‘He doesn’t seem so tough.’
Stanley turned to his friend. ‘He doesn’t have to be, does he? I hear they’ve even got a bird on their team.’
‘Fucking hell! She’ll probably end up in tears before the end of the night.’
They wove their way through the farm complex until they found the stables. Dozens of other cars had got there before them and seemingly taken up every inch of available space. Stanley managed to squeeze his car in at an awkward angle at the far end, dangerously close to what appeared to be a huge pile of manure. He and Thompson clambered out, noses held against the stench, and started to make their way over to a dilapidated out-building with a rusty, corrugated-tin roof.
It was nearly nine and the sun had almost completely vanished below the horizon. The door to the out-building was slightly ajar, revealing a strip of bright light; the sounds of chatter came from within.
It had been more than three months since Stanley had last visited the barn, back when he was searching for a venue for tonight’s event. On that occasion it had been filled with old farm equipment and had no artificial lighting, but the owners assured him they would be able to transform it. As he and Thompson stepped inside, he could see immediately that they had kept their word.
Four mobile arc lights had been placed in each corner, the farm equipment had all been cleared away, and the centre of the barn was now dominated by a fifteen-by-fifteen-foot roped-off ring. At floor level, the boundary was marked off by a low breeze-block wall.
A large crowd had already gathered inside, and Thompson and Stanley made their way over to the ring, acknowledging several friends along the way, jostling among the other spectators until they found a good viewing spot.
Chilled cans of beer, joints and even a few pills were being passed around and both men soon indulged. During the next fifteen minutes the barn became even more crowded as further spectators arrived. The atmosphere was electric.
Finally, a bald-headed man with an enormous beer belly and sweat stains in the small of his back and under his armpits climbed into the ring. He was carrying two buckets of water, each with a sponge floating inside, and placed one in each corner. He then moved to the middle of the ring and turned three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in the faces of all those who were there before raising his voice to speak.
‘From this moment on, the only people who are allowed to speak before the fight starts will be the handlers. If anyone else makes a sound, their bets will be null and void as they will be deemed to be cheating.’
Silence fell among the crowd. A few seconds later the first handler appeared. He was in his late twenties, Asian, with baggy black jeans and several gold chains hanging from his neck. Tucked under his right arm was a jet-black American pit bull terrier.
Thompson leaned over towards Stanley and whispered in his ear, ‘Those Southall boys love this shit, don’t they?’
The dog was raring to go, a black ball of fury and aggression. The man put it down in the corner of the ring and removed its muzzle but was having trouble keeping the animal in place.
Just then the opponent arrived. The handler was the man who had been guarding the entrance when Stanley and Thompson had arrived. His dog seemed much smaller and quieter and was pale grey with white and brown patches. As soon as they got sight of the other dog, the men gathered around the ring began betting furiously. Huge wads of cash, thousands of pounds at a time, were being passed back and forth to the bookkeepers, who had based themselves at a small folding table at the side of the room.
The referee entered the ring and all betting stopped. The two handlers turned their dogs to face each other. Both animals were shaking with excitement but hardly making a noise. The referee then gave the command everyone had been waiting for: release the dogs.
The two animals raced towards each other and slammed together with a sickening thud of bone smashing into bone. They clashed so hard that the momentum sent both dogs spinning over, kicking up dust from the floor of the ring as they went. It took only seconds for them to turn and set on each other again. By now they were using their mouths, each ripping chunks of flesh out of the other, both twisting and turning, trying to get a better hold. Blood began to spatter on to the ground around the two dogs as they fought.
The crowd watched and whistled and cheered on their chosen dog. To a man the looks on their faces showed just how much they were enjoying the spectacle. A life or death struggle was going on right before their very eyes. It was the ultimate buzz.
Despite being smaller, the Irishman’s dog soon proved itself to be the more capable of the two. Fit and agile, it repeatedly outmanoeuvred its opponent in order to inflict far greater damage that anything it received. At one point it spun quickly and sank its teeth deep into the bigger dog’s neck. When it let go several minutes later, a huge spray of blood shot out from where the bite had been.
There was a hushed gasp in the crowd. Everyone knew what it meant, and sure enough within thirty seconds the larger dog began to slow down, the energy draining out of him as the blood left his body. When the dog collapsed completely, the referee stepped in and ended the fight. The Irishman raised his own animal high in the air as the crowd went wild.
The injuries to the other dog were so severe that there was no hope of recovery. Despite having fought bravely, he would be destined for the bath – a barrel of water outside the arena where losing and badly injured dogs could be held under until they drowned.
Stanley bit his lip in frustration. The festivities had been organized at the behest of a group called the Farmer’s Boys, one of the largest dog-fighting gangs in the UK. Based in a small town in County Armagh called Tandragee, the group had been involved in the scene for years and were rumoured to have links to the IRA and other paramilitary gangs.
Known for the viciousness of their dogs, they had agreed to bring a selection of animals over to the mainland to take on the best that the English had to offer. Stanley, a relative newcomer to the sport, was determined not to lose but this had been a bad start. The dogs he sponsored were due to fight next but if all the opponents were the quality of the one they had just seen, the Farmer’s Boys would be leaving victorious.
Fresh sawdust was swept over the centre of the ring to soak up the blood and the next two dogs were brought out. Shaft, as black as coal with white scars covering his muzzle and body as a testament of past battles, was being handled by a slender red-haired woman wearing tight jeans and a loose-fitting t-shirt. Thompson nudged Stanley in the ribs and smiled as their dog Brutus was brought out.
Brutus, a relative newcomer to the scene, was the colour of wet sand with a strip of white at the base of his neck. Stanley had purchased the dog from a specialist supplier in Helsinki and had him shipped over three months earlier. Since that time the dog had been kept at a specially converted terraced house in East London that had been converted into a training school.
Wary of attracting police attention to the operation, Stanley had visited only once – two weeks earlier following a scare in which one of the nine dogs being kept at the house had escaped and begun running wild in the local park, harassing other dogs.
Stanley arrived at the house the following day. The whole place had been cleared of furniture and the centre of the living room was dominated by a large treadmill that had been specially adapted so that a dog’s collar could be attached. Each of the animals was forced to run at least five miles each day in order to maintain them in peak condition. Their diet was also supplemented by muscle-building powders and tablets.
‘How the fuck did it get out?’ asked Stanley after inspecting the back room where the cages storing the dogs were kept.
‘Chewed at the bars until they buckled and the lock broke,’ admitted Paul, the skinny youth in charge of training the dogs. ‘Took some doing. Lost a couple of teeth in the process but carried on. Shame he’s dead. That dog had real heart. He would have been a killer in the ring. But Brutus is still around and he’s top.’