Trust (6 page)

“What is this place?”

“The family had a prior engagement this evening,” Dean said. “And I couldn’t let them down. Too much at stake.”

“What kind of commitment?”

The last time I’d been to anything like this – the abandoned industrial units, the booming drum and bass – it had been for a rave. Several thousand people crammed into a warehouse, music so loud your body throbbed, dancing for hours until you could dance no more.

But despite the music, I could tell this was no rave. Dean in his sharp suit and tie, the minder at the gate and those two by the door in their dark suits, all these expensive motors... If I’d thought Dean’s BMW earlier must have cost the same as a flat in my home town then this little parking area was the equivalent of a stately home or two.

“Oh, it’s my brother, Lee,” Dean said in answer to my question. “He’s got a fight on.”

We approached the entrance and the two bouncers stepped aside, letting us into a small lobby area. There was a metal detector here, like you’d find at an airport.

I walked through first and set the alarm whistling.

I shrugged. “Piercings?” I said, pointing to my ears and belly.

A big black guy patted me down, his enormous hands not discreet but not lingering, his touch impersonal. When he was done, he nodded, allowing me to pass.

Behind me, Dean set the alarm off, too.

“Oh fuck,” he said. “Forgot.” I turned, and saw him fish a pistol out from inside his jacket, holding it in his fingertips so no-one would misinterpret. “Hey, Louie,” he called, and seconds later our driver came in and took the gun from him.

This time Dean passed through without triggering the alarms. He joined me, put a hand in the small of my back and guided me through another set of doors into the interior of the building.

§

The first thing that struck me was the music. I don’t know how the sound had been so muffled outside and in that small lobby, but once we were inside it was like being back at one of those raves: drums you could feel through the stained concrete floor, and a bass that boomed deep in your heart and gut.

The lighting was low, pools of light scattered around the periphery, where tables had been set in booths, raised from the floor-level on a platform to improve the view. The one bright area was a pool of light focused on the center of the warehouse’s interior, a platform I first took to be some weird kind of octagonal trampoline surrounded by high chain-link fencing.

Then I realized it was more like a boxing ring and I remembered Dean saying we were here for his brother Lee’s fight. I had a feeling that somehow this was not going to be WWF.

The atmosphere inside was hyped up by the music and darkness, the air thick with cigarette and cigar smoke, aftershave and sweat.

I peered around. In this low light it was hard to put a number on the people gathered around the cage and at the tables, but there must have been well over a hundred. Most were men in suits or tracksuits, but there were a few women, mostly in clingy black dresses and cleavage you could park a car in.

I felt distinctly out of place in my jeans and leather jacket. As if sensing this, Dean’s hand slipped round from the small of my back to my hip, his arm drawing me in. Our bodies fit together neatly like that, I noted.

For maybe the third time that night, I said, “What
is
this, Dean?”

He squeezed briefly, then slipped his arm free, took my hand, and led me across to a table. “Hey, Owen,” he bellowed over the noise.

The guy at the table looked up, broke into a grin, and nodded, before reaching across to grasp Dean’s hand and pump it vigorously, before twisting into a thumb-lock and then pulling away. “Hey, Deano,” he said. “How’s it hanging?”

This must be the older of the three brothers, and I saw the family likeness straight away. The dark hair cropped shorter, its near-black tone was peppered with silver at the temples; the strong jaw, the dark eyes that fixed you to the spot when they locked onto you.

There was a large-breasted blond woman of about my age at the table, too, but she didn’t get a mention – either because Dean must already know her, or no-one thought she was significant enough to mention. She didn’t seem to mind, just sat back sucking at her cocktail through a long black straw.

Owen might be ignoring his own companion, but he stared pointedly at me, until finally he said to his brother, “So you going to do the introductions, then?”

Thankfully, the music was less loud in the booths where the tables had been set, but still Dean leaned in over the table to make himself heard, one hand remaining – protectively, or possessively? – on my arm. “This is Jess,” he said. “Old friend of the family. Says she’s Phil and Stella Taylor’s kid. Remember them?”

The older brother’s dark eyes narrowed, and he studied me more closely now. “Really?” he said. “Well I never. Talk about a blast from the past.”

I didn’t miss the ‘says’ in Dean’s introduction. Did he still have doubts about me, or was that just a turn of phrase?

“You remember my parents?” I asked Owen. “And my grandparents? They were close to your granddad. Dean here seems to be having trouble believing me.”

Owen grinned. “You’ll have to forgive, Deano,” he said. “He’s the suspicious kind, particularly with the birds. Doesn’t like to open his heart up, know what I mean?” He gestured at the table, and said, “Why don’t you pull up a chair? Tell us about yourself. Jess Taylor. You must have come down visiting when you were a kid, no?”

Dean and I sat, and I said, “Yes, we did. Stopped when I was about seven or eight, though.”

“So what brings you down here now, then?”

I shrugged. Now didn’t seem the time to repeat the full story, so instead I simply said, “Oh, talking to my grandparents. Stirred up old memories, you know?”

He nodded, then gestured at a suited man standing in the shadows. “Get us some more bubbles, would you, Freddie?”

I peered around, my sight adjusted to the light now. I’d been in my fair share of dodgy situations; I’d seen intimidating crowds before. But I’d never seen a gathering of men in suits look so scary. Square shoulders, shaved heads, scars, steely stares...

I put my hand down and touched Dean’s thigh to get his attention – surprising myself at how natural it was to be so intimate. He looked at me and I nodded across the gathering, to another table. Putin was there, along with his skull-faced sidekick.

Dean nodded, his turn to put a hand on my leg, squeezing gently. “It’s okay, darling,” he said into my ear. “We’re safe here. This is neutral territory. They’re not going to kick off here.”

“‘Kick off’?” said Owen. “Something you need to tell me, Deano?”

Just then an ice-bucket holding a bottle of champagne arrived, and Owen poured glasses for the three of us, leaving his blond companion to her cocktail.

“Oh, just Putin waving his cock about,” said Dean casually. “Bastards are getting more and more pushy. Trying to put the squeeze on, you know?”

Owen nodded. “Yeah, bro’, tell me about it. They’ve been leaning on Vinnie and the McNamaras, too. Happening all over.”

“Yeah, well they’re not going to put the squeeze on the Bailey Boys, right? Lee’s going to see to that.”

The two brothers laughed.

I looked at Dean, and he explained, “The fight. You could say it’s a grudge match. Lee’s up against Maliakov, one of the Russians. Going to put them in their place, London-style. It’s not just money riding on this: it’s all about face, this one.”

“What kind of fight?” I asked.

“MMA,” said Dean. “Mixed martial arts. It’s a proper sport.”

“So there are rules, then?” I said. I’d convinced myself I was about to witness some kind of vicious brawl.

“Oh yes,” said Owen. “It’ll be in the Olympics before you know it. There’s all kinds of rules.” Then he nodded towards the ring where two men were entering the cage, and added, “But just you try and impose any rules on those two...”

The way the arena was arranged, the raised booths where we had a table were at the same level as the ring. So although we were set back, that direct view over the standing crowd made me suddenly aware of just how close we actually were as the two fighters climbed in through a gateway to one side of the metal cage.

The first guy to enter was tall and broad, with arms thicker than my thighs, and slabs of muscle landscaped across chest and abdomen. Bandages were wrapped around his otherwise bare feet, and he wore long black shorts and padded, open-fingered gloves that strapped around the wrist. His head was massive, hanging forward as if too heavy for his thick neck, and his peroxide hair was cut into a mohawk, with jagged lines shaved into the side.

The guy who followed him in was even scarier. A few inches shorter, his body was an inverted triangle of muscle, his skin covered in dark tattoos – tribal patterns and skulls. His head was shaved smooth, another skull tattooed on the back of his head, staring behind him.

But it was the look in his eyes that was most disturbing.

His eyes were popped wide, whites showing all around the irises, and one hand kept slapping at his thigh. He was clearly on something, steroids and more, wired to the limit.

Two steps into the ring, he stopped, searching the crowd. When he saw our table, his upper lips pulled back in what might have been a smile, and those mad eyes opened even wider.

“And now you’ve met us all,” said Owen, smiling. “The Bailey Boys. Owen, Dean, and our kid brother, Lee.”

As I stared, a third man entered the ring, a skinny guy in black tracksuit and white cap. So there was a referee, at least, but I remembered what Owen had said about the impossibility of imposing rules and knew he was right. It’d take a crane to pull those two apart, if it came to it.

The atmosphere in the warehouse had notched up another level when the fighters came out, people on their feet, hollering and shouting. Now there was a succession of people coming over to our table, high-fiving and shaking hands with Owen and Dean.

There was something incredibly primitive and base about the whole spectacle, and I realized it wasn’t passing me by either.

I was aware of my heart thumping, and found it hard to tell if it was excitement or fear. I felt sick with it, but at the same time... I kept looking at the two fighters. There was something primordial about them; something almost cartoon-like – superheroes drawn by someone with a particularly dark twist of the mind.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed over the PA system. “Welcome to the Big Brawl. The competition is about to commence, so please get your money down and take your places. No rounds, no time limit, fight to submission...
aaaand
...
fight!
”

A bell rang, and the two combatants dropped to a fighting stance, one foot forward, one arm half-raised, pawing at the air, eyes fixed on the opponent.

The place erupted in shouting, Owen and Dean out of their seats, fists in the air. I stood, feeling the surge of adrenaline, not sure what to do.

The fighters started to circle each other anticlockwise, and I felt Dean’s arm again, across my back, drawing me to him.

Lee swung a speculative fist, and his opponent simply swayed back out of reach. Even so, I flinched, pressing against Dean.

My ears rang with the music and the baying of the crowd.

I glanced across, and the Russians were on their feet, too, fists in the air, eyes and mouths wide as they roared their guy on. I knew there must be a lot of money changing hands tonight, but there was clearly far more at stake. The intimidation this afternoon only served to underline that point. If Lee came out on top tonight it would be a statement, and might go some way to maintaining the old order, the rule of the Bailey Boys.

But if he lost?

Would the outcome of a single fight bolster the Russians’ attempts to wrest control of the London underworld?

Again, I couldn’t believe I was thinking this way, that I had moved so quickly from my familiar world to...
this
.

The noise of the crowd surged, and I saw Lee staggering back. He must have taken a blow while I had briefly looked away towards the Russian group.

Maliakov took a long step forward, lunging in with a follow-up. Maybe Lee had bluffed his response to the first blow to draw the Russian in, or perhaps simply he was fast to recover, for now he stood his ground, fended off a wild blow with a turn of the shoulder and swung a sharp upper cut into his opponent’s gut.

Maliakov doubled up and Lee swung down with an elbow aimed at the back of the head, but his opponent anticipated this and ducked away, swinging a big hand up to try to catch Lee’s arm and haul him over.

Lee drew back just in time, skipped surprisingly fleet-footedly around to the side and landed a sharp karate kick on the blond’s hip.

The Russian staggered away and then paused to gather himself, hands raised to beckon Lee in. The Russian was smiling! Either enjoying himself, or taunting Lee, trying to goad him into a rash move.

My throat was raw. I hadn’t realized I’d been shouting.

I turned to Dean. His eyes were fixed on the fight, and his expression reached deep inside me. All the emotions of the fight, all that was at stake in this massive confrontation, but there was more...

That was his kid brother up there.

Dean shouted something and I looked at the fight again. The two men were grappling, arms locked around each other as they careered off the cage-sides, sweat flying, glistening in the air. Their heads ground together, legs snaking around each other and tangling, trying to find purchase to make a judo throw.

The referee moved in, slapped both men on the shoulder, shouting something.

The big Russian simply swung a fist, forcing the referee to jump nimbly backwards out of the way. Lee took the opportunity to drive a punch into the Russian’s exposed ribs, and the two spun away around the ring, coming to face each other again in fighting crouches.

The Russian dived at Lee, big hands coming down onto his shoulders with enough force to knock him to his knees, and then the Russian had him in a headlock, as if he was trying to twist his head right off.