by Matthew Samm
There, in the darkness, she would train. She’d practice movements and defenses on her own. She’d do calisthenics, priming her body for a bout she hoped would come one day. She had remained strong. She had remained as ready as it was possible for her to be.
There were times when Isaac would stagger out of his cot and stand before her. They’d train together and it was the one time she forgot the turmoil in which their relationship stood. They became, later in the ordeal, training partners. Once his wounds were healed sufficiently, they would speed up and by the end, they were almost sparring in the dimness and confines of that prison of solid rock.
In the last week, she’d come to realize how much she’d benefited from doing this. Her reactions were speedy, her movements were swift. Her power lacked a little, but it wouldn’t matter anyway. If she had a million years, she couldn’t train herself to be stronger than Mad Jack.
She already knew how to beat him though. Speed and agility were her weapons. How the bout would pan out was thus far unknown, but she had a plan and at this point, that was all she could hope for.
When the last Warden had left, the silence had settled on the changing room and seemed to boom as the echoing door gradually faded. In the silence, Alix felt oppression that was worse than her time on Strangeways. It was the first time she had truly felt trapped.
She glanced over to the door. It was unlocked. She could disappear from there and leave the arena. No one would ever know. By the time they did; when the marshals came for her to tell her it was her time, she’d be long gone. She’d be a fugitive herself then, but maybe that was better than facing Jack.
She shook her head as she thought of running. Her father would have her hunted down. She’d have embarrassed him, and the Wardens and she knew what happened when someone embarrassed her father. Her mother’s gravestone testified to it.
Alix startled as the door opened, shattering the silence and forcing her to reconvene her thoughts. Her head whipped round to be greeted by the Reaper.
He loomed towards her, his eyes boring into hers, his stony face, chiseled from granite did not move or twitch. It was a perfectly still model coming towards her.
She felt herself want to shrink back, but she didn’t, masking the desire by standing and turning to face him.
He was formally attired, wearing a three buttoned blazer, waistcoat, crisp dress pants and polished shoes. The changing room strip lights glinted from the toes and caught Alix directly in the eye making her squint. As he approached, the jawline cracked, and a thin smile spread across his lips. “Good evening, mademoiselle,” he said, his voice a perfectly blended baritone of French and English that sounded musical to Alix’s ears.
She returned the smile stiffly and muttered her own good evening. His presence was overwhelming. Did she just wave as she replied? In her own mind, she chastised herself for acting like a giddy teenager when someone famous walks up to them. She was starstruck.
She’d never actually talked to the Reaper, but everyone knew about him. He was famous. He was a star, and everyone wanted to meet him and get his autograph or take a picture with him.
He didn’t seem to notice her awkwardness, or if he did, he made no mention of it. He stopped just before her and extended his hand. Alix followed suit, her own hand raising in a stilted fashion, the awe still overcoming her.
As they clasped hands, she felt a mist lift from her brain. She’d done what few people had done before. She’d made contact with the Reaper. There were those who wanted to shake his hand and others who wanted his fists as far away as possible. Very few had ever got their wish. She had, and as she did, a thought occurred. Did he think she was stealing his job?
The Deathsman was the jewel in the Warden’s crown. There was only one and that person was royalty, holding the position until they were defeated, or they relinquished it voluntarily. Those were the only two ways Deathsman had ever changed. The Reaper had been the Deathsman for years, his hideously tattooed body a grim tapestry of the death doled out to the deserving.
The shake seemed to last forever, but eventually, his hand loosened and she was free. “Please. Sit,” he said, gesturing her back to her original seat. On the changing room bench. “We talk for a few moments if you please.”
She nodded. There was no way she could say no, even if a small part of her wanted to. His illusion and mystique were intoxicating. She couldn’t say anything other than yes.
“You are Deathsman tonight, yes?”
She nodded.
“You are ready for this?” he said to her, seemingly unsure of the answer. She suspected his inclination was to say ‘no, you’re not ready’.
She nodded again. “I’m ready,” she stammered.
“You have plan?”
She nodded a third time.
“What is your plan?”
“Well, I am fast,” she said, deliberately slowing down her words so that he could more easily follow what she was saying. He’d been in New Manchester for years, but his accent and English still needed work. He hadn’t attempted to fully learn, she supposed. Why should he? The Deathsman didn’t need to do anything they didn’t want to.
“You are fast, but is this all?”
“Well, no…” she felt stupid as if she was being judged by the greatest Warden to have ever lived. “I have my reflexes and my speed. He won’t be able to hit me.”
“I hope he does not, mademoiselle. He is powerful, yes. He can kill you easy, yes? You must know this and make sure he does not.”
‘Make sure he doesn’t kill me.’ That was the advice? She’d planned on not be killed as well.
“Mademoiselle, I do not think you are ready for this. But you feel ready?”
Alix hesitated. She didn’t know why. Only the night before she’d felt ready, but now, with the crippling weight of occasion on her shoulders, she felt completely unprepared.
In the end, her lack of an answer told him everything he needed to know. “This is how you beat him. You move always. You never stop moving around the cell. If you stop, he catches you, you die. Understand? But you must get close to him. Make him think he can get you. Then, when he tries, he misses. He is very big. He will get tired easily. When he tired, you hit him back. He go down in the end. When down, you choke.” He mimed the final words as he said them.
Alix imagined herself between those coiling arms; his grip stronger than a python’s embrace. It would have to be her if she was to win this bout. She would need to become the serpent, ready to pitilessly squeeze the life out of another human being. She would. She had to. This was her chance and she’d convinced her father to gift her this opportunity when he didn’t want to.
Her stomach still churned, but she felt a little better. The game plan from the Reaper matched her own, but the fact the best in the business told her the same thing gave her confidence. She was approaching the sentence in the right way. Maybe she did have a chance. She released a smile while looking at the Reaper. “Thank you,” she smiled, her eyes glancing down to her lap.
“My pleasure, mademoiselle,” he replied, returning her smile and placing a hand on hers. The eyes of a deceased face peeked out from his cuffs. They were the eyes of Robert Brooks, his most recent kill. It was a fresh tattoo from his last sentence a few months before.
Alix knew the tapestry present underneath his shirt and she shuddered. This was a dangerous man. He played with death every day and she knew he probably went out for drinks afterwards. He knew his reputation and his role in the city, but he didn’t care about the fame or the fortune. He didn’t care about the money or the adoration.
What drove him? What made him keep at his job all these years when he didn’t seem to emotionally benefit from it at all? Did he enjoy being around death? Did he enjoy the combat? It occurred to her that, despite being around the Wardens her whole life, she was unsure what drove any of them, or indeed, what drove herself. Why did she do this? She couldn’t answer beyond the simple fact she’d always done it. Her father had ens
ured she’d always done it.
In a different family, would she have been something different? Was she cut out to be a Warden? “Peere,” she said to the Reaper. “Why are you here? Why do you do this?” she asked. He was the Deathsman. He was the only other living person who knew what it was like to be in her situation; to walk to the cells knowing that she might not come back.
“Why am I Deathsman?”
She nodded at him.
“It is my duty. It is why I am here on this earth. I kill those who have to die.”
“But don’t you want something more? What about your own family and things like that?”
“It is dangerous to have a family as Deathsman. You don’t think as clearly. You must not worry about family when you are in cell.”
“I’m not, but you’ve done this for so long, didn’t you want to stop and have a family of your own?”
He suddenly looked sorrowful, turning away from her and looking across the locker room. “I have only loved once before. She died and I still feel the pain.” His words were a matter of fact. There was no dressing up of his grief or worrying about how much the words might hurt him to say them. It was the truth. It needed to be said, so they barreled out of his mouth and to hell with the consequences.
“I’m sorry, Peere. I didn’t mean to push it.”
“No need to say sorry, mademoiselle. My love was a weakness. I could not function properly in the cells with such love in my heart. I had been weak for a long time, but I could not stop it. When you love, you love. A part of me was, to my shame, relieved when she died. I became a Deathsman again. Why you ask, Alix?”
“I might not come back. This sweaty, smelly locker room could be the only place I am safe for the rest of my life. When I leave it, I might die.”
The Reaper looked stern, his gaze burning into hers. “You cannot think like this, Alix!” he said, the baritone turning an octave lower. “You will come back. Believe it. If you do not, you will not. You understand me?”
“I understand,” she whispered, without full conviction.
From behind them, the locker room doors opened. “Miss Venner?” one of the arena staff said. “It’s time.”
The Reaper pecked the back of her hand as she stood. “Good luck, mademoiselle.” She smiled thinly at him and trudged towards the door.
Her fate lay beyond. For better or worse.
21
They’d done the walk-in. They’d locked the door. They’d completed the announcements. She’d watched as her mother and sister’s faces were played on the screen again. There was another person responsible. The father to go with the son; Mad Jack to go with Robert. It had been an easy sell for her father, who was used to crafting far more complex storylines.
Across the cell, Mad Jack stared at her. He was in this position, whether truthfully or not and he would have to fight. He would have to give his all. The people didn’t know the truth, but it didn’t matter. This was one of those times Mad Jack always saw in black and white. It was kill or be killed. Just the way he liked it.
Alix expected the same nerves that had been engulfing her in the locker room to reappear, but they didn’t. The words of the Reaper had set her mind at ease and it was a lasting calm. She was not worried about the battle, although, if she allowed her mind to do so, she was sure it would stir up the jitters again. She didn’t allow it. She wouldn’t allow it.
The Reaper had been precise when he said her mind needed to be clear. All thoughts of her future, of her life, had no place in the cells. They might not last more than five minutes and if they did, then it was a blessing. Why worry about those things until you were guaranteed another five minutes to do so?
When the bell rang, it seemed to dim out the rest of the arena’s cacophony. Cameras still flashed. People still cheered. Banners still waved, but Alix didn’t notice any of them. Her senses were clear. Her game plan set in stone, written down within herself and programmed into her muscles.
She knew what she had to do and there was nothing stopping her from doing so. She would not make a mistake. She would not allow him the chance to walk out of there. She would let him beat himself and when he was exhausted, she would strike.
Jack immediately took the centre of the cell and advanced on her, trying to block her into the cell wall and cut off all escape.
She wouldn’t allow him. She feigned to the left and right and when he took the bait, she’d roll out and away, switching to another part of the cell where he would attempt to close her off again.
“You’re running, Alix,” he taunted. “You can’t run forever in a closed cell.”
“Can’t you keep up, Jack?” she returned. “You’re breathing heavy already.” She surprised herself with how openly she was mocking him. It didn’t matter. The worst might happen anyway; she couldn’t make it worse.
Their movements became a familiar response and she was aware that complacency could be deadly in the cells. She didn’t want him to change his game plan suddenly and catch her off guard. She changed first. The next time he tried to close her off, she darted in quickly, landing a powerful jab to the bridge of his nose. It was unexpected for him and his head snapped back.
In response, he rushed forward and wailed haymakers at her. The power was hammered through the air and promised swift destruction to anything or anyone unfortunate enough to be on the end of them, but there was no one. They hit the air, nothing more.
Alix could sense his reserves depleting. As they readied themselves again and he began to advance once more, she noticed his mouth was open already. It was the curse of having too much muscle. Undeniable power. Undeniable exhaustion.
He was beginning to suck wind. He had made the first mistake and lunged at what he thought was an opportunity. He had been wrong, and it had cost him reserves of energy.
Alix smiled inside herself. Her plan was working. She changed again, beginning her own advance. She sensed that he saw another opportunity and again, she was aware of complacency and how he might guess what she was going to do. She switched again, this time striding towards him and releasing a roundhouse kick to his leading leg.
Mad Jack had already starting to throw a punch. His weight was on the leading leg and when her instep connected with the inside of his knee, it buckled, draining the punch of any power and draining the leg of any stability. He collapsed to the floor and immediately threw a hand up to guard against any follow-up attack she might make.
She didn’t make any. She was running a marathon and would be patient.
The crowd roared as he hit the ground, savoring the promise of such a fearful man’s death and the exaltation of the young woman who’d beaten him when so many others hadn’t.
Alix took a second to drink in the noises of the crowd and for a second allowed herself to imagine her life as longer than five minutes. She imagined the interviews afterwards and how they would heap praise upon her for her triumph. She imagined the hordes of young women who would be inspired by her strength where so many male wardens had failed in the past. She allowed herself even to consider her father and the pride on his face when his daughter had faced the unbeatable and beaten him.
But she had made her first mistake.
In her reverie, Mad Jack had climbed to his feet and was heading back towards her, his face a mask of fury. Like her father, he hated being embarrassed and it was clear he saw this as an embarrassment. He knew what he could to do her if he only managed to get within range. His temper stormed and she would need all of her cunnings to stay in the calm eye.
It was then that she made her second mistake. Her plan was to use the cell’s mesh wall to leap around him as he approached. If she timed it right, he’d have lunged at her and would be open to a counter attack as she rounded him. Unfortunately, her foot misjudged where the cell wall was. She thought she had more room than she did and her back leg, instead of feeling the flat ground of the canvas, propped half upon the cell wall, twisting her ankle awkwardly.
With a cat’s lith
e agility, she recognized her mistake and what it would bring. Her reactions were not conscious. She knew what Mad Jack would do. She knew he’d come after her then. It was his best chance to catch hold of her. She tried to put her original plan into action and tried to use the cell wall to spin away from him. Her stumble had cost her time.
As she turned herself, his arms wrapped around her waist. His body weight slammed into her back as his momentum rammed her face into the mesh wall. His hands were locked together and there would be no chance of uncoupling them.
He dragged her away from the wall and into open space in the cell. She bucked and kicked but couldn’t break free.
He squeezed her diaphragm and she felt the wind rush from her. She heaved in and out trying to replace the oxygen he’d stolen from her. It was no good, she felt like that helpless mouse when the snake’s fangs strike deep.
Finally, she managed to create enough space to suck in a breath, but it was only because he was moving her to another section of the cage, right in front of her father. Mad Jack clearly had his own plan now and it was working for him. Whatever he was going to do next, he wanted her father to see it.
As soon as they arrived in the correct spot, she felt his hands squeeze again, but this time, her feet left the floor. There was a sickening sense of weightlessness as her head continued to move backwards. Ending with a curdling slam when her head impacted the canvas.
Mad Jack completed the display by holding onto her and using her body to get back to his feet. His weight pressed down on her still and she found breathing impossible again.
Then she was soaring backwards through the air again. Once more, the sickening thud ending her flight and once again he held on as he rolled around and attempted to use her as a scaffold back to his feet.
It was then that Alix felt fear for the first time. Real fear. It was the knowledge that all the predictions counted for nothing. All the training and tactics counted for nothing. There was only one thing that mattered. There was only one thing that she had to do and if she failed, it would be the last thing she ever did.