by Shaun Baines
Lowering his hand, Bronson looked to his shoes. "I walked into a door."
Terence snorted. He'd clearly heard the excuse before. Coming from The Playground, Bronson wasn't surprised. It was a hotbed of violence and walking into a door was a daily occurrence for some people.
"You're not going to fiddle me up, are you?" Terence asked, his eyes roaming over the empty race track.
Bronson cuffed him around the back of the head. "What's the matter with you?"
Terence shuffled away and Bronson held up his hands.
"Sorry. Sorry for hitting you," he said, "but I need to know if you've seen anyone else around."
"Like who?"
The ghost of Scott drifted through his mind and Bronson's chest tightened. "A man. A tall man. Scary looking."
Reaching for the zip of his hood, Terence tugged it down. The material fell to his shoulders, revealing a wan face. His eyes darted from left to right and he gave a low whistle.
"Shit, bro. I see creepers like that every day."
Bronson's shoulders sank. "You don't remember a tall, thin man leaving The Playground over the last few days?"
"Is he your boyfriend, like? What happened to the other one? The one I threatened with my blade?" Terence sucked air over his teeth, a smile playing on his lips. "You must go through those blokes like vindaloo, mate."
Bronson bit down on his tongue, hiding his frustration. He'd lost his advantage. Terence knew he was in no danger. Bronson needed a different strategy, one he should have used to begin with.
"Come on, you bloody toe-rag," he said. "Let's get something to eat."
"What for?" Terrence took a step back, his words loaded with suspicion.
"Because I'm hungry and you certainly look it," Bronson said, walking to the car. "I want to know about this woman. If she's around all the time, maybe she saw something."
"I told you, I don't know who she is," Terence said.
"Then your luck is changing. You're getting a free meal for nothing."
Terence paused at the door of the BMW. "I only know one thing."
"What's that?"
Flipping the car handle, Terence opened the door an inch and closed it again. "I overheard her once. When she was giving me my wraps for the day. She said she was going to The Cellar. Said they had new dogs coming in, but that's it. That's all I know. It didn't make any sense."
Terence climbed into the passenger seat and played with the controls on the dashboard, making appreciative noises.
Bronson leaned on the roof of his car, looking to the dilapidated entrance of the track. The racing hounds had moved on, the owners and enthusiasts trailing behind them. A minority lingered, empty betting slips in hand. Eventually, they found their fix elsewhere, in places like the Cellar where money was made in the flash of a smile and the snarl of a bite.
Suddenly, Bronson wasn't hungry anymore.
Chapter Twenty-One
Terence had packed away two burgers and a milkshake while Bronson pushed a glass of tap water around the table. He dropped the boy on the outskirts of The Playground, making a promise he hoped to fulfil. By the time he reached Jarrow, night was descending on Henderson's Pet Store. Bronson watched it from the doorway thirty feet away. The shop's window was dark, hiding the shapes of cardboard cut-outs of cats and dogs. The entrance was shut with a closed sign taped to the front.
The Cellar was in the basement of the pet store.
Bronson waited, his eyes moving from his watch to the door. After half an hour, he eased out from the shadows and slipped down the street, hugging the wall.
The entrance to The Cellar was in a back lane behind the shops. The streetlamps were broken, possibly on purpose and Bronson edged through the inky blackness. Pausing by a bin, he saw a halo of light surrounding a steel door. A man stood sentinel, draped in dark clothing. Eyes closed, he appeared to be humming to himself.
Hoping for the element of surprise, Bronson moved quickly. He leapt in front of the guard, ready to swing the first of many fists.
The guard opened his eyes and lifted a cautionary finger. He pulled the headphones from his ears and fiddled with his iPod until the music stopped.
"New Taylor Swift album," he said, wrapping the leads into a bow.
Bronson loosened his collar against the heat creeping up his neck.
Bear was an ex-wrestler with a sadistic streak. He and Bronson had worked together as Dayton men, patrolling the grounds of Five Oaks, keeping the rich and powerful safe from harm. Bear's stomach stretched over his belt, but he was broad-shouldered with thick fingers able to pinch nerve endings flat. He tapped a monitor by his side and pointed into the lane. "Night vision cameras."
"Should have known this place would be rigged," Bronson said, flinching as Bear shook his hand in a massive paw. He nodded at the headphones. "Are you supposed to be listening to music while you're on duty?"
Bear glanced at the steel door behind him. "It helps to drown it out. Don't tell me you're going in there?"
"I'm looking for someone."
Something howled in pain and Bear moved closer to Bronson. "Well, there's a lot of someones in there and most of them won't like you."
"I'm not here to cause trouble."
"You know the rules, mate. It's neutral ground. You can't take your grievances in with you."
In every city, there were pockets of neutrality where gangsters of different stripes socialised without fear of starting a war. The Cellar was such a place. At their core, gangsters were the same. They were united by a lust for power and money, no matter what flag they worked under. If they could strike a deal with their opposite number from a different gang, what was it to them? But when the sun rose, politics rose with it.
"I wouldn't go in if I didn't have to," Bronson said. "Ten minutes. Tops."
Bear produced a set of keys from his coat and fitted one into the door's lock. "It's a strict no tools policy. Are you carrying a weapon?"
"Into a safe haven? No."
"Pity. You might have made it out in one piece."
As the door opened, Bronson was met with a gush of steam and the coppery perfume of blood. He heard chanting and a whine that cut through him like a lance. It lasted forever, grating on him, setting his teeth on edge.
"Why do you work in such a hole?"
"You fired me when the money ran out, remember?" he said. "Not everyone was as lucky as you."
If this was luck, then it was all bad, thought Bronson. He stood at the top of a flight of stone steps. He looked to Bear for reassurance, but he was already shutting him in. The steps were slick with algae and Bronson held onto the wall as he navigated his way down. Another door waited for him, this one partially open. He paused outside, adjusting the sleeve of his shirt where he'd hidden the six-inch nail. No matter who was signing his pay cheque, Bear had always been bad at his job.
"And thank the bloody Lord for that," Bronson whispered as he slipped into The Cellar.
The room was packed with sweaty bodies, their faces twisted in anguish or glee. They clutched wads of notes in grubby fists, waving them at a sunken pit in the floor. Bronson pushed through them, keeping his head down, but glancing up whenever he could. He scanned the faces of the crowd, searching for a woman he was unable to describe, but Bronson was certain he could identify her. The Maguires were a powerful family and power marked a person out.
He moved through tables bolted to the floor, his ankles deep in discarded betting slips. In the corner was a bar manned by a nervous looking teenager. Next to it were two men by a blackboard, furiously modifying the odds as they snatched money from the punters.
Henderson the pet store owner stood on a wooden box, head and shoulders above the gamblers. He was in his fifties with muscles like corded rope. He loomed over the pit, his shirt open, beads of sweat collecting in the grey hairs of his chest. By his side was a mangy Alsatian on a length of chain.
Unlike everyone else, Henderson wasn't holding money. His payment came from a percentage of the bets
placed. In his hand was a microphone.
"And that's the final round for this match," he shouted, spraying saliva onto the microphone. "A round of applause for our fierce competitors."
The winners cheered. The losers groaned, but they all shared in the ovation. Bronson backed from the pit, not wanting to witness the carnage. If the rumours were true, then he knew what was down there.
But the crowd swelled forward, taking him with it.
The pit was five foot deep and layered with sawdust. Some of it was clotted with blood. Some of it wet with urine where something had pissed itself in terror. The fight had finished, but the victors remained at the height of frenzy. Two men in ragged trousers kicked at the body of another who had long since left this world. The man on the floor had long hair and a matted beard. In his hand was a cricket bat stained with blood.
The respectable part of the world believed bum-fights originated in America where homeless people were paid to fight one another. It was horseshit. Wherever there were vulnerable people capable of being exploited, there were other people willing to pay them to take a beating. This particular concoction was nothing new either. Two men against one with a weapon; a fresh tune played with familiar instruments.
The crowd parted, allowing a man wearing a protective butcher's apron to jump into the concrete arena. He forced the homeless men into a corner where they cowered from his boot. Scooping up the loser, he dragged the body to a trapdoor under the sawdust and fed it into the waiting darkness below.
And the crowd bayed their approval.
There was no room to move. Bronson took a step and was pushed back to his original position. Sweat from another man dripped onto his shoulder. The air was close and Bronson fought for breath. Jabbing an elbow into someone's stomach, Bronson created enough space to slide into it. A twist of testicles and Bronson gained further distance from the pit.
By the time the injured parties looked for him, Bronson had moved on, making slow progress to the back of the room. The crowd thinned and he stepped into open ground, slipping on a mound of betting slips. Stumbling, he grabbed at the nearest table, saving himself from a fall. He stood upright, his cheek twitching and looked directly into the face of Eleanor Maguire.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Eleanor sipped from a cocktail and twirled a paper umbrella around her glass. At the bottom, an olive rolled like a body caught in the currents of the Tyne. She wore a beige trouser suit with a dark belt. Her hair was lacquered into a grey bun and her cheekbones had a hint of rouge.
"Are you carrying?" she asked, smoothing out the wrinkles of her neck.
Bronson rolled his wrist, the six-inch nail dropping into his palm. "They'd string me up if I brought in a tool. I came to talk, that's all. You know the rules as well as I do."
If his plans for Eleanor came to fruition, Bronson didn't want Henderson to know about it. He kept the crowd in view while watching Eleanor's smile.
"I'm surprised to see you here," he said. "Thought you'd be too busy making friends at The Playground."
Eleanor finished her drink. She caught the olive in her back teeth and made slurping noises as she sucked the skin dry of oil. "Blood sports are a great British tradition. We used to keep hunting dogs, though we rarely got invited to the fox trials. We weren't accepted, no matter how hard I tried, but Mr Henderson is always kind enough to reserve a table for me whenever he has fresh meat in."
"Is Angel with you?"
The empty cocktail glass rang as Eleanor flicked it with a manicured nail. "She's not a well girl. I'm afraid the theft of her cocaine has sent her over the edge. I pity the man who meets her on the other side of her madness."
Bronson rested his elbows on the table, palming the nail from Eleanor. "Perhaps, she just needs a stern hand."
Eleanor offered a thin smile and readjusted the grey bun on her head. "I want you to do right by my daughter. She spends all her time on her blessed computer, ferreting through information, finding out secrets. Really, she's just desperate to prove she can rise above her many insecurities. Give her back what she deserves to have."
A movement caught Bronson's eye. Henderson and his grey chest forged a path toward them.
"We already have a buyer," Bronson said.
"Good try, my dear, but The Playground is full of rats. I have one called T-Boy and he tells me your scabby friend Mr Hawk was found dead. Every other dealer in town works for the Maguires. You won't be able to sell it anywhere."
Bad news spreads fast, especially in places like Henderson's Cellar. The exact details of Clive's death would circulate soon enough. After that would come speculations about the perpetrator and Bronson didn't want to be around when those questions arose.
"Sounds like you know a lot," Bronson said. "Do you know anything else about The Playground? Seen someone who shouldn't be there? Perhaps while you're hitting young kids, for instance?"
"Don't tell me you've never hit someone who didn't deserve it?" Eleanor asked, her skin whitening beneath her rouge. "We're cut from the same raggedy cloth."
Hypocrites never admit to their faults, thought Bronson and stayed quiet.
"Who am I supposed to be looking for? Anyone in particular?" Eleanor asked. "Give my baby girl her merchandise and I'll tell you."
But it was clear Eleanor hadn't seen Scott. Like Daniel, the underworld assumed him dead. Had she seen Scott stumbling about The Playground, talk of his resurrection would be rife. Rumours of that magnitude were catnip to gangsters who loved gossip almost as much as power.
His time there was over and Bronson would be leaving empty-handed. The search for Scott continued, but he wanted to make good on his promise to Terence. He prepared for a quick exit, but the crowd hemmed him in. The only route available was blocked by Henderson and his dog.
"We won't buy the cocaine from you," Eleanor said. "You'll get nothing for its return, except an extended life. Make my daughter happy or I'll kill you dead."
The hulking crowd parted. Henderson was near enough to smell.
"Not even a finder's fee?" Bronson asked.
Eleanor shook her head, the loose skin of her neck flapping from side to side.
Sweat stung Bronson's nostrils and he looked over his shoulder to see Henderson grinning at him.
"Bollocks to it, then," Bronson said. "This is for Terence."
With the nail gripped in his fist, he plunged it into Eleanor's hand, securing her to the table. She screamed, her face as tight as stretched leather. There was a hush in The Cellar. Eyes swivelled in their direction and the crowd rushed forward, breaking over Bronson like a wave.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Unknown hands grabbed his shoulders. Fingers dug into his flesh. Bronson was hauled through the crowd, losing his feet. His arms were pinned behind his back, his shoulder bones grinding together. The first punch came from nowhere, driving air from his stomach. The second glanced off his twitching cheek, sending his head rocking. The third missed and after the fourth, Bronson stopped counting.
The room was a swirl of angry faces. Bronson was dragged toward the pit. Teetering over the edge, he saw the sawdust was caked in blood. The walls were streaked in excrement. He was in no doubt what was going to happen. Struggling with his captors, he was held fast and all he could do was hope.
Henderson sprang onto his makeshift podium, microphone in hand. "New match, ladies and gentlemen. Place your bets."
Bawls of excitement rolled around The Cellar like thunder. The crowd surged to the tables, scribbling furiously on their betting slips. A cloud of chalk dust covered the bookies as they changed and re-changed Bronson's chances of survival. The crowd returned to the pit, settling into silence.
The first bead of sweat trickled down Bronson's spine as he glanced at the blackboard. His final odds of continued existence weren't inspiring.
"You don't want to do this," he said to Henderson, but Henderson grinned, his yellow teeth like tombstones. His acrid sweat mixed with the stench of the pit.
"Th
is is exactly what I want to do," he said. "Break the rules, you pay the price."
The crowd chatted amongst themselves, rubbing their hands. They stood in a jostling semi-circle around the pit. Their depravity was electric, charging each other with anticipation.
Bronson looked through a gap in the crowd, spotting Eleanor Maguire slumped in a chair. She had freed her hand, staunching the blood with betting slips, but Bronson knew she wouldn't leave until she'd witnessed his own bloody death. He hoped his petty act of defiance had been worth it.
The man in the protective apron appeared by the pit and Henderson beckoned him over. They swapped hushed whispers until Henderson handed over his dog.
A fresh tune on familiar instruments, thought Bronson.
The Alsatian thought so, too, as if understanding its new role in this macabre circus. It strained on the leash, its snapping jaws laced with froth. It whined, nostrils flaring as it detected blood.
The Alsatian bolted at Bronson and he leapt out of harm's way. The hands on his shoulders gripped harder and thrust him closer to the pit. The toes of his shoes hung over the edge while the dog's claws scratched the floor, trying to find purchase. The dog reared on its hind legs and its wet breath found Bronson's face.
"Looks like we've got a live one," Henderson said to a laughing audience. "Blink and you'll miss it."
Bronson was tipped into the pit, landing with a grunt. Sawdust rose like angry wasps. Shaking it from his hair, he scrambled on his hands and knees into a corner. Bronson jumped to his feet, but the crowd crushed him down with their boots.
"It's a bonus match, ladies and gentleman. Hope you didn't put your money on the fella with a twitchy cheek. No more bets. Game on."
Henderson nodded to the man in protective gear, who unleashed the Alsatian. It wasted no time, pitching itself into the pit, reaching Bronson in two bounds. He brought his elbow up in time to block a ready assault, hearing the smack of teeth as the bite missed his left ear. Bronson grabbed the dog by its fur and hurled it against the pit wall. It hit with a whimper, but was alert in seconds.