by V. C. Linde
Rachel left her behind and went back to her own city. The pieces had been picked up but not put back together. Scarlet knew that people would always walk in but they always left her the same way. She loved and was loved but being loved didn’t solve anything. No one else was able to take in all of the landscapes inside and walk them with her. She listened to the silence and breathed in the air that had been left behind. Scarlet finally left the house, walking and walking on towards another ending.
He stood watching, unable to do anything. Only the ref could stop the show. The owners couldn’t do anything about it until afterwards, just watch as their dogs got tired and slowly died. Ripped apart, pieces of pieces. A waiting game until you lost. Then a bucket of water and a big fucking battery. Then a gun and a couple of quick bullets. Then a sharp needle. Then, a new dog. Can’t stop the show - reputation. Money. Rules.
The cops were chasing their tails. Round in giant fucking circles. They were going from one end of town to the other. Caught a couple of kids, high and stupid, chain fighting in the park, but even if these two had known anything about any of the serious fight organisers they weren’t stupid enough to say anything, no matter how many grams they had inside them. Another dead end.
A big loss, a bad win. Blood on two sides. Splintered faces showing the emotion underneath. Leave as soon as the game is played. Up the stairs and out of the door. Nothing to stick around for, the finals bouts are the ones that you can too easily become a part of. A by-line and a story in itself. Take the green and head for the fields. A stool broken over the back of his owner, the dog back in the fight. Tactics out of the show, show where the sport ends.
The media attention that the start of Operation Scorch had atrtacted was proving to be a problem. Everyone now knew how bad dog fighting was, they had heard that it was rife in the cities, understood the cruelty and the need to stop it, saw all the money that was being spent on trying to bring the gangs to justice. So far, there had been a handful of dogs snatched, a few destroyed and a few kennelled, but just as many nicked back. There were even fewer arrests and those who were serving time barely had a year’s sentence between them. The RSPCA didn’t think the police were working hard enough and the general public thought the fight organisers were taking the piss. Place your bets.
A slow beat starts in a low key, electric strings and musical, thumps on chests and hollow yells a thick percussion. Underneath a heavy pull of bone and metal. A crush and smash. The song builds and rises. The tension up and the tune down. Lyrics lost to a place far beyond the jukebox. A room full of noise, twist the key and push the button. Pay the piper and watch them dance. Always the bridge. Always the ending.
Uniforms made uniformity. A common enemy. Someone to watch out for, besides each other. Close ranks and protect one and the next. Videos capture and stream - a tease to anyone trying to keep count. The views rocket upwards, everyone sees. Taunt the blues. No smoke without fire, no videos without action. But they see the moves that are made and learn the rules. No faces, but facts are scattered in the words and the motions.
Women and drugs are pulled through the system. Washed clean by dirty hands. Bought and sold, traded. A careful laundry with chemicals kept and people hung out to dry. The fighters are the protection. A shelter overheard and a guard at the gates. Pick a side to fight for. Left or right. Race or religion. Family or gang. Place and person. There are always two sides to every battle and there are always many sides to each story. One person fights inside their head. One black dog. One dog fights in many places. One end goal.
The partners walk their path. A pattern, people to talk to, tips to check out, places to watch. Everyone thinks that they will fail, no matter how hard they try or how long they work. But it’s closer than they believe. A dry cafe in the storm, they go in and order three cups of tea. A lanky boy, spends too long playing games comes and sits with them. A few words spoken, a few lines drawn on a napkin. A sob story and a tid-bit. Information worth more than he realises. The middle of the chain, yank on it to twist the tail at the top.
More. More warehouses. More old swimming pools. More treadmills. More training. More kennels. More breeding. More ears cut. More steroids. More stolen drugs. More dogs given ‘free to a good home’ and dropped into a trap. More raw meat. More work. More money. More running. More hiding. More evasion. Put a finger into the dam. Changed the outcome by tipping the scales. A bit, a hint, a word. Took a grip, sank their teeth in deep and pulled away. Friends came closer to protect the centre, the heart. The family was kept against all of the odds.
A young boy is being pulled along by a cross-breed. It eats better than he does. Well-fed and well-bred. Dragged down the street. Eight years old and twice the age of any of the dogs that managed to survive. He is proving his strength and showing his place. Four on one don’t make fair odds. His protector is his friend and he doesn’t know the rules. Step in and stop it. Skin, bone, skull, eyes torn away. The pictures are taken and the headlines are bold. Killer dogs. Bad owners. Evil breeds. A plan moved forward, one step leads to another.
The basement creaked open again. A new day, the end of a month. The end of the battle, the middle of the war. Someone was watching them, unseen and unknown. So many mysteries spoken. Not to give the end away, it wasn’t going to be long before everyone knew exactly what had happened. The big reveal. The final chapters. So many stories were kept in the vaults that they had built. One small section can be seen at a time, telescope in for the details and then find your own place within the myth.
A piece of quiet, the still in the heart of the storm. An archetype was made in the stories that they told and the memories that they made.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
July
She walked on until she came to the familiar bridge. Scarlet could see her whole world from there. White stone building and black hands always counting down on faceless clocks. The city that she built was made of stronger stuff.
It flowed, past her feet. Through the gaps in the bridge she could see the old river playing, teasing. Water underneath. All of the times she added to it built in her mind. An escape. A dark and murky wash of rain and tears. Torn through the centre of the city – a vein – a heart. One top rail of brushed steel curled inwards, bent to the safe ground. Faced in. Looked away from the rest of the world. Diagonal slashes of steel cables gripped in her cool hands. Summer nights not at all warm in the place that she walked. She couldn’t feel the weather or the heated breath of the living people around her. The cold was through and through an unreality. Scarlet looked down, unsurprised at the numbness that had become more familiar than the back of her hands. The bridge she walked over was a reminder, not a memory but a promise. It was always there and she knew she could rely on it as an exit. The roads she walked across, the broken glass in the street, the noise of a close train, knives in the kitchen drawer, the high beams, all had their own purpose. She knew them as her friends, recognised them, acknowledged them every day with a nod to their ongoing presence.
White painted metal left twisted marks on her palms as she pulled herself upwards to stand above the waving rush. Shoes left behind with socks neatly tucked inside. Her feet gripped, an echo of her hands. Toes curled as she looked up to the pylons, leaning as far out as they dared, daring her to join them. She performed a silhouette against flashing lights.
One girl, alone. A bridge supported by ten toes and one hand. Her hair fell first. Feet kicked up. As she fell her bag swung with her – a reassuring weight of favourite words and treasured images. All that mattered zipped inside to help keep her safe in the quiet. Grounded. Held her tight to the hug and flow of a wavering pull.
Water slapped wrists and thighs to suck her under. A crescendo of cries from the watchers went unheard as letters floated around her broken head.
They talked about the black dog.
Scarlet told Doc how much harder it was getting to even climb up the steps into the lobby to get h
er mail, in case there was anyone there. She didn’t want anyone to see her, she hated being looked at. In the end she didn’t even want to go near to the door to the apartment.
She knew it followed her and she knew that she needed to get rid of it.
She talked about Rachel and touched on their past.
And after a while she told him about the times when it was so bad that she couldn’t see her way out. That she didn’t know how to get up off the floor. That she could see her stupid fucking reaction to the tiniest triggers, as hard to avoid as noticing the one stone in a gravel path that was going to cut her feet. It could be someone sending the wrong order through. It could be seeing someone you loved looking happy without you. It could be feeling left behind. It could be false evidence or real problems. A badly timed bill. A weak spot. Being beeped in traffic. Being given bad directions. Just one tiny thing and everything went backwards.
The Other City was a refuge and she gladly wandered its streets while she was waiting for someone to see that she had fallen down into a well. The hands of light that reached down looked like a clear attack and so she pulled away, falling further. Gravity working against them.
They talked about the bridge. About the plan and the climb and the choice and the fall down.
Doc listened and she talked without waiting for questions. She explained the things she could and talked about all of the things that she couldn’t. His rules and the forms and the structure were thrown out for one day, this one session done her way. She didn’t even apologise for ignoring his schedule, because if she didn’t say it out then she would have to keep carrying it around. She didn’t know why she wanted to be left alone, but hated feeling unloved. People couldn’t come into her City because they wouldn’t do anything right and every wrong step made it all harder; but it was empty and lonely there. She said it all, keeping her eyes closed, the sharpness of her words too bright. She got it done and then collapsed, the words out of her she was able to feel the exhaustion that she had been carrying.
She had a new plan, a new strategy. And she needed to start fixing some of the accidental damage caused along the way. She retraced her steps, remembering the buildings that she had walked past and feeling them a little more clearly. She was breathing the air of the right city instead of inhaling fumes. She walked home and knew where she was. She started with a blank piece of paper. The sunlight flashed blue and white. Bright/Dark. Bright/Dark. Bright/Dark.
There was one window in the warehouse basement, it was slim and ran the whole length of one side of the building: the one facing the street. They didn’t need natural light, a set of bright strip lighting was all that was needed.
Thatch had arrived at the warehouse early that day; he was putting up one of his champions, so he needed to run through things. He had left a couple of people in The Phoenix to look after the business side of things. It was almost starting to get back to normal now. It wasn’t the same as having Roy around, but at least they were all still making decent money. And Jas was turning out to be a pretty useful lad to have around. He had really stepped up in the three or four months since his dad had been put away, looking after his Mum and becoming a real man about the house. He was a regular in The Phoenix and was getting to grips with the way that the business should be run. Roy would be able to show him the rest of it when he got out next year, train the lad up. School was pretty much over, but he was still learning. At least he knew the important things, things that would allow him to make a living and become a part of the community, a place in the family that they all belonged to.
Jas was holding the books. He had all of the marks noted down: he was in charge of keeping track of everyone who came in and out. Who had brought dogs, who had placed bets, who won and lost: he took down all of the details. He had arrived at the warehouse with the ledger tucked under his arm. On show days the ledger had to be held by one man, who was not allowed to let it out of his sight. The rules. Jas had to make sure that everyone had the information that they needed at the right time during the evening and that he could capture new information for the ongoing records.
More and more people arrived. The parking lot was full and cars filled the streets around the warehouse. A man and woman stood outside taking money. Jas and another man stood inside taking names and documents. It was a smooth system, perfected over twenty years. Changing grudgingly when it needed to, as extensive as it needed to be and as simple as possible. Nothing on computers to be hacked; everything was done by hand and by people who were trusted.
Scarlet plugged her headphones in. She didn’t want to listen any more. Tears flowed too easily, the whimpering from inside the wall was too loud. The voices were too hard to ignore. Noise to drown out the waves.
Bodies pushed up against each other, fighting for space and a view. There were no young dogs being rolled in the pit. It was a thick batch of shows with heavy dogs. Bets placed on how long the shows would last varied between ninety and one hundred and eighty minutes. They felt no pain as joints were pushed and pulled. Blood was drawn instantly. Jaws clamped onto the skull, a flat sound like a jar full of jam dropping onto the floor. An hour in and the younger dog’s eye was gone; his opponent was a grand champion. Neither of them seemed to notice their injuries. Teeth sharpened on rocks and tyres cut easily through muscle. Blood was covering the floor and spraying across the clear acrylic walls. Each time the dogs crashed against the barriers, the crowd cheered. Hands were in the air, waving and clutching betting slips. Fangs were bared, hostilities undisguised. They roared for more blood, wanting to see the pain. They heard the whimpers as bites cut deeper and the traction pulled muscles away from the skeleton. Men bellowed to see the suffering carry on. Pull apart and breathe. The noise doesn’t lesson. So used to pain the weakling goes back again. And again. And it carries on. Minutes tick by on a silent clock. Stopwatches measure the lifespan. A countdown mounting. Unheard by the crowd, the owners were swearing at each other. The dogs carried on, doing the job that they had been trained for. Not feeling anything, never feeling the pain or the cruelty. Sticks shoved too deep into mouths.
Dazed, the champion wobbles as it is yanked away, roughly tended to. Even now it’s done just what it was supposed to do, it won’t get a reprieve. Stop the bleeding and dose it up again. No relief. Always one loser, not always happy to walk away.
“You fucking cunt! I’ll get you for it, I’ll get you. I’ll rip your fucking cock off and shove it …”
He was dragged out by six of Thatch’s boys. No need to hear the rest, they all knew it. The champion’s owner was an old hand. He’d been called worse. He’d said worse when he lost. Just shrugged and carried on tending the dying dog. An hour or two left to live. Purpose fulfilled so it was ready to be thrown out. No matter, another one could be bred to take the chain space ready for the next year. Maybe he’d get a grand champion again. He knew the tricks.
The crowd began the race again. Noise. Sound. Music with no lyrics. A violent song of pure vicious cruelty and inhuman pain. Two more dogs pulled into corners. Scratch. Fight. Cut and dig. Pull and tear. Bleed. Kill. They never stood a chance.
The single window got light. Bright blue flickered. On/Off. On/Off. On/Off. And the light surrounded the dark. Umbra and shadow drawn together.
Two people watched. Both of them had seen more than they wanted. A young boy with dark skin and curled hair stood hidden in shadow across the road. A young woman, light skinned and freckled, stood on a stool and peered out of her window. They had both known in the end what was going to happen. The outcome had seemed well planned, plotted and known before it was written.
CHAPTER TWELVE
August
Two men walked past Scarlet’s window and the warehouse, their legs flickering shadows as light bounced up from one basement and then the next. They slipped along the side of the building where a man and woman were standing, smoking and not saying a word. The two men passed into the empty lot an
d walked out of the back to the street parallel. Out of sight they gave their information and quickly changed clothes.
It took Thatch a long time to realise that something was happening in addition to the habitual noise and confusion in the basement. Then uniforms broke up the riotous mixture of colours. One way in and one way out. He watched Jas try to stash the papers, but they were grabbed at the same time he was. Every person rounded up, all made to stand against the walls, mould creeping through again, all of the animals caught. One by one. Watched, captured, noted and named. Thatch’s face a known quantity. The caged animals went crazy - spitting and scratching. Not knowing that it was all over, no matter what they did now.
A nauseating scene. Blood covering the surface of everything in the thick, hot night. A warmth from the press of sweating bodies and the cooling carcasses of dogs. Guns and needles taken. Leads held by professionals with clothes tugged up over their noses and mouths. Photographs highlighting in flashes the suffering being dragged across the floor. Fur and bone left behind. Chains snapped, cages opened, everything noted and recorded. It was remembered, all of it, the names and faces, the times and dates, the people and the animals.
