by Kolin Wood
With a scream from deep inside her lungs, Juliana leaned forward and drove the blade deep into the man’s eye socket. There was an audible pop and hot claret flooded over her hand and up her sleeve.
She screamed again but this time it was a haunting sound, ancient and primitive; alien to all but those whose hearts have ever truly been broken. She gripped his head tight in her arms and looked away as she twisted the blade in the socket. Sweat poured from her face and she realised that her teeth were gritted so tight that it hurt. The knife point scraped on the bone at the back of the inside of his head.
Juliana blacked out.
By the time she came round again, the blood on the knife handle had become tacky. She was crouched over, still holding onto his head, and the body had started to go cold against her legs.
With slow, lethargic movements she pulled back away from the corpse, leaving the handle of the knife embedded and upright in the bloody face beneath her. She sat up, grimacing as the smell of the room once again came at her like the most truly potent of smelling salts.
With bleary eyes, she struggled to make sense of the space. She imagined the ash-stained ceiling of the room below and the air suddenly felt polluted, toxic. A deep, longing desperation to leave took hold and she kicked out aggressively with her legs, clawing her way backwards. Her hands and feet slipped on various unknown items on the floor, but she continued until her back slammed painfully into the wall by the door. Screams of agony sounded from the corners all around. She could still hear the distinct sound of Donnie, laughing at her behind the walls.
She pushed herself upright and did not stop until her feet hit the road outside the gate. The wind had calmed a little but a fine rain still fell, instantly sending a shiver up her back and reminding her of the desolation that surrounded her. She was alone. Sobs wracked her chest as she looked down at her shaking, blood and shit covered hands.
A cat ran across the road and hid under the rusted wreck of a car nearby. She looked up at the sky, squinting through the rain, trying to control her breathing and stop the crying which had seized a hold of her, but it felt like the tears would never stop. The night was dark and the clouds were thick. Donnie’s words rang in her ears and her stomach contracted painfully as stringy bile spilled onto the wet tarmac.
You sure smelled him good too.
She screamed again, now uncaring of who might hear her. After all, what could anybody possibly do to her that had not already been done? Right now, her body felt like a sheath of blunt skin, numb to the weather and unresponsive to her feelings; she did not even know how her legs were still supporting her.
He ate him.
From beneath the car, the cat watched on, its eyes shining like reflective beacons in the dark. Everything was different now. Everyone in the world that had ever meant anything to her was gone. The decision to stay in the city had cost her everything.
The light breeze fluttered her gown around her legs and drizzle plastered her greasy hair to her face.
It was then, standing there in the wake of her old family home that something hot and dangerous stirred in her empty gut. A new vision had suddenly crested the dark horizon, encompassing every emotion in her body and channelling them in the same, hateful direction.
The General.
The one-eyed man had cost her everything, and he was going to die for what he had done.
She glanced up at the shadows moving in John’s bedroom at the front of the big house, saw his face smiling in them, and swore an oath to avenge his death.
She had watched the General walk free of the prison and had chosen not to follow but and she would find him. As God was her witness now, she vowed to see him wiped screaming from the face of the earth, along with anybody else who dared to stand in her way.
2
The heavy, wooden door opened inward, and the man with the automatic rifle that had been leading him walked in first. Another—dressed in the same smart attire—approached from behind and gave him a gentle nudge in the back with the butt of his own rifle. Tanner turned with a smile that said ‘Try that again’, but followed the first guard in. With a loud bang, the door was shut behind him.
The room was large and gaudily decorated. Inside, the air was stuffy and warm; hard to breathe when compared to the cold night air and yet sweet and savoury on account of the smells of cooking radiating from somewhere nearby. The space was lit on all sides by kerosene lamps hung from ornate hooks, equally spaced on pillars of white-flecked marble. At its centre, a huge oak table had been laid with fine-looking cutlery and crystal glasses that twinkled in the light from the two large silver candelabras centred amongst the opulence.
One of the guards gestured to an empty seat and Tanner ignored him.
At the head of the table sat a portly man. He was garbed in a rich, red blazer and ordained in an excess of golden jewellery. To his left sat a woman—slim and attractive with flowing dark hair and smouldering eyes that seemed to size him from head to toe the second he entered. To the fat man’s right sat Teddy Braydon, a drink in one hand and a wry smile creasing his lips.
At the sight of Teddy, sitting there red faced and smug, Tanner tensed, snarling audibly as he fixed him with a dark stare.
“Ah, the guest of honour has finally arrived!” the fat man said. “Please, my good man, please sit… sit.”
Without bothering to stand, the fat man lazily gestured to the same seat as the guard had and then waved a pudgy hand in the air. A young boy rushed forwards holding a crystal decanter of something amber which he splashed into a glass in front of the empty seat before he promptly disappeared again.
Tanner did not move, maintaining eye contact with Teddy who held his gaze confidently. He looked down at the glass and then back. Across the table, Teddy smiled.
Sensing the tension, the fat man leaned forward and rang a small golden bell. The large set of double doors behind him opened and in marched a troop of a dozen boys, each one dressed in a matching blue gown. Each boy carried a silver platter, upon which all manner of steaming food had been prepared. There were meats and vegetables, dark looking gravies, and dishes of steamed puddings which glistened with sugar in the candlelight.
Not one of the boys looked up as they laid the table, cramming every available space with the sumptuous feast that barely fit on the deep, red table cloth. Tanner watched the boys as they worked, noticing the bruises around the mouths and eyes of some, and felt his temperature begin to rise. One of the lads—a small, weak-looking, blonde boy—flicked his eyes towards him. Sadness and desperation shone evident in the deep blue wells, then suddenly he was gone. Tanner looked over at the fat man, who was busy clapping his hands with joy at the sight of the huge feast-laden table; he certainly looked the sort.
Tanner’s mouth began to run with saliva and his stomach rumbled deeply as he surveyed the feast before him. He hadn’t seen food like this since before the country had fallen over and, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was so hungry that it hurt.
The fat man waved his pudgy hand once more, casting it over the table like a sorcerer casting a spell, the nonchalance and arrogance of his gesture bringing Tanner’s blood to boiling point.
“Please, Mr. Tanner, join us. I’m sure that the food will be to your satisfaction.” The voice was posh sounding in the worst way; intentionally belittling in tone, undoubtedly rehearsed throughout generations of the same.
Tanner shrugged, walked over to the chair, and sat heavily before turning to the closest guard and extending his arms. The guard in turn, looked up at the fat man, who nodded, and then proceeded to pull a knife and cut the thick plastic ties which had once again been used to bind his wrists. Once free, Tanner rubbed the angry red stripes, relishing the feeling as the blood began to flow.
“I am Mr. Farringdon, master of this house,” the man said. “You, however, may call me Michael.”
Tanner said nothing, instead fixing Teddy with yet another, dark stare. His time would come.
Teddy, ho
wever, still unfazed, raised his glass in a salute of a toast in Tanner’s direction.
“The ploy… with the hands… Quite simply genius, Mr. Tanner,” Farringdon continued, drawing him back into the conversation. “I trust that there is no real damage there?” He nodded at the inflamed bands encircling Tanner’s wrists like jewellery.
Conscious and not wanting to be appraised, Tanner dropped his arms out of sight under the table cloth. Farringdon sighed.
“Not really the spokesman, are we? Shame. But that’s okay; it is something that we can work on.” Farringdon used lavish gestures as he spoke, much like Teddy had done before. “Speeches can be written, but showmanship? Now that is something more natural… something you are either born with or you aren’t. And you, Mr. Tanner… You have it in spades… am I right?”
The woman whom Tanner assumed to be the wife and whom, until that moment had not taken her eyes from him, nodded in agreement then cast a sultry look over to Teddy that was received with a wink. Either the fat man knew that these two were fucking and didn’t care, or he was too stupid to see it. Tanner guessed that it was probably the latter.
Farringdon raised his glass. “A toast!” he shouted.
Teddy and the wife followed suit, raising their own offerings; all three of them now looking expectantly in Tanner’s direction. Tanner looked at the glass but did not move to raise it. Seeing the hesitation, Teddy smiled again.
“To Tanner…” Farringdon continued. “The mystery man of the moment, and the undisputed KING of the Pit.”
The three glasses clinked in the centre of the table and their contents were drained.
Directly in front of Tanner, taking up much of his line of site, a silver platter had been laid out, upon which lay at least a dozen cooked chicken legs. The gnawing in his stomach intensified.
Farringdon seemed to notice and smiled. “Now then, onto more pressing matters,” he said, looking over at Teddy and nodding for him to continue.
Teddy leaned forward and planted his two elbows on the table. Tanner felt his arms go tense and his jaw stiffen.
“You’re destruction of Krane, whilst necessary, has left us with something of a predicament,” Teddy said, pausing for effect before continuing. “The gateway to our city is a lawless place. People come from miles around—from the four corners of this great kingdom—to trade and taste the privileges we can offer. I’m sure you can appreciate the effort involved in ensuring that people feel safe when they come here?”
Tanner thought about the mud-infested shanty town that he had been forced to endure for the past few weeks; the fighting and killing, the undernourishment and the decay. Hardly the city of Rome, he thought but held his tongue.
“The truth is, Tanner, Krane may have been a boorish oaf with the charm and personality of a piece of rubble, but he did ensure that the gates remained safe and guarded. Out there are millions of people, all with broken lives and nothing to live for. We cannot afford to let the defences down, not even for even one minute…” A glance up from Farringdon brought Teddy back on track. “My… our proposition to you is this; we want you to take Krane’s place on the gate.”
Tanner, unable to contain himself, laughed loudly, looking on in amazement. He had certainly not expected that.
“You… want me… to police your capital?”
Each of the three sat looking at him, their faces holding the same confident grins (all except the wife who was sucking her finger). Farringdon nodded excitedly.
Tanner scoffed and sat back, shaking his head. “After what you just did to me? You must be as mental as you look.”
This time it was Farringdon —his greasy skin beginning to glisten with sweat—who spoke up, “It’ll mean a seat at the table, Tanner… This table… All of the food, lodgings, women that you can handle.” He paused, waving behind him at the kitchen doors. “Or boys, if that is your flavour.” His mouth parted a little as his fat tongue wet his bottom lip.
Tanner grimaced in revulsion.
“You will work for Mr. Braydon here… All you have to do is let the trade in and keep the scum out. And, when we need you too, you will fight. Do these terms sound reasonable to you?” With that he leaned forward and, with a stab of his fork, spooned a gristly piece of meat into his mouth.
The glasses were refilled and Teddy raised his own momentarily before draining it again.
For a few moments, nobody said anything as Tanner allowed the words to settle in his suddenly chaotic head. The constant gritting of his teeth causing a dull ache at the back of his jaw. One thing was for certain, there was not a chance in hell that he would ever work for Braydon. The man was lucky that he had not gone over the table and ripped his head off. But, for the time being at least, he was limited for alternatives.
A glance behind showed the two men still standing there holding the automatic weapons. Tanner was not afraid to die, but neither was he suicidal either. Besides, he still had some business to take care of. As much as it killed him to admit it, at least this way he could earn some real credits, replace his gear in one go, and wait until the time was right.
Tanner sat forward. “If you think I’m gonna work for him, you are gravely mistaken.” As he spoke he tossed his eyes over to Braydon who was still smiling. Farringdon’s wife seductively ran her tongue around her lips. “But I will fight again, and in return, I want the money returned to me that was stolen, plus an additional fifty bills.”
This time it was Teddy who laughed aloud. “Fifty bills! You’re good, Tanner, but you ain’t that good!”
Tanner looked over to Farringdon with his eyebrows raised, noticing the twinkle in his little, piggy eyes; it was not so much the result, but the game that this man enjoyed. The fat man wriggled in his seat like an excited child.
“You will fight twice!” he called out pompously, raising his glass—laden hand in the air, spilling some of the contents down his arm. “And… you will take Krane’s place until the debt is paid.”
“Fifty bills?” Tanner repeated, cautiously.
“Fifty bills!” Farringdon replied.
By now, Teddy had turned around and was looking incredulously over at the gleeful Farringdon, who was all but bouncing up and down on his seat like a small child.
Tanner caught Teddy’s eye and smiled. “Deal,” he said before Teddy could interrupt. It was by far the best offer he would receive tonight.
“Excellent! Then it is settled,” Farringdon said, ignoring his henchman. “Tonight, gentlemen, we shall dine like betrothed kings, and tomorrow… let it be business… as… usual!” He raised his knife and fork and stabbed a bulbous looking sausage, pulling it onto his plate.
This time Tanner—almost ravenous with hunger—followed suit.
Across the table, Teddy reached for the liquor and poured himself a glass, draining it in one mouthful. The scowl on his face told of his complete dissatisfaction with how things had gone down, but Tanner did not care. He ate heartily, filling his plate again and again, not stopping until he’d filled every available space within him; he would need his strength.
Once finished, he stood without being invited to, wiped his mouth with the napkin and threw it in front of him on the table.
“See you on the gate tomorrow then, Tanner,” Teddy said, glass in hand.
“Go fuck yourself,” Tanner replied as he turned and walked toward the exit. “I told you, I don’t work for you.”
At this retort, Teddy smiled again.
The guard behind him, looked over Tanner’s shoulder nervously and was obviously given permission to let him out as he promptly turned and opened the heavy, oak door, standing aside to let him pass.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Tanner said with a wink.
By now, it was late outside, and the city had shed its productive, busy mask in exchange for its real, moody face. People skulked on corners and women looked suggestively out of doorways, hoping to make some last minute money before sleep called them to their damp beds.
Two fights,
two wins… Tanner thought as he turned towards his shelter for the last time. Two weeks to plan his revenge.
***
Teddy watched Tanner go, setting down his fork to wipe the grease from the corners of his mouth with a rough napkin. The food felt good in his stomach; something that surprised him since he had not felt at all hungry before the meal. He guessed that his lack of appetite was probably down to the booze. His fight with the demon drink had been a long one. It started way back in his early teenage years and had manifested itself as a problem in his twenties, leading to the loss of his family, his wife—everything that could have been counted as good in his life. Now, with his newly found fame and power and the lack of any real responsibility, it had never been so easy to indulge his appetites. And indulge he did. Barely a day went past where the morning was not set right with a few slugs of hooch, or Scotch if he could afford it.
With a satisfactory, healthy weight to his gut he leaned back, lifted the glass of red wine, and breathed in the fragrant fumes.
Ondine—Farringdon’s young wife—wet the end of her finger in her wine glass and sucked it in between her sumptuous red lips. Her dangerous and dark hazel eyes had been boring flaming holes into his own every time he looked over. Teddy ignored her, curling his top lip into a snarl to let her know that she was pushing it too far. Even though Farringdon was moron who would not even know the end of his own prick unless he had to take a piss out of it every morning, it would only take one misjudged look to sow the seed of doubt in his brain. It would be an aggravation that, right now anyway, Teddy could do without.
Farringdon rang the small silver bell again, and the troupe of young lads marched in, heads bowed in subservience as before. Teddy watched as the slimy, sweat ridden man’s eyes alighted on each boy in turn, small grumbles of satisfaction escaping from his pudgy, grease covered cheeks.
Teddy shuddered with revulsion.
“There’s good boys, big, happy smiles, please!”
The boys forced smiles onto their vacant faces, which hung like false signs under black and hollow eyes. Teddy felt his stomach twist with uneasiness. The situation did not sit well with him at all. The nonce would get what was coming to him, but now was just not the time.