Cog in the Machine

by Nigel Shinner

  At the opposite end, the double doors which were the only other feature of the room opened. A wiry shaven-headed black man stood holding the door open. He looked toward the Tall Man.

  The Tall Man nodded.

  The silent instruction given, the shaven-headed man beckoned to somewhere beyond the doors.

  An overweight man stepped into the room, instantly making it seem even smaller than it already was. He was suited in a black three-piece pinstripe, like a gangster from the thirties. Thinning grey/black hair was greased from his side parting, combed to cover as much of his exposed scalp as possible. He raised his arms to get the crowd’s attention, his hands touching the low ceiling.

  “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” a deep thunderous voice cut the chatter instantly. “Thank you, thank you for attending our private event this evening. I hope that it will be worth the journey that I know some of you have made today. Now, I can see a few familiar faces and I can see a few new ones, and I hope that you will all enjoy the spectacle we have for you tonight.”

  There was a brief pause to let that introduction set in, allowing the echo of the voice subside, “In a moment, two men will come through that door…” The man turned and pointed at the door through which he had just come. “… and will engage in a bare knuckle boxing match. The match will continue until the fight is won. There will be no rounds. There will be no breaks. There will be no pep talk from the referee. The fight will only be over when… one, one of the fighters is knocked out. Two, one of the fighters submits. Or three, if the referee deems one fighter to be completely outclassed, or injured and unable to continue.”

  Another pause.

  “So I will delay no more - your first contender of the evening is… Some call him THE Prince amongst pikeys. Some call him THE gypsy king. Some even call him THE god of the invisible ring… Gentlemen, please put your hands together for the one, the only, Michael ‘The Fireball’ Flynn.”

  A pale, sinewy, shaven-headed, tattooed young man burst through the doors, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. The man stomped back and forth in front of the crowd, flashing a skull and crossbones gum-shield. He couldn’t have weighed more than ten stone, but every ounce of it was muscle; taut, shredded muscle.

  The Tall Man snorted at the fighter’s moniker – the Fireball. The lightweight travelling scrapper had earned that title because he had burned his own mother’s caravan with his mother still in it. The old lady had escaped but the caravan was a smouldering lump of melted glass fibre and cheap trinkets in no time. Names stick like that sometimes.

  After allowing the young man a minute of posturing, the make-do master of ceremonies continued.

  “And gentlemen, if you will be so bold as to put your hands together for our second contender… He’s faster than a speeding bullet. More deadly than a bout of smallpox. He’s the greatest bare knuckle fighter this side of the English Channel, the one, the only, Scott ‘The Slugger’ Kinsella.”

  With that, the doors burst open.

  The fighter strolled in, stopping in the doorway to survey the room. He was not posturing or bounding around like an overexcited pit bull as his opponent had. This scrapper was focused, ice-cold and rippling from head to toe. There was not a single ounce of spare flesh to see. Although the men were approximately the same weight and height, the Slugger appeared to be somewhat bigger. He had a presence that the traveller did not.

  The Fireball danced in front of his opponent, trying to appear confident, trying to psych him out: trying to win the fight before the fight had begun. He was trying. He wasn’t succeeding.

  The Slugger looked at his antagonist as though he were a dog vying for attention by yapping at anything that moved.

  “Right then gentlemen, we have our first fighters of the night.” The announcer stood between the two men. “Make your wagers if you please and we can get this show on the road.”

  The atmosphere changed to a frenzy of swift talk and the smell and sound of money changing hands. The whole betting process took no longer than half a minute. Many of the punters hoped the fight would be just as short and.

  “Are we ready?”

  The crowd roared a resounding ‘Yes.’

  “So let’s begin. Are you gentlemen ready to fight?” The announcer glanced between the fighters, awaiting a nod from each.

  “Let’s get it on!”

  Instantly, the two men came to life. Both men bounded barefoot in front of the other, focussed for any incoming punches, gauging the range with light jabs.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  The hands flicked back and forth, snapping swiftly against skin, none with any power. Both men sought an opening, both men hoping for a mistake from their opponent.

  The Fireball thought he saw a break in the guard. He launched a weighty left jab, followed by a right cross.

  The Slugger evaded the cross, landing a countering right hook firmly on the traveller’s chin. It had been a sucker move. The Fireball staggered backward but didn’t fall.

  The punch had taken its toll already. The stricken fighter had the bounce taken out of him by the first solid punch.

  Instead of going for the kill shot, the Slugger drew his opponent in again, dropping his guard once more to allow the traveller a free punch. Would he take it?

  Of course he did.

  The Fireball was able to unleash a decent double left jab and right hook combo, this time keeping his hands high, blocking any counterpunch.

  There was no counterpunch. The Slugger merely dodged out of the way of the incoming volley, nudging against the jostling crowd as he did. There was no ring here, just a space in the spectators.

  The traveller took heart from this non-retaliatory behaviour, finding his bounce again, throwing a straight right at his opponent. The Slugger had planned it, ducking under the shot.

  The Fireball’s overextended punch missed his opponent, instead catching a spectator with a glancing blow. The spectator went down - out cold. The Slugger threw an uppercut that crunched, nearly taking the other man’s head clean off his shoulders. The Fireball went down.

  The fight was over.

  The Tall Man was satisfied. Even more satisfied when three men handed over a wad of banknotes. Six hundred pound richer from less than a minute’s worth of bare knuckle fighting. It was proving to be a fruitful night.

  Chapter 5

  The swirling tendrils of vapour hypnotised Dom as he stared into the mug of hot sweet tea. Tea tasted different out of prison. It might have been because the milk was chilled and fresh, and not from a room temperature carton of UHT. Or it might be the quality of the brand that Bob had bought instead of the economy, low grade teabags shipped into the prison in bulk. A mug of tea in prison was a moment of light relief, maybe coupled with a budget digestive biscuit and a chat with one of the other inmates about better times beyond the walls. It was something so simple, so ordinary, so normal. But this tea, in a navy blue chunky mug, was the best tea Dom had ever tasted. It had the taste of freedom about it, made complete by the comforting, warm environment. He felt like he was at home.

  It was his home, in reality. It was the same four walls that his mother had shared with Bob. Twenty years of memories tacked to the magnolia painted wallpaper in cheap gilt edged frames. Twenty years of trinkets collected from a week’s holiday here and a day trip there. Nothing had changed dramatically since the day of his arrest. That was the last time he had been in the house.

  He had popped in on the morning of the heist to see his mother. She had been to the doctors. It was an embarrassing conversation to have with a son. Louisa had to admit that a lump had been found in her breast. Bob had found it. Dom wasn’t squeamish about the details, but no son wants to hear about an accidental discovery made during an intimate moment between his mother and her lover. To glaze over any embarrassment, Louisa had moved on to the next step and the hospital tests the doctor had talked about. Only routine, he had said. A precaution, just to be sure, it’s probably nothing, he had said.

  Do
ctors often lie as part of their bedside manner.

  Dom had offered to take her to the hospital once she had the appointment through. He never got the chance to take her.

  He was still on remand when she had the results back. They weren’t good.

  She had sat in the dock every day in support of her son during the trial, always accompanied by Bob and occasionally Dom’s younger brother Vincent. For every day she sat there, she seemed to age a year. Dom wasn’t sure if it was because of the stress of seeing her eldest child incarcerated and probably going down for a big chunk of his life, or because of the malignant tumour growing in her chest, stealing time. The medical experts had recommended a mastectomy. She refused. They had also recommended chemotherapy; she refused that too. She was a tough old bird. Four to six months the doctors had said, without treatment. She lasted eighteen months.

  He had been allowed out for the funeral. Stand at the graveside to throw in his handful of dirt, cuffs on, with two prison guards flanking him. It may have been a day of freedom, but the only person who was truly free was Louisa. Free from the suffering that had dogged her for the last six months of her life.

  “Does it feel strange?” Bob interrupted, placing a plate of biscuits on the low mock oak coffee table, the same table that Dom had rested his mug of tea on when he’d had ‘the talk’ with his mother.

  “The place hasn’t changed a bit.” Dom had wanted to say to Bob that he hadn’t changed a bit either, but the truth was Bob had aged badly. He had been a young looking fifty-five year old on the day of the sentencing. Now he looked like he might be due a letter from the Queen on his next birthday; sixty-seven going on a hundred.

  “I’m not one for change. That was your mother’s department.” A veil of sorrow fell over the old man’s face as he went to leave the room.

  “You said something about digs and a job,” said Dom, rapidly changing the subject as he sensed the mood had dropped.

  Bob nodded and walked over to the bureau. Neat stacks of letters were bundled with elastic bands laid flat on the drop-down lid. A pot of pens and pencils stood at one side with a notepad clearly on show, ready to jot down any messages or thoughts. Bob ripped off the top page, handing it to Dom with an explanation.

  “I would have had you stay here but I’ve got a lodger… you know… to help with the bills and stuff.”

  “A lodger? It’s not a six foot Swedish model or anything?” Dom asked, tongue firmly in cheek.

  “I can but dream. No, he’s a nice lad who works in one of them call centres in the city. I’ll introduce you next time you come over. Kyle’s his name. He only stays Monday to Friday. He’s got a boyfriend up in Swindon, and spends the weekends up there.”

  Dom smiled at the old man, glancing down at the scribbled words on the lined paper.

  “The first address is your lodgings. It’s only a few streets away. I’ve paid your bond and the first month’s rent.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.” Dom was grateful, but he wasn’t looking for help.

  “It’s what your mother would have wanted.”

  That old cliché killed the conversation for a moment, although it was true. Ex-con or not, Louisa would have welcomed her eldest boy with open arms, sat him down and made him a sandwich.

  “And the other address is for work.”

  “Mach-Tech?”

  “Yes, it’s a big warehouse down on the industrial park. Do you remember Tommy McQuillan?”

  To Dom’s recollection, Tommy McQuillan was a local mechanic-cum-gardener the last time he’d encountered him. A bit of a hard case, back in the day, a few connections but a sound guy by all accounts and one to stay on the right side of.

  “I remember.”

  “Well it’s his place and he’s always looking for good workers…”

  “You’re forgetting that I’ve just been released from prison.” Dom knew his first hurdle to getting a job was the gap in his CV caused by his incarceration.

  “Don’t you worry about that, I’ve had a word on your behalf. He’ll be expecting you tomorrow morning, about ten-ish.”

  “You’ve sorted my life out for me, haven’t you?” The sarcasm was diluted with gratitude.

  “Just helping, Dominic, just helping.”

  Dom nodded briefly, hoping he’d be able to pay the favour back.

  Chapter 6

  After a surprisingly comfortable night’s sleep on Bob’s sofa, Dom felt ready for anything. There was something to be said for sleeping with a clear conscience once your debt to society was paid in full.

  He was barely awake when Bob entered with a full cooked breakfast and a mug of steaming sweet tea.

  “Thanks,” said Dom. It was as much as he could muster after the best night’s sleep in a very long time.

  “There are clean towels in the bathroom, shower gel, deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste…”

  “You’ve thought of everything,” said Dom interrupted, a little embarrassed by all the effort his would-be step-father had put in.

  “I’m sure I’ve missed something…” Bob said, mostly to himself, clearly trying to think of what item had eluded him.

  Dom took a big swig from the same blue mug he had used the day earlier. Freedom tea tasted even better after a good night’s sleep. The bacon and eggs tasted even better still.

  *

  After his first solo shower in twelve years, Dom felt almost human.

  But no shower could wash away the stigma of his imprisonment. All he could dare to dream for was a chance to prove he could be trusted again. It was one thing to ask trust from another. The real trick was whether he could trust himself. Old habits died hard, and with more than a decade away from the trouble that had blighted his life, it might just be enough to break those habits.

  Only time would tell. Time and practice.

  Bob offered him a lift, but he refused. He had already done so much that Dom didn’t want to take advantage. Also he didn’t want it to look like he couldn’t do anything for himself. How would that look in front of a new employer?

  The Mach-Tech building was on the large industrial site just before the slip road for the motorway, a mere ten-minute walk from his temporary digs with the world’s most comfortable sofa. He figured that a lift would make him look lazy.

  Maybe this fresh start would be some sort of redemption for his wasted past. Maybe crime wouldn’t feature on his radar anymore. He liked to think so.

  The building was difficult to see. There were several other buildings of similar size blocking the approach, and a thick row of fir trees lining the perimeter. If it wasn’t for a dark blue backing sign with angular white text emblazoned across it near the entrance, Dom would have missed it.

  The carpark out front was enough to accommodate about a hundred cars, but only half of the spaces were filled. Dom was in awe of the purpose-built building, all red brick with white steel cladding and wide windows looking out from the first floor. There were no windows at ground level aside from the full height windows that flooded the entrance lobby with natural light.

  Frameless glass automatic doors swished open as he approached. The reception area was spacious, wood panelled and open to the full height of the building as the windows had been. A curved wooden desk placed in one corner with a pretty receptionist perched on an oversized leather office chair. On the opposite side was a pair of sofas. One was a long bespoke sofa in the same leather as the office chair, ten feet long and at right angles to the other, shorter sofa.

  Dom, dressed in plain black trousers, black shoes and a white open-neck shirt, stood in front of the desk, waiting for the receptionist to end the phone call she was taking.

  “…I’ll just transfer you to the correct department.” The young woman tapped a button on the phone and obviously began talking to a colleague. “I’ve got a gentleman on the phone; he’s after some technical advice. Could you speak to him, please?”

  The response must have been affirmative. The receptionist pressed another button a
nd dropped the handset back onto the cradle. She was smartly dress in business-wear that matched the branding of the business.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was neutral, neither over-friendly nor too officious, as though trained to give nothing away. Whether that was just her personality or the policy of the company, Dom could only guess.

  “I’ve got an appointment to see Mr McQuillan.” Dom tried his best to sound as neutral as he could, failing, he thought, as the receptionist revealed the most subtle of smirks.

  “Up the stairs.” She pointed toward the only visible staircase. “Go through the double doors on your left - Mr McQuillan’s office is the second door on the right.”

  Dom didn’t wait for any more instruction and took off up the wide wooden staircase framed in brushed steel, with a toughened glass balustrade lining the open end of the stairs, continuing along the mezzanine that looked down over the lobby.

  As he approached the door he heard the audible click. He was being buzzed in. A glance down at the receptionist busying herself with some paperwork told him that he was being watched from somewhere else.

  Pulling the door toward him, he shot a glance over his shoulder. A small black dome camera was positioned above the opposite doorway. The fact that there were cameras, and that they worked, was an important piece of information.

  The second door on the right was solid natural wood with a large aluminium plaque. ‘Thomas McQuillan’ in large bold font. ‘Chief Executive Officer’ in a smaller font, underneath.

  Dom mused that this was a big step up for the guy who used to fix cars and machinery in a garage, and who did a bit of gardening over the weekends and summer months to earn some extra cash. From odd-job man to managing director of his own company in twelve short years took some doing. This kind of success could only be the product of some very hard graft and a degree of good fortune along the way. Dom would be looking for pointers.

  He rapped firmly on the door.

  The door was opened by a stocky, shaven-headed man, dressed in immaculately clean workwear - two-tone black and grey cargo pants that had never seen a day of hard work, coupled with a crisply pressed navy blue polo shirt, company logo stitched on the left of the chest, with the name David Richards stitched below.