The New Capital

by Kolin Wood

  “Teddy,” Farringdon said through a mouthful of food as the last of the boys trundled from the room. “Something tells me that you are not overly enamoured with the way I just dealt with Tanner.”

  Draining the last of the wine, Teddy wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Whatever gave you that impression?” he said, his face flat and his voice ten times deeper than the rich man’s pig-like squeaks.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Farringdon replied. “Just a hunch.” With over-acted gusto he reached over the table and grabbed a fresh flagon of wine. He then poured himself a drink, leaving the gaudy receptacle in front of him, not offering either side a refill. After a generous gulp and a sigh, he leaned back and rested his wine cup on top of his protruding, portly stomach.

  “I have never seen anything like the way that man dispatched of Krane. He is a killer; a real life, army of one. I’d wager him against any man.”

  With a scoff, Teddy set down his empty glass with emphasis. “Tanner was lucky; he ain’t that good.”

  At this, Farringdon leaned forward, his cheeks rosy and his nose a red, broken lump. “Lucky for you…” he said, his eyes brimming with intrigue. “Unless, of course, you knew something that I did not at the time when we made the terms for our last bet.”

  Teddy shook his head, “I knew nothing. Sal found him in the market, promised me that he had the goods. I took a risk is all.”

  “A risk is right.” Farringdon’s eyes now burned with an intensity of their own. “Had things gone the other way, then we might be having a very different conversation right now…”

  “But they didn’t,” Teddy interrupted, his face straight and his brow dipped. He was unwilling to be threatened by the chubby little man.

  “No, they did not.” Farringdon smiled, refilling his glass yet again. “So this time, I think it only fair that I be afforded the luxury of some foresight… or research, if you will.”

  Teddy glanced at the wine carafe and then back again. “What do you mean… this time?”

  As if noticing the look, Farringdon raised his own glass, set his nose over the brim of the glass, and breathed in deeply. “Ahhh,” he said after a few moments. “The world is drinking its own piss and yet here we sit, swilling from the larder of the Gods.”

  Teddy fought the urge to reach over and snatch the bottle but resisted.

  “This time, I will put my money on Tanner,” Farringdon continued. “If you were just taking a lucky punt then it should be no problem for you to accept. Tanner to win BOTH of his next two fights. And, we shall double the stakes!”

  The laugh escaped his lips before Teddy realised that he had done it out loud. “Yeah, right,” he said with a shake of the head. “Double the bet? Why would I do that? I have everything I need right now… why risk it all?”

  Farringdon’s eyes twinkled with mischief. He turned to his wife, and lowered his voice, mumbling something that Teddy was unable to hear. A moment later, Ondine pushed her chair backward with a squeak and turned, following out through the same door that the young boys had left through only moments before. Teddy watched her go. When he looked back, Farringdon was watching him, a big smile on his face. “She is very beautiful, isn’t she?” he said.

  Caught off guard by the statement, Teddy baulked. “What?” he said.

  Farringdon skipped over the comment. “You will risk it all because that is who you are, Mr Braydon. I can see the hunger in your eyes, the burning desire to sit atop of the mountain with the rest of us. Your eagerness to succeed, the desperation—it pours from you like the sweat pours from the back of a rutting boar in spring time. The stake from this wager will buy you a pass straight… to the very… top!”

  The fat hung under his arm like a deflated arm band as he pointed at the ceiling to emphasise his point and excitement danced in his beady eyes.

  Teddy—for once caught on the back foot—reached up and thrust a thick finger underneath the knot of his tie, pulling it loose by a few inches. “And why would you risk such a stake on a man that you know virtually nothing about?” he asked, as he leaned over the table and swiped up the flagon, before pouring himself a liberal measure without invitation.

  Farringdon grinned. “Because, my dear fellow, my family have been wagering upon the contests of men for centuries—who am I to break such a tradition?” With a grunt he leaned forward, his glass raised in Teddy’s direction. “Plus, I am a rich bastard and I like to bet!”

  Teddy shuffled in his seat, declining the invitation to clink glasses and simply raised it by way of an agreement. His exterior showed uncertainty but inside his stomach was flipping with excitement. Two fights! Two chances to rewrite the path of his own destiny. There would not be a better offer in his lifetime.

  Teddy drank down the glass and refilled once more.

  The bloody fool!

  Farringdon’s arrogance was going to be his downfall, just as Teddy had said all along. Now all he had to do was to find the men that would underwrite his position and ensure that Tanner did not make it out of the Pit alive.

  But, one thing was for sure—that would mean looking farther afield than the Capital.

  3

  The Jeep stuttered and died, forcing the General to coast to the side of the road. Old metal bins of flame intermittently lined the pavement, each with a crowd of people gathered nearby, obviously in an attempt to ward of the effects of the biting cold. The night was moody and a constant film of rain fell faintly in the back ground.

  A sign to his right read—THE NEW CAPITAL. A crude arrow painted in red over the top, pointed in the same direction that he was facing. This was the road from before, the one they had ventured onto the day they escaped captivity from the manor house; the one that he had been looking for.

  A glance back showed the girl laid out on the rear seat—her arms bound behind her back and an oily cloth pushed in her mouth. A nasty gash had caused her hair to clump together in a bloody pulp on the side of her face but, as far as he could tell, she was still breathing.

  How much for them transients, fella?

  If he could just find someone to buy her from him, then it might give him enough money or trade to get by in the Capital. This London, this New Capital, was no place to be penniless, of that much he was sure.

  His own growth throbbed on his face and the General gingerly prodded at it through the sodden bandage. The smell was rank, still like rotting meat, and as usual his fingertips came away from their exploration slippery and tinged slightly red.

  He pulled a bottle from his coat pocket and unscrewed the lid, tipping three or four of the large pink tablets into his mouth. The relief they granted was minor but it was still relief. For now at least, he could get by.

  He opened the car door, reached across the seat, and took hold of the butt of the shotgun. He had a few shells left in the bottom of the box and he stuffed it into the deep pocket of his three-quarter length, black, leather jacket.

  Once outside of the car, he shivered as the cold rain found a way inside his collar and dribbled down his back. The road itself was still clear of debris and far emptier of people than it had been on his first visit. Night-time made it possible to travel.

  Carefully, he took stock of his closest surroundings. On his left stood the wide, empty mouth of what had once been a large shopping mall, the darkness within only broken slightly by the dim light of hidden, internal fires. To his right, a small group stood huddled underneath the buckled canopy of an old bus shelter. A flaming bin lit their faces with an eerie light. All were turned in his direction, and from where he was stood he could see that their faces were hidden beneath hoods and scarves.

  Great.

  He counted—seven in total.

  He slammed and locked the door, listening to the clunk as the latches slid into their casings, and put the keys safely in his pocket. The girl in the back had not moved since they had left the prison; she was still lying on her front with her face turned inward towards the back of the leather seat. It was a
risk to leave her here—even for a minute—but he figured that he would only be a few paces from the car. Besides, nobody knew what he was carrying—as long as she remained where she was.

  With slow steps, the General approached the group.

  A large man with a thick, raindrop speckled, brown beard and a dark woollen hat pulled down low over his brow was the first to turn. With his eyes obscured by darkness, he reached under his long jacket. At first glance, the General guessed that it was a bat but the glint of a blade in the flames told him that it was in fact, some sort of machete.

  In response to the threat, the General brought up the rifle and laid it across his chest.

  “What do you want?” the man asked as his eyes took in the superior weapon.

  The General, satisfied that the others had not moved, looked past him. This was still a controllable situation.

  “I was just looking for someone,” he replied, looking back to the bearded man once more.

  The man shrugged. “And?”

  The General watched as two or three of the others in the group looked up. As the tension began to build, he felt his hands become sweaty in his leather gloves. He would sure be able to take the one, but he doubted he would be able to stop them all if the rest decided to swarm him. He cleared his throat.

  “He’s dark-skinned, wears a head scarf… He’s got a scar across his forehead and down through this eye,” he said. “Just here.”

  To emphasise, he dragged a finger down to the middle of his cheek.

  At this, another, slightly smaller but just as stocky fellow, took a few steps towards the pair until he was hovering over the right shoulder of his accomplice.

  “So, what do ya want with Magnus?” the bearded man asked gruffly, glancing down to the gun while swelling with extra bravado at the inclusion of his friend into the exchange.

  Magnus? The name sounded like it belonged on an eastern European body builder, not the small scaly man that had approached him on the road.

  The General lowered his rifle just a fraction. “Trade,” he said.

  Clearly intrigued, both men looked directly over at the car behind.

  Hairs bristled in anticipation on the back of the General’s neck.

  This time it was the second man who spoke; his Jamaican accent was thick and tinged with an inner city twang. “What you got ta trade den, bredren?” he asked, flashing a snake-like smile that exposed multiple gaps in his yellow teeth.

  The bearded man, who had been tapping the machete blade against his leg, began to bounce on the souls of his feet.

  The General was no fool; he’d seen enough pumped-up-on-adrenaline fighting amongst numerous little punks to notice the signs of imminent violence. In one quick movement, he brought the butt of the gun up to his shoulder and aimed the end of the barrel directly into the fidgety man’s face.

  The Jamaican laughed. “Ah look! A proper bad man we got ‘ere now den, boys!” he said, holding both arms out to the sides as if inviting the shot. “What ya gonna do den, bad man? You think you gonna shoot us all with that kid’s rifle?”

  By now, the rest of the group around the fire had turned. The flames from the bin lit their hidden eyes making them look like a pack of wolves lying in wait.

  One-by-one, they fanned out on either side of the pair, until they formed a line on the pavement in front of him.

  The General stepped back.

  It was clear that, if he couldn’t grasp some immediate control of the situation, things were about to get very nasty.

  He quickly weighed up his options. He would never take them all but, assuming that leadership of this rag-tag gang lay with the bearded fellow who had addressed him first, it would make sense to take him out first. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he may even get the Jamaican yardie too; the rest of them would hopefully scatter.

  “We don’t need to do this,” the General said, taking another cautious step back towards the Jeep. “I’m just gonna go… okay? We can forget this meeting ever took place.”

  Nobody moved.

  He took another step backwards.

  “Everybody just remain calm… There’s no problem here.”

  Another step.

  The bearded man was the first to drop down off the curb. “It’s too late for that,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You ain’t going nowhere.” The bouncing became more pronounced as the man fought to counteract the effects of the adrenaline flooding his legs.

  The General held the gun steady, squeezing the stock tight into his shoulder as he stepped backwards again. He did not have long. He was now only a few steps from the Jeep.

  Following the lead of his companion, the Jamaican man stepped down off the curb and pulled a knife from the front of his jeans. “You ‘ear him, bad man? Huh? You ain’t going nowhere.” His accent seemed to be getting stronger with every sentence. Steel flashed in firelight as he pointed at the Jeep. “What you got in dat car d’ere, huh?”

  Three more steps between the car door and the General’s back foot. Any closer and they would see the girl spread out on the back seat. He stopped and thrust the barrel of the gun into the face of the bearded man, focusing his good eye down the sights of the rifle.

  “Try me,” he said.

  Perhaps it was the look on his face, or perhaps the man had seen his eye focus down the sights on the weapon and realised that he had a proper bead on him, but whatever it was, something caused the leader of the group to balk. He stopped in his tracks and held the long blade of the machete out in front of the chest of the Jamaican on his left. His right hand did the same to the man on his right. The group halted their advance.

  This close, the General could now properly see the eyes of the man with the machete for the first time. They were bloodshot and tinged with yellow, under-hung with large black circles. The man’s neck bulged menacingly beneath his thick black jacket. The Jamaican—dressed more sparsely in jogging bottoms and a grey hoodie—spat on the floor while kissing the front of his teeth, producing a low clicking noise which sounded like a cricket rubbing its legs in a field.

  For a few moments, nobody moved as the standoff continued.

  From out of nowhere, the Jamaican stepped forward, suddenly lunging at him with the knife. “Fuck this,” he spat.

  The General spun and squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet hit the Jamaican just below his left eye. The impact sounded like a heavy ball landing in a wet field. The force of the shot snapped the man’s head backwards as the bullet exited through his skull, splattering two of the gang behind with warm brain matter.

  In one swift movement and taking advantage of the shock, the General reloaded, turning the barrel back to their bearded leader who did not move.

  “You… are going to pay for that,” he snarled, the machete tapping even faster against his leg.

  The General added pressure to the trigger. He had to hope that, by dropping another one, the others would think twice and abandon the attack. But for now, they held fast. Anger and hatred thickened the air between them all like steam.

  From behind him—a faint tapping noise. It sounded like metal on glass.

  But the General did not turn, instead maintaining focus on the man in his sights.

  “Hey, sweetie pie!”

  The voice from behind shocked him. A faint, muffled cry came from inside the jeep.

  With the gun firm in his shoulder, the General chanced a quick look back. The man with the head scarf from before—Magnus—was hunched over with his hands cupped around his face, peering in through the back window of the vehicle.

  “Get the fuck away from the Jeep,” the General said resolutely, silently cursing the lack of use of his left eye.

  In situations such as this one, it left him extremely vulnerable on that side. Now that he was surrounded, all that he could do was hope that his present company would be too stupid to work out his weakness anytime soon.

  Magnus laughed and walked around the back of the Jeep—fortunately on his good side—and
stopped not far away. “Easy there, big fella,” he said. “I hear that you have come to talk to Magnus of the East Road. Well… let’s talk.”

  Through his peripheral vision, the General could see that Magnus appeared to be unarmed. He wondered how he knew that the General had been wanting to see him. A runner perhaps? Still, he did not risk lowering his weapon.

  “How about… you come around to the front where I can look at you, Magnus? Forgive me if I don’t turn to look at you myself, but I’m already engaged in another conversation right now.” Before him, the bearded man appeared to have stopped bouncing.

  Another laugh. Magnus moved to the front of the Jeep and stepped over the body of the fallen Jamaican. For a moment he stood there, one foot planted either side of the bleeding head, looking down.

  “I see you met Bongo,’ he said as he tapped the leaking head with his boot, grimacing as fresh blood seeped from the gnarled hole in his face. “Shame; silly boy owed me three packs of smokes.”

  Finally, with a shrug, Magnus walked over to the bearded man and placed a placating hand on his thick forearm. Somewhat begrudgingly, the large man stepped backwards.

  “There,” Magnus said, “Far more civilised!” The steady and soft tone to his voice felt oddly eerie given the high-pressure circumstances. “Now then, my friend, how about we talk this out like gentlemen, huh? I see you have come with cargo…” He nodded behind the General in the direction of the Jeep. “I take it you sold the other three?”

  So, Magnus remembered him from before. Not only that, but he remembered the exact number of people that he had been carrying at the time; pretty astute. At least he wasn’t dealing with a total moron.

  The General nodded, but did not offer up anything more.

  “However, I see you saved the best for last! A stunning example of fresh produce, if I do say so myself. A little bruised, perhaps… but then, who can blame a man for trying out the wares, eh?’ Magnus’ eyes shone as he spoke.