Savage Games

by Peter Boland

  “Oh, know where he’s gone?”

  “No. He was in a hurry. Hey, do you fancy making some soup?”

  “Sure, why not?” If he couldn’t have a nip of whisky then maybe some hearty soup would be better, healthier. He needed to eat well if he was going to punch some random guy’s head in tonight.

  The two of them descended the stairs. Just as they reached the ground-floor hallway, Rosie’s door opened.

  “Hi,” said Rosie.

  “Hey,” said Savage. “Are you hungry?”

  “Always.”

  “Me too,” said Dink. “We’re making soup. Want to join us?”

  “Yeah, okay. Why not?”

  Savage killed a couple of hours with Dink and Rosie, gorging himself on too much bread and vegetable soup, enough to make him feel contented and lethargic. He made his excuses and headed back to his room where he napped a while, surfacing at about five p.m. He made himself some strong tea to wake himself up, double bagging it—two teabags, one cup for maximum potency. He’d never tried triple-bagging a cup of tea yet. He’d been tempted on a few occasions but liked the idea of having it in reserve, just in case he needed some extreme tea drinking.

  At six forty-five, he was limbering up, getting some last-minute stretches in when the phone rang.

  “Tannaz,” said Savage, answering it. “Everything set? Are you tracking Ben Wellington’s car?”

  “That’s what I’m calling about,” said Tannaz anxiously. “Is the fight still on tonight?”

  “I haven’t heard anything to the contrary. Why?”

  “Ben Wellington’s car hasn’t moved. It’s still parked outside his house.”

  Savage paced the room, still warming up. “Maybe he’s running late.”

  “Or maybe he’s not coming at all.”

  “In which case, we can’t track his car.”

  The rumble of an engine outside interrupted their conversation. Savage glanced out the window. A large black panel van came to a stop in front of Tivoli Gardens. The side door slid back and out jumped three large men, who made their way up to the front door, led by Bluetooth. Ben Wellington was not among them.

  Savage relayed the licence-plate number of the van to Tannaz. “Can you track it?”

  “Hold on.” The clatter of high-speed typing came down the line. “One second, almost got it. Damn! It doesn’t have a navigation system. Listen, it’s not a problem. Just make sure you take your mobile with you. I can track its GPS.”

  Savage hung up. Pocketed his phone.

  His door unlocked from the outside and Bluetooth invited himself in, his three henchmen in tow.

  “Oh, please, come in, make yourself at home,” said Savage.

  “Frisk him,” said Bluetooth. One of the guys obeyed, patting down Savage. He stopped when he reached Savage’s trouser pocket and extracted his phone, held it up by the corner between his thumb and forefinger. “Clean,” he said. “Apart from the mobile.”

  “Leave it here,” said Bluetooth.

  “Why can’t I have my phone?” asked Savage.

  “Because I said so. You can go on Grindr when you get back. Here, put this on him.”

  Bluetooth threw a black hood at one of the men, who caught it and slipped it over Savage’s head, pulling a drawstring tight at the bottom.

  He had no idea where they were taking him, and without his phone, neither would Tannaz.

  Chapter 37

  A cloud of his stale breath filled the bag. Savage estimated they’d been on the road for about ten minutes. From what he could tell, he was in the back of the panel van with at least two of Wellington’s men. The other two had to be up front in the cab. Thankfully, they weren’t the talkative types, which gave Savage the chance to listen hard to other sounds and get some idea of where they were taking him. To his left he heard the pop and clunk of a train matching them for speed. Slower than a passenger train, it sounded heavy and plodding. A freight train passing through Southampton’s container port. This meant they were driving parallel to the docks. Other vehicles rushed past the van on the inside and outside lanes. A three-lane highway. That confirmed it, they were on Millbrook Road, heading out of Southampton towards the forest. Where else? Everything Wellington did seemed to involve the forest. He was obsessed with it. Or maybe it was the best place for things to happen without prying eyes.

  Soon after, the noise of cars passing them on either side ceased. They were in single-file traffic, definitely on the A35—the main drag through the forest—the same road they’d taken with Bonafide Ride and when they’d followed Archie. If Savage remembered correctly, Ashurst would be the next town. It had a few nice-looking pubs with vast beer gardens. Inside the stifling hood, the thought of a cool beer made him salivate. A nice, local New Forest pale ale. He quickly dismissed the thought. Had to stop thinking like that. Had to stay sharp, focused. Couldn’t lose it now. Concentrated on following the virtual map he drew in his brain.

  Then it all went wrong.

  The van veered sharply to the right.

  They were off the main road, on something far more potholed and lumpy. A track perhaps? Could they be nearing their destination?

  Suddenly the van was back on something smoother. It immediately accelerated.

  From then on the van meandered, throwing Savage right and left. At one point it felt like they had driven around a circle.

  Were they doing this to disorientate him? He hadn’t credited them with that much foresight. It seemed he’d underestimated them.

  After about twenty minutes of erratic driving, Savage had lost all sense of direction and had no idea where they were. He was sure they were still in the forest, judging by the quality of road surface, but that was all he had. The forest covered over one hundred and forty-five square miles. He could be anywhere.

  The van slowed, took a sharp turn, then its wheels bumped up what felt like a kerb. The engine revved and stopped.

  The woosh of a roller door closing came from behind.

  The handbrake clicked on.

  “Showtime,” said Bluetooth.

  The hood was removed. Savage gasped and took several unencumbered breaths until another hood was thrown at him. More of a mask than a hood. Bright red, it had two eye holes and laces at the back for tightening it up, like a Mexican wrestling mask.

  “Take your top off and put that on your head,” said Bluetooth.

  Savage looked puzzled. “Who am I fighting, Nacho Libre?”

  “Just put it on.”

  Savage removed his sweatshirt and T-shirt and put the mask on his head. One of the guys next to him went behind him to tighten and tie the laces of his mask.

  “Whoa,” the guy said. “Nice set of scars.” He was referring to the long, gouging wounds on Savage’s back. The ones he’d received when he was captured and beaten in Iraq. “Who gave you those?”

  “My ex-wife,” Savage joked.

  The sliding door opened and Savage was shoved out, getting his first glimpse of the fight venue.

  Savage had never been to a bare-knuckle boxing match. Being from London he’d heard all about them. He expected to see an array of blokes, geezers and ne’er-do-wells, as Tannaz would have archaically described them. Men with weapon dogs smoking roll-ups or cheap cigars. Shifty types in flat caps with chalkboards taking bets with fistfuls of cash, barking out odds. And a makeshift ring made of hay bales.

  There was none of that. Not many people, either. Hardly any. No sign of Ben Wellington or his father. Apart from the men he had come with and a couple of others, no one else was there. Except his opponent. He wore a blue mask. His shirt was off too. Carrying a lot of weight, the guy was out of shape, and bigger than Savage. He had at least five-inches height on him. They stared at each other for a while. Two grown men in masks with their guts hanging over their belt buckles, an absurd sight.

&nbs
p; Savage broke the deadlock and looked away, desperately searching for any indication of where he was. There wasn’t any. He was inside a large, bland, featureless metal-framed warehouse. Rough concrete floor and corrugated walls, lit with blinding fluorescent tubes. He could be on a farm or an industrial estate. Anywhere.

  As Savage turned to look in the other direction, he saw a sight that made him gasp. At the other end of the warehouse was a giant cage. Its bars were swirly and ornate, almost steam-punk in design. Like a giant rectangular bird cage but instead of keeping birds this one was for fighting. This must be the one supplied by Nortoft & Sons, the Welsh blacksmiths. Wellington had it made for him bespoke—ever the showman.

  Around the outside of the cage, placed at regular intervals, were six cameras on tripods.

  Savage got another shock.

  Adjusting one of the cameras was a face he recognised. Bald with thick-rimmed glasses, clad head to foot in black, was the goth guy Savage and Tannaz had encountered in Dead Maids with his morbid girlfriend, taking pictures of trees and wittering on about how beautiful death was. What the hell was he doing here? With his skinny, black, match-like silhouette, he looked completely out of place with Wellington’s meaty goons. He was obviously being used for his filming skills.

  Goth-guy finished adjusting the cameras, glanced momentarily at Savage and went and sat down behind a fold-up camping table. Placed on it was a laptop, with leads running out the back of it to each of the cameras. This guy must be controlling the upload of the fight to the dark web or wherever the hell it was going. He plugged in a headset and began typing away, focused on his work.

  Savage was glad of the mask. Goth-guy would’ve certainly recognised him after their encounter in the forest.

  Savage turned his attention back to the cage. As he looked closer, he could see hooks attached to the inside of it, with various weapons hanging from them. Big, brutal skull-crushing weapons: a length of scaffold pipe, a Japanese Samurai sword, a sledgehammer, some heavy-duty chain, a massive club, a pike staff, plus various other nasty implements.

  This was not good. Not good at all.

  Savage knew how to fight with his bare hands. He knew how to fight with firearms and explosives and knives. But fighting with large medieval-style hand-held weapons, he had little experience.

  Savage turned to Bluetooth. “You said this was a bare-knuckle boxing match, not Thunderdome.”

  “I never said that,” Bluetooth replied.

  “Ben Wellington said it was a bare-knuckle boxing match,” Savage replied.

  “He didn’t say it was a bare-knuckle boxing match. He said it was like a bare-knuckle boxing match. Now man up.”

  Savage swore. Felt uncontrollable panic rising up through his core and overflowing into his mind like a blocked drain. He had to get his mind in check. ASAP.

  Breathe. Recalibrate. Deliver.

  He closed his eyes momentarily. Sucked in a big gulp of air. Cleared his mind. Allowed himself to think.

  This was a minor setback. He just had to adapt his strategy. This was a fight in a cage. That’s all. He needed to know his parameters. Get intel.

  “What are the rules?” Savage asked.

  “Rules? No rules,” said Bluetooth.

  “Okay,” said Savage. “What happens when we get in the cage? Do we get given weapons? Pick them ourselves? How does this work?”

  “You ask a lot of questions,” said Bluetooth. “You go in, face each other in the middle. When I yell fight, you grab a weapon, whatever you like, then you can guess the rest.”

  Suddenly Jeff Perkins woke up.

  “My oh my, what have you got yourself into now?” he said. “I leave you alone and then I come back and you’re in some insane gladiatorial match. Nice mask by the way. At least they can’t see your shame.”

  Shut up, Jeff. I’m trying to think. Formulate a strategy.

  “Well better hurry up, because the first round’s about to begin. You could come out of this with some life-changing injuries, looking at those weapons. I really don’t know why I bother trying to get you to kill yourself, you seem to be doing a really good job on your own.”

  Good, I’m glad you feel that way, you can leave me alone then.

  “Hey, this is just like Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire.”

  Savage groaned inside, clearly Jeff Perkins had no intention of going away. He’d do his utmost to put Savage off. Distract him and make sure he got hurt as much as possible.

  “You know, the one with Edward Cullen in it.”

  Cedric Diggory. Edward Cullen is from Twilight.

  “Whatever. You liked The Goblet of Fire, didn’t you? Said the kids’ acting got better. Of course, the adults always outshone the kids in Harry Potter movies, especially Mad Eye Moody, now what’s that actor’s name?”

  Brendan Gleeson. Now, Jeff, I really need to get my head ready for this fight…

  This was so far from where his head needed to be. He should have been forming a plan of attack, not having his brain filled with images of children in robes doing magic spells.

  Jeff wouldn’t shut up, keeping Savage from what he knew he needed to do, derailing his chances of winning.

  “What did Madeye Moody say to Harry just before he faced the Hungarian Horntail? ‘Play to your strengths.’ Do you remember? Harry’s no good at spells but he’s good at flying. That’s my favourite scene, when he summons the broomstick. Accio Firebolt! Hey, maybe you could try that, Accio chainsaw!’ Doesn’t quite sound right, does it? Accio chainsaw. Imagine if Harry did summon a chainsaw in that scene. Would’ve made it ten times better.”

  Savage’s interest piqued.

  The thing with hearing voices is sometimes they want to kill you, other times they want to help you, even if it doesn’t sound like they do, even if they’re not aware of it. Jeff was trying to help him, in the most roundabout, surreal way he could.

  That’s not a bad idea.

  “What, summon a broomstick and fly out of here? Savage, you’ve really lost the plot.”

  No, the other thing you said. Play to your strengths.

  “What are you going to do? Because I’m pretty sure medieval weapons weren’t in your SAS training.”

  “You’ll find out. Now shut up.”

  The goth guy sitting at the table gave the thumbs up. All the red lights on the video cameras around the ring came on. Bluetooth stood beside Goth-guy, looking over his shoulder at the laptop screen.

  “Okay,” said Bluetooth. “Gentlemen, would you like to enter the ring.”

  Savage followed the other masked fighter. They both climbed in through a door in the cage, which was shut and bolted behind them.

  “Stand in the middle, face to face, three feet apart.”

  They did as they were asked.

  Savage sized up his opponent. His opponent did the same.

  With the extra weight, the guy he faced breathed heavily, his big belly rising and falling with every inhalation. Good for what Savage had in mind. His opponent may have been bigger and stronger. He’d also be slower.

  “Okay, gentleman. Just another minute or two, bets are still coming in.”

  Savage used the time to slow down his heart rate. Cool his head, and go over his strategy.

  He surveyed the weapons for their usefulness. Weighed up which one would be the most effective. The pikestaff was good, great for keeping the enemy at a distance. It was also unwieldy and clumsy. He dismissed it. The scaffold pole was better, shorter, and you could still use it to keep an opponent away. However, it was heavy. Striking a blow would be slow. Same went for the chain and the sledgehammer. They relied on your opponent standing still long enough for you to hit them, and opponents, unlike fights in movies, had an annoying habit of moving when you were trying to bash their heads in.

  Savage dismissed several of the other weapons, and
settled on the Samurai sword. Light and devastating, it could inflict horrendous damage and keep an enemy at bay. That’s what his opponent would go for, if he were smart. The guy would want to grab it first, which meant he’d go left once the signal was given.

  The goth guy at the laptop gave the thumbs up again.

  “Okay,” said Bluetooth. “All bets are in. Gentlemen get ready. In a second I will shout ‘fight’, you are then free to select whichever weapon you wish from within the ring and kill your opponent.”

  “What?” Savage shouted.

  “Didn’t you know?” said his opponent, sniggering. “This is a fight to the death.”

  Chapter 38

  Savage rushed to the side of the cage. “Hey, I didn’t sign up for this.”

  “Cut the cameras,” Bluetooth said. All at once the red lights on each camera flicked off. Bluetooth pulled a gun from inside his jacket, pointed it at Savage. “Get back in position or I’ll shoot you.”

  Savage raised his hands. “You never told me I had to kill someone.” He could hear his opponent laughing behind him.

  “Too bad. Life sucks,” said Bluetooth, aiming the gun at him. “Now get back to where you were. There’s a lot of money riding on this fight.”

  Reluctantly, Savage moved back to his spot in front of his opponent. There was nothing he could do, he’d have to fight for his life. Just like he’d been doing all his life. Business as usual.

  “You know something?” said his opponent. “I’m undefeated in this ring, already killed five guys before you.”

  “Tell him how many people you’ve killed, Savage.”

  Not now, Jeff. Need to concentrate.

  The video cameras came back on.

  “Sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” said Goth-guy into his headset, presumably apologising to all the online betters on the dark web. “Little technical glitch but we’re up and running again.”

  “Right,” said Bluetooth. “Get ready fighters in the cage…”

  Savage prepared to pounce. He had no intention of going for a weapon. He’d play to his strengths. Go straight for his opponent. Engage him hand-to-hand, that’s what Savage was good at, and stop him from getting his hands on that Samurai sword. Keep him in the centre of the ring. If his opponent couldn’t get a weapon, he’d have to fight Savage on his terms. Fists, feet and elbows. Savage was very good at hurting people with his fists, feet and elbows. Also his teeth, fingers and anything else he could think of.