Is that who Sandro owes money to? she wondered. Is that who he’s fighting for? Oh baby brother, what have you got yourself involved in?
Sandro was greeted by Picking, then taken away by his followers. Marina took a deep breath, another. Stepped inside.
76
Inside the barn, a fight was just about to start. The centre of the building had been cleared and straw strewn on the concrete floor. Marina was confused by that, thinking at first that straw wasn’t sturdy or thick enough to absorb an impact and make for a sprung base on which to fight. Then she realised what it was for, and with that realisation came a small wave of nausea: it was there to mop up the blood.
A rope had been placed round the centre, marking out the ring. The bales of hay stacked on all sides almost to the ceiling acted as tiered seating. Wooden benches made up the first few rows. Trestle tables served as a bar. It was crowded.
She looked round at the crowd. Like the vehicles outside, it reflected the same patchwork make-up of different types. She recognised the travellers straight away. Jeans and polo shirts; they all looked like they could handle themselves and would be happy for a turn in the ring. There were also plenty of women with them, young, blonde and orange, dressed like sexualised Barbie dolls. And children, the boys mini-mes of their fathers. Dressed the same, running round shrieking, doing their own bare-knuckle sparring in the corners.
There were other types. Men with Marbella tans and expensively tasteless clothes, chunky gold jewellery and reset noses. On their arms Chigwell-opulent trophy wives and mistresses.
And everyone in between. The career gamblers and born losers. The nine-to-fivers seeking a thrill. The curious. Those claiming it as research. All there with one thing in common: they enjoyed watching other people get hurt.
Marina checked her phone. Nothing. The place was noisy, so she kept it in her hand. An announcement was made: the first fight was about to start. She sat down on one of the benches, looking round all the time, scanning the crowd for Josephina. She couldn’t see her.
The first two fighters were brought out. They were teenagers, boys. Both had the hard bodies and wild eyes of travellers. They were led into the ring and she saw immediately that even if they weren’t making money from it, they would still be doing it for fun.
All around, the crowd were on their feet, baying and calling, the excitement palpable, the air thick with sweat and bloodlust. She saw money change hands as odds were made and bets taken. She watched as the two boys squared up to each other, fists in front of their faces, ready.
The referee looked like he could have just walked in from the crowd. He spoke with the familiar Irish-Essex traveller twang, implored the two fighters to make it a good clean fight. They both nodded, eyes fixed on the other. He went on to remind them that one clean hit was worth ten dirty ones, but it was clear they weren’t listening to him. They were both ready to hurt.
The bell went. They danced round each other as the crowd shouted encouragement. Marina was suddenly surrounded by baying red faces. The boys became braver, started fighting. Fists were flung, blows placed. Marina heard the flat slap of knuckle on skin, like a butcher tenderising a side of pork. Felt the blows as they landed.
The larger boy had the footwork. He seemed able to dance out of his opponent’s way, deflect shots intended to damage one part of his anatomy to another, less painful one. This just infuriated the smaller one. He began to throw out shots faster, harder. Wilder. One connected with the bigger boy’s ear and he fell to the ground, cracking his head on the concrete.
That was it, thought Marina, the fight would be stopped.
But it wasn’t. The fallen boy put his hand to his ear, cried out in pain and anger. The referee was holding back the smaller boy, who was mad-eyed with rage, dancing about, trying to get at his opponent.
The bigger boy climbed back to his feet, blood trickling from his ear. Marina wasn’t an expert, but she thought that could be dangerous. The referee thought differently, however, and, after consultation with the fighter, allowed the bout to proceed.
The smaller boy had seen his advantage. His own bloodlust was high. He pressed forward. The bigger one stood his ground, tried to fight off the blows, but Marina, and the rest of the crowd, could see it was just a matter of time. The smaller one kept hitting. One blow connected with his opponent’s nose. Marina heard bone and cartilage shatter. She closed her eyes. The crowd cheered. The small boy jumped out of the way as blood fountained out. He skipped to the side, threw a punch against the damaged ear. The other boy went down. Didn’t get back on his feet this time.
The fight was over, the smaller boy declared the winner. He was jumping up and down, dancing while still in the ring, face a mask of his own and his opponent’s blood, looking like the fight was just a prelude, ready to take on anyone, everyone.
He was led away.
The crowd’s bloodlust temporarily sated, the noise in the barn dampened down to an excited hubbub. More money changed hands as bets were called in and placed for the next bout. Marina, still sitting by herself, felt physically ill.
She checked the phone in her hand. No call.
She looked back at the ring, at the blood on the straw. Couldn’t believe her own brother was going to be in there soon. Couldn’t believe she was here to watch him.
Fresh straw was thrown over the bloodied straw. She looked round once more. Still no sigh of Josephina. She couldn’t even see Sandro. She waited.
The next fight was announced and two more fighters were brought into the ring. The same procedure as before started. Marina wasn’t sure she could watch it all again.
She didn’t have to.
Love Will Tear Us Apart.
She grabbed the phone, put it straight to her ear. Turned away from the action.
‘Where is she?’ she shouted. ‘Where’s my daughter?’
The voice on the phone sucked in air. ‘Well played.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You must think you’re so clever. Arranging to meet here. Thinking that you’d be safe amongst all these people. That you’d be able to snatch your daughter and make a run for it. Not agree to your part of the arrangement. Am I right?’
‘Where is she? Where’s my daughter?’ Marina was screaming now. No one could hear her above the baying crowd.
The voice gave no reply.
‘Where is she?’
‘Look.’
‘Where?’
‘At the back of the hall. Right at the back. Behind you.’
Marina turned. The crowd were on their collective feet, shouting and screaming and fist-pumping. Marina tried to look through them, look past them. The bales of hay had a gap between them, making a narrow passageway. It was in almost virtual darkness, but she concentrated, managed to separate the shadows. She made out a figure. A small figure. Her heart almost pounded its way out of her chest.
‘Josephina … ’
She started to run towards her, pushing, fighting her way through the crowd.
‘Not just yet,’ said the voice on the phone. ‘Stay where you are.’
Confused and apprehensive, she stopped running.
‘Look. Look again at your little girl. What else can you see?’
Marina looked. And saw a flash of light in the darkness, glinting from something metallic.
A gun.
Pointed at her daughter’s head.
77
Helen Hibbert pulled her coat closer to her neck. She didn’t think it would make much difference, but she felt like it was doing something positive to keep out the cold, damp and fog.