Primal Cut

by Ed O'Connor

  ‘Arthur over there is timekeeping. Listen for him counting down the fight,’ Woollard announced to the contestants and audience. ‘Kev here is “Karl’s” second. George Norlington is handling his own dog “Tyndall”. The owners have waived the right to a weigh-in. I have been selected as referee. My word is final.’

  Norlington quietly turned his dog around so it faced the wooden wall of the arena. On the opposite side of the ring, Kev did the same with Karl.

  ‘Normal English rules apply,’ Woollard continued. ‘First, neither second can touch either dog or behave unfairly to the opposing dog or second once the fight is underway. Secondly, dogs must not be thrown across the ring. Throwing a dog constitutes a foul punishable by forfeiture of the fight. I am obliged to remind the handlers that once they have turned their dogs, they must keep their hands in front of the dogs’ shoulders. On the “release” command, they must lift their hands vertically away from the dogs. Thirdly, my decision is final. It is my decision to suspend the fight. Should we need to postpone the contest for any reason – the kind of reasons that smell of pork and arrive in panda cars – the match will take place at an alternative venue in three days’ time. You will all be informed of the details.’

  ‘Clear the pit!’ shouted the timekeeper, starting his stopwatch. The tension and noise levels in the room suddenly ratcheted up. Woollard climbed over the barrier, leaving just the two dogs and their seconds in the fighting zone.

  ‘Twenty seconds,’ shouted the timekeeper.

  ‘Face your dogs!’ boomed Woollard.

  The two Tosas turned to face each other, straining against their handlers’ grips. To Norlington the next ten seconds seemed like an eternity.

  ‘Release!’ screamed the timekeeper. The two handlers lifted their hands clear in accordance with the rules and clambered out of the ring.

  A split second later the two dogs flew into each other across the scratch line. Watching from the side, amidst the screams and shouts of empty-minded men, Keith Gwynne gasped at the spectacle of two giant animals tearing at each other. Standing to his right, Norlington quickly saw that the only variable would be time. The gulf in size between the two animals was instantly telling. He had walked into a mismatch. He hoped that, for Tyndall’s sake, Woollard would suspend the fight quickly.

  Despite his physical disadvantages, Tyndall was the first animal to draw blood from his opponent, clawing an ugly gash in Karl’s ribcage. However, the larger dog did not recoil at the wound.

  ‘Hardy animal your dog!’ Woollard shouted above the din, ‘cunning fighter.’

  Norlington ignored the comment, his eyes focusing on the spectacle. He knew Woollard was trying to persuade him that the fight was an even contest. Norlington watched Karl closely. The giant animal had taken a serious hit and was bleeding profusely, yet its enthusiasm and ferocity were undiminished. He began to wonder if Karl was drugged up on some amphetamine or other. The animal was clearly unaware of the damage it had sustained. The two animals clashed again, each frantically struggling for domination of its opponent. They tumbled and collided across the floor of the ring, unable to secure a telling grip. Tyndall crashed into the wooden slats encircling the ring, his head taking the force of the impact. Karl broke clear, then turned into the centre of the ring, before launching at Tyndall in what proved to be a devastating assault. Karl finally seized the smaller dog’s neck between its jaws and hauled it to the ground, clawing furiously as it did so.

  Tyndall eventually tore free but at the price of a terrible neck wound; blood gushed from the opening as the dog staggered backwards in the ring. For the first time in an otherwise mute contest, Tyndall began to growl.

  ‘Bad sign,’ said Gwynne to Norlington, ‘he’s had enough.’

  Norlington knew Gwynne was right. When pit dogs were confident and enjoying the contest they fought silently. Tyndall was backing into a threat display; growling and snapping at his opponent defensively; trying to discourage his opponent from further attacks.

  ‘Call the fight!’ Norlington shouted at Woollard, ‘suspend the fucking fight!’

  On the other side of the arena Woollard feigned deafness, placing a hand to his ear, mouthing, ‘I can’t hear you.’

  Furious, Norlington looked back into the arena as Tyndall, now disorientated and backed up against the wooden wall, wet himself in confusion and terror.

  Sensing victory, Karl flew into his weakened competitor, viciously tearing at the wound on his neck. Tyndall yelped in pain and fell to the floor. Surprised by the high-pitched shriek, Karl stepped back for a second. Norlington jumped into the ring, ignoring Karl’s aggressive circling, and made directly for his dying dog. Finally, a bell rang indicating the end of the fight.

  Norlington stared at the mess in the centre of the ring. People around him were exchanging money. Some said that the fight was the best they had ever seen. Others bemoaned the fact that it was over so quickly. There was agreement, however, that Tyndall had been a ‘game’ contender. Two of Woollard’s farm workers harnessed Karl and hauled the barking, excited animal from the ring. Norlington knew that the fight was a mismatch: that Karl was extremely large, even for a Tosa, and that his apparent ignorance of his wounds was unnatural. Still, that was the risk that you took. Woollard had bought his agreement to forgo the weigh-in. Norlington had the dog’s death on his own conscience and someone would now pay a price for that. He climbed over the wooden boards into the arena and carried Tyndall out of the barn. Then he noticed the monstrous frame of Lefty Shaw looming in front of him.

  ‘I hope you fight better than your fucking mongrel, fat man!’ Lefty observed.

  Norlington placed Tyndall on the ground next to his car and returned to the barn.

  Woollard gestured the two men towards the centre of the ring. It was a formidable sight. Shaw was well over six feet with huge shoulders and powerful arms. He had a tattoo of an eagle on his right forearm. His opponent was no less formidable. Norlington was shorter, about five eleven, but weighed over three hundred pounds.

  Woollard had placed two upturned steel buckets on either side on the arena. Lefty Shaw sat down on his bucket sizing up the opposition. Norlington was older and heavier than him; he figured that he would go for an early knockout before his energy ran out. Lefty had fought the type before. He would let him come on to him, use his reach to keep him away, then eventually wear the fat bastard down.

  Norlington stared at the bloodstains on the carpet left by his Tosa five minutes previously.

  ‘Come up to the scratch please, gentlemen,’ Woollard ordered, pointing to the line of masking tape that divided the centre of the ring. The two men obliged. Lefty Shaw grinned a toothless grin at Norlington.

  ‘Let’s go, fat man,’ Shaw said.

  Norlington, making no reply, lifted his eyes from the carpet and stared intently at Shaw’s tattoo.

  ‘Normal bare knuckle rules apply,’ Woollard announced to the fighters and to the gathered onlookers. ‘There is only one round. It is not timed. It finishes when one of the fighters is knocked out. If a fighter is knocked down, he has thirty seconds to come up to the scratch in the centre of the ring. If he is unable to do so, the fight is over. Fighters may not rest during the contest. If one falls from exhaustion, the other is declared the winner.’

  Lefty Shaw was pumped. Sweat was pouring in rivulets down his back like a racehorse on Derby Day. ‘Let’s get this started, Bob,’ he grunted.

  Woollard climbed awkwardly out of the ring. At his signal, Gwynne rang an old cowbell and the fight began.

  Shaw immediately stepped back, expecting Norlington to come at him hard, looking for the quick knockdown. However, Norlington didn’t move and just stood on the scratch line looking at his opponent. Annoyed that his assessment had been wrong, Shaw lumbered forward, slamming a haymaker punch into Norlington’s midriff. His opponent stayed quite still. Again, Shaw’s left arm connected with Norlington’s stomach, then with his face, then with his kidneys. Blood dripped across the floor fr
om a cut under Norlington’s eye. And yet, he remained quite still, apparently oblivious to the pain Shaw was inflicting.

  Sitting in a plastic garden chair outside the ring, Woollard turned to Gwynne in disgust. ‘What’s all this about? I paid to see a fighter not a punch bag. You told me this idiot was notorious.’

  Gwynne shrugged, ‘I don’t know what he’s up to. C’mon, George! Sort it out!’

  Norlington tasted the blood in his mouth. He liked the taste. Always had. He was vaguely aware of Lefty Shaw approaching him again, more confident now, sensing victory. He was coming right at him, no fancy approach, he was walking straight towards him. As Shaw drew back his left hand, Norlington launched himself forward. He seized Shaw’s right arm and then bit down furiously onto his eagle tattoo. Blood spurted. Shaw screamed in pain, falling to the ground under the weight of Norlington’s body. Norlington bit down harder, feeling his teeth cut into Shaw’s flesh, blood drooling over his tongue. Frantically, Shaw punched the back of Norlington’s head with his free hand; the pain was absolutely excruciating. Norlington began to pull his head back, tearing a sizeable chunk of flesh from Shaw’s bicep. Woollard stood up in shock at what he had just seen. Gwynne sank into his seat – this was going horribly wrong.

  Free at least of Norlington’s ferocious bite, Shaw reeled backwards in agony clutching the torn flesh of his right arm. He looked on in horror as Norlington chewed and swallowed the meat he had ripped free. Norlington wiped the blood from his face. He moved quickly across the ring, hearing for the first time the anxious cries of support for Lefty in the crowd. Approaching his wounded opponent, Norlington smiled a bloody smile.

  ‘I didn’t like that tattoo,’ he said to Lefty. ‘A man shouldn’t decorate himself.’

  With that, Norlington engulfed Shaw in a terrible bear hug. He squeezed hard, locking his hands behind Shaw’s back, forcing the air from his lungs. Again, Shaw fired rabbit punches against Norlington’s huge frame but to no avail. Then, just as Shaw felt himself losing consciousness, Norlington dropped him to the ground. Falling on all fours, Shaw frantically gasped for breath as his assailant walked around the ring waiting for him.

  Across the ring, Norlington savoured the taste of blood. He wondered what Alison Dexter would taste like when he went to work on her. That time was coming. But first things first. Norlington picked up the steel bucket from the floor of the ring, advanced on the wheezing form of his opponent and smashed the bucket down onto the back of Shaw’s head. Then he did it again as Shaw slumped forward. And again as the back of Shaw’s head split open to reveal a white panel of bone. Confident that Shaw wasn’t going to get up, Norlington turned to face the shocked audience and Woollard in particular. Breathless with the exertion, Norlington pointed at the farmer and grunted, ‘Give me my fucking money.’

  Ten minutes later, with most of the invited guests gone, and with Lefty Shaw still unconscious on the floor of the barn, Norlington placed his dead dog in the boot of his car. Woollard was standing near by, but keeping a distance nonetheless.

  ‘It’s all in there.’ Woollard handed over an envelope as Norlington slammed his boot shut.

  ‘It better be,’ Norlington muttered. ‘I don’t want to come looking for you.’

  Woollard almost laughed. ‘Do you honestly think I’d short change you? After what I’ve just seen? No, mate, it’s all there.’

  Norlington nodded and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘I’ll be seeing you then.’ The door slammed.

  ‘I sincerely fucking hope not,’ Woollard replied as the car roared to life.

  ‘Boss! You better get in here!’ one of Woollard’s farm hands shouted from the barn.

  Woollard followed him back into the barn. Keith Gwynne was kneeling over Lefty Shaw. He looked up.

  ‘We’ve got a big problem, Bob. He’s dead.’

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ Woollard exclaimed, ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Pretty fucking sure. His heart’s not beating.’

  ‘Can’t we give him mouth-to-mouth or something?’

  ‘Bob, he’s gone mate,’ Gwynne said grimly, ‘I ain’t kissing a corpse.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘What are we going to do then?’

  Woollard thought for a moment, his mind exploring the possibilities. ‘Only got one option, haven’t we?’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘We got to get shot of the body.’

  Gwynne stood up. ‘What’s all this “we”? I’m not going anywhere. It’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Perhaps you won’t mind me giving your name to the old Bill then,’ Woollard snarled, ‘if it’s nothing to do with you. And if I remember rightly, it was your maniac mate who did this.’

  ‘He’s not my mate, Bob. Just someone I know.’

  ‘Well, you keep some curious company, Keith,’ said Woollard angrily.

  Three of Bob’s employees were still in the room. Woollard knew that he had to act fast. He picked out one he knew that he could trust.

  ‘Ben, you stay and clean this shit up. I want this spotless. The rest of you help me get him out of here.’

  ‘Where are we going to put him?’ Ben asked uncertainly.

  ‘To begin with, in the back of the transit van. After that, I’m open to suggestions,’ Woollard replied.

  ‘We could take him down to the Cam. Weight him and chuck him in,’ Gwynne volunteered.

  ‘Too far,’ Woollard shook his head. ‘We need something less risky. I don’t want to be driving him around Cambridgeshire all night.’

  They thought for a moment, temporarily flummoxed. In the distance, a train rattled northwards towards Ely. Woollard looked up suddenly. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  Norlington drove for about ten minutes; he gunned his aged car through the sprawling Cambridgeshire darkness. He was beginning to be aware of discomfort; his chest was aching after bearing the brunt of Shaw’s assault. Shaw had been strong but he wasn’t an intelligent fighter. Back in London, Norlington had fought much shrewder men: men that didn’t bother battering your midriff or your kidneys, men who went straight for your windpipe, your solar plexus, or the balls or your eyes. Shaw had tried to knock him over; they had tried to kill him.

  He pulled over onto a farm track and turned off the engine. He was sorry to have lost his dog. Norlington was not an affectionate man but the dog had kept him company. It had fought a lost cause with bravery and ferocity. It deserved his respect. Norlington reached into the glove compartment and withdrew the pocket knife he kept for emergencies. He climbed out of the car and lifted the dead Tosa from the boot.

  The dog was still warm although the blood had dried, matting its fur. Norlington placed the dog on the hard earth and withdrew a Tupperware box from amongst the rubbish on the back seat of his car. Returning, he felt the dog’s muscle bulk around its shoulders and hips. Then, with care and expertise, he sliced two significant cuts of meat from the dog: the first from its left shoulder, the second from its left thigh muscle. One by one, he laid each piece into his Tupperware box and sealed the lid.

  Norlington placed the carcass in a roadside ditch and covered it with as much rubbish and foliage as he could find. Driving back to his digs, Norlington occupied his mind with the taste of Alison Dexter. He found his mind wandering through forests of herbs and garnishes. He remembered a chapter from the Imperial history book that had belonged to his father. It had been about a British sailing ship called the Boyd. In 1809, it had visited Whangarei Harbour in New Zealand. The British had affronted the local Maori. So, in retribution, Maori warriors had overrun the ship, killing most of its crew. Norlington couldn’t remember all the details but he did recall, with some excitement, what the tribesmen had done with the bodies. It had given him an idea.

  The fight had cost him a dog but bought him some time. He now had the time to locate and isolate her, and the money to equip himself properly. The problem would be accommodation. He needed a new place to stay: somewhere remote and private. Finding the ideal spot could prove a
wkward but his mind was fertile with ideas.

  12.

  Sunday, 13th October 2002

  The mail train rattled through Balehurst station without stopping. It was 2.27 a.m. In the driver’s cabin, Duncan Capel was fighting off sleep. He had only recently been switched on to night work and his system still hadn’t adjusted. He had finished his thermos of coffee as the train was loaded with mail sacks at Cambridge; now he was struggling. Once clear of Balehurst, Capel accelerated the locomotive through 90 mph on the long, straight run through the fens to Ely.

  Capel yawned with exhaustion, then frowned out into the onrushing darkness. The earlier showers had receded. He could see something moving above the track. There was a footbridge about a mile ahead with figures moving on it, silhouetted against the recently revealed moon. Instinctively, Capel eased off on the accelerator, the train slipping back through eighty then seventy miles an hour. He suspected kids. This stretch was notorious for vandals chucking stones at trains and leaving debris on the track. He didn’t want to risk a shattered windscreen or a derailment. The train eased back to 60 mph. When he was fifty yards short of the bridge, Capel saw a body drop down and go under the wheels of the locomotive: a sight that would haunt him. He slammed on the brakes, sending squealing metal shock waves out into the still Fens. His heart pounding, Capel radioed Cambridge station for assistance, then, afraid of what he might find, headed nervously out of the driver’s cabin and jumped down onto the track.

  DI John Underwood’s mobile phone shrieked at him through the darkness. It was just before 4.00 a.m. Sleep clung on agonisingly to his eyes.

  ‘Underwood,’ he muttered.