyler’s legs, which had wrapped around Jack’s torso, still felt the twitching of his body. Even when the struggle had stopped and Jack’s head had fallen forwards, twisted unnaturally, and his hands had ceased scrambling and fallen to the canvas, the body still twitched. Much like the adrenaline in Tyler’s hands, the electricity within Jack’s broken body sought an exit.
The stench of urine had come last. Tyler had heard about the muscles of a dead body relaxing. He’d seen it in documentaries and movies where a hard-nosed detective covers his face and offers a reticent quip. But all Tyler had felt as Jack’s racing heart had reached the peak of its climbing crescendo and stopped as suddenly as if a switch had been flicked was pity.
He’d wanted to hug the man. He’d wanted to say he was sorry and take it all back. But John Cooper stared up at him through the ropes with glory in his eyes and had spoken those words.
“That’s it, Tyler,” said John. He slammed his hands onto the canvas in elation and laughed like a madman. “You’re a killer. Did you hear me? You’re a bleeding killer, Tyler.”
“Tyler? Tyler. Did you hear me?”
The words were loud. Memories of how he’d cradled Jack’s body were sucked into nothingness and John’s sour breath roused Tyler from his daze as he leaned across the seat.
“Get out of the bleeding car, son. We’re here.”
Tyler peered through the car’s side window as the front doors opened and filled the rear with a blast of cold air that found Tyler’s damp sweat patches.
“The Golden Ring?” he asked.
“Where else?” said John, as Jerry pulled the rear door open for Tyler to get out. “As soon as we get inside, get yourself downstairs and into the changing room. Don’t talk to anyone. They’ll mess with your head, especially if they’re betting against you. Jerry, see to it he gets there. Mick, upstairs in my office.”
“Right you are, John,” said Jerry, and led the way into the pub with Tyler behind and John bringing up the rear. But just as his hand reached for the handle, Tyler spoke out.
“Wait,” he said.
Jerry stopped.
“Tyler, this is no time to cock about, son. Remember what I told you would happen if you pulled out of the fight?”
“I’m not pulling out,” replied Tyler. “But I want to see her. I want to see my mum before the fight. Just in case-”
“Just in
case what?” spat John. “In case you don’t make it? Don’t be soft, Tyler.”
John spoke the words with a warning tone and allowed a shadow of a doubt to wash across his face.
“I’ll fight,” said Tyler. He backed away from them both, and filled his chest with a deep long breath. “But only if I see my mum first. I need to see her. I need to say goodbye.”
“Close the door, Mick,” said John, as he dropped into his leather office chair and pulled himself close to the desk. “I’ve done a bit of thinking.”
“Do you want a drink, John?” asked Mick, standing beside the crystal decanter, poised and ready to pour.
“No, Mick. Not tonight, mate. And you shouldn’t either. We need to be on top form tonight. If it all kicks off downstairs, I don't want anyone’s judgement clouded by booze, which leads me nicely into my idea.”
“Are you getting everyone drunk, John?” said Nobby. “So they can’t fight?”
“No, Nobby, but you’re close. Keep your eyes and ears to the ground. If it sounds like all fingers point at us, I need to know. As soon as the fight is over, I’ll send the girls around with trays of champagne. Whatever you do, don’t bleeding drink it.”
“You’re not planning-” said Mick.
“Yes, I am, Mick. Remember, these men will be out for blood, potentially my blood, your blood and anyone’s blood they can get their hands on. If it all goes south, it won’t be until after the money has changed hands. By that time, the basement will be full of London’s most dangerous criminals, all having a nap, leaving us enough time to make a getaway.”
“You’re going to run?” asked Mick. “After everything we’ve built here?”
“Everything we’ve built here won’t be worth a lot if those slimy bastards downstairs have us in their cross-hairs, Mick. You’ll be a wanted man. So will you, Nobby. You won't be able to walk to the shop to buy a paper and a pint of milk without looking over your shoulder. And it’ll happen one day, when you least expect it. When we think we got away with it, we’ll be taken down, cut into pieces, and slung in the river. When you was a kid, did either of you ever have races with your friends where you both throw a stick in the river and see which one reaches the bridge first?”
“Yeah,” said Mick, nodding.
“Well, they’ll be doing that with your legs and the legs of your wife. Do you get the picture?” said John.
Both Mick and Nobby nodded.
“Right. Good,” said John, regaining his stride and opening his desk drawer. “I’ve made the arrangements. There’s two tickets each for the Eurostar first thing in the morning.”
“Are you sure about this, John?” asked Mick. “This is serious stuff. We can’t go drugging the entire criminal community.”
“So what’s your plan then, brains?” said John. “You’ve had just as much time to think about all of this as I have. What plan did you come up with?”
“Well-”
“Well nothing,” said John. “Believe me, I’d hate to leave this place behind and everything we’ve worked for, but if push comes to shove, we can start again. Maybe somewhere sunny?”
Nobby glanced up at Mick who turned away.
“Are you both clear on the plan?” asked John. “Keep your ears to the ground. I want to know if we’re under suspicion. If we are, I’ll signal the girls to do their thing, and we’ll make our exit before the ceremonial exchange of money and while everyone is filling their gullets with champagne.”
“What about the boy?” asked Mick.
“The boy? He’ll be okay. A lesson learned and all that, Mick. Where is he anyway?”
“He’s with his mum,” said Nobby.
“Well get him out,” said John. “He’s been in there long enough. I want a word with him before the fight.”
The car park of the Golden Ring was brimming with expensive luxury cars when Dixon’s driver entered with the Mercedes. He was a quiet man who reminded Harvey of the man that used to drive his foster father around. Quiet, observant and in control. Harvey didn’t ask his name. He just sat in the passenger seat preparing himself while Dixon reeled off endless spurts of spiteful monologue, mostly about the look on John Cooper’s face when Mackie won, and how good it would feel to take the money off him.
“The first thing I’ll do when Cooper hands me the keys to the ring is buy everyone a drink,” said Dixon. “He’s only had a few days to find a replacement. Mackie has been with me for over a year. Never lost a fight, have you, son?”
Harvey heard the slap of Dixon’s hand on Mackie’s leg, but Mackie was quiet. The words of wisdom Harvey had passed on were most likely running through his mind. The confident look on the boy’s face had dropped to an expression of fear and self-loathing.
The driver turned and parked in a prime spot close to the building and facing the exit. The engine died. But before any doors opened, they waited for the van to park behind them. It was full of Dixon’s men, all armed to the teeth and prepped for action.
“Right, boys,” said Dixon. “Remember, nothing is going to happen until after the fight. So I’ve got until then to make some friends. Harvey, you concentrate on Mackie. Keep his chin up and keep him focused. If you hear anything, warn me. When the fight is over, and John Cooper has given me a bag full of money and the keys to his pub, that's when one of us will be slotted. Until then, it’s a normal night at a prize fight, and we’ve got the winning boy. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” said the driver.
Harvey didn’t reply. He pushed open his door, straightened his jacket and searched the parked cars for signs of life. Through the windscreen of a van parked fifty metres away, a few orange glows of cigarettes could be seen. But it wasn’t a sign of someone about to jump them. With some of the most powerful men in London attending the fight, Harvey imagined there would be several armies nearby waiting for it all to kick off.
Dixon opened his door and climbed out, giving Harvey a distasteful look, as if he should have opened the door for him, as if he was some sort of king.
“Keep your men in the van,” said Harvey, “and stay behind me.”
“What, are you my minder now?” asked Dixon. “You just look after Mackie. I’ll take care of myself. I didn’t get this far having my hand held.”
Harvey didn’t reply. He led the way into the rear doors of the pub, which took him into the public bar. A band was warming up and a few of the locals glanced his way. But they turned away when Dixon followed him in. He walked straight through the bar hatch, and through another door that led down to the cellar.
The busy hum of multiple hushed conversations filled the space, which Harvey guessed to span further than the floor plan of the pub itself, with eight large columns that supported the building and framed a boxing ring in the centre of the room. The smell of old beer and cigar smoke tainted the air, and fluorescent lights created areas of intense brightness ringed by shadows. Harvey took a guess at the crowd being one hundred strong. Instead of the ring being surrounded by lines of chairs for the audience, a series of high tables had been provided, allowing five to six men at each table to enjoy an unobstructed view of the fight, and a place in the shadows to stand.
On each of the four sides of the ring, two tables were fortuned prime position. The tables were all taken except one, which Dixon claimed. He set his cigar down in the ashtray, slid his coat from his shoulders, allowing a girl in hot pants and a tiny top to take it from him, and then took a glass of champagne from the tray her colleague offered.
The girl turned to Harvey, smiled at him, and moved close enough for him to smell her thick perfume and say no to the drinks she offered.
Dixon leaned forwards to speak in Harvey’s ear.
“Cooper isn’t here yet. He’ll make a grand entrance. Why don’t you take Mackie out back and get him ready? I don’t want him getting nervous,” said Dixon. “The fight won’t start for an hour, but warm him up, keep him hydrated and five minutes before you come back out, give him this.”
D
ixon slipped a little polythene bag of white powder into Harvey’s inside pocket and tapped it twice. Then he turned to talk to the table behind them. Four unsmiling men with shaved heads, long Kashmir jackets and open collars stood with their hands in their pockets, eying Harvey with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
“Boys,” said Dixon, in mock surprise as he turned away. Then he glanced back at Harvey. “I don't have to repeat myself, do I?”
Harvey gestured for Mackie to follow him through a set of doors. The hum of the room faded to a dull murmur, and flickering light lit a small corridor with one room on each side. Two dressing rooms.
A letter-sized piece of paper with the name Dixon in bold, black letters was pinned to one of the doors. Harvey walked inside. The room was small but clean with a slatted wooden bench, a single locker and walls that were thick with years of grey paint. A small shower cubicle and a toilet were at the end of the room with a tiled floor that reached out to the corridor.
Harvey dropped the cocaine into the toilet, flushed it and eyed Mackie, who looked nervous but was getting through it.
“Do you need help?” asked Harvey.
Mackie shook his head. “No.”
“Good. I’ll be back in a while,” said Harvey. “Warm up while I’m gone.”
“What do you mean warm up?” said Mackie, looking around the dingy changing room.
“I don’t know. Do a dance or something,” said Harvey.
He left Mackie to his own devices and stepped back into the corridor with the flickering light. Through a small window in the doors, Harvey could see the four men all listening to one of Dixon’s anecdotes with a less-than-impressed look mirrored across all four of their faces.
Harvey pushed through the doors and headed straight to the stairs. At the top was the entrance to the bar where another staircase led up to the first floor. With a quick look both ways, he took the next staircase and reached a landing with four doors leading off it. The door to the front of the building was closed. From inside, Harvey recognised the deep, authoritative voice of John Cooper. There was the occasional pause as somebody else spoke, but it was too quiet for Harvey to hear.
