Primal Cut (4 page)

‘Blood’s not all bad though, is it Ray?’

Ray was staring at the filling bucket. ‘Why’s that, Bollamew?’

‘Well, we can make bread with it, can’t we?’

‘Blood bread.’

‘That’s right,’ Bartholomew said. ‘Seven parts rye flour, three parts blood. Very tasty it is too.’

‘And black pudding, Bollamew, don’t forget that.’

‘We could make some blood sausage if you like.’

Bartholomew knew that the organs had to be removed in a specific order before he could remove the primal cuts. He would need to consult his ‘Handbook of Meat’ for that information. He had
decided
to use the procedure for cattle: swine slaughter was altogether more complicated.

He checked his watch. He had two hours before he had to collect the day’s stock from Smithfield. They could dump the remains on the way there.

Just beyond Bow Industrial Park is a deserted scrap of land where the River Lea narrows. There’s a bridge that crosses the river, leading out onto Dace Road. The Garrods parked their butcher’s van on that bridge at 5.30 a.m. It was a desolate spot, bitterly exposed to the winds raking across Stratford Marsh. A council notice fluttered on a broken streetlight. The noise was unsettling to Bartholomew Garrod. While Ray slept in the passenger seat of the van, exhausted by the night’s excitement and weighed down with a heavy meal, Bartholomew hauled two dustbin bags full of Alan Moran from the back of his van. With an effort he heaved them, one by one, off the edge of the bridge. They splashed and sank without trace into the filthy water.

Bartholomew paused to regain his composure. His hot breath twisted in front of him. The notice still fluttered. He ignored its irritating rattle and climbed back inside his van. He would be a little bit late for his Smithfield pick up; perhaps if he gunned
the
engine and got lucky with the traffic, he could make up time.

Apparently meaningless moments can have disproportionate effects. An extra ten minutes in bed might make you run over the child you would otherwise have missed; reading your partner’s emails might make you want to murder someone you’ve never met; watching a television programme might save your life.

Bartholomew Garrod made a mistake at 5.31 a.m. on the morning of 7
^th
December 1995. He didn’t read a council notice. The notice said that, as part of an urban regeneration project, the River Lea was to be cleaned from Walthamstow Marshes to Bow. Old oil drums, supermarket trolleys and other rubbish would all be hauled from the river’s murky depths in an attempt to revitalise it. Work was to start on the Leyton stretch at 9.00 a.m. on the 10
^th
December.

It was a tiny mistake that was to have disproportionate consequences for the Garrods and for the then Detective Sergeant Alison Dexter.

The ring was set up. Woollard had put down a new circle of old carpet. There was a smaller group of punters than normal. Woollard had marketed the evening as something of a special event. He didn’t want anyone there that he didn’t trust.

Norlington led in his Tosa from the car. It was a large animal, about 150 pounds, well fed and powerful. The dog stayed close to him, uncertain at the strange faces and unfamiliar smells.

‘He looks like a game animal,’ Woollard said with a smile, ‘good bones.’

‘He’s a strong dog,’ Norlington replied. ‘You’ve fought him a lot before?’

‘A couple of times. Essex.’

Keith Gwynne had joined them. ‘I see you’ve been introduced. Fuck me! That’s a big dog!’

The dog stared blackly at Gwynne. Norlington gently massaged the dog’s muscular neck to keep him calm.

‘Hard to find Tosa fights these days,’ Woollard observed. ‘Does he have a name?’

‘I call him Tyndall.’

‘Weird name. Where’d you get him?’ Woollard asked. ‘You can’t import them now.’

‘I won him in a fight out at Clacton about two years ago. I put his owner in hospital,’ Norlington replied.

‘If you fought him in Essex you must have come across Jack Whiteside. He fought Tosas out of Maldon.’

‘I don’t think I’ve met him.’

‘He was a top man Jack. He died just after millennium night. Some toerag cut his throat. Can you believe that?’

‘I haven’t heard of him. I would have remembered that. When are we weighing the dogs?’

Woollard exchanged a glance with Gwynne. ‘Didn’t Keith tell you? We’re not bothering with a weigh-in?’

‘Then we don’t fight. The rules say there has to be a weigh-in.’ Norlington was unhappy at the flouting of this convention.

‘Look, my dog’s a little heavier than yours. So what? I’m not daft. Your dog is more experienced. He’s got scars and white fur all over his face. That means he’s seen a lot of action. My dog is a first timer. It all evens out,’ Woollard insisted. ‘It’ll be like a “game test” to see if he’s got a future in the pit.’

‘I don’t like it,’ said Norlington angrily, ‘I’ve been fucking set up.’

‘Look,’ Woollard responded, ‘I’ll up the purse for
the bare knuckle by two hundred notes. Seventeen hundred quid! It’s easy money. These people have paid good money. Tosa fights are a special attraction. Don’t let me down, George, I was told you were a man of your word.’

Norlington thought for a second. ‘Seventeen hundred then. Don’t bend any other rules either.’

Woollard nodded. He looked Norlington over, studying his fearsome hands and battered face. ‘We’ll do the bare knuckle straight after. Big Lefty fancies his chances.’

Norlington nodded. ‘Shall we get on with this then?’

‘Take him into the ring now, Kev!’ Woollard boomed to one of his farm lads. ‘Go and fetch Karl in.’

Norlington took Tyndall into the arena. The dog’s claws scratched against the carpet. In one or two places, Norlington noticed that the carpets had been torn up: through the gaps he could see the exposed and unforgiving concrete floor. Tyndall was beginning to get agitated, sensing what was about to come. Norlington whispered quietly into the dog’s ear as they waited.

A moment or two later, Kev returned with Tyndall’s opposition. Immediately, Norlington knew that the fight was lost. Woollard’s Tosa was enormous: at least thirty pounds heavier than
Tyndall. It was a no-contest. The other dog had huge, unnatural muscle bulk about its shoulders. It was mean too. Norlington recognised the hard fury in its eyes. The two animals clocked each other and began to snarl aggressively. Norlington struggled to hold his dog steady as Woollard’s animal was brought into the ring.

‘Arthur over there is timekeeping. Listen for him counting down the fight,’ Woollard announced to the contestants and audience. ‘Kev here is “Karl’s” second. George Norlington is handling his own dog “Tyndall”. The owners have waived the right to a weigh-in. I have been selected as referee. My word is final.’

Norlington quietly turned his dog around so it faced the wooden wall of the arena. On the opposite side of the ring, Kev did the same with Karl.

‘Normal English rules apply,’ Woollard continued. ‘First, neither second can touch either dog or behave unfairly to the opposing dog or second once the fight is underway. Secondly, dogs must not be thrown across the ring. Throwing a dog constitutes a foul punishable by forfeiture of the fight. I am obliged to remind the handlers that once they have turned their dogs, they must keep their hands in front of the dogs’ shoulders. On the “release” command, they must lift their hands
vertically away from the dogs. Thirdly, my decision is final. It is my decision to suspend the fight. Should we need to postpone the contest for any reason – the kind of reasons that smell of pork and arrive in panda cars – the match will take place at an alternative venue in three days’ time. You will all be informed of the details.’

‘Clear the pit!’ shouted the timekeeper, starting his stopwatch. The tension and noise levels in the room suddenly ratcheted up. Woollard climbed over the barrier, leaving just the two dogs and their seconds in the fighting zone.

‘Twenty seconds,’ shouted the timekeeper.

‘Face your dogs!’ boomed Woollard.

The two Tosas turned to face each other, straining against their handlers’ grips. To Norlington the next ten seconds seemed like an eternity.

‘Release!’ screamed the timekeeper. The two handlers lifted their hands clear in accordance with the rules and clambered out of the ring.

A split second later the two dogs flew into each other across the scratch line. Watching from the side, amidst the screams and shouts of empty-minded men, Keith Gwynne gasped at the spectacle of two giant animals tearing at each other. Standing to his right, Norlington quickly saw that the only variable would be time. The gulf in size between the
two animals was instantly telling. He had walked into a mismatch. He hoped that, for Tyndall’s sake, Woollard would suspend the fight quickly.

Despite his physical disadvantages, Tyndall was the first animal to draw blood from his opponent, clawing an ugly gash in Karl’s ribcage. However, the larger dog did not recoil at the wound.

‘Hardy animal your dog!’ Woollard shouted above the din, ‘cunning fighter.’

Norlington ignored the comment, his eyes focusing on the spectacle. He knew Woollard was trying to persuade him that the fight was an even contest. Norlington watched Karl closely. The giant animal had taken a serious hit and was bleeding profusely, yet its enthusiasm and ferocity were undiminished. He began to wonder if Karl was drugged up on some amphetamine or other. The animal was clearly unaware of the damage it had sustained. The two animals clashed again, each frantically struggling for domination of its opponent. They tumbled and collided across the floor of the ring, unable to secure a telling grip. Tyndall crashed into the wooden slats encircling the ring, his head taking the force of the impact. Karl broke clear, then turned into the centre of the ring, before launching at Tyndall in what proved to be a devastating assault. Karl finally seized the smaller dog’s neck between its jaws and hauled it to the
ground, clawing furiously as it did so.

Tyndall eventually tore free but at the price of a terrible neck wound; blood gushed from the opening as the dog staggered backwards in the ring. For the first time in an otherwise mute contest, Tyndall began to growl.

‘Bad sign,’ said Gwynne to Norlington, ‘he’s had enough.’

Norlington knew Gwynne was right. When pit dogs were confident and enjoying the contest they fought silently. Tyndall was backing into a threat display; growling and snapping at his opponent defensively; trying to discourage his opponent from further attacks.

‘Call the fight!’ Norlington shouted at Woollard, ‘suspend the fucking fight!’

On the other side of the arena Woollard feigned deafness, placing a hand to his ear, mouthing, ‘I can’t hear you.’

Furious, Norlington looked back into the arena as Tyndall, now disorientated and backed up against the wooden wall, wet himself in confusion and terror.

Sensing victory, Karl flew into his weakened competitor, viciously tearing at the wound on his neck. Tyndall yelped in pain and fell to the floor. Surprised by the high-pitched shriek, Karl stepped back for a second. Norlington jumped into the ring,
ignoring Karl’s aggressive circling, and made directly for his dying dog. Finally, a bell rang indicating the end of the fight.

Norlington stared at the mess in the centre of the ring. People around him were exchanging money. Some said that the fight was the best they had ever seen. Others bemoaned the fact that it was over so quickly. There was agreement, however, that Tyndall had been a ‘game’ contender. Two of Woollard’s farm workers harnessed Karl and hauled the barking, excited animal from the ring. Norlington knew that the fight was a mismatch: that Karl was extremely large, even for a Tosa, and that his apparent ignorance of his wounds was unnatural. Still, that was the risk that you took. Woollard had bought his agreement to forgo the weigh-in. Norlington had the dog’s death on his own conscience and someone would now pay a price for that. He climbed over the wooden boards into the arena and carried Tyndall out of the barn. Then he noticed the monstrous frame of Lefty Shaw looming in front of him.

‘I hope you fight better than your fucking mongrel, fat man!’ Lefty observed.

Norlington placed Tyndall on the ground next to his car and returned to the barn.

Woollard gestured the two men towards the centre of the ring. It was a formidable sight. Shaw
was well over six feet with huge shoulders and powerful arms. He had a tattoo of an eagle on his right forearm. His opponent was no less formidable. Norlington was shorter, about five eleven, but weighed over three hundred pounds.

Woollard had placed two upturned steel buckets on either side on the arena. Lefty Shaw sat down on his bucket sizing up the opposition. Norlington was older and heavier than him; he figured that he would go for an early knockout before his energy ran out. Lefty had fought the type before. He would let him come on to him, use his reach to keep him away, then eventually wear the fat bastard down.

Norlington stared at the bloodstains on the carpet left by his Tosa five minutes previously.

‘Come up to the scratch please, gentlemen,’ Woollard ordered, pointing to the line of masking tape that divided the centre of the ring. The two men obliged. Lefty Shaw grinned a toothless grin at Norlington.

‘Let’s go, fat man,’ Shaw said.

Norlington, making no reply, lifted his eyes from the carpet and stared intently at Shaw’s tattoo.

‘Normal bare knuckle rules apply,’ Woollard announced to the fighters and to the gathered onlookers. ‘There is only one round. It is not timed. It finishes when one of the fighters is knocked out. If a fighter is knocked down, he has thirty seconds
to come up to the scratch in the centre of the ring. If he is unable to do so, the fight is over. Fighters may not rest during the contest. If one falls from exhaustion, the other is declared the winner.’

Lefty Shaw was pumped. Sweat was pouring in rivulets down his back like a racehorse on Derby Day. ‘Let’s get this started, Bob,’ he grunted.