by Al K. Line
"I know, but you see what I'm getting at?"
"I do. And I don't like it, Arthur. I, all of us, we don't have anything to do with that."
"What are we talking about here?" asked Vicky.
"Fighting," I said.
"You said that already. Fighting to survive, you'd have to, right?"
"No, you don't get it." Guess I'd have to lay it out for her. Vicky wasn't from this world, this dark and depraved world. There was a lot to learn, and much of it wasn't nice.
"Proper fighting, like against others. For money, for prizes, for magic, for status."
"For blood. For death," spat Candy, rubbing her hands on her apron as if the mention of it had sullied her flesh.
"Like dog fighting you mean?"
"Like shifter fighting is what I mean," I said. "Shifters of all kinds put into a cage and fighting until one wins."
"It's a nasty business, I have no part in it and will not deal with anyone who does."
"People really do that? Er, shifters really do that?" Vicky was ignorant of a lot of things, her heart was still pure in many ways, and although she'd changed over recent weeks, done things I never thought her capable of and it had messed her up more than she knew, she still had a heart of gold and thought the best of people. She'd learn.
"Vicky, love, people do everything you could possibly imagine and a lot of things you absolutely could not imagine. Some do it because they want to, enjoy it, others because they have no choice."
"The fights are gross. Some shifters go into it for the status and for the money, others do it out of desperation. And some," added Candy, "do it because they're made to."
"But nobody would make a young girl do it, would they?"
"Maybe, maybe not," I mused. "But they might train her up for years, toughen her up, if when they first met her she managed to rip a couple of guys to pieces. Maybe somebody who saw that would see a bag full of money before their eyes and think it a worthwhile investment to train the child until she was old enough to fight with the big boys."
Nobody said a word while we all processed the idea. It rang true, made sense. Why hadn't I thought of that before? Because it wasn't my world. This was proper underground stuff, born from the street fights and cage fights where men pitted themselves against each other in manly ways but with full knowledge of what they were getting into. Shifters joined in, held their own fights, and it got increasingly vicious over the years.
I'd heard of it, everyone in our world had, but I'd never seen one, never been to one, never dealt with those that had or who organized them. I didn't even know who ran such things or where to find them.
But I bet Candy did.
"Do they happen here, in the city?"
"No, I'd know about it if they did. This is stuff for the major cities where there's more money and more shifters to choose from. When Merrick was in charge he never allowed it here."
That gave me pause. "He would do anything if it brought him cash. And he loved violence."
"Yeah, but not this. No shifter fights, off limits." Candy shrugged like it was something she'd never considered before.
"Okay, so where is the main action? Who runs these things?"
"Honestly, I don't know. It's not my world, Arthur. We act as bodyguards, look out for each other, and get paid to protect others. Sure we get into trouble, but we don't beat each other to death or rip each other's guts out in front of a crowd for money."
"Damn, would have been nice to have a lead. A lead, haha." Candy scowled, Vicky nudged me in the elbow, and I gradually realized maybe that was insensitive. "Sorry, no offense."
"Tell me something, Arthur, how would you like it if people kept making fun of a part of what makes you you?"
"I'd be shocked if they didn't. But I'm sorry, leash jokes are in bad taste. But may I take this opportunity to say that you, my dear Candy, are the most adorable collie dog I have ever seen rip the face off a man."
"I'll take that as a complement," she said, giving me the evil eye.
I winked back at her and she sighed. The Hat still had it, haha.
Down and Dirty
It was still early, especially by criminal standards. Most bad guys would be snoring soundly, sleeping the sleep of the unjust, not a care in the world as they didn't care about anyone.
But some criminals were early risers, and it was one such man that I wanted to see. Okay, I didn't want to, but I knew he'd be able to point me in the right direction so there was little choice.
The full moon was almost upon us, and if Avisha was involved in the fights then this would be my only chance for another month, if she fought at all. It was nothing but a hunch that she was involved in this, but it rang true somehow, would explain why Merrick's father wanted her so badly and why Merrick himself had kept her alive, apart from as an easy way to control Ivan.
We drove to the outskirts of the city to a rundown area where half the stores were boarded up, everything was covered in graffiti, and men hung around in groups and women with pushchairs walked fast with their heads down and tried not to shout at the sky, shake their fists, and cry as they screamed, "Why?"
The old apartment blocks should have been destroyed years ago when regeneration projects were all the rage and the sixties monstrosities were razed to the ground to be replaced with so-called modern living apartments. Even though these projects became just as depressing as their predecessors, housing the same people in the same dire circumstances with the same lack of social welfare, jobs, or anyone to help them.
But the towering concrete blocks of misery still stood here, looming over the vast swathes of concrete, casting dark shadows over all who lived here. What kind of person designs such places, and who gives the go-ahead for them to be built? There were no safe places for kids to play or for teenagers to go, just a maze of concrete walkways, bridges, crumbling buildings, and misery. No wonder crime was rife and the suicide rate was through the roof.
I parked the car a quarter mile away where the houses had neat front lawns and vehicles were locked in garages and everyone had decent security. If I left it at the projects—an unfamiliar vehicle where everyone knew everyone and their business—then it would be gone when we returned, or the tires at least. Walking a while was better than dealing with that crap.
These places were always depressing, and it was hard to understand how people coped. How did you do your shopping? Trudging on and off buses, or a car if you were lucky, but then having to make multiple trips through the buildings, up in the elevators, then along narrow walkways to your front door, struggling under the weight and hoping nobody stole your groceries? Hardly surprising the health of the residents was bad and they subsisted on junk food from the multinationals that offered cheap food without the need to worry about getting it to your kitchen.
The country as a whole was to blame. It turned a blind eye to such things and many didn't even know they existed. Every city had such places, the larger the city the more the disparity between the haves and the have-nots. Where thousands of people grew up in fear, where schools underperformed and there were no jobs, no chance to be close to nature, to play on natural ground and feel like your country cared about you. They were abandoned, an embarrassment, blamed for being criminals and drug dealers and gang members and murderers, where the crime rate was off the charts—with most going unreported—and kids grew up bitter and distrusting of anyone in authority.
I knew these places, I knew them only too well. I should, I'd grown up, more like been dragged up, somewhere like it.
The police didn't patrol here, and you'd be well-advised not to need the emergency services. Ambulance personnel could take an age to arrive, if they came at all, and often they got lost trying to find their way into the projects where roads were blocked with gutted cars or street gangs lit fires of tires, making vehicles pass through the narrow roads where they could stop them and shake them down.
Even if the emergency services got to their destination, they had to navigate the maze
of buildings and the confusion of walkways that linked to them, many interconnected with wide, winding bridges leading from one tower to the next. It was a nightmare in concrete that made no sense and yet amid it all there was good. Good people, good parents, good kids, good intentions. But it was hard to grow up somewhere like this, even harder to raise a family knowing the chances of your kids ever getting away, ever having opportunities, was well below the country's average.
What did the youngsters do when there was nothing provided for them, nowhere to play apart from on cracked concrete that told them exactly what the rest of the country thought of them? They hung around, they drank, got into drugs, embraced the violence they had no choice but to confront every day. But a few, those that resisted the lure of the drugs, turned to violence of a different sort.
Boxing.
Jeremiah was the salvation of these kids, but he wasn't always a nice guy. In fact he was absolutely not a nice guy back in the distant past. He was as hard as they came, and had the scars to prove it, and I suspected wasn't above a bit of criminal activity if the opportunity arose. But he did right by the kids, at least some of them, helped them out and taught them how to defend themselves like men, with their fists, and showed them a way to survive without the need for knives or the most coveted prize of all. Guns.
The small gym was located in a narrow street where most of the buildings were boarded up, others small stores or takeaways. There was no fancy sign on the door with the opening hours and the rates; if you didn't know what the place was then you had no business coming here. This was for the locals and for those who knew of its existence, and it was free for anyone that wished to learn the secrets that were housed within and had no money to pay.
"You sure you want to come in?" I asked Vicky.
She eyed the characters hanging around outside the stores, drinking from double-strength cans of lager and looking half dead, and said, "You bet," then tried to smile. I saw the apprehension, the fear, the nervousness, but most of all the confusion. Vicky didn't know such places existed.
Vicky was from a world where moms did lunch, where you fretted about school plays and if your kids would do well, not if you could afford to even make a costume for the play, and if you could feed your children that evening. She didn't drive through these streets, didn't step foot in the homes here, didn't see how rundown the schools were or understand that even though her kids went to regular school theirs was nothing like the education the kids here would get, even though by all rational thinking they should all get the same one.
She didn't understand a world where everyone looked scared or was trying to look hard so they'd be left alone, where people lived hand to mouth, wouldn't eat if they didn't get their monthly subsidy from the government. Where you paid for your electricity with a prepaid card, and had to pay double for that luxury, where many didn't even have bank accounts or computers, where cars weren't owned by everyone, and she couldn't understand why the streets were dirty or why there were so many small wooden crosses tied to lampposts or railings.
When I'd explained to her they were in memory of those who'd died, she looked at me in confusion. How had so many people died? When I told her it was from shootings, stabbings, beatings, overdoses, suicide, ill health, or alcohol poisoning she accepted what I told her but only in an abstract way. Things like that didn't happen, did they? Not in the modern world, not in a world where we had free health care for all, where we looked after our citizens and gave them money if they didn't have a job. Where every child had the luxury of school and could have free breakfast, free lunch, and cheap school uniforms.
How could all this be possible? She didn't understand.
"Because life's unfair and most of what we get told is utter bullshit, that's why."
Vicky was silent after that and the rest of the walk was made without a word, her keeping her chin up and her stare unfocused as I'd told her, but she still got a lot of funny looks and if she hadn't been with me the vultures would have picked her clean within minutes. Perky mini-moms who worried about their kids getting the lead in school plays didn't belong in this world, and her innocent charm would not get her out of such a place with her purse and pride intact.
So she practically ran in through the door as I pushed it open, sighing with relief when the background hum of the street was cut off. But it was replaced by another muffled sound of men of violence, the sound of them beating the shit out of each other.
At least here they wore gloves.
Sticky But Nice
As we stepped into Jeremiah's, the testosterone hit like a smack in the face with a sweaty jockstrap. To say this was a man's world was an understatement. This was manliness with balls of steel.
Body odor was thick in the air and a salty tang sweated from walls covered in ancient posters of boxers of all weights and from many backgrounds. They'd all spent time in Jeremiah's where they were guaranteed no special treatment, just to be trained by one of the best without a sycophant or gold digger in sight.
The room was large, taking up the whole upper level of the building, with a loft-like feel. Heavy steel girders intersected the spaces, supporting a patched roof that often leaked—for most of the year there were numerous buckets dotted around the scuffed wooden floor brimming over with rain.
And loud. Very, very loud. Shouted instructions, grunts and groans, plenty of screams, and a lot of huffing and puffing combined to deliver a cacophony of sound like a solid barrier. Once you entered, you were part of this world, sucked into the maelstrom and expected to behave appropriately.
But above all else, above all other noise, was the sound of fists. Fists connecting with punch bags, fists pummeling speed bags, and fists smacking into heads and bodies.
There were three boxing rings and all were occupied. Boys and men of all ages and description sparred wherever there was room, shouted at by instructors or anyone who could help out if they had the time.
The place was rammed. Men skipped rope, crowded around the bench press, ignored the leg machines, worked their way up and down the rack of dumbbells aligned neatly along one wall with mirrors behind. Both well-muscled, and skinny dudes with raw power, admired themselves as they pumped their biceps, marveled at their horseshoe triceps, and did lateral raises by the hundreds to build endurance and make their delts pop like tennis balls.
As we watched the display of raw aggression, the noise lessened until everyone had stopped what they were doing to stare at us. Apart from two men in the main ring. Even though they were busy punching the shit out of each other one of them noticed the change in atmosphere and turned. His opponent, taking advantage of the opportunity, swung a right hook that made me wince before it even landed. When it did, the undefended man's head whipped sideways, his mouth guard flew out of the ring, and he smacked onto the canvas. He was out cold.
The winner smiled and fist-bumped the air, removed his mouth guard and only then became aware of the silence. He looked from the man on the mat to us, and sighed.
"It's a knockout," I shouted, then smiled widely at our curious audience.
Nobody responded, nobody said a word, and nobody moved. It wasn't me that was the problem—scruffy men with stylish hats were fairly common in these parts—what wasn't common were tiny housewives wearing shiny casualwear and looking like they'd come to sell you cookies or make lemonade.
"What's going on out here?" bellowed Jeremiah as he exited the office at the back of the gym, a long room with a lot of glass, even more that was missing, and a door that was always open unless he was talking to someone about one problem or another. So, yeah, he closed it quite often.
The gym was as much a support network as somewhere to learn how to protect yourself. A refuge, a place to keep the kids occupied, off the streets, and out of trouble, but also somewhere they knew they were safe, where beefs were left at the door along with weapons and any kind of technology. You didn't come here to play on your phone and you didn't come here with knives or drugs. Get found with any of
that and you were out, no second chances, just a beatdown and then you were on your own.
Everyone stuck to the rules. This was all there was for many of the kids, their only chance to escape the life of a criminal or poverty. This allowed them to feel better about themselves, to stand up to the bullies, to walk tall and proud and know they stood a chance out on the streets.
It may all sound rather cliched but this was real community work, men giving back in the most honest way they could. They were all due the utmost respect.
Not that you'd dare be anything but respectful to Jeremiah. One look at him told you he wasn't to be messed with.
The dude was awesome.
Everyone turned to stare at Jeremiah as he stormed out of his office and marched into the middle of the room, but only for a second. Then all eyes were back on us. On Vicky.
Fair play to the mighty mouse, she squared up and gave everyone in the room her mom stare. The one that said she knew what you'd done and she was disappointed. The deep, penetrating look every son has seen, where your mother knows what you did and knows you're a bad boy and she's so ashamed.
Tough guys stared her down for as long as they could but they were no match. They mostly all had mothers, if not fathers, and they all knew that look. She was on to them, she knew the naughty things they'd done, and I laughed briefly as they stirred, shifting about and slowly got back to the business at hand.
"It's The Hat!" hollered Jeremiah as he closed the distance between us in a few powerful strides.
"Good to see you, old man," I said, trying to return the hug but failing as I couldn't get my arms around the big guy.
"Haha. Old? I'll have you know I'm just approaching my prime."
"If you call sixty prime then you're right in the middle of it. Damn, this place has got busier than ever."
Jeremiah released me from his death grip and stood beside me as we admired the fruits of his not inconsiderable labor.