He can almost feel the blood start to flow, its warm stickiness trickling down his face. Maybe it’s because he knows, on a precise and detailed level, the physical damage these two are doing to each other, or perhaps it’s because his will be the job of fixing them up later. Fight club injuries are rarely seen by the prison doctor, because all injuries, however small, have to be reported to the authorities, and if the prison authorities get wind of fight club, steps will be taken to shut it down. So guards are bribed, inmates close enough to hear what’s going on are threatened into silence and the CCTV cameras in the gym are blacked out.
The yelling is inside Wolfe’s head like a migraine. The crunch of bone hitting bone is a sound he feels, deep in his gut. He looks down, at the scuffed, worn gym floor and tries to remember the sound of Maggie’s voice. Light but low-pitched. Measured, as though she tests each word out in her head before speaking it. He tries to imagine her saying something nice. Something nice and nonsensical. Instead he hears grunts and curses.
Around the gym, eyes are fixed on the reeling pair in the middle. The Muslim boy is winning. He’s smaller but faster, aiming his blows just beneath his opponent’s ribcage. One accurately delivered body-punch in that spot can stop a fighter. Repeated body-punches will wear any fighter down. His opponent, white, heavier, tattooed, is struggling to do anything other than fend off the blows.
In the corner of the gym, tucked away behind some five-a-side goalposts that won’t be needed again until spring, is a canvas equipment bag the exact colour of Maggie’s hair. Blue hair? He hadn’t expected that. He hadn’t expected her to be quite so beautiful.
A gossamer light spray of red mist forms in the air above the fighters. The Muslim boy staggers. The spectators yelp like hyenas circling prey and the fighters crash into the goalposts. Wolfe looks around, nervously.
The noise level builds. Inmates in their cells who can see nothing of what’s going on yell encouragement all the same. Many will have a bet on the outcome, even if they can’t afford the premium to watch. At the end of the corridor, those guards on weekend night duty stare at TV screens and turn up the volume. Wolfe looks at his watch. Three minutes and twelve seconds. Longer than many fights. These two are evenly matched. It could go on for some time longer. The injuries could be beyond his ability to patch up.
Maggie had been one of the last of the visitors to leave the visiting hall. He’d sat and watched her walk away, her shoulders tense, conscious of being observed but never once looking back. She’d disappeared, a flicker of white in the doorway, and he’d been overwhelmed by a feeling that he’d never see her again. That one visit would sate her curiosity.
The Muslim is back on top. He’s holding the white boy by the hair, hammering punches up into his chin. White boy kicks out and misses. The flesh of his face is bouncing in time with the blows. Already it looks red, swollen, as though its insides are bursting through the skin.
The crowd senses victory is close. The bookmaker’s eyes have narrowed. White boy is down on the stained tiles. He holds up his hand. It’s over. He gets one last kick from his opponent, a torrent of abuse from those who have lost money on him, and then people start to slink away back to their cells.
The winner staggers to a corner where his supporters look after him. Wolfe kneels down by the loser. The boy, younger than he realized, has lost consciousness. Wolfe checks his breathing, his pulse.
‘Tyler.’ Wolfe finds an unmarked spot on the boy’s cheek and slaps it. ‘Talk to me, Tyler, can you hear me?’
‘Stand back, Doc, we need to get him out of here.’
‘I don’t know how badly he’s hurt. You can’t move him.’
But they can, and they do. Three men hoist him up and carry him out. Wolfe and Phil follow, bringing their towels, their buckets, their bandages.
Behind them, the gym door closes and is locked. Neither looks back, because it doesn’t do to know the guards who are in on this, who allow fight club to happen.
The corridor is empty. Tyler and his supporters have vanished into one of the cells. Finding them won’t be hard. All Wolfe and Phil need to do is follow the blood.
Chapter 36
From the office of
MAGGIE ROSE
The Rectory, Norton Stown, Somerset
Friday, 11 December 2015
Dear Mr Wolfe,
There is nothing I can do for you. The case against you is as sound as any I’ve seen and you gave me nothing yesterday that hasn’t already been speculated upon endlessly and fruitlessly by those who campaign for your release.
That effort, I’m sure you know, is driven by your own personal charisma rather than any conviction as to your innocence. People want to believe in you because you are handsome and capable of being charming; and what people want to believe in, they usually do.
I can’t believe this will come as a surprise to you. I had no sense, yesterday, of your taking our meeting seriously. I was a diversion for you, a brief entertainment. I don’t blame you for that, but I have neither the time nor inclination to indulge you further, I’m afraid.
Yours sincerely,
Maggie Rose
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
‘SHE’S GOING AGAIN.’