Stone Fist

by J. D. Weston

  Keeping close to the walls, Harvey edged away from Cooper’s office and along the hallway. The next door was ajar with an oak floor, large leather couch and a big flat-screen TV on show through the small gap. Harvey moved past, but as he did, two men climbed the staircase behind him. Their voices grew louder in the stairwell and their heavy boots thundered on the old, wooden stairs.

  Harvey froze then slipped into the room.

  He watched as the three men appeared. One of them had been in the pub the night Harvey had met Tyler. The others were unknown but one had a thick Irish accent, was smaller and had the rough edges of a pikey. The old upstairs hallway echoed with their voices but another noise cut through the dull monotones of the men.

  The stifled mumble of tears was coming from the door at the end of the hallway.

  15

  Retribution

  Something clawed at Tyler’s insides as he pulled the door closed. He held his mum’s sorrowful gaze until the last moment, and then let his fingers slip from the door handle. Closing off the sound of her tears inside, he placed the flat of his hand against the wood, as if somehow she would know, and would realise how sorry he was that all of this happened.

  He felt, rather than heard, John Cooper behind him at the doorway to his office, so choosing to leave his mum on his own terms, Tyler let his hand fall away, then turned and joined John.

  In the office, he chose a seat to the side of the desk, a wide armchair with artificial leather upholstery. It was a cheap choice in comparison to the luxurious recliner John had selected for his own comfort. It was symbolic, thought Tyler, of the man’s greed and selfish style.

  A true narcissist.

  But as with many narcissists, John opened with artificial understanding and comfort, much like the chair Tyler had chosen to sit on.

  “I need you to focus now, Tyler,” said John. “Now is not the time to fill your head with thoughts of your mother.”

  Tyler nodded. He couldn’t meet the man eye to eye. Instead, he stared at the intricate patterns in the oak floor.

  “In less than thirty minutes, you’ll be toe to toe with Dixon’s boy.” John paused while Tyler began to think about the fight. “Are you ready?”

  Again, Tyler nodded.

  “Usually when you fight, you have a goal in mind. A belt or a trophy. Right?” asked John.

  “Trophies,” replied Tyler, still staring at the floor with his elbows resting on his knees.

  “Look at me, son. I’m not talking to the top of your head,” said John. The warm, faux comfort was lost and the words came out sharp and cold.

  Tyler looked up at him.

  “Do you want some advice, son?” said John, retaining his harsh tones. “Forget about your mum. For the next hour or so, at least. Just forget about her. She’s not going anywhere. We’ve given her painkillers. She’s in good hands, Tyler. Focus on the fight. Focus on getting Dixon’s boy down.”

  “Have you seen him?” asked Tyler, his voice still thick with emotion.

  “Mackie?” asked John. “Of course I have.”

  “Did he beat your last fighter?”

  With a slow nod of his head, John confirmed.

  “He died then?” asked Tyler. “Your fighter? He died.”

  “Yes, Tyler. He died. It was…” He sought the words, but Tyler knew whatever word he chose would sound callous from the man’s bitter mouth. “Unfortunate.”

  “How long did he last?”

  “How many rounds? Or how many fights?”

  “Both.”

  “One and one,” said John. “I was told he was a dead cert.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Oh, Tyler. What does it matter?”

  “What was his name, John?” Tyler’s voice rose and shut down John’s attempt to make the dead boy insignificant.

  “Fraser,” said John. “His name was Fraser. That’s all we knew. He was a street kid. Nothing to lose. You know the sort?”

  “And how much do you stand to win if I beat Dixon’s boy?”

  “That’s not something you need to trouble yourself with, is it, Tyler?” said John. “In fact, that’s getting awfully close to the line that you, sunshine, do not cross.”

  “What about me?” asked Tyler. “You said we wouldn’t have to worry about money. You told me I’d be able to afford proper care for my mum. How much will we get? My mum and me?”

  “If I was you, Tyler, I’d be more concerned with what happens to her if you lose.”

  “That’s not going to happen, John,” said Tyler, standing and shunting the chair back. “When I go into that ring tonight, I’m not going in there for you. I’m going in there for Fraser. I’m going in there for myself. And I’m going in there for my mum. I’ll be taking my winnings and you won’t see me again.”

  “You’re not in the best place to make demands.”

  Quick as a flash, Tyler reached across the desk, grabbed John by his collar and hauled him out of his chair, dragging him across the leather insert and knocking the phone and pens to the floor. He slammed John into the wall with one hand on his throat and the other poised to deliver a deadly punch.

  “Now you listen to me, John Cooper,” said Tyler. “I got myself into this. I’ll get myself out of it. A deal is a deal.”

  “You just overstepped the mark, Tyler,” said John, trying to regain the upper hand.

  “Look around you, John. Your bodyguards aren’t here and don’t even think about reaching for your pocket.”

  For just a fraction of a moment, John’s eyes betrayed his fear, then returned to their cool, controlling glare.

  “One hundred thousand pounds,” said John. “I’ll give you one hundred thousand pounds to go down there and kill Mackie with your bare hands.”

  Tyler let the number hang in the air for a moment then lowered his voice.

  “Two,” he said. “I want two hundred thousand pounds. One for me, and one for my mum.”

  “Oh, come on-” John began, but Tyler strengthened his grip.

  “Two hundred thousand pounds, and if you try anything, I’ll tear you apart limb from limb.”

  “Okay, okay,” said John. “Two hundred grand. I can do that.”

  The two locked eyes for a moment then Tyler relaxed his hand.

  “So now we’ve come to an agreement, Tyler-”

  “And what about my mum?” said Tyler. “If I lose, she needs care.”

  But John Cooper emitted a cruel and hate-filled laugh.

  “After that little demonstration of your emotional instability, Tyler?”

  He straightened his jacket and smoothed out the non-existent creases with the palms of his hands. He snatched a handgun from inside his jacket and pointed it at Tyler. He stepped closer, then placed the gun beneath Tyler’s chin, pushing up and back until Tyler’s head hit the wall behind him.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you win, you’ll get your two hundred grand. But how about this for motivation? If you lose, I’ll take this gun, and I’ll stick it in your dear old mum’s mouth. But before I pull the trigger, I’ll tell her how much of a coward her son was. And I’ll tell her exactly how Mackie crushed your skull. I’ll be sure to include the gory details, Tyler. And only then, once I’ve seen her fall apart at the seams at the loss of her beloved son, will I pull the trigger and end her misery and pain. So stop cocking about, get downstairs, get in that ring, and win that bleeding fight.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” said Harvey with his finger to his lips.

  He checked to make sure the landing was clear and John Copper’s goons weren’t loitering then pushed the door, not closing it fully, as the handle had been removed from the inside. The woman was silent, but her eyes were wide and fearful, watching Harvey’s every move. A foul stench came from the corner of the room where a bucket had been placed. The curtains were closed but were thin, allowing a fog of streetlight to pass through, ghostlike, and touch the edges of the items in the room like a mother might smooth a child’s
hair.

  “Are you Mrs Thomson?” he asked, his voice reduced to a whisper.

  Mrs Thomson’s eyes shone in the poor light like glistening diamonds on the carcass of the dead. She waved him over with two feeble flicks of her wrist, then patted the mattress for him to sit beside her. The fear had gone from her eyes, replaced by an inquisitive, curious stare.

  Harvey took a step forwards, checking through the tiny gap in the door again.

  “Sit with me,” she said, her hoarse voice no louder than a whisper. “Where I can see you.”

  There was a confidence in the woman’s voice; she was unafraid. He sat on the side of the bed with his back to the window. Her hand reached up from where she lay, felt his face and turned it to the light, left then right.

  Harvey remained silent.

  It was coming.

  She licked her lips in a futile attempt to ease her speech. There was no water for her and Harvey could have crept out to find some, but something held him still.

  “I know you,” she said.

  Three words.

  “Like the angels above know the devil below, I know you.”

  She let her hand fall and lay it across her stomach. She turned away and stared back at the ceiling.

  Harvey didn’t reply.

  “You’re the foster boy who lost his sister. He spoke of you. It was like you were his boy. So proud, he was.” It was clear she was recalling memories from a time long ago. Even in the dim light, with her prominent features, Harvey could see she would have been a beautiful woman in her day. “I know what he used to do, the type of man he was.” She paused as if wondering if she should carry on, then sighed and gave in. “I know what you do. I know what he trained you to do.”

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” said Harvey.

  “Well, you should be,” she replied. Her whisper was cold and sharp. “Take me away from all this. Put an end to it all.”

  Harvey didn’t reply.

  “He could have. He would have too if he saw me like this.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Harvey. “He was a good man. He’d never-”

  “You didn’t know him like I did,” she said. “My Julios.”

  Hearing somebody speak with so much affection for Julios warmed Harvey. He’d never heard it before and he wanted her to carry on. But it wasn’t the time.

  “Mrs Thomson, I need to tell you something,” said Harvey.

  “Don’t waste your breath. I’m dying,” she replied. “If you’re not here to help me, then go. You may as well leave.”

  Her hand slid across the old mattress and found Harvey’s. Though her hands shook and her body clenched from visible stabs of pain, the strength of her grip surprised Harvey. Wide, moist eyes followed his as her cold, trembling hand led his to her chest.

  “Do you feel that, Harvey Stone?” she asked.

  It was the first time she’d spoken his name. A confirmation of the things she knew.

  Harvey shook his head.

  “No,” he whispered. “I feel nothing.”

  “That’s because there’s nothing to feel,” she replied.

  “I was there, you know?” said Harvey. He didn’t know why; it just came out.

  “I thought you might have been.”

  A burning behind Harvey’s eyes and a swell in his chest took the words by the hand and together they ventured into the light.

  “It was my fault. I saw it all,” said Harvey. “But I couldn’t stop it.”

  Mrs Thomson peered up at Harvey, but let him speak. There was no malice or anger in her eyes, just understanding.

  “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to bring him back,” he finished.

  She squeezed Harvey’s hand.

  “Take me to him, Harvey,” she said. He felt her pull his hand upward, to which he offered no resistance. Even when she opened his fingers to encircle her throat, he dared not pull away. And when she closed his hand around her tiny, feeble neck, she smiled.

  “I’m glad it was you,” she whispered. “He would’ve wanted this.”

  She increased the pressure on his fingers, a signal that she was ready. Although her eyes glowed in the pale orange light, the tears that moistened them did not roll onto her face.

  “Do it, Harvey,” she whispered. “Take me to him. There’s nothing for me here now.”

  Countless times, Harvey had squeezed the life from men. But never a woman. Never someone who had been so close, yet so far away. There were ways of easing the passing without the need for brutality. His fingers sought her windpipe through the loose flesh on her neck until the muscles around it fought to protect the airway.

  He began to squeeze.

  “Look after him, Harvey,” she rasped, squeezing her eyes closed, and embracing the oncoming journey with what appeared to be delight. “Take care of my boy.”

  Harvey released her, drawing his hand away.

  In a panic, she reached for his hand, easing it back to her throat.

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry,” said Harvey, searching for the words that would make it right, but knowing deep inside that nothing could ever repair the damage he’d done. Despite only knowing the woman for a few minutes, for the second time in his life, he’d failed to save the ones she loved. “I couldn’t stop it. He’s gone.”

  Thoughts of her own death sank from the frail lady’s face and motherly love coaxed energy from some hidden part of her.

  “Where?” she said. Her wild eyes began to stream. “When?”

  “Two nights ago,” replied Harvey. He couldn’t meet her eyes. “There was a fire.”

  “That can’t be,” she said. “You’re lying.”

  “I wish I was. I let him down. I let you down. And I let Julios down again.”

  “No, it can’t be,” she said. “He was just here.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” began the master of ceremonies, as Harvey stepped into the basement and headed towards the changing rooms. “Welcome to the Golden Ring, the home of the back street, bare-knuckle boxing tournaments for as long as I can remember. And tonight, have we got a treat for you. But before we introduce our two very brave boys, I’d like to say a few words.”

  The voice of the MC faded away to the hum of the air-conditioning as Harvey stepped into the narrow hallway with a flickering light. To his right, Harvey now realised, Tyler would be preparing himself, psyching himself up for the fight.

  He stopped at the doorway. Behind him were all of London’s hardest men in one room. Every single one of them would have a wager on and every single one of them was there to see a fight to the death.

  Harvey stepped back. He glanced through the small window in the door. Escaping unseen would be impossible. There were van loads of armed men in the car park. Even if he did take Tyler and run for it, they wouldn’t get far. Whatever happened, nothing could wipe the shame Harvey felt. Guilt and sorrow hung like weights from some place inside of him, some place he’d never been able to reach. Like an itch, it tormented him and meeting Tyler had awoken it.

  Whatever happened, the boy needed to survive. It was the last thing he could do for Julios.

  “And without further ado,” said the MC, “let’s meet our first fighter. Ladies and Gentlemen, let me introduce you to Tyler Tornado Thomson.”

  Before Tyler emerged from his changing room and while the criminal audience erupted in eager applause behind him, Harvey lifted a fire extinguisher from its hook on the wall and stepped into Mackie’s room.

  The boy was sitting on the slatted wooden bench, his head resting in his hands. He looked up just as Harvey slammed the fire extinguisher into his face. The force of the blow sent the boy reeling backwards over the bench. But he stood and launched the bench at Harvey, following it up by running at him and slamming his shoulder into Harvey’s gut, forcing him against the hard, painted brick wall.

  Pinned to the wall, Harvey used his elbows to knock the boy backward, but in the limited time he’d had with him earlier
that day, Mackie had listened to everything he’d said. With an animal-like strength, he tossed Harvey across the room into the wash basin. It ripped from the wall and tore the water pipe.

  Freezing water gushed into the air and rained down on them both. But the reprise gave Harvey enough time to pull off his wet jacket. He rolled his neck from side to side and coaxed Mackie toward him.

  The boy had listened to what Harvey had told him. He stood there waiting for Harvey to attack with water dripping from his brow.

  “I thought you were on my side?” said Mackie.

  “You can’t fight him,” said Harvey. “I can’t let you go out there. I don’t want to hurt you any more than I have to, but one way or another, you aren’t fighting tonight.”

  “Why not?” replied Mackie. “That’s why I’m here. I’m going to tear his head off.” His teeth were bared and his wide eyes showed black holes for pupils.

  “I can’t let you do that,” said Harvey with a sigh. He rolled his neck, felt the familiar bite of his inner beast, and then stepped forward.

  There was no combination of rehearsed punches offered to Harvey, and Mackie didn’t bounce from one foot to the other. He stood ready, watching Harvey’s every move. In just a few short hours, Harvey had taught the boy how to kill, not fight. The difference was what had separated Harvey from nearly every man he’d been up against in his life. Fighting is one thing; you train to hurt people. Killing is another; usually, the first move is the last if done right.

  Mackie had shown promise. His strength and speed combined with Harvey’s knowledge had formed a lethal young boy.

  “It needs to be me,” said Harvey, and he launched an attack while the boy contemplated the words. Harvey gave an open-handed stab at his windpipe. But Mackie was quick. His reactions were lightning fast and he knocked Harvey’s hand away with ease, sidestepped, and delivered a sharp blow to Harvey’s kidney.

  Deep breaths eased the shock and Harvey stepped away.

  “I thought I told you to follow up, not to wait?” said Harvey.