by Shaun Baines
The Alsatian turned to Bronson, lowering its head, flattening its ears to its skull. When it growled, it sounded like a meat grinder in the back of its throat.
They circled one another. The Alsatian looked for an opportunity to attack. Bronson looked for a way out. The dog snapped at his legs. He slapped it away. It wasn't the dog's fault. It was starved and suffering. Bronson had no wish to hurt it, but he'd die if he hesitated.
Bronson and the Alsatian gave each other space, retreating to opposite corners. The crowd roared again, but it sounded different. Bronson searched their wicked faces, but they were turned from the pit, their awareness drawn elsewhere. There was shouting and movement. Even the Alsatian noticed, standing tall and sniffing the air.
"What’s going on?" Henderson asked over the speaker system.
"Get out of here," came a voice.
"It's him," said another and the crowd surged to the exit, their faces wild with fear.
Bear crashed through them, wielding a club, swinging it high and bringing it down hard. Bodies toppled, their prone forms impeding the progress of others. The crowd cried out, but Bear wasn't listening. Months of frustration boiled over as he punished the people he'd grown to despise.
Bronson charged at the Alsatian, seizing it by the scruff of the neck and threw it into the crowd.
The Alsatian sank its teeth into fleeing arms and legs, feeding off the alarm and panic.
Rolling out of the pit, Bronson clambered free. He stopped to look for Eleanor, but there was too much chaos. She was lost in the crush. With his teeth bared, he fought his way to Bear, who was beating someone with a chair.
"Decided to look for another job?" he shouted above the fight.
Bear shook his head. "It's not me they're scared of. It's him," he said, pointing to Daniel. "Where did he learn to fight like that?"
Rising like a leviathan in a sea of people, Daniel reigned solid fists upon them. His hands swatted bodies into the walls and over tables. His feet trampled over the fallen. The last they saw was Daniel's untroubled face as he cast them aside like wet rags.
"From his whole life," Bronson said, cheek twitching.
The crowd thinned, either through the exit or from sinking at the hands of Daniel and Bear.
The man in protective gear hid under a table in a foetal position, his arms covering his head. Bronson dragged him out and punted him in the balls, hoping it might serve as a neutering.
The screams and shouts dissolved to whimpering and sobs. Bear stumbled to the bar, pulling a pint into a dirty glass. He drained it in thirsty gulps and threw the glass at a man writhing toward the exit.
Henderson was slumped against a wall, his frightened eyes running over the three men left standing.
Daniel upended a table to get to him, the bolts snapping from the floor. The table dropped like a felled tree and Daniel towered over Henderson, his hands on his hips.
"I always hated coming here," he said. "Do you remember my first time? We had a right laugh."
Henderson's mouth opened and closed several times, his words refusing to come out.
Daniel slowly buttoned up Henderson's shirt as he talked. "It was my Dad's way of toughening me up, but I wasn't laughing, was I? I was blubbering because I was eleven years old, watching desperate men kill each other for food."
"It's sport," Henderson said, though it sounded more like a squeak.
"And you were going to do the same thing to my friend over there?"
Clamping his hands over Henderson's ears, Daniel pinned his head like a melon in a vice.
One hard squeeze, thought Bronson, and they were going see something red come out.
"This is a safe haven," Henderson said. "We have rules and he brought a tool."
Daniel held a three-inch blade under Henderson's nose. "Guess what? So, did I."
The Alsatian scrambled over the groaning bodies. Exhausted, it limped toward Daniel, its tongue hanging from the side of its mouth. Curling into a ball, it rested its head on its front paws and watched.
Before Henderson could escape, Daniel grabbed his leg, upending him in the same way he'd done to the table. He whipped off Henderson's shoe and sliced open the sole of his foot.
The pain twisted Henderson into a knot. Blood billowed through his beige sock. The Alsatian stirred at the commotion with a growl. Bronson and Bear stepped back, not wanting to be mistaken for its next meal, but Daniel didn't move.
"This really will be a blood sport," Daniel said, propelling Henderson into the pit by his shoulders. "Fido. Fetch."
The Alsatian moved in a blur of claws and teeth, all loyalties forgotten in its hunger.
Henderson clamoured up the pit wall, dragging his injured foot behind him, but he was too slow. The dog landed amid the sawdust and charged onward, opening its mouth wide.
Bronson sought out Bear as Henderson begged for his life, but Bear was pouring another drink, spilling it in shaking hands. The shrieking started, high pitched and girlish, and Bronson set his sights on the exit.
Wiping his blade clean, Daniel turned to Bronson. "I followed you from the old race track," he said.
There was a scent of blood in the air. It was everywhere. Bronson wondered if Daniel could smell it too or was he so used to the stench, it barely registered with him anymore?
Daniel stared at him and he recoiled under the intensity of his gaze. He was being studied, like bacteria under a microscope. If he lied, Daniel would know. Licking his lips, Bronson took a breath. "I was tracking down a lead."
The frown on Daniel's face deepened. "What kind of lead?"
"I've found a way to get out of this, but you'll have to trust me."
A shadow passed over Daniel's face and he cupped Bronson's head in his hands. "You asked for my help and now you've got it," he said. "Do you understand what that means?"
It meant Bronson was in deep and he nodded, his legs threatening to buckle. He tried to maintain eye contact, but it was like staring into the sun.
Daniel's gaze softened. "I believe you, but we'll need to talk about this lead of yours. I hope we're still friends when we do."
Bronson's cheeks were still warm when Daniel released him, but his twitch petered out to a stop.
He needed help. As Bronson was loyal to Daniel, his trainee was loyal to him, but Sprout had gone missing. Bronson was on his own, left with Henderson's dying grunts and the thought that Daniel hadn't believed him at all.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sprout hovered outside Big Mackem Fries, checking his reflection in a smeared window. He scratched at the material of his new shirt and pulled on the crotch of his trousers. Tracksuits were more comfortable, but his was smouldering on a bonfire. Since discovering Clive's body, his sleep had been plagued by images of fire. Clive burning alive. Clive writhing in flames. The fear in Bronson's face.
Sprout's dream of being a gangster had turned to ashes.
In his pocket was the last vestige of his old life.
Entering the restaurant, his stomach rumbled. It was his favourite place to eat and it was always busy. Families crowded around the tables. Children ran riot in the aisles, their fists filled with crayons. Teenagers huddled together on first dates, giggling over milkshakes. The staff in their yellow and purple uniforms cleaned, served and smiled. Everyone was happy, except for a girl in the corner.
He paid for his hash browns and sat down beside her, his sweaty legs squeaking in his trousers. The girl's face was plain and she was a little overweight, but it was her eyes he remembered most. They weren't sapphires or deepest pools of blue, or like anything he'd written in the stupid poem under his bed. Kimberley's eyes were kind and for Sprout, that was a rarity.
She glanced up at him, her hand snaking around a bouquet of flowers.
"Are those for me?" he asked.
"You can have them if you want," Kimberley said, dabbing her damp eyes on a Big Mackem napkin. "I prefer chocolates."
Sprout tried to laugh. "I saw that on Facebook. The picture o
f you with all those Maltesers."
The years fell away and Sprout was back at school, making excuses to bump into her whenever he could. The noises of the restaurant dimmed and his world was condensed to Kimberley, and how she made him feel. It was the same rush he got when he stole a car.
Sprout pushed his hash browns to one side, nerves ruining his appetite. "Are you okay?"
Lying her hand on the flowers, Kimberley nipped and twisted the cheap wrapping paper. "He said I was too fat." She pulled on her double chin, stretching it out like a sail.
"Who? Your boyfriend?" Sprout drew a circle on the table with his finger. "You never said you had a boyfriend when I called."
Kimberley blew her nose. "I don't anymore."
"That's a shame," Sprout said, relaxing. He was still in with a chance. "He doesn't deserve you."
The flowers were wilting in the heat of the restaurant. He couldn't name any of them or even identify their colours. They were garish and impossibly vivid. Looking at them gave him a headache and where most flowers had a scent, these smelled of petrol.
Sprout positioned his carton of hash browns between Kimberley and her garage flowers. "Why don't you have these? Might make you feel better."
"I've had two Big Mackems. I shouldn't even be here. I'm trying to lose weight."
"Lose weight? That's silly. You're perfect the way you are." He looked away, aware he'd said something stupid, but for the first time since sitting down, Kimberley smiled.
"You were always sweet to me," she said.
Sprout pointed at the flowers. "Your boyfriend gave you those?"
Kimberley pushed the flowers towards him, swapping them for the hash browns. "My fiancé. They were a goodbye. He even left the price tag on. I've tried calling him so we can talk about it, but his mam keeps saying he's not home."
"He lives with his mam?"
Her eyebrows lifted, like two golden arches over her eyes. "Have you got your own place, then? You must be doing really well."
He thought about his flat above a chip shop and the rent he didn't have. The messages left by an angry Bronson demanding his return to work. And he thought about his pregnant girlfriend, whom he suspected of secretly hating him.
"Yeah. Doing great," Sprout said.
Kimberley chewed her lip, staring at the hash browns. She looked tempted and it made him hungry again, but not for food. If she ate one, it was a sign. It was Kimberley moving on from one boyfriend and hopefully onto another.
"No, I'm going to be strong," she said, folding her arms. "Lose some weight. It'll be worth it. I'll get thin and 'accidentally' bump into him. He'll see what he's lost and then maybe I'll get off with one of his mates."
Sprout picked a crumb from the table, rolling it between his fingers. "I don't think you need to change. Go on. Have a hash brown."
"You're the same old Arnie Brussel. Kind to a fault."
"Just one bite," he said, leaning forward.
Her eyes weren't on him. They were on his meal. He nudged the carton with his finger and her resolve broke. She opened it and palmed a hash brown. Scanning the restaurant for disapproval, Kimberley nibbled at an edge.
Sprout flushed with excitement.
"Your call was a bit unexpected," she said, picking off a brown crust and slipping it into her mouth. "Was there any reason for it?"
The garage flowers were wilting, but the heat was getting to Sprout, too. He pulled at the material of his trousers. Julie's watch was in his pocket, reminding him of its presence. "I was checking up on people on Facebook and your profile popped up." Kimberley's profile was the only one he ever checked. Sprout didn't have friends anymore. "Thought it would be nice to get back in contact."
Finishing one hash brown, Kimberley reached for another. "We used to be such good mates at school. You were always there when I was feeling down."
At school, he'd nicknamed her Kimber the Timber. He'd only done it because a friend found Sprout's poem and threatened to expose him. Unfortunately, the name had stuck and Sprout had often found her crying in empty classrooms. That was when he fell in love with her, comforting her as she wept, never knowing it was his fault. Not long afterwards, he had started sniffing glue and everything came apart.
"I have to go," he said, getting to his feet.
Kimberley forced a mouthful of hash brown down her throat. "What? Why?"
"I called you because – " Sprout was interrupted by a toddler banging into his leg. It toppled to the ground and he quickly picked it up, sending it on its way. "Because I am doing great, but I don't know, I kinda want to do something else. Something better."
"And that includes me?"
Sprout pressed his lips together and nodded. Colour rushed up Kimberley's face and she forced a crooked smile.
"I mean, if you wanted to," he said. "If you wanted to go on a date."
Kimberley wiped her greasy fingers on the same napkin she'd used to soak her tears.
Squeezing his hand into his pocket, Sprout pulled out a five pound note. Julie's watch came with it, hitting the table with a thud.
Kimberley's mouth dropped open, a half-chewed hash brown stuck to her teeth. "Is that yours?"
"No, it's my girlfriend's." The words were spoken before Sprout could reign them in. "She's not very nice."
"I should have known you'd have a girlfriend." Kimberley reached for the napkin again, twisting it in her hand. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"Let me get rid of these for you." Sprout took the garage flowers, wincing against their unnatural glare and grabbed Julie's watch. He dragged the napkin from Kimberley's grip and forced the fiver into her hand. "Order more food and wait for me, okay?"
Before she had a chance to refuse, Sprout scarpered for the door. Outside, the cool air washed him clean of the grease. Seaburn was only a mile away. Sprout walked at first and then broke into a run.
Seaburn was a coastal town between Sunderland and South Shields. The houses on Butchers Road were terraced with doors opening directly onto the pavement. There was salt in the air and the distant rumble of waves. Gulls lined the rooftops watching passers-by, waiting to swoop on undefended food.
Counting down the door numbers, he found Number Five. He swiped sweaty hair from his forehead and tried to reorganise the jumble of words in his head. His legs ached and he was slippery with sweat. His new clothes clung to him like the skin on a rice pudding. Sprout had waited impatiently for Julie to invite him to her house. When she finally texted him the address, he knew there was a problem. Whether it was about the watch or Bronson, he didn't know, but the invite was no longer welcome.
He knocked on the door, listening to her footsteps approach from the other side. Nausea churned in his stomach and he held up the flowers for protection.
"You found the house then?" Julie stood in jogging trousers and a wrinkled t-shirt with a half-eaten pasty in her hand. She cleared crumbs from her chin and frowned when she saw the flowers. She took them without asking and swung them by her side. "I would have preferred you to return the watch you stole. You must have got a good price for it."
Her eyes weren't kind like Kimberley's. They were callous.
Sprout swallowed and offered up the watch as a sacrifice to a cruel woman. "It's over. I've met someone else."
The diamonds made Julie smile and she slid the watch on her wrist. Throwing the pasty into the street, she brushed her hands clean. The seagulls descended for their feast, their yellow beaks flashing in the sun.
"You better come in," Julie said, disappearing into the house.
Flustered, Sprout followed her inside. At last, he was in Julie's home and his skin crawled. He wanted to return to Kimberley before she finished eating. He should never have lost contact with her. She was where his heart lay and always had. He'd been a fool and this was his punishment.
They entered a room lit by a single lamp. The air was dank. There was a sickness in it. The windows were grubby with dirt, casting a grey pall over the tattered furniture. Sprout searched
for the source of the smell and found it in the darkest part of the room. A bundle of rags and blankets were piled against a wall.
Julie approached with a whisper and the blankets stirred, falling to the ground. A man emerged from the cocoon. He was spider-like with long arms and legs, straightening and unfolding, hardening as he moved. The lamplight struck his thin face and Sprout's fingertips tingled with cold. The man was ill. Dark smudges circled arctic eyes and his cheekbones were as sharp as razor blades, but Sprout was under no illusion. There was power in every jerky movement and every dirty breath. Sprout wished he was back at the restaurant making a different decision, but it was too late.
The man extended his arm, placing a claw-like hand on Sprout's shoulder. "You're working for us now," Scott said.
Sprout nodded quickly, his mouth arid, his skin bristling with cold.
"I have to thank you for looking after my fiancée," Scott said, his eyes flashing with the warmth of frostbite, "but you need to know who you're dealing with now."
Julie dropped the flowers, stepping forward, her foot crushing the lurid petals. "I thought you'd like the name Julie," she said. "Whenever I think of knee-tremblers against a bus-stop or holding back someone's hair while they puke, I think of girls called Julie. Your kind of woman, Sprout."
She held out her hand, but Sprout was too afraid to take it. "My real name is Monica and you're going to get bloody on this one, boy."
Sprout pictured Kimberley waiting for him at his favourite restaurant. It was going to be too late for a lot of things, he thought.
Chapter Twenty-Five
By the time Bronson had walked to Pallion, the rain was washing down the streets. His hair was plastered to his face and his shoes were heavy with water. He jumped over the potholes in the scrapyard and scurried into the office, shaking his soaked clothes as he entered.
Masani hung her air rifle over her shoulder and went straight to the kitchenette, flicking on the kettle. Marvin pulled his face away from the computer, blinking repeatedly while he refocused his eyes. "You're soaking. Did you walk? Where's your BMW?"