Stone Fist

by J. D. Weston

  “Keep going, Mum,” said Tyler, keeping his eyes on the window above.

  A man’s head poked through the hole, searching around in the darkness until he caught the movement of Tyler on the stairs. With reluctance, the man pulled his head back inside. The crunch of stones and glass beneath his feet told Tyler he’d reached the ground, but he dared not take his eyes off the window above.

  “Are you okay, Mum?’ he asked.

  But she didn’t reply.

  “Mum?”

  Tyler turned to find a handgun pointing in his face. The one John had called Jack was staring back at Tyler with his hand over his mum’s mouth.

  “Going somewhere?” he asked.

  10

  Unleash the Beast

  “So you thought you’d do a runner, did you, Tyler?” said John. “After our agreement, that’s most unprofessional.”

  “No, it wasn’t like that,” replied Tyler. His voice was muffled by the thick hood that had been pulled over his head.

  “Oh? Jack tells me you were climbing down the fire escape, Tyler, in the rain with who he can only imagine is your mother. Jack, remove her hood, mate, and get her wrapped up in a blanket or something. We don't want her bleeding dying on us yet.”

  Jack carefully pulled the hood off the lady’s head to reveal a pair of wide scared eyes behind a thin facade of steely resent.

  “Can you get her a chair or something?” asked Tyler. “She’s sick. She’s supposed to be in bed, resting.”

  John took three paces forward until he was just inches from Tyler. He had to reach up to grab the hood, but he caught it and tugged until it fell from Tyler’s face.

  “That’s better. I like to look a man in the eye when he’s upset me,” said John, aware that Tyler was a full twelve inches taller than himself. “What’s wrong with your dear old mum then? She looks fine to me. A bit cold maybe.”

  “She’s sick. It’s cancer,” said Tyler. “Please. I said I’d do what you asked. Get her a chair before she falls.”

  John studied the frail lady who seemed half the size of her son but could easily have once been a strong woman. He nodded to Jack who slid a chair behind her legs.

  “Take a seat, Mrs Thomson,” said John, and offered his hand to help her lower herself into the chair. “Find a blanket, Jack.”

  “Thank you,” said Tyler. “I appreciate it.”

  “It’s nothing. Where were you going?” asked John.

  “Your men came for us. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When we spoke, in the pub, you said you’d…” Tyler swallowed to control his voice. “You said you’d hurt my mum if I didn't do what you said.”

  “Right. So?”

  “So when your men came, I thought you’d come for us. I didn’t see any other way.”

  “You didn’t see any other way,” repeated John. He pronounced the words with slow and clear pronunciation. “These men, did they tell you they worked for me, Tyler?”

  “Well, no. But we didn’t hang around to talk to them. I woke my mum up and got us out of there.”

  “And where exactly was you planning to go?”

  Tyler hesitated.

  “Tyler?” John urged. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “No. I didn’t have a plan. I just knew I had to get out. They were kicking the door in. What was I supposed to do?”

  John began to pace. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and took five steps to his right, letting the wooden heel of his Italian shoes click on the concrete floor. The noise reverberated in the large space and the tiled walls toyed with the sound until it faded away to nothing.

  “Did you manage to get a good look at these men?” asked John.

  “Not really,” said Tyler. “Well, one of them, but I only saw his face in the dark, like a silhouette.”

  “As it turns out,” said John, “you did the right thing. You should give yourself a pat on the back, Tyler.”

  “I did? So why are we here? And where are we?”

  “Look around you, Tyler.”

  The boy turned to let his eyes wash across the tiled walls and cubicles where animals had once queued for the slaughter. He stopped when he saw the punch bag and weight bench. A rack of dumbbells lay against the tiled wall and a mat covered an area ten metres by ten metres.

  “It’s not much right now, Tyler. But one day, Cooper’s Gym will be big, you mark my words.”

  “What’s with the tiled walls and the smell?”

  “That, Tyler, is the smell of fear. Fear and death,” said John. He watched as Tyler’s face sank even further. “It was a slaughterhouse. I bought it a few years ago. It comes in handy for times like this, you know? Sometimes a man in my position needs to be able to hose the blood off the floor.”

  Tyler gave him a sideways glance.

  “They were going to tear it down and build some new swanky apartments, but the locals were against it. They said the building is a part of Plaistow history. So I bought it and I gained a few loyal fans in doing so. It’s always good to have the public on your side when you’re in the spotlight, Tyler. That’s a lesson you should learn if you’re going to be on stage.”

  “On stage?”

  “In the ring, Tyler. If the crowds are with you, cheering your name, you’ll feel on top of the world. If they’re not, you’re just queuing for the slaughter.”

  “So who were those men, if they don’t work for you?” asked Tyler.

  John took the five steps back to stand in front of the huge but naive boy.

  “Those men, Tyler, were the opposition. I don't know how they found out about you, but they obviously did, and tried to put you out of the game. It won't happen again.”

  “They were going to kill us?” asked Tyler.

  “I don't know,” replied John. “I doubt they’d kill you. But they’d hurt you enough so you couldn’t fight.”

  Tyler looked down at his mum who had fallen asleep in the chair.

  “She looks comfy,” said John.

  “It’s the meds,” replied Tyler. “Look, John, I said I’d fight for you. And I will. But she’s really sick. Can we get her somewhere? She needs rest.”

  “And what about you?

  “What about me?” asked Tyler.

  “Do you need rest?”

  “No,” replied the boy. “I need to train. I can feel the energy inside me. I won't sleep until I’ve worked out.”

  “Jack?” called John.

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Get Mrs Thomson to the flat above the pub. She can have the spare room.” He turned to Tyler. “Is that alright for you?”

  “She needs care,” said Tyler.

  “I’ll make sure she’s looked after.”

  “And her medication.”

  “Painkillers?” said John. “I presume they’re in the bag.”

  Tyler nodded.

  The double doors at the end of the room swung open with a crash and Mick walked in. He saw John talking quietly to Tyler and kept his distance. He’d been trained well. John turned his attention back to Tyler.

  “Tyler, you have to understand one thing. I’m a businessman. I’m hard but fair. And you are a fighter who now works for me. It might seem like a rough deal, son, but if you win this fight for us, you’ll be welcomed into this family and your poor old mum will want for nothing. You got that?”

  Tyler nodded once more.

  “Good. From now on, you train here. You eat here and you sleep here. You need to be on top form, son.”

  “What about my job?” said Tyler. “I’ll be letting my boss down.”

  “You leave your boss to me. Give Mick his number and he’ll take care of everything for you.”

  “He’ll fire me. I was going onto the tools.”

  “Listen, Tyler. When you win this fight, you’ll have more money than you know what to do with. Forget about your job. I’ll have Mick take care of it for you. We’ll tell y
our boss you’re sick or something, you won’t be coming back, and you’re really sorry. We’ll be convincing. That’s something that Mick happens to be particularly good at.”

  “What about the old man? I’m supposed to train. I can’t let him down.”

  “You leave the old man to me, Tyler. Stop worrying and focus on the fight. I’ve got a lot riding on you. I can’t risk having you leave my sight.”

  “But who will train me? I need a trainer.”

  Tyler eyed John up and down and spent a little longer on the paunch John had been developing.

  “My trainer. He’s the best. He’ll be here later. You do everything he says when he says it and you won’t have any trouble. You deviate from his plan and you’ll find yourself in hot water. Is that clear?”

  “It’s clear,” replied Tyler, but his enthusiasm had plummeted.

  “Don’t worry about the old man and don’t worry about the job. I told you. Leave them to me. I’ll have someone swing by your flat and get you a bag of clothes.”

  “And my mum?” asked Tyler.

  “Well, as nice as this place is, Tyler, it’s really not accommodating enough for the likes of your lovely old lady. She’ll be staying at my pub in the flat upstairs. It’s lovely. I’ll see to it that the girls behind the bar pop up and see her to make sure she’s okay. Poor old girl could probably do with a drink, couldn’t she?”

  Tyler managed a weak smile at John’s attempt to finish on a high, positive note.

  “Go say goodbye to her,” said John. “If you play your cards right, Tyler, the next time you see her, you’ll have cash in your pocket and a smile on your face.”

  A curt nod at Mick summoned John’s number two while Tyler settled next to his mum and reassured her that everything would be okay.

  “How did you get on with Dixon’s boy?” asked John.

  “He’s a rock, John. No family. No weaknesses.”

  “He must have something. Keep looking,” said John. “What about the old man?”

  “I sent Nobby and Jack round to sort him out.”

  “Good. The last thing we need is that nosy old bastard sticking his two pennies worth in. He’s well connected and could be a lot of trouble for us.”

  “Oh, he won’t be any trouble, John.”

  “You sound sure of yourself, Mick.”

  “I just drove past his gym on the way back from south of the water. They torched the place with him inside. He won’t be sticking his two pennies in anywhere ever again, John.”

  Although the flames had been extinguished, huge, thick plumes of black smoke billowed from the charred remains of the gym and the tyre shop that occupied the arch beside it.

  Harvey stood in the shadows across the road and watched as the firemen began to roll the hoses into neat stackable rolls, and the last of the ambulances waited with open doors. A window of light in the darkness. Its counterpart had sped off twenty minutes previously just as Harvey had arrived on the scene.

  A few junior police had cordoned off the road and senior officers spoke with senior firemen, presumably discussing probable cause and managing the scene of the crime. If it was indeed a crime. Harvey had no doubt the fire was the result of arson.

  As the final gurney rolled unhurried towards the waiting ambulance, Harvey felt a stab of guilt and loss. The sheet that covered the huge corpse differentiated its load as a body and not a survivor with an oxygen mask over their face. The sheet, much the same as the one that had covered Harvey’s sister all those years before, was not blood soaked like they were in the movies. In Harvey’s experience, they rarely were. A blood-soaked sheet would indicate a pumping heart. But there was no way anybody could have survived the hellish blaze that Harvey had witnessed. The size of the body beneath the sheet was unmistakable.

  Harvey watched as the two paramedics struggled to load the heavy gurney into the ambulance then secured it in place. The driver called through on his radio to the hospital.

  “Male. One hundred and thirty-five kilos. Dead on arrival.”

  A crackle of radio returned as the doors slammed. Harvey edged back into the shadows, stumbled against the wall and took three deep breaths.

  For the second time in Harvey’s life, he’d failed a Saville.

  Another car door slammed close by and men’s voices grew louder, rousing Harvey from his thoughts. He stepped back further into the shadows, but his boot nudged a discarded glass bottle, sending it rolling. The chink of glass against concrete was loud in the quiet alley.

  The voices stopped as if the bottle had caught their attention. Harvey checked his exit, glanced back at the ambulance one last time, turned, and ran through the series of alleys to where he’d parked Melody’s car.

  The doorway of a corner shop provided a place to hide and check to see if he’d been followed. He waited a full minute then walked calmly to the car.

  The rain had cleansed the street but the nearby fire had tainted the air as far as three streets away. Harvey took the back streets through Poplar, passing old pubs and gambling houses his foster father used to own. But none of them brought back fond memories. They had been violent times when Harvey was only ever called out to take care of someone, leave no trace, and then crawl back to his little house. Each time, it was as if he paused his own existence while people searched for the missing man, retaliated, and then carried on with life.

  Tyler’s flat looked very different in the half-light of dawn. A corner shop was opening up a few doors down, its owner heaving in the bundles of newspapers. The highway at the end of the road was growing busier and soon London would be a hive of activity. Harvey turned and gave Tyler’s flat another pass, checking the parked cars as Julios would have him do. The sentiment seemed like the right thing to do and Harvey couldn’t shake his mentor’s words from his mind.

  He parked five cars down from the entrance to Tyler’s flat and sat with his hands on the wheel, questioning what he was doing. He was just some kid who said he was Julios’ son. But with no real proof. If he’d meant that much, surely Julios would have said something.

  But he wouldn’t have.

  The line in the sand was never crossed. It was part of who Julios had been. And Julios was gone. So the only person left to look out for his son was Harvey. He couldn’t walk away. He had to know if it was true, if it really was him in the fire.

  He found the ground floor entrance to the flat. The door was broken as if it had been forced. Harvey slipped inside and took the single set of stairs to the first floor where he saw two doors.

  The first one, on the right-hand side, was adorned with religious beads and had the spicy smell of curry emanating from inside. The second door had been smashed off its hinges and was laying on the floor inside the flat. On the wall in the hallway inside, three photo frames took pride of place, as if they were memories that welcomed Tyler home each time he walked through the door.

  The first was of Tyler and who Harvey assumed to be his mum. The second was an image of a much younger Tyler leaning on the ropes of a boxing ring. The third caught Harvey off-guard. Standing with a baby in his arms, and wearing his trademark three-quarter length leather jacket, was Julios.

  A man’s voice came from inside the flat, dull and monotone. Harvey unsheathed his knife from his back pocket and traced the voice to a small room at the back of the flat. A cold breeze flowed through as if a window was open. Apart from the broken door, there were no signs of struggle or robbery.

  A large crash sounded from the same bedroom as the voice, loud but muffled. Harvey crept across the threadbare carpet and peered inside to find a man in a dark green bomber jacket smashing a small chest of drawers into the frosted, reinforced window. With the knife held by his side, Harvey watched as the man leaned through the hole he’d made and called down to someone.

  Harvey stepped into the room.

  But as he did, a blow from behind slammed into his lower back, sending a wave of dull, agonising pain through his body. With no time to turn and defend himself ag
ainst a follow-up attack, he dropped to the floor and kicked out at his attacker’s legs. It was a move Julios had taught him. The natural reaction for someone being attacked from behind is to turn and face the attack. But to drop to the ground out of harm’s way and smash the man’s knee was nearly always unexpected and extremely effective. His attacker fell to the floor behind Harvey, who rolled, swiped the blade cross the inside of the man’s thigh, and then stood with his heavy boot held hard down on the man’s throat as he began to bleed to death.

  The first man pulled back into the room and reached inside his jacket for a gun. But Harvey was faster. With his boot firmly in place and resisting the struggles of the dying man, Harvey put his blade against the first man’s neck.

  “Don’t move,” said Harvey.

  The man froze. “Who are you?” he said, clearly angered but controlling his voice.

  “Listen carefully,” said Harvey. He increased the pressure of his boot on the dying man’s throat, which raised his heart rate. The pool of blood between his legs grew wider, spilling out in heavy spurts from his femoral artery. They could hear the gargled chokes of the dying man taking his last breaths. “Do you hear that?”

  “I hear it,” replied the man with the knife to his throat. He glanced down as his friend’s body twitched for the final time and was still.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Harvey.

  “Looking for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “A friend,” the man replied.

  Keeping his eyes on the man, Harvey gestured with a nod of his head at a framed photo on the floor, which must have been on top of the furniture he’d used to smash the window.

  “Him?”

  The man glanced down at the photo and nodded, being careful not to move his neck.

  “Yeah, him,” he replied.

  “I just watched his body being dragged out of a fire,” said Harvey. “And now I find you in his flat. Tell me why I shouldn’t cut your throat right here, right now.”

  The man’s eyes watered. He kept his cool, but Harvey saw the fear building inside.

  “Who are you working for?”