by Tom Wood
‘We’re sorry,’ one of the men cried out.
‘Words are meaningless,’ Rados replied. ‘Voltaire said we use words to hide our thoughts. I think Voltaire was wrong. We use words when we are too lazy or incompetent for actions. It is what we do, not what we say, that defines us. Your words of apology need not exist had your actions been sure.’
Rados gestured and was handed the nickel-plated Beretta by the man in the denim shirt, but the pistol was loaded this time. He studied it, weighing it in his hand while he listened to the panting and whimpering.
‘Do you know how a Roman general would punish his soldiers when they failed him?’ Rados asked the man who had handed him the gun.
The man in denim said, ‘With death.’
Rados sighed, disappointed he had to explain everything to his barbarians. ‘It was called decimation. The soldiers who had fled the battlefield were divided into tens. Every tenth man was then beaten to death by the other nine. Unfortunately, we do not have the numbers here for that. We must improvise. Hold out your hands, please.’
The man in the denim shirt was confused, but did as instructed. Rados ejected the Beretta’s magazine and thumbed out bullets until twelve clinked together in the man’s cupped palms. Rados dropped the magazine at his feet. It clattered on the cement floor.
‘There,’ he said to the naked men cowering on the opposite side of the room. ‘Three bullets between four of you, and a single gun.’ He held up the empty Beretta. ‘I’ll be waiting outside for one of you to return it to me.’
Rados gestured for his other men to leave the room. He followed too, until he was in the doorway, then turned and tossed the Beretta at Zoca, who was quick to catch it in both hands.
The other three men looked at Zoca, fear in their eyes. Zoca’s showed only confusion. As he had been in charge of the shipment, his failure was greatest.
‘Because you met my gaze,’ Rados explained, and closed the door behind him.
For a moment, the four men were still and silent, then Zoca lunged for the magazine on the opposite side of the room and the other three men rushed to stop him.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The address Rados had given Victor turned out to be a boxy concrete building from the communist era, low and long and disused. It stood surrounded by parking spaces. Vegetation had pushed itself up through the asphalt, cracking and transforming the once-smooth surface into a moonscape of bumps and craters. A chain-link fence rattled in the wind.
Victor parked the old BMW and crossed the lot, his gaze sweeping back and forth to search the darkness. No lights shone from the building itself. Only the ambient city light provided any illumination. Clouds blocked out the stars.
It didn’t look like any kind of conventional club. The building was obvious in its semi-dereliction. There were no neon signs and no thump of bass in the air. No doormen in tuxedos outside and no line of would-be revellers in inappropriate winter clothing. Only a handful of heavies loitering around the entrance.
Nature had started to reclaim the land. Grasses had pushed their way up through the asphalt. Mosses and lichens were growing on the building’s exterior. The ground-floor windows were boarded up with plywood that had long since started to rot. It had been built cheap and fast, and even when brand new the stark lines and featureless concrete and pebble-dash couldn’t have looked good.
There were no cars parked in the lot, so Rados must not want to draw attention, although nearby residents must have noticed the influx of cars parked on nearby streets and unsavoury men congregating in a building long-since abandoned.
The men in front of the building clearly worked for Rados. Their uniform of jeans, leather jackets and sportswear gave them away, along with their matching buzz-cuts, in various stages of regrowth. None of them were clean-shaven. There was a glint of gold from neck chains and signet rings as they stood smoking and talking. Victor had an idea what kind of club this was.
They saw him approach a long time after they should have made him, but these were criminals, not professionals. Several sets of eyes watched him as it dawned on them who he was. It was too dark to read their lips with any accuracy but he could guess the nature of their whispers.
That’s the new guy…
No one spoke to him or offered any gesture of greeting beyond a stare. He passed through a thin haze of cigarette smoke. It had been years since Victor’s last drag, but the smell still made his mouth water.
The cold didn’t seem to bother Rados’ men. They were used to it; more than that, they did not want to appear weak by donning warmer clothes. Even the most hardened of criminals was in thrall to peer pressure and the need to fit in. The human longing for social acceptance was something Victor understood from observation rather than personal experience. True loners like him were against nature.
Two men flanked the entrance. Neither was tall, but they looked big and useful, with hands that had delivered plenty of beatings and faces that had received plenty too. They made a show of looking him up and down, acting as if they didn’t know who he was. Victor stood his ground, letting them have their moment. They wanted him to be intimidated but instead he regarded them with an even gaze. As a rule he preferred potential enemies to underestimate him, but there was nothing to be gained here by showing submission. They wouldn’t respect him that way, and the character he was playing – Bartha, the Hungarian killer – wouldn’t be intimidated by a couple of street-level thugs.
‘I’m here to meet Rados,’ he said when it was clear they were not going to speak first.
One gestured with a thumb. ‘Downstairs.’
They didn’t try and frisk him, which was no real surprise. Criminals were never as thorough as professionals, and at least every other guy here would be carrying. Some would have guns, and those that did not would be armed with blades or their preferred melee weapon. Even if Victor had a sub-machine gun under his coat, he would be outgunned.
Neither moved out of the way to let him pass. He saw what they wanted – for him to have to force his way between their shoulders – so they could resist and make him work hard to gain entry.
He said, ‘Can I get a smoke?’
There was a moment of hesitation, but he knew they would agree. To refuse said they couldn’t afford to give away a cigarette, or worse that they disliked him without knowing him, which translated to them being intimidated by him.
The one on the left nodded, but the one to Victor’s right was quicker fumbling with his packet. He shook one out and Victor took it. The guy activated his lighter and Victor pulled the smoke into his mouth, making the embers glow red and hot.
He exhaled the mouthful of delicious smoke and flicked the cigarette at the one who’d given it to him.
The man flinched in fear as the cigarette hit him square in the chest and dropped out of sight. Where it landed wasn’t important; the terror of it hitting his crotch was enough for the guy to jerk away, patting himself in a frantic attempt to find the burning cigarette before it found his balls.
Victor strolled through the gap.
He was halfway down the stairs by the time the guy realised he was safe, and the other one was busy laughing and mocking his panic.
The club itself was below ground, down an echoing stairwell and through dim corridors and a white-tiled changing room, past wall-mounted showers, and out to where a swimming pool was sunk into the basement floor.
The room was lit by freestanding halogen lamps. There were at least three dozen men hanging around the floor space overlooking the shallow end of the empty pool. In addition to Rados’ crew, there were maybe twenty who were better dressed and had the air of civilians. Some wore suits and had heavies of their own.
Rados was mingling, smiling and laughing as if he was having a good time in their company, and not out to exploit or cheat or steal. He saw Victor enter and gestured for him to approach.
Victor did, threading his way through the crowd and past the pool. It was twenty metres long by ten wide. It sloped to
a depth of two metres, and was half that at the shallow end. It had been drained a long time ago and never refilled. There was no trace of chlorine in the air. Instead, it stank of bodily fluids, old and new: sweat and blood, urine and faeces.
It was the stench of violence Victor knew so well.
Rados said, ‘Welcome to Disneyland.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘Gentlemen,’ Rados said, ‘this is my newest associate, Mr Bartha.’
He spent a minute introducing the men in suits to Victor, and Victor was surprised by the interest they showed in him. Maybe it was because, like them, he wore a suit, which was something of a novelty amongst Rados’ crew.
After a few minutes of small talk, Rados singled out one of the suits and they stepped away to converse.
‘This is Mr Dilas,’ Rados introduced the suit. ‘One day he will be president of Serbia.’
Dilas laughed as if it was a grand joke, but that laugh was for show – he wanted, and believed, that one day he would indeed run the country. ‘Milan likes to say such things to make me look foolish.’
‘I wouldn’t dare,’ Rados said, smiling along. ‘Because when you are president you would enjoy nothing more than taking your revenge with all your new might.’
He flexed his bicep for emphasis. Dilas chuckled.
‘I won’t forget my friends, Milan,’ Dilas assured, smirking, ‘when I’m sitting on a gilded throne.’
‘Gilded, maybe,’ Rados said. ‘But a throne made of bones and polished with blood.’
‘You’re needlessly dramatic, Milan,’ Rados replied. ‘My hands are clean.’
He showed his palms – pink and soft.
Rados rubbed his own together. ‘Yours are clean because mine are so very dirty.’
‘An arrangement that suits our respective talents, let’s remember.’
Palms pressed together before him, Rados bowed his head – a playful or mocking gesture, it was hard to tell which. ‘I am your humble servant, my liege.’
Dilas smiled as if he took it as a joke, but the heavy swallow that followed told Victor the politician only pretended he and Rados were on any kind of equal footing. Suits or not, both men knew this was but a veneer of civilisation that could be stripped away at any moment. Here, strength was the only thing that truly mattered.
Rados said, ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ and left Dilas and Victor alone.
Dilas was young for a politician. He was somewhere in his thirties, but his cheeks were plump and smooth, making him look younger. His suit didn’t quite fit. He was tall and slim, with narrow shoulders and a narrower waist. The suit was expensive, but it was off the rack, a designer brand, and the generic size, even in a fitted cut, was too big for Dilas’ width, while at the same time too short for his height. He had enough money to pay for the designer label, but didn’t yet know the money would be better spent having a suit made to measure.
His hair was dark and curly, but cut short enough that it didn’t bloom away from his head. He wore glasses with dark, rectangular rims. They had a designer’s logo on the arms. His shoes were polished to a high sheen and had extended, pointed toes that made his feet look clown-like.
‘You don’t seem like one of Rados’ usual men,’ Dilas said to Victor.
‘I wouldn’t know anything about his usual men.’
Dilas thought about this. ‘He’s lost a few recently. Maybe he wants to widen the gene pool. Criminal Darwinism, you might say.’
His voice was low, but the words came fast and stumbling. He believed in what he said but wasn’t convinced other people would too.
Rados returned and excused himself from Dilas to steer Victor clear of the crowd so they would have more privacy.
‘What do you think of my club?’ Rados asked.
‘I was expecting music. Maybe some strobe lighting.’
Rados smirked and looked down at the empty pool. ‘This is my Colosseum. Perhaps not quite as grand, but you get a better view.’
The empty pool had once been white, but the tiles had darkened with grime and were marked in many places with blood – smears of old blood, brown and flaking; newer patches and flecks that were the colour of rust; fresh splashes, bright and glistening under the halogen lights.
There was nothing else in the pool apart from sand that had been used to soak up the mess before being swept into the corners where it formed dark dunes and had caked into the grooves of the floor tiles.
‘No weapons,’ Rados explained, ‘and no shoes. Otherwise, there are no rules.’
Victor nodded, picturing two men pummelling each other into a bloody mess at the bottom of the pool. With no rules there would be groin strikes, bites and gouging. It wouldn’t be anything resembling sport.
‘I don’t smoke and I don’t take narcotics,’ Rados said. ‘Violence is my drug of choice.’
Another man arrived. Victor didn’t see or hear him at first because of the crowd and the noise, but he noticed the reaction of those who did. Faces changed. Voices became hushed.
It was Zoca. He moved with awkward steps, almost shuffling. His face was a mess. It was swollen around both eyes and the mouth. His left cheek was bruised. He had stitches in one eyebrow.
‘I take it he’s one of the fighters,’ Victor said.
Rados smiled. ‘He fell.’
Zoca didn’t approach, but he acknowledged Rados, who nodded his head to return the acknowledgment. Even with a messed-up face, Victor could tell Zoca regarded him with curiosity mixed with contempt. Zoca looked away and shuffled over to join some of Rados’ other guys. No one shook hands or hugged or patted him. He looked as if every movement was painful and a slap of welcome on the shoulder would cause unbearable agony.
‘Trust,’ Victor said, still watching Zoca.
Rados followed his gaze. ‘Those who show my trust in them to be misplaced have a tendency to… fall. But after this their balance tends to improve dramatically. It is only under the rarest of circumstances that this solid new footing proves unsteady.’
‘And then they fall for a second time?’
‘Yes,’ Rados answered, ‘they do. The difference being, they don’t get up the second time.’
Victor watched Zoca’s slow, pained movements and humbled body language. He didn’t look like the ruthless hard man who’d terrorised the women in the scrap yard.
‘Does falling breed loyalty?’ Victor asked.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Rados said. ‘I cannot see into the hearts of my men and know their true selves. But I believe it is only through our mistakes that we learn. I also believe that if we don’t learn after our first mistake, we never will.’
‘Everyone deserves a second chance.’
‘And what about you?’ Rados asked Victor. ‘How many second chances have you been given?’
‘I’ve had my share.’
‘But how many second chances have you given out?’
Victor remained silent.
Rados smiled at the lack of answer. He said, ‘Let’s find a better spot. The fights will be starting soon.’
Victor asked, ‘When is a bout over?’
‘When the winner decides his opponent has had enough. A knockout or submission, usually.’
‘Fatalities?’
‘If we are lucky,’ Rados said, and it was difficult to know whether he was serious or joking. ‘Few fights end that way though. Most show mercy before that point.’
‘But not all?’
‘No, not all,’ Rados said.
Victor asked, ‘When do the fights start?’
‘Soon. I want you to know something first. There are certain things I value,’ Rados explained. ‘Fortitude, obviously. A man who cannot handle himself is no use to me. Intelligence… not all my men possess it, but those that do stay closest to my side. Strength of will matters more than both. Confucius said it’s not the fall but how we rise from the fall that matters. But even more important than will is loyalty, for without that we are nothing but barbarians. Homo sapiens beca
me the dominant force on this planet not through individual might but because we worked together for the common good. We showed loyalty to our people. I expect the same of my men. I expect them to put aside their own wants and needs for the needs of our tribe. Then, and only then, will I reward them with more wealth and women than they can handle, for I am generous. And should their loyalty prove false… then my generosity will become wrath, and I am every bit as cruel as I can be kind.’
Victor said, ‘That sounds a fair deal to me.’
Rados regarded him. ‘You’re not scared of me, are you?’
Victor didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what Rados wanted to hear.
The Serbian said, ‘Fear is physical. It has a smell of its own and you don’t have to be a dog to detect it. The stench of fear is almost sweet. I like it. But I smell none from you. Why is that? Why can I not smell your fear?’
‘It’ll be the aftershave.’
Rados’ face didn’t change. ‘I deal with the worst of humanity, the most brutal and the strongest. Men who behave as though nothing scares them, as if it is the world that should be scared of them – but even from such men I can smell fear. Even if they are too stupid and arrogant to know fear, their bodies are not. The fear is there. It leaks out of their pores. They cannot stop it because their bodies know when they stand before the devil.’
Victor was quiet for a moment. He didn’t believe Rados could smell a person’s fear, but he believed Rados believed it. There were many signs a person was afraid and Victor knew them all – adjusting feet, creating distance, defensive posture, swallowing, sweating, dilated pupils, facial flushing. Rados might think he could smell fear, but he was deluding himself, turning an innate ability to read body language into a supernatural power.
Victor’s hands were down at his sides, relaxed. He curled his fingers a fraction, as if he were about to make fists. Rados’ eyes glimmered.
