by Tom Wood
‘Ah,’ he said with a big inhale, ‘now I can smell it. It appears that you are human, after all.’
‘You sound disappointed.’
Rados shook his head. ‘No, not disappointed, but I admit I am relieved. One devil in this city is more than enough.’ The hum of the crowd quietened to a murmur and Rados checked his watch. ‘Ah, it’s time for the first fight.’
Victor could tell by Rados’ tone what was going to happen next, even before the Serbian said, ‘Take off your shoes.’
Victor said, ‘I’m not going to fight.’
‘Because you can’t or don’t want to? Because a man who cannot use his fists is of no use to me.’
‘You didn’t hire me to be an enforcer or an entertainer.’
‘I hired you to be whatever I decide you to be. For tonight, you are a gladiator.’
Victor didn’t have to look around to know Rados’ men were in close proximity and paying attention to each and every word their boss uttered, as well as Victor’s reaction. If he refused to fight, he couldn’t expect to walk out of the building in anything resembling one piece. Even if they were all unarmed, he couldn’t take on so many opponents. Far better to fight one-on-one in a semblance of a fair contest than to face a dozen without that semblance.
‘Well?’ Rados asked.
Victor unlaced his shoes, one at a time, before taking them off.
Rados said, ‘I am disappointed in your reluctance.’
The socks followed. The tiled floor was cold beneath Victor’s bare feet. He didn’t respond to Rados’ taunt.
‘Who am I fighting?’ Victor asked, removing his jacket.
‘That depends what you mean,’ Rados said. ‘Existentially? When we fight the true opponent is always ourselves. But physically, you’re fighting the Beast.’
TWENTY-NINE
The Beast lived up to his name. He was a monster of a man with a face that seemed almost Neanderthal. His skull was a bowling ball of dense bone with a sloping forehead and prominent brow. His jaw jutted out under fat lips lined with stubble. His ears were shrivelled cauliflowers, the cartilage so deformed by blunt trauma no clear hole was visible. There was more hair on his back than his head. His gut was massive, but his shoulders were wide and hard. The knuckles on both hands were a mountain range of bony lumps, hardened and thickened with repeated use. His face was red from high blood pressure; no human heart was designed to pump blood around a body that weighed three hundred pounds. Though he appeared well-balanced and comfortable on his feet, his size would make it impossible to move with real speed.
Victor watched as the Beast entered through a doorway on the far side of the crowd, standing a clear head taller than any of Rados’ men. Judging by their reaction, he was something of a celebrity. The suits responded with an uneasy mix of fear and revelry.
‘He only fights the new recruits,’ Rados began, ‘because no one ever wants to fight him.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Victor said.
‘He’s not really part of my organisation. He’s more of an entertainer for my men, as well as the well-dressed criminals who run this town from boardrooms and swivel chairs.’
Victor assessed the Beast. There was no point waiting until the fight began to devise a strategy. Then it would be too late. He had to make every second beforehand count.
The Beast’s strengths were obvious, but it was his weaknesses Victor was interested in. Agility and stamina would be poor. The second wouldn’t matter at first, but would become apparent as the fight wore on. Knowing the Beast would tire fast made no difference if Victor couldn’t defend against the initial onslaught. The Beast’s agility, or lack thereof, was the most important weakness. No man that heavy could be fast, except in a straight line. Once in motion, the incredible force created by all that mass powered by so much strength would be too great to control. The Beast would be an unstoppable bulldozer rushing forward, and just as slow and awkward to turn.
‘I knew his mother,’ Rados continued. ‘I’m not sure what she put in his cornbread, but he’s as crazy as he is big. If he eats at one of my restaurants, we barely break even that evening.’
Victor smiled, as if he cared.
‘I tolerate his appetite and his idiocy for two reasons. As I said, his fights entertain my men and my friends in important places, but they are also invaluable to me in learning about potential employees such as yourself. Anyone who can survive a beating from him will be an asset to my organisation. They may spend a month in hospital and walk with a limp for the rest of their lives, but I will know for certain that they are going to do as I say from that point onwards. If they climb willingly into that pit, anything else I ask of them will seem like a holiday.’
‘What use is a broken man to you?’
Rados had been expecting the question. His answer was smooth and rehearsed, as if it had been delivered to every new recruit he made face the Beast. ‘I value mental fortitude over physical prowess. The latter is only temporary. It will degrade with time, whereas your mental strength will only improve.’
Victor said, ‘I wasn’t talking about myself.’
Rados chuckled.
Victor removed his shirt and set it down with his jacket. He could move well enough dressed – he never wore anything restrictive – but he didn’t want to give his opponent an easy means of grabbing hold of him. If they ended up in a grapple, it would be over.
‘You’ve seen your share of confrontation,’ Rados said, his gaze moving back and forth over Victor’s collection of scars.
He didn’t comment. The scars spoke for themselves. Rados knew enough about combat to recognise how he had come by them.
The Beast had no facial injuries Victor could see. No scar tissue above or below the eyes and his nose was unbroken. Victor didn’t believe that was because the Beast possessed some kind of Kevlar skin; more likely he’d never been hit hard enough or often enough. Given his obvious slowness, that wasn’t because he had the ability to dodge and block blows but because his fights were always over too fast. None of his previous opponents had lasted beyond the opening flurry. They’d not had the chance to hit the Beast with anything meaningful because he was too big and too strong to defend against. Most would have been too hesitant to attack first, even if the Beast let them, and that passivity worked against them, giving the Beast the advantage. Then, with each quick victory the Beast grew more confident in his own power to overwhelm his opponents and dispatch them with minimal effort. He didn’t get hit in return, so he never had to worry about defending himself. He didn’t know what it was like to fight on the back foot. His slow fists could bludgeon their way through a guard, but could they snap up to defend against a fast jab?
The Beast approached and stared at Victor. He didn’t have to be told that Victor was his opponent – Victor was the only new guy in the room and the only man also shirtless.
‘This the Hungarian?’ he asked Rados.
‘I’m him,’ Victor said.
‘You’re not small, but you’re not big either.’
The Beast’s voice was a booming growl. A whisper from lungs that size was an oxymoron.
Victor said, ‘They say it’s not the size of the dog in the fight but the fight in the dog.’
‘I like dog fights.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Victor said. ‘The weak often enjoy suffering.’
The Beast slapped his barrel chest. Fat rippled over the muscle. ‘I’m not weak.’
‘Then when was the last time you fought someone bigger than yourself?’
The Beast didn’t answer. His nostrils flared and his jaw flexed. He walked away and set about working up the crowd, who were in reverence of their champion. They patted him on the arm or back and parted for him wherever he walked.
‘Quite the specimen, isn’t he?’ Rados said.
Victor nodded.
Like the rest of him, the Beast’s hands were massive. Ideal for punching and pummelling, but not so useful for finding pressure points
and making small, important movements. He wouldn’t kick; he was too top heavy. His height came from his torso and head, not his legs. They were thick and solid and able to support him well enough, but on one foot? Doubtful. Big guys didn’t tend to kick; their natural reach meant they didn’t need the extra range, even if their physique was more in proportion than the Beast’s.
The ambient noise of shouts and cheers grew loud. The crowd was ready.
‘It’s time,’ Rados said.
Victor climbed down into the empty pool.
THIRTY
The floor of the swimming pool was not the smooth, tractionless surface it appeared from the outside. Instead, it was grippy and coarse with a thin spread of the sand thrown down to soak up blood. Victor doubted it had been an intentional effect, but the fighters would benefit from the extra traction. They would slip less and their balance would be better. As a result they would throw harder punches, which would make for a better spectacle. He paced around for a moment. Down at fight level he could see the texture of the sand and where it was denser and finer. Some areas had more grip than others. The centre of the pool, where the fights began, had the least grip; the shallow end of the pool had the most coverage and it fell away towards the deep end. That made sense. The fights would take place at the shallow end of the pool where the spectators were closest to the action. No rules, Rados had said.
While the Beast worked up the crowd and the crowd roared for their champion, Victor judged distance and shuffled backwards, legs further than shoulder-width apart, sweeping the ground with the soles of his feet to shift away the thin spread of sand.
The Beast roared along with the crowd and pumped his giant fists into the air to whip them up into a frenzy. They chanted his name.
Beast. Beast. Beast.
Victor ignored the noise and showmanship, and kept sweeping with the soles of his feet until they squeaked against smooth tiling.
The Beast continued the preamble, roaring and shouting, fist-pumping and flexing. This routine might last longer than a typical fight. It would be an essential part of his popularity amongst Rados’ men, whom he had beaten, one by one. At first, they would hate him for smashing up their faces and breaking their extremities, but men, fundamentally pack animals, were usually happy with their place in a hierarchy once it was established who was the alpha. Dogs were the same. These men had survived the Beast, which was an achievement in itself, and violent men liked to watch violence. There was no entertainment if the Beast’s fights were over in seconds. The showmanship beforehand compensated for the lack of suspense over what might happen – everyone knew who the winner would be – by raising expectations that they were about to see another foe smashed.
When he deemed himself ready, the Beast climbed down into the pool. It was a spectacle in itself. He was huge and awkward using steps and rails designed for someone half his size. Victor was aware of Rados’ intense gaze, as if the Serb was analysing Victor’s own analysis.
They had climbed into the empty pool-turned-arena at the shallow end. Victor now stood towards the centre and the Beast, having received an impatient nod from Rados, stalked forward to meet Victor. The spectators lining the sides of the pool edged along to make sure they had the best view, careful not to impede Rados’ line of sight of the coming action.
The Beast couldn’t whisper, but he could produce a low growl. ‘I’m going to kill you for what you said before. Once you go down, I won’t stop until your skull is mush. We’ll see who is the weak one.’
Victor smiled, because he was pleased to have got under the Beast’s skin and because the smile would only antagonise the man further. He wanted the Beast angry.
The fighter’s face was already red from his high blood pressure, which had been elevated by the adrenaline coursing through him after all the posturing and showmanship. The effect was now further intensified by his anger towards Victor.
The cheering spectators hushed, sensing it was almost time.
Victor backed away, and so did the Beast. They faced one another across the empty pool. The spectators quietened until they were almost silent. Then Victor winked at the Beast and the big man charged.
He roared as he powered forward, Rados’ men breaking into an explosion of noise, screaming their support as the Beast shot across the empty pool.
He was faster than anticipated, but that only helped Victor, who waited until the last instant, as the Beast lowered his head and opened his arm to collide into Victor to take him to the ground, timing his dodge so that he darted out of the way once the Beast was committed to a battering-ram grapple. Victor was fast for a man of his size, but moved like lightning compared to the Beast.
All that force met no resistance, and as Victor had deduced, could not be stopped even by the Beast himself, who tried to slow himself and manoeuvre – something he was capable of, if not graceful at, but not when his bare feet met smooth tiles free from sand and the grip he was used to.
Victor had made sure to stand with his back to the deep end so the sloping floor of the pool worked against the Beast as he attempted to regain his balance. He stumbled and flailed and slid and tumbled and fell, hard. The crowd’s screams of expectation became shocked gasps.
The sloping floor took something from the impact, letting the Beast slide away some of the energy instead of absorbing it all, but not enough to stop his face whipping into the tiles, crushing his nose and scattering teeth across the pool floor.
He stayed conscious, however, and tried to get purchase with his palms to push himself upright as blood rained from his flattened nose and wrecked mouth. His palms slipped on the blood-slicked tiles.
He was dazed but still fast to get to his knees, and with his opponent behind him, he spun around first before attempting to stand and risk exposing his back longer.
He turned in time to see Victor’s hand blurring towards him, striking the side of his face with an open-palm strike, delivered like a hook with every ounce of power Victor could generate. The sound of impact was a monstrous slap and the Beast’s head spun ninety degrees until the neck couldn’t rotate any more and the remaining force travelled up and rocked his dazed brain around inside his skull. His eyes rolled backwards and he tipped over.
Victor grimaced. His palm was bright red and stinging, but the pain would subside without injury. His knuckles would not have fared as well against the Beast’s Neanderthal bone structure.
The crowd were silent.
Victor walked back the way he had come and climbed out of the empty pool while Rados’ men watched him under a cloud of disbelief.
Rados was waiting for him.
‘Well done.’ There was no praise in his tone.
Victor ignored the tone and nodded to show thanks.
Rados said, ‘I’m not sure whether to be impressed or enraged. Beating him wasn’t the test. You were supposed to take a beating to show loyalty to me, and to show your strength of will.’
‘You said yourself there were no rules.’
Rados didn’t respond.
Victor gestured to where the Beast lay on his back, unmoving, his face smeared in bright blood as one of Rados’ men knelt by his side, checking he was still alive. He was, but he would be eating nothing but pureed food for a long time.
‘If you’re unhappy with the result,’ Victor said, ‘when the Beast wakes up, I’ll gladly fight him again.’
Rados stared hard, and Victor couldn’t tell what thoughts were playing behind those washed-out blue eyes, but then Rados chuckled.
‘I think I’m actually starting to like you.’
‘I’m surprised it’s taken so long.’
Rados patted him on the shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough of sport for one evening.’
‘Where are we going?’
Rados said, ‘Somewhere quiet so I can get to know you.’
For a brief moment it seemed as though it would be only Victor and Rados leaving together, but some of his men fell in behind them.
Rados didn’t order or gesture, so Victor knew it was what was expected of them. They were to stay at their boss’s side at all times. Close protection detail. That was going to be another problem.
Rados climbed into the back seat of a waiting Range Rover and a man took the seat either side of him. Victor took the passenger seat. The other four men were in the second vehicle.
These guys weren’t the same as the others. They had the same casual clothing; the same jewellery; the same clipped hair and stubble; the same smell. The difference was in their age. These were older than the rest. Victor was the youngest man in the vehicle. The men who were closest to Rados were late thirties to early fifties. They were carrying more weight than their contemporaries – a little more useful bulk and a little more around the waists to go with it – but they looked competent and confident. They were from Rados’ era, from the war; they may not all have fought with him, but they had fought. They were hardened criminals now, but they had once been hardened paramilitaries. Their eyes had the glaze of men who had killed and were proud of it, and would not hesitate to do so again. These were warriors. As Rados had said: men who had given up their humanity, like he had himself. Rados was different still, with his nice suit and healthy living, his philosophy and his intelligence. He appeared civilised in comparison to these men – as he had said, he was an emperor guarded by barbarians.
They didn’t like Victor. That was clear. They didn’t like the accelerated way he had joined the exclusive inner circle. They had earned their places. They had proved they belonged with Rados. Victor had not, and he wondered why Rados was willing to upset his loyal men for an outsider. He had to know his men well enough to see their reaction to Victor. Having been in the company of some of them for twenty or more years, he should have been able to predict their resentment. Rados was not stupid. If his men were unhappy then he was prepared to accept that in return for… what?
