Before the first fight, he was terrified. He had fought before, won most of them. But they were scraps, clashes. Arguments settled. This was something different. He had stood there at the back of the barn, watching the crowd. Hearing them baying and cheering at the sight of blood. Watching them get turned on by two men hitting each other until they were unrecognisable. This wasn’t the kind of fighting he was used to. This was gladiatorial combat.
And then it had been his turn. And he was scared. He saw the man he was supposed to face. A big guy, tough-looking, a traveller carrying his hardships on his body. And angry. A total stranger, angry at Sandro for no reason. Ready to make him hurt.
If Sandro didn’t make him hurt first.
So Sandro went at him. Arms flailing, punching, jabbing. Wildly, desperately. No plan, no technique.
The bout didn’t last long. Less than one round. Sandro took a smack to the ear, went down and stayed down. He was dragged out of the ring, face and body bruised and bleeding. His benefactor and debtor was waiting at the ringside.
‘You were shit,’ Mr Picking had said. Then, to his attendants, ‘Patch him up and send him home. He’ll get better.’
And he had. Once Sandro had recovered, he had been put in to another fight. And another. He had improved, until eventually he was like his first opponent, big and angry and wearing the hardships of his life on his body.
And yet he still hadn’t settled enough of Mr Picking’s debt to be free of him. But Sandro had been around long enough. He understood how it worked now. He knew what Mr Picking was like, how he operated. And he doubted he ever would be free.
But he had to do something if he wanted to get out. He had to bet on himself. He would wait until he got there, see what the odds were and then put plenty on himself to win. It was risky; it could lead people to think the fight was rigged. No. He had to be secretive about the bet, then go out there and fight to win.
No pressure, then.
He stood up once more, pacing the room. Maybe he should go back to bed. Try to get some sleep. But he couldn’t. There was the fight, but there was Katrina too. He wondered where she was now. What she was doing.
And who she was doing it with.
Thinking that, his insides turned to acid.
And then he heard a knock at the door.
He stopped pacing, startled. Looked at it as if he could see through it, see who was calling. He checked his watch. Nearly half past midnight.
Another knock.
His heart jumped. He knew who it was.
Katrina …
The acid gone from his insides, he ran to the door, ready to pull it open. Ready for his lover to fall into his arms. Ready to do anything, say anything to start again.
Hand on the lock, he stopped. What if it wasn’t Katrina? What if it was Mr Picking or one of his associates? Telling him to lose. Telling him what kind of punishment he had to take. It had happened before. If that was the case, his plans would all fall through.
Another knock.
His heart hammering, he knew he had no choice. He had to open the door.
He flung it wide open. And stared. Stunned.
Standing there was his sister, Marina.
She looked at him. ‘Sandro … ’
And collapsed on to the floor.
48
The needle was pushed into the Golem’s ruined flesh. Poked through, pulled out again, leaving a visceral red trail. He watched, his eyes flat, his expression detached. His mind somewhere else altogether.
When he had woken up, the interior of his car looked like an abattoir. The thought was almost amusing. Because the only meat butchered in there had been his own.
Before he passed out, he had phoned Michael Sloane. Told him it hadn’t gone to plan, that he was injured and needed picking up. He left the phone on so the GPS could track him down.
Sloane, clearly not wanting to be seen to be involved, sent two of his lieutenants. They hauled the Golem from his car, laying him in the back of a Transit van, and torched his car. That didn’t upset him. He was never angry at the loss of possessions. Besides, he would invoice for the cost of a replacement.
He had lost consciousness again then, but he knew where they would be taking him. Dr Bracken. The Golem didn’t know whether ‘Doctor’ was an honorary title or an actual one, or whether Bracken was currently a doctor or not, but it didn’t matter. He had been treated by the man before. And no doubt he would be again. And he wasn’t the only one.
Bracken was well known as the go-to guy for patching up people who didn’t want to leave a paper trail or go through the system. He never asked questions.
The Golem knew where he must be. Down a secluded path off a roundabout between Romford and Ongar in the badlands of Essex. The road was quite picturesque at first, with overhanging branches and muntjac deer skipping about. There was even a large old country house at what seemed like the end of the road, nestling in amongst the trees. But take the unmade road at the side of the country house and travel down there until the branches were no longer overhanging but closing in claustrophobically and the deer dared not go because they might not make it out alive again, and there was the house of Dr Bracken. A huge, heavy metal gate sat at the far end of the unmade road, the kind that survivalists or a far-right group might hole up behind. All around the house was a high fence, electrified, topped with razor wire. Several signs, hand-painted and not always accurately spelled, had been erected to deter anyone not put off by the gate: Keep Out, Private Propity, Strangers Not Wellcome.
And that was where the Golem was being patched up.
He studied Bracken as the man worked on his arm. He was small, frail-looking, but his eyes burned with an intensity that often seemed to be the only thing animating his scrawny frame. Like he was lit and powered by an individual fire within. A fire that burned with a dark, ugly light.
Probably the same light that powered the soldiers who killed my mother, raped my family. Destroyed my village and homeland, the Golem thought. But it didn’t matter at the moment. The doctor was helping him, patching him up, so he would call a truce.
Besides, he knew where he lived.
Bracken pushed the needle in again. The Golem smelled what he always did coming off the man. Alcohol, sweat. And something more. Fear and despair. Bracken didn’t do this by choice. Perhaps this wasn’t his place after all. Perhaps he was just a prisoner here. The Golem didn’t care. As long as he patched him up, got him working again.
‘Met you before,’ Bracken slurred as he worked. ‘Don’t usually remember them, but you stick out. The skin.’
‘I killed some people who killed my family. Then I was dead inside. My skin turned grey. Then I was dead outside.’
Bracken nodded. ‘You take any colloidal silver?’
‘Of course,’ said the Golem. ‘I take many things to keep me healthy and strong. Is good. Heals you. Keeps you fit. Stops Aids, they say.’
‘And turns your skin grey.’
The Golem thought about that. ‘No. It is because I am dead inside.’
‘Whatever works for you, son,’ said Bracken, and kept pushing the needle.
Bracken used big, looping strokes, like he was stitching leather or hide, and thick black thread. The local anaesthetic hadn’t blocked out all the pain. The Golem had to rely on himself to do that.