A Fistful of Knuckles

by Tom Graham

  ‘Yes, Guv?’

  ‘Grab your shorts and skipping rope. We’re popping down the gym.’

  ‘Can this really be the right place?’ asked Sam as he and Gene clambered out of the Cortina and approached the entrance of a gloomy, filthy alleyway.

  Gene sniffed the air with contempt: ‘Much like the aroma in your flat, Sammy. I can see why you try to cover it up with that druggy pong.’

  ‘They’re not drugs, they’re joss sticks,’ replied Sam. ‘How many times do I have to explain that, Guv?’

  ‘No amount of explaining’s going to make your gaff stink any less like a dope-smoking pansy-boy’s boudoir. Now then; lead on, Samuel, and boot any dog-eggs out the way. I don’t want to get my loafers soiled.’

  ‘Heaven forbid you should soil your loafers,’ said Sam, and gingerly he stepped into the alley, picking his way through the heaps of reeking garbage. ‘This place is worse than a pigsty! Doesn’t seem like a good location for a gym.’

  ‘Get over it,’ Gene growled as he loomed menacingly after Sam. ‘Real men ain’t frit by a spot of dirt.’

  ‘It seems they are if they’re wearing their best loafers, Guv.’

  ‘Second best, you prannet. First best’s for the ladies.’

  They reached a set of filthy doors, above which hung the remains of a sign. The few letters still attached to it said: ST LLA’S YM

  ‘This must be it,’ said Sam.

  He pushed open the doors and revealed a gloomy passageway beyond, with a set of stairs leading down into even deeper darkness. For a moment, a sharp, icy sensation passed through Sam’s blood. He sensed something – something he could not define. For a moment, he could not bring himself to descend that bleak staircase and enter the darkness at its foot.

  But why? What am I afraid is down there?

  But it wasn’t the descent into Stella’s Gym that froze his blood with fear. It was that deeper descent into the even greater darkness of the subconscious that terrified him. Because he had glimpsed into that pit of his own psyche before, not least when he had been pistol-whipped unconscious in the compound of the Red Hand Faction and found himself lost in a black, nightmarish void.

  Something stared back at me from that void … something with inhuman eyes, an inhuman face … a devil … a devil in the dark! I saw it … and whatever it is, it saw me. It knows me. And it’s coming for me. Slowly, but surely, it’s coming for me … and then … and then …

  But at that moment Gene shoved roughly past him and strode confidently into the murky hallway.

  ‘Keep up, Sam, we haven’t got all day.’

  Forcing his nameless fears aside, Sam followed Gene down the steps and through another set of doors.

  They found themselves at once in Stella’s Gym. It was a stark, windowless, concrete cavern lit by overhead strip lights. It felt more like an underground car park than a gymnasium. Between the hard concrete floor and the hard concrete ceiling stood rows of hard concrete columns plastered with photos of slab-faced boxers and naked women. Moving between the columns were an assortment of huge, sweating men pounding away at punch bags, heaving weights, dancing over skipping ropes. The air was thick with the mingled stench of body odour, embrocation and stale, wet towels.

  One again, an overpowering sense of dread swept across Sam. His heart was pounding. He leant against a concrete pillar, afraid he might pass out, and in horror he saw amid the pinned-up photographs a face he knew at once; staring out at him was the Test Card Girl – a faded, dog-eared, black and white snapshot pinned up between pictures Henry Cooper and Raquel Welch.

  ‘Don’t you want to know the truth, Sam? Don’t you want to know what I know … about Annie?’

  Sam’s head swam. He braced himself, forced himself not to faint. The girl’s mocking voice echoed through his mind, stirring up the terrible sickness that threatened to overwhelm him.

  ‘She has a past, Sam. Shall I tell you about it? Shall I? Shall I, Sam? Shall I?’

  In sudden anger he snatched the photo of the Test Card Girl. But all at once he found himself holding nothing more than a tatty newspaper cutting of Joe Bugner poised for action.

  To hell with your mind games, you little brat! You won’t get inside my head! You’re not real! You’re nothing!

  Sam crumpled the photo into a ball and fell into step with Gene. Together they moved forward, making for a roped-off boxing ring where two men lunged and clashed under the under the noisy guidance of a short, pug-nosed Irishman.

  ‘Hey you!’ Gene barked.

  The Irish trainer fell silent, turned, and looked Sam and Gene over. His flat, ugly face was not friendly, and neither was the atmosphere in the gym.

  ‘You addressing me?’ the trainer asked in his spiky Belfast accent.

  ‘I most certainly am, Paddy.’

  ‘The name’s Dermot.’

  ‘I don’t care what you call yourself, you gobby spud. Zip your trap and pay attention. And that goes for all of you!’

  All the men had stopped working out and were staring at the unwelcome visitors, clocking at once that they had a couple of coppers amongst them – Sam’s leather jacket and Gene’s voluminous camel hair coat were as much giveaways in this place as bobby’s helmets and badges.

  The atmosphere tightened. Sam set his face, determined not to show that he was intimidated. But Gene, who thrived on machismo like a rosebush thrives on quality shit, hooked his thumbs into his belt, thrust out his chest, and squinted slowly round at the men who surrounded them.

  Please, guv – don’t antagonise them, Sam silently willed him. Keep it cool, keep it calm … no need to wind anyone up …

  ‘Right, you faggots,’ Gene declared. ‘Stop eyeing up each other’s arses and pay attention. I’ll keep it simple so as not to confuse you. My name’s Detective Chief Inspector Hunt, CID, A-Division – you know, the police. And this here’s my retard nephew tagging along on work experience.’

  Sam kept his face fixed, maintaining what professional dignity he could.

  Dermot, the pug-nosed trainer, leant casually on the ropes of the boxing ring and said: ‘And what can we be doin’ for you fellas, then? Lookin’ to put a spot of muscle on yourselves, are ya?’

  Gene fixed him with a look and said; ‘Denzil Obi, the Mixed Race Widow.’

  ‘What about him?’ said Dermot. ‘Denzil’s not here.’

  ‘No,’ said Gene. ‘No, he’s not. He’s gone to that big, stinky gym in the sky.’

  A ripple of tension ran through the men. Dermot straightened up, his face serious. ‘What you talkin’ about?’

  ‘Denzil Obi was found dead in his flat this morning,’ said Sam. ‘Beaten to a pulp.’

  ‘So it’s a not social call but a murder enquiry,’ Gene declared. ‘Any of you monkeys feel like having a chat? Eh? Anyone here know enough words to tell us anything?’

  Silent faces stared back at them.

  ‘One at a time, lads, no need to rush,’ growled Gene.

  Sam looked from one to the other, and it was then that he noticed a lean, wiry man – more sleek and well-toned than bulked-up and brawny – who was sporting a spider tattoo on the base of his neck, almost identical to Denzil’s. For a fleeting moment, Sam and the man with the tattoo made eye contact – and then the man looked nervously away.

  At that moment, Gene spotted the man with the tattoo, and at once strode towards him.

  ‘Oi! What about you? Eh? Knew Denzil, did you? Eh? Speak up, lad! Or would you rather chat about this under the lights down at the cop shop?’

  ‘Hey, constable, you lay off Spider!’ Dermot protested.

  ‘I don’t like spiders – I squash ‘em,’ said Gene. ‘Or pull their legs off and flush ‘em down the plug hole. But only if they ignore me – you get my drift? Eh? Spider?’

  Spider gave Gene a glowering look. He tightened his fists. Gene tightened his.

  ‘I said lay off ‘im!’ Dermot cried. He ducked under the rope and waddled aggressively towards Gene on his short, stocky le
gs.

  ‘Look, out, Sam,’ said Gene, looking down at Dermot. ‘Looks like I’ve upset the Lollypop Guild.’

  Dermot planted himself protectively in front of Spider: ‘Let him be, constable. Him and Denzil were buddies – that ain’t no secret. Real close.’

  ‘Best friends?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Like brothers,’ said Dermot.

  ‘Faggots, were they? Nancy boys? Like to dip your wick in the ol’ chocolate pot, eh Spider?’

  ‘Officer, you’re out of line!’ the Irishmen cried. ‘You’re well out of line!’

  ‘What you gonna do about it?’ asked Gene, leaning down so that his face was level with Dermot’s. ‘You gonna get Sleepy and Bashful to give me a going over?’

  ‘Guv, please,’ said Sam quietly, trying to calm the situation. The atmosphere was tense beyond belief. The men in the gym seemed ready to rush them.

  Maybe the machismo in the air’s gotten to him, San thought. Maybe he can’t help himself.

  Spider stared furiously at Gene for a few moments, his eyes red and watery, and then he turned and stormed away.

  ‘Let the fella grieve in peace,’ Dermot said. ‘Spider’s a good lad. Like I told you – him and Denzil, they were like brothers the pair of ‘em. Think of his feelings. Let him shed a few tears. Then he’ll talk to you.’

  ‘He’ll talk to me now,’ growled Gene. ‘You might be the leprechaun’s bollocks in this shite-hole, Murphy, but when it comes to a murder enquiry you’re less to me than a puddle of pissed-out Guinness.’

  ‘I’m warnin’ you …’ muttered Dermot at the back of his throat.

  ‘Get back to Santa’s gotto, there’s rockin’ ‘orses need wrapping,’ said Gene, and he pushed past the little Irish men to go after Spider. But at once Dermot planted himself directly in Gene’s way, blocking him – and as he did, the other men in the room pushed forward to back him up. Sam braced himself. The anger in the room was like an electric charge. Hands were clenched. Muscles tensed. Eyes narrowed. The whole gym seemed to thrum and vibrate with a deep, pulsing, masculine energy, like the prelude to a storm or the first ominous rumblings of an earthquake. The thrill of imminent violence filled the room.

  Sam froze.

  Dermot prepared to throw a punch.

  The boxers got ready to join him.

  Gene puffed himself up.

  It was then that they heard the gasp of a woman a few yards away to their right. It was an almost sexual sound. The lemony aroma of Charlie cut through the fug of sweaty men like the reek of powerful pheromones. Sam and Gene glanced across and saw bleached blonde hair, scarlet lipstick caked across wrinkled lips, a tight-fitting, zebra-patterned leather skirt, fishnet stockings encasing muscular legs, white stilettos. The balls-to-the-wall old bird who stared so frankly at the men in the gym raised her left hand to her painted mouth and teased a red lacquered nail between twin sets of nicotine-darkened teeth; as she did so, her right hand ran down her solidly curved body, from zebra-striped breasts to leather-clad crotch, in a single fluid movement of barely suppressed animal arousal.

  ‘Hands in your pockets, boys, your five-tissue fantasy’s arrived,’ Gene observed.

  CHAPTER THREE: SLAPPER

  ‘I’m Stella, and this is my gym,’ said the woman in the zebra-striped top, lounging back in her chair and planting her stilettoed feet on her desk. ‘This place is mine. Mine. You come into Stella’s Gym with questions, I’m the one you speak to first. Got that?’

  Sam didn’t know whether things would have kicked off had Stella not arrived the moment she did. But whatever the score, her sudden appearance had defused the situation. All eyes had turned to her as she stood there, running her hands over her own body and chewing her glistening bottom lip. Sam’s first thought was that she was somebody’s drunk and unpleasantly randy aunt, but whoever she was she radiated some sort of authority over the men in the gym. They respected her. Gene had sensed this too; instinctively, he’d turned his attention from the wretched Spider and the plucky Irishman defending him, and instead focused solely on this high-heeled, peroxided Amazon.

  Beckoning Gene and Sam with a red-clawed finger, she had brought them through a door that led from the gymnasium area into her private office. It was lined with framed photographs of big men, boxers every one of them: some were groomed and suited; some sleek and oiled and posing in the gym; others sweating in the ring during a fight; not a few gushing blood and hardly able to see through swollen eyes – one or two lying sparko and splattered on the canvas, defeated and senseless.

  ‘Didn’t expect to find a bird running this gaff,’ said Gene, casting his glance around the office.

  ‘Thought the name might’ve given it away,’ Stella said, not looking up from filing her talons. ‘I was born into boxing. My dad, his dad, his dad before him. It’s in my blood. It’s my life.’

  ‘You should’ve been born a bloke,’ said Gene.

  ‘So should you, Detective Chief Inspector whatever you said your name was.’

  ‘The name’s Hunt. Gene Hunt.’

  ‘And I’m Detective Inspector Sam Ty-’

  Gene silenced him with a curt wave of the hand, like Sam was cramping his style on a date. Which perhaps, in a way, he was. Gene’s eyes were fixed directly on Stella’s – and hers were now fixed on his. They were locked onto each other, oblivious to the rest of the world, like lovers. Sam fell silent and gave the two of them their space; it seemed wrong to intrude.

  ‘Denzil Obi’s got himself killed,’ Gene growled. ‘You know who I’m talking about.’

  ‘Of course I do. Denzil was one of my boys. I’m sorry to hear he’s come a cropper. Still, it happens.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘In this game, aye, it does. Boxing’s a tough world.’

  ‘What do you know about Denzil?’

  ‘This and that. Depends who’s asking.’

  ‘The Law, that’s who’s asking, now answer the bloody question.’

  ‘That’s no way to address a lady in her office.’

  ‘And that’s no way to treat a police officer on a murder enquiry,’ Gene said. ‘You’re starting to sound to me like somebody who knows more than they’re letting on.’

  ‘Little me?’ replied Stella, and she turned her attention back to filing her nails. ‘I don’t know nuthin’ … leastways, not about that sort of thing.’

  ‘Who killed Denzil Obi? Any ideas?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Make a guess.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Pick a name out the bloody hat.’

  ‘Constable, I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Double bollocks.’

  ‘It’s not my job to nick villains, Mr DCI Gene Hunt. You’re the policemen.’

  ‘You better believe it. And as a policeman I can take you straight into custody and put the right royal squeeze on you, sugar. The right royal squeeze.’

  Stella dropped the nail file onto the desk, moistened her red lips with her tongue, and looked up at Gene through her long fake lashes. ‘So. If I don’t cooperate, will you haul me down the station in handcuffs?’

  ‘Before you can say ‘post-menopausal slag’, you bet I will, toots.’

  Stella took her feet down from the desk, stood up, and planted her hands on her leather-clad hips.

  ‘Right then,’ she said. ‘I’m not co-operating.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to start getting rough.’

  ‘Then get rough.’

  Gene glowered at her: ‘I’m not bluffing.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ said Stella, her voice now a husky whisper. ‘Neither am I.’

  Gene moved closer, his face hard, his eyes harder. Stella pointed her breasts at him and lifted her chin defiantly. Sam could hear them both breathing noisily.

  And then, it all happened. Whether it was Gene who made the first move or of it was Stella, Sam didn’t see. All he knew was that there was a rapid flurry of movement,
thrown fists, slaps, kicks, and a sudden torrent of things swept from the desk as Stella was thrown roughly over it and handcuffed.

  ‘Don’t just stand there gawping, Tyler!’ Gene barked as he held Stella down, pressing her with all his weight to subdue her struggling. ‘Help me getting this wildcat into the motor!’

  ‘We can’t take her out through the gym, Guv, not in cuffs! The boys out there will rip us to pieces!’

  Gene thought about this, even as he renewed his grasp on his thrashing captive.

  ‘You got a point,’ he said, and hauled Stella upright, clamping one arm round her throat. ‘We’ll just have to move this mucky mare the way they do with pianos.’

  ‘Guv …?’

  ‘The window, Tyler. Get it open.’

  Sam hesitated. Surely this wasn’t right? Was there no better way than this?

  Gene suddenly roared: ‘Not next week, dopey nuts! Right now!’

  And catching the excited gleam in Stella’s eyes, Sam realized that for all her thrashing and struggling, Stella herself would have no objections to such rough handling.

  Don’t think about it, Sam. Just do it. Let’s just get this bloody thing over and done with!

  By means that could only be described as undignified, they got Stella to the Cortina. Gene bunged her into the back seat like she was a sack of old taters. At once, she struggled to come back at him, teeth bared, eyes flashing fiercely. Having both her hands securely cuffed behind her back didn’t daunt her for one moment from taking them both on simultaneously.

  ‘Get in the back and sit on it!’ Gene ordered, shoving Sam onto her. ‘Keep it under control until we get to the station.’

  Sam find himself sprawled across Stella, fighting blindly with her, trying to grab some part of her so he could hold her still.

  ‘Get this weedy boy off me!’ she cried, thrusting her knee into his stomach. ‘Get the guv’nor back here!’

  ‘The guv’nor is driving!’ growled Gene, planting himself behind the wheel and furiously revving the engine. He stamped on the gas and the Cortina lurched forward.

  Sam grappled horribly with Stella as she hissed insults at him and demanded the personal attentions of the guv. But when she realised Gene was not going to relinquish his role and skipper of the Cortina, she fell into a sulk. It gave Sam precious time to get his breath back.