Looking Glass

by Christina Henry

  The Grinder had been up against another fighter whose nickname was Bull, a man whose own size and ferocity were just as fabled. The match had been billed as a fight of the century, gladiatorial combat between two of the greatest fighters of the age.

  Bull had never stood a chance.

  He managed to land a punch or two as they danced around each other. The Grinder was surprisingly light on his feet for such a big man, and he dodged the worst of Bull’s initial flurry easily. It looked like the appetizer course to a long, delicious meal, one in which each fighter would show their best before one eventually prevailed.

  But it wasn’t like that at all. Bull got in reach of the Grinder’s meat hooks, and the Grinder hit him so hard that Bull flew into the wall of the pit. While Bull stood there, dazed and shaking his head, Grinder attacked.

  The Grinder left him alive. That was all the good that could be said for Bull.

  It was all over in less than ten minutes.

  Nicholas had watched in horror as three men ran into the pit to drag Bull away while the Grinder raised his bloody fists in celebration.

  They said Bull never fought again after that day, and that it was months before he could chew anything harder than thin gruel.

  And this is the man that Dan wants you to fight. He lied to you, Nicholas. He doesn’t like you at all. If he did he wouldn’t ask you to get in the ring with that monster.

  Still . . . Dan was right about one thing. Nicholas was fast, maybe fast enough to avoid getting snagged and held in place by the Grinder’s fists. But was he strong enough to knock the other man out? For that was what it would take to win, Nicholas was sure of it. It wouldn’t just be a matter of knocking him down for thirty seconds. Nicholas would have to make very certain that the Grinder went down and stayed down.

  “You’ve decided,” Dan said.

  Nicholas, whose mind had been far away, blinked at Dan. “I suppose I have,” he said slowly.

  “You’re already thinking on what you have to do to win. I knew I was right to choose you,” Dan said, clapping his hand on Nicholas’ shoulder.

  Maybe he was a fool. Maybe he’d die at the Grinder’s hands. But Nicholas knew he’d never have a chance like this again. He couldn’t say no.

  “Yes,” he said.

  * * *

  Dan had an apartment in the brothel above, with a separate entrance from the customers’. He asked Nicholas to leave his grandmother’s house and live there, at least for the duration.

  “That way I can ensure you’re getting fed properly,” he said with an avuncular smile. “Can’t have my prize fighter passing out from hunger before the match even starts.”

  This was what he said, but Nicholas had a strong feeling that instead it was a way for Dan to keep his fighting dog on a short leash. Once he made the commitment to the match Dan would be in for a large payoff himself—Nicholas was no fool, he knew Dan would make even more than he would—and he might be in for a fair bit of pain or monetary loss should Nicholas lose heart at the last minute and run away.

  Nicholas didn’t like the idea of living with Dagger Dan. It was too much like being caged, and it ran counter to every instinct he had to run wild and free. Still, Dan was offering him a chance to leave the streets where he was born, the streets where he would never be anything more than Bess Carbey’s troublesome grandson. He wanted to make a name of his own, and this was the first step. Once he’d made his money from the fight he’d have the means to be out from under Dan’s thumb.

  If he didn’t get killed by the Grinder first.

  Nicholas knew Bess would rail at him if he tried to pack up and leave in the daytime, so he waited until he heard the soft snore coming from her bedroom. If he knew how to write he might have left a note—Bess could read, and make sums, too, but Nicholas had never wanted to learn writing and she grew tired of trying to teach him. He could read well enough to get by, and that was all that mattered to him.

  Besides, he thought, she’ll probably be glad to see the back of me. I’ve never been anything but a trial to her since the day my mother left me on her doorstep.

  He put the few things he owned into a small rucksack and climbed out his window, stealing away into the night.

  * * *

  Dan had very strict ideas on what a fighter should eat, and those ideas ran contrary to Nicholas’ notion of good food. He didn’t mind eggs, but he liked them cooked instead of raw, which was how Dan wanted Nicholas to consume them.

  The first time Dan placed a mug filled with four raw eggs in front of him Nicholas had stared at the fight boss.

  “Drink it,” Dan said. “Build your muscles up. You’ve just been sparring.”

  “You couldn’t fry them up with some potatoes?” Nicholas said, staring into the mug at the unappetizing mess of yolk and white. “What about a sausage?”

  Nicholas had eaten very few sausages in his life, as meat was more costly than fish and Bess often couldn’t afford it, which meant that a fish-and-chip fry-up was the standard fare. However, since he’d started making his own money he ate as much meat as he could. Never steaks or anything of that nature—but he could have a sausage or occasionally a meat pie. He didn’t even care if it was fatty or filled with gristle, either. Fish fry-ups were for poor folk, in Nicholas’ mind, and he didn’t want them anymore if he could avoid them.

  Of course, he didn’t want raw eggs, either, but Dan gave him such a fierce stare that Nicholas picked up the mug and swallowed them as quickly as possible, ignoring the way the back of his throat seized and his stomach threatened to toss all of the eggs back out again.

  “Good boy,” Dan said, grinning. He swiped Nicholas’ sweaty hair with a rough hand. “Now we can see about that sausage. Don’t think I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a young man and hungry all the time.”

  Dan fried up three sausages then and there and placed them on the table in front of Nicholas with a big hunk of bread and a knob of butter.

  Butter was something else Nicholas had rarely eaten, and he slathered a good deal more than necessary on his bread.

  Maybe, he thought, it isn’t such a bad thing to be under someone else’s eye.

  Nicholas wasn’t any kind of fool, though. He knew very well that if he didn’t win the fight against the Grinder, or at least make a good showing, Dan would toss him out on his ear.

  Worse, if the Grinder made Nicholas look inept or injured Nicholas’ body beyond repair then he would have no recourse for the future. No one would want a broken-down fighter who’d been mashed up by the Grinder.

  And if he won . . . well, he tried not to make those kinds of promises to himself. Nicholas knew all too well that things never seemed to go exactly as one planned, and that in the Old City promises were just words that were trampled beneath fate’s boots. But it was difficult, sometimes, not to dream, not to imagine himself in fine clothes (and sometimes with a fine woman on his arm) strutting through the streets of the Old City. Everyone would know his name and men would want to stand him drinks in every pub and young boys would want to touch his hands, the hands that had defeated the undefeatable, the hands that had beaten the Grinder down.

  But there was much to be done before that day could come, and Nicholas wasn’t the type to shirk his work if there was something he wanted. Oh, he’d run out on any number of chores that Bess wanted him to do but that was different. There was nothing at the end of her list of chores except more chores, and maybe falling into bed dead exhausted at the end of the day.

  This—the work and training he needed to do to win the fight—this was something else altogether. He knew that at the end of the tunnel there could be great reward, greater than he could possibly imagine.

  So he woke at dawn every day and ran the streets, ran for two or three hours at a stretch sometimes, dodging the carts and sellers and the increasing crowds. Then he’d return to Dan’s apartment, where
he’d drink his mug of raw eggs (he never got used to the taste and texture, either, and vowed privately to never come near a raw egg again once this fight was over) and then eat a proper breakfast of toast and very strong tea.

  Every day after breakfast Dan would have him down in the ring, sparring for two hours with anyone willing to show up that early in the morning.

  Of course all of the fighters knew that Dan had chosen Nicholas for the special task of fighting the Grinder, and there was a fair bit of grumbling about it. Some of the fighters thought it patently unfair that a youth such as Nicholas had been given a chance that many of the older members had never been given. Many of them were certain that Nicholas hadn’t a chance in hell of beating such a fearsome fighter.

  “You only need to look at his size,” Roger Davies said loudly one morning as Nicholas sparred in the ring. “Sure, he’s tall as the devil himself, but he hasn’t got any meat on him. No matter how Dan brags about the boy’s speed it won’t help him if he gets caught by that monster. He’ll break in two.”

  Nicholas’ practice partner was Mick Frost, a fighter a few years older and several pounds heavier. Dan had Nicholas practicing with bigger fighters, as logic dictated he would need that sort of practice to defeat the Grinder. Dan himself was in the office at that moment, berating another member for a poor showing in the pits the night before.

  Roger Davies would never have dared criticize Nicholas so loudly if Dan had been in the room. Dan had made it quite clear that Nicholas was his boy and that everyone else in the club could keep their opinions to themselves.

  Nicholas and Mick had paused long enough to get a dipper of water from the bucket that hung over the edge of one corner of the ring. Dan had been making a special effort to get clean water for Nicholas in the club. Nicholas gave Roger Davies a hard stare as he took a drink and then passed the dipper to Mick.

  “Don’t trouble yourself with him,” Mick said in an undertone. “He was never any great shakes at fighting in his own time, and he can’t stand it that someone else is going to have glory he could only dream of.”

  “I’m not troubled,” Nicholas said, turning his back on Roger Davies in a deliberate cut. “Besides, there’s no glory unless I win. So let’s get back to it before Dan comes out and finds us resting.”

  Mick gave him a nod and they went back to it. Roger Davies kept on, his voice rising above the sound of fists striking flesh.

  “Not certain why Dan didn’t put old Frosty here in with the Grinder. He’s not as big as Bull, but he’s no lightweight. He’d have a better chance than that bean sprout.”

  “Shut your gob, Rog,” said his companion. This was another of the old cribbage boys, a duffer called William Pattenson. His voice sounded uneasy.

  Nicholas tried to ignore their chatter and focus on his work. He dodged away from Mick’s swing for his jaw and ducked in under the bigger man’s reach, delivering two quick blows to the body that made Mick grunt and blow out his breath in a hard exhale.

  “Who are you to tell me to shut my gob, Will? I’ll speak what I want and who I want to speak it to, and I say that skinny boy is no match for the Grinder. I’ll lay odds that he’ll be knocked out in less than a minute.”

  He’s only a green-eyed old fool, Nicholas told himself, ignoring the rising tide of anger that welled up inside. Keep your mind on the match in front of you or else Mick will make you pay for it.

  Besides, he knew that everything Roger said would be shouted by the crowd at the fight, and with interest. Once the audience saw the size difference between him and the Grinder they’d laugh themselves silly. If he couldn’t handle the jeering of one old man then he’d never be able to get through the fight.

  Mick kicked out with his left foot, catching Nicholas unawares, and made him stumble. As Nicholas tripped forward Mick jabbed him with an elbow. Nicholas threw his body up, trying to right his ship, but before he could Mick landed a solid blow to Nicholas’ stomach. In a real fight Mick would have pressed his advantage, landing a flurry of blows while Nicholas was doubled over. Since it was a training match he backed off for a moment, letting Nicholas catch his breath.

  “Ha!” Roger Davies shouted. “See what I mean, Will? There’s nothing to that boy at all, and there never will be. The Grinder will crush his bones to powder.”

  Nicholas straightened up, shaking his head. He couldn’t afford to let the old man get to him, but that was exactly what was happening. He was distracted, off his game. It wasn’t worth it. They were only words, stupid words coming out of the mouth of a stupid man.

  Nicholas nodded his thanks to Mick and they returned to circling one another.

  “Don’t think Dagger Dan will come to collect your body once the Grinder’s finished with you, boy! A man like Dan hasn’t got time for losers.”

  There weren’t very many people in the club at that hour—a few other fighters practicing on sacks of sand, and three tables of old duffers at their games. Everyone in the room was now deathly quiet. Nicholas felt their eyes on him, wondering what he would do in the face of such an insult.

  Loser. Nicholas was no loser. He’d won every bout he’d fought in to date.

  But the word dug into his skin the way nothing else had, burrowed underneath and got into his blood. Nicholas swung out hard at Mick’s jaw—much harder than he meant to—and caught the other man by surprise. Club rules meant punching at half strength in practice fights, or at least making an effort not to seriously injure their training partners. Mick staggered back and Nicholas could practically see the stars in his eyes.

  He dropped his fists and went to Mick, putting his hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, low enough for just the two of them to hear. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.”

  Mick gave him a dazed look, his eyes going in every direction. Then he seemed to come back to himself, shaking his head back and forth like a wet dog.

  He patted Nicholas’ arm. “He got you riled up, good and proper. I know who that punch was meant for.”

  “I shouldn’t have—” Nicholas began.

  “Nothing a man can do about it when he sees red,” Mick said. “Sometimes that takes over no matter how you might want it to be different.”

  Nicholas nodded, though he still felt bad about it. It wasn’t right to take his spleen out on the fighter who’d been good enough to help him train. He glanced over Mick’s shoulder at Roger Davies, who was being subjected to a furious whispered diatribe from Will.

  “Don’t you waste your energy on him,” Mick warned. “Dan will have your hide if you break your hand on that fool’s jaw.”

  It was tempting. It was so tempting. Nicholas could see it happening in his mind’s eye, see himself vaulting the ropes around the ring, see himself marching up to Roger Davies, see the old man’s watery blue eyes widen in fear.

  Somewhere, deep down inside him, he reveled in the thought of that fear.

  He jerked his head back, feeling sick. Was that the kind of man he was, the kind who liked watching some helpless stick of a man being terrified?

  No, he thought. I won’t be like some gangster scum. I’m not going to hurt somebody just for fun.

  “You’re right,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “He isn’t worth it.”

  Roger Davies’ eyes did widen then, but in furious embarrassment. He stood up from the table, shaking off Will’s whispered “No, don’t!” and grasping hand.

  “You think I’m nothing but a weak old man, eh? You think you can take me down just because you’re Dan’s favorite today? You’re nothing, and no matter how old I get I can still school some ignorant boy.”

  Nicholas felt his hands curling in tight fists again. He didn’t have to stand here and take abuse from some has-been, old man or not. He wasn’t ignorant, and he wasn’t nothing.

  Nothing but a burden and a heartbreak. That was what
Bess had always said.

  Nothing but poor scum. That was what the shopkeepers said when he was small. They’d follow him with their eyes and make sure that he didn’t run off with their wares, even if he came with money in his pocket.

  Nothing but another fighter, there’s hundreds of them. That was what the people in the neighborhood said when he came home flush from his first fight.

  Nothing but another man out for his own pleasure. That was what her eyes had said, the eyes of the first woman he’d ever had, one he’d paid a few coins for a hurried encounter in a back alley. Her eyes said she didn’t get paid enough to fake enthusiasm. The experience had put him off whores for good, and thinking about it always made him feel vaguely ashamed.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  That was what people said when they saw him. Even now he was nothing but meat for the Grinder’s hooks, nothing but a pretender trying to be something he wasn’t.

  He was moving before Mick realized his intentions. Nicholas didn’t exactly know what his own intentions were, come to that, but he knew he wasn’t going to be insulted. He didn’t have to be. He wasn’t nothing.

  “Let him be!” Mick shouted, grabbing at Nicholas’ shoulders and pulling him back before he climbed out of the ring.

  “I won’t,” Nicholas said through his teeth, shaking Mick off.

  He really was seeing red now. His eyes seemed like they were filled with blood and his body wanted blood, too, wanted to feel it running under his hands, to see Roger Davies’ smug face coated in it.

  Nicholas vaulted over the ropes and something in his face made Roger Davies’ smirk fade. He backed away from Nicholas, his hands up in a gesture of surrender.