Cruel Mercy

by David Mark

  Byki follows McAvoy across the ring, lunging with left and then right as he manages to stay just out of reach. Experimentally, he slips out a left fist and is surprised to see it connect with Byki’s chin. The giant seems almost as surprised as McAvoy, but if it pains him he does not show it. Instead, he stamps forward, closing the distance and snapping out a barrage of right hands that slam through McAvoy’s guard and catch him just above the ear. McAvoy’s head spins and he feels his hands drop, and then Byki is backing him onto the ropes and thumping his big fists into his ribs. McAvoy tucks his arms in, trying to protect himself, but he simply leaves himself exposed. Byki hits him below his left eye with such precision and power that McAvoy’s feet are the last things to hit the floor. He lands on his shoulders and rolls to his side, his vision blurred and his whole self spinning, as if disappearing down a drain.

  “Up, my friend,” comes a voice, above the cheers. “One round. One whole round.”

  McAvoy sees Roisin’s face. Imagines her watching. He pictures her in her parents’ caravan—wet-eyed and red-faced, listening to the sounds of violence as her family and the Heldens do bloody war outside the flimsy confines of her sanctuary. He sees Valentine. Remembers, for a moment, the child he once was. Eight years old and a cheeky little bastard, twinkly-eyed and full of mischief and trying to steal McAvoy’s pen as he took notes at the damn halting site in Cumbria where he and Roisin embarked on the road that would lead to love.

  He drags himself up. Sniffs noisily and spits blood on the floor.

  “He looks pissed off, Byki,” says Chebworz mockingly. “Easy, now.”

  McAvoy pinches his nose between forefinger and thumb. What was it Dezzie said? He could make people hate. McAvoy feels a frisson of that now. He feels a sudden, white-hot desire to go home, and the only thing standing between himself and his wife’s arms is this colossal hairy bastard who wants to smash his face in.

  McAvoy looks at the big man. There is not much going on in his eyes. He has the dazed look of a steroid user. And while he hits hard and he hits fast, McAvoy has been hit harder and gotten back up.

  “One round,” says McAvoy, and moves forward, flicking out left hands that catch Byki on his shoulders and arms.

  “Go on,” shouts Tomasz.

  Byki swings and McAvoy staggers as the blow catches him in the chest. He grabs hold of Byki and feels a moment’s revulsion as his face slides against the sweaty mass of the fighter’s huge chest. Byki pushes him off and swings again.

  McAvoy ducks the blow and hits Byki hard in the stomach. It feels like hitting a wall wrapped in a blanket.

  “Finish him,” says Chebworz, followed by a stream of his native language.

  Byki swings the punch from his knees and McAvoy sees it coming. He lashes out with his right hand and connects with Byki’s biceps. It is a good shot and something changes in the big man’s eyes.

  “Cover up, cover up,” comes the shout from behind him.

  McAvoy realizes he has hurt the bigger man. Surely one round could not take much longer, could it? But who would call for the bell? Who would end it?

  Byki is jabbing with his left now, and McAvoy has gotten inside the blows and is pounding on the big man’s stomach, hitting him with good shots that seem to have no effect. McAvoy finds himself remembering two decades before when his boxing coach would scream at him that he had his opponent beat and should damn well finish him off. McAvoy never could. He was frightened of hurting somebody.

  McAvoy looks at Byki. He glances at the three men who lounge by the steps. Chebworz and Tomasz look victorious. The old man does not. He sees what McAvoy suddenly sees: the slight dislocation of the big man’s jaw, the spot of weakness that his beard cannot conceal . . .

  The shot is perfect. McAvoy has thrown harder punches but never one more perfectly placed. His bare right crunches into the hinge of the huge man’s jaw and he watches his head snap back. Later, he will fancy that he heard the soft wet splat as Byki’s brain hit the inside of his own skull. But in this moment, he simply hears the soft, almost feminine moan as Byki’s eyes roll back in his head and he topples to the canvas like a tree.

  McAvoy stands perfectly still, arm still outstretched, somehow unable to move.

  It takes a moment, and then he hears the soft clap-clap-clap. McAvoy turns to look at the three men. The old man is smiling ruefully. Tomasz and Chebworz have their mouths open.

  “I’m sorry . . .” says McAvoy, and will never know why he says it.

  The old man stops clapping but the sound continues. There is somebody else watching. McAvoy squints into the darkness and sees the shadows take shape.

  Valentine Teague walks out of the shadows. He looks clean and well fed. He wears a black leather jacket, like Chebworz, and has gelled his red hair into spikes.

  “Valentine?” asks McAvoy, turning to the older man as if for confirmation.

  “I never said he was a prisoner,” the man says with a shrug. “He’s been helping train our beast here. But I think he has some way to go.”

  “You’re a nasty bastard, Sergey,” says Valentine brightly. He grins, revealing the gap in his top row of teeth. “You send that video to Marcel and I swear he’ll book a fight to make a million. Not that this big bastard will want any of it. I told you, Byki’s a pussy. He just got beat by a cop, for fuck’s sake. You fucking Russians.”

  “You see the respect he gives me?” asks the head of the Chechen Mob, but he looks at Valentine with some whiff of affection.

  “I don’t understand,” says McAvoy, and his knees begin to give way.

  “No,” says Sergey. “But you can go. Both of you.”

  “I wasn’t waiting for fucking permission,” snarls Valentine, and he shrugs out of the leather jacket. “Smells like cabbage anyway,” he says, throwing it at Chebworz’s feet.

  Valentine looks at McAvoy, leaning against the ropes. His face is already swelling.

  “Jesus,” says Valentine. “Roisin’s going to kill me. Let’s get you home.”

  McAvoy slithers through the ropes. Valentine comes forward and puts an arm under McAvoy’s shoulder. It is a tender gesture and McAvoy feels his brother-in-law’s warm hands on his anguished skin.

  “Shirt. Jacket. Anything else?” mutters Valentine, looking around. “Well, that’ll be us then, lads. Shame it didn’t work out, but that’s the business, eh? I’ll bid you go fuck yourself, and good night.”

  Valentine keeps his eyes on the Chechens as he guides McAvoy toward the door, but none of the trio seem intent on stopping them.

  “You didn’t leave,” says McAvoy, head spinning. “Do you know what’s been happening at home? You have to call . . .”

  “Shush, big man. It’s all taken care of,” says Valentine.

  “I had to fight him. I had to stay up for a round . . .”

  “No,” says Valentine, grinning. “No, you didn’t. They called me down the second they spotted you on the monitors. I just wanted to know if you were willing to do it.”

  “You bastard,” says McAvoy, and it seems to trigger a sudden flood of relief into his system that threatens to take the strength from him.

  “It meant a lot.”

  “I can’t see out of this eye.”

  “You were ugly to start with.”

  “Your sister likes me.”

  “Aye,” says Valentine, and he kicks open the door to the snowstorm beyond. “You’re not such a cunt. For a cop.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Some brown stuff and some purple stuff and some bread. Two beers. Vodka. Leave the bottle.”

  McAvoy lolls in the wooden chair and listens as Valentine places his food order with the waitress. She’s middle-aged with dark hair and poor skin and is wearing the kind of earrings that grandchildren buy for special occasions. If she is disturbed by McAvoy’s bruised appearance, she doesn’t show it.

  “Y
ou want me to hang your coats up above the radiator?” she asks.

  Valentine grins and looks at McAvoy. “You want to take your coat off, Aector?”

  “I’m fine,” manages McAvoy, who is bare-chested beneath his jacket.

  “I’ll bring you solyanka. Ukha. Maybe some vareniki? Your friend enjoyed his.”

  Valentine and McAvoy shoot a glance at Rey, who has his back to the wall and looks like somebody who is feeling rattled but is damned if he’ll show it in front of strangers.

  “Did you?” asks Valentine.

  “It was great,” says Rey, the taxi driver whose gesture of generosity has backfired spectacularly. He has positioned himself in a way that allows him easy access to the cutlery if the two crazy Celts suddenly decide to start trouble.

  “That’s great,” says Valentine, and he shrugs out of his coat and hands it to the waitress. She disappears through a set of saloon doors into the kitchen.

  McAvoy looks around him. His left eye is swelling and he can see the risen flesh, squatting like a sand dune at the bottom of his vision. His head hurts and his arms feel heavy. He only remembers brief snatches of the journey here. He came to as they entered the pleasant restaurant on Brighton Beach Avenue. Two waiters were playing cards at a table, but they hustled out the back when McAvoy and Valentine entered. Rey was the only other customer but he had not reacted with much alarm at the sight of his most recent fare appearing so badly bruised. He has been a cabdriver in New York City for nine years. He has seen it all before.

  “So you found your friend,” says Rey. “Did he not want to come along?”

  Valentine slaps McAvoy on the shoulder. He has his feet on one of the other chairs and is pushing himself back, rocking his seat on two legs. He looks at ease with the world, all testosterone and loose-limbed assurance. He reminds McAvoy of the sort of teen who would terrify teachers with their cocksure certainty that none of this shit matters.

  “Came to my rescue, so he did,” says Valentine, and he removes an electronic cigarette from his coat pocket and takes three quick puffs. “Fought a bear for me. Now that’s family, my friend, that’s family. I’m Valentine Teague, by the way. Val, if you know me, which you do now.”

  “I’m Rey,” he says, extending a hand.

  “We’re not doing anything complicated with the handshake, are we?” asks Valentine, smiling. “I’m not good at all that crap.”

  “Just a handshake.”

  “I can do that,” says Valentine, and does so. “You’ll be Mexican, then.”

  Rey cocks his head. “Honduran,” he says.

  “Don’t know that one,” says Valentine, shrugging. “It’s like Mexican, though, yeah?”

  Rey looks to McAvoy. He is unaccustomed to being insulted by somebody who does not seem to realize they are doing it.

  “Leave it, Valentine,” says McAvoy, pressing the back of his hand to his face and wincing.

  “I’m just asking . . .”

  “Well, stop it.”

  Valentine puts his hands up in surrender, grinning widely. “I tried Da again,” he says. “Used your phone. No answer.”

  McAvoy notices that his cell phone is not in his pocket. “Can I have it back?”

  Val hands it over. “Try her again,” he suggests. “No answer from Ma neither.”

  McAvoy pulls himself upright in his chair, hot and sore. It’s too warm in the pleasant little restaurant with its red and black tiles and flickering, battery-operated imitation candles.

  “Why haven’t you been in touch with anybody?” asks McAvoy, looking hard at his brother-in-law. “A phone call. Just a call.”

  “Why do you fucking think?” asks Valentine, rolling his eyes. “Brishen in hospital? Shay dead? Bullets flying everywhere and me trying to make the best of it with those Russian lads who would have chopped my face off soon as look at it if there was anything to be gained? I only stayed alive by bullshitting and making them think I might be important. It wasn’t like I was free to go send an e-mail.”

  “You’re suddenly telling me you were a prisoner?” asks McAvoy angrily. “You just walked out with me! There’s not a mark on you.”

  “It’s sorted, Aector. Just relax. I don’t even think they believed me when I said you were a big deal. They just sorted other stuff out first and waited for everything to play out.”

  McAvoy wipes his nose. There is a smear of blood on the napkin. The sight of it angers him and he turns on the younger man.

  “Do you know what I’ve been through trying to find you? Do you know what’s going on at home? The Heldens are gunning for your whole family. They think you’re the one who killed Shay. If you don’t show your face and smooth things over, there’ll be blood.”

  Valentine has the good grace to look away. When he turns back to McAvoy, his features are pink.

  “It was a good fucking plan,” he says angrily. “If Shay hadn’t got killed . . .”

  “What happened, Valentine?”

  The tension is broken by the return of the waitress. She places three tall bottles of beer on the table and a frosted bottle of vodka with three glasses.

  “Put your feet down,” she says flatly to Valentine, who does as he is told. She smiles and returns to the kitchen.

  “They’re okay, the Russians,” says Valentine, watching her go. “Easy to deal with. They’re not all that different from us. Just want a few home comforts, a bit of respect, and the chance to be left alone.”

  “I saw what you put on the YouTube video,” says McAvoy. “You started all this.”

  “Just be quiet a second,” says Valentine, taking another puff on his cigarette. He looks at Rey. “You a trustworthy guy?”

  Rey shrugs. “I’m not even here.”

  Valentine accepts this. He pours himself a shot of vodka and follows it up with another. He pours one for McAvoy and slides it across the table. For once, McAvoy does not say no. He downs it in a pleasing, burning swallow and immediately feels the pain in his face begin to lift.

  “Brishen’s struggling,” says Valentine, shaking his head. “Back home, I mean. Money troubles. He’s made some bad decisions. Put money into things he didn’t have the money for. He’s had a hard few months. He’s a proud man and it was hard for him to admit it, but he opened up after a night on the beer and told Shay and me how bad things had got. He needed money. Needed it quickly. First thing we did was offer to get it for him. A couple of armed robberies and he’d be home free. But that went against his principles. So Shay said he would take a few unsanctioned fights. Again Brish said no. Didn’t want Shay straying from the path. Those were his words, man. ‘The path.’”

  Valentine shakes his head and starts looking at the condensation as it turns to dribbles on the side of the vodka bottle. He watches as the flickering light is refracted into a broken rainbow in the tiny droplet.

  “It was Shay and me who came up with the idea to do it abroad,” says Valentine, clearing his throat. “We’d heard about the bare-knuckle fighters in the U.S. Big business. Some of the lads who win in the backyard matches get UFC contracts off the back of them. Shay had no interest in that, but he knew there was money to be made. So we spoke to the lads who organize the bare-knuckle matches in Belfast and they hooked us up with Marcel, and he hooked us up with Chebworz. He fancies himself as a trainer. Reckoned his boy Byki was the real thing. He’d heard of Shay. We sent him some videos and he liked what he saw. Reckoned he could make money out of a scrap between Shay and his man.”

  McAvoy pours himself another vodka. Downs it and wishes he hadn’t. He starts to shiver beneath his coat but forces himself not to show it.

  “Chebworz is a good salesman. He needed an angle for the fight to be a moneymaker. So we came up with this idea of making it a grudge match. My people versus his people. It was piss-easy to provoke it. A couple of comments on YouTube and the thing took on a life of i
ts own. All the marketing was underground—posters in boxing clubs, whispers on closed Internet groups. It became a big thing. A prizefight. Cheb was good as his word. Got the news out on all these weird Russian sites, and we got the lads at home to tell their kin in America, and soon there were people paying good money for a fight that hadn’t even been agreed on.”

  “Brishen . . .” says McAvoy woozily.

  “We felt shit for having to play him the way we did, but it was for his own good. We told him all about the shit on YouTube and the things people were saying about Shay. Got his patriotism riled up. But he wasn’t about to agree to let it happen without a push. But Marcel, the big fucker at the boxing club—he knew how to play things. Had a word in his boss’s ear and we did the same with Brish, and soon Dezzie and Brish thought it was all their idea for Shay to go over for a tryout. It wasn’t a total lie. Shay was in with a chance. Brishen was so excited, it was like Shay was his son or something. And then I told him how easy it would be to kill two birds with one stone if he would just look the other way and let Shay fight Byki. The purse for the fight was going to be enough to cover Brishen’s debts. He was tempted. Prayed for guidance, spoke to his priest. We sold him on it when Chebworz spoke to him direct. He promised it would be a proper bout, properly refereed, cornermen, twelve rounds. Gloves and wraps. Brishen agreed.”

  McAvoy reaches for the beer. Presses the bottle to his forehead and puts it down again.

  “Your passports and paperwork . . .”

  Valentine mimes slapping himself in the head. “Hadn’t fucking occurred to us. Brish had a passport but mine and Shay’s were years out of date. And there was no fucking way I was being left behind. Brish is friends with Father Whelan. They’ve done charity stuff together. Go way back. So the bishop did him a favor and wrote a letter on my behalf. It was good of Whelan to sort it, considering he didn’t think we should be going. He’d advised Brishen against it and it pained Brishen not to listen. But being a good Catholic doesn’t always pay the bills.”

  “You flew out separately . . .”