Red Notice

23

Tom had won four fights so far. He downed a jug of water, most of it spilling over his chest and onto the bouncy-castle floor. The next bout would be the hardest.

‘Satnav’ — but not to his face — was an LE (late entry) officer. He’d risen to the rank of WO2 and had been G Squadron’s sergeant major before being offered a commission. There were three types of LE: angry, chilled and careerist. Satnav was in the first category. He’d been angry since the army had confiscated a necklace he’d made for his sister while sailing back with the Task Force from the Falklands. He hadn’t understood why it wasn’t right for a young guardsman to cut off the ears of dead Argentinians to make a necklace, no matter who it was for.

He’d got his nickname after getting geographically embarrassed while driving one of the team’s Range Rovers from Hereford to a meeting with the Greater Manchester Police. He’d taken a wrong turn around Birmingham and landed up in Sheffield. No one would have known about it had the Range Rover not been pulled in by the very force he was supposed to be visiting while he was doing 120 mph down the motorway to try to rectify his mistake. They’d let him off as soon as they saw his ID, but by then the damage was done.

The officers always kept Satnav as the trump card in their pack. They’d been holding him back tonight until Tom was exhausted, and now he was. But there was one more fight to go for Gavin to win his money. And if he did, maybe he’d start buying his own clothes.

For reasons that nobody except Gavin and Mrs Gavin fully understood, she’d piled up all his possessions in the garden one evening and set fire to them. Gavin had been left with the clothes he’d stood up in, and was too tight to go down town and buy some more. His solution was simple. He was Tom’s size. What was the problem?

The problem was: that had been five months ago. And he still hadn’t opened his wallet. He hadn’t bought any food for the house either. Tom had let it go. Gavin still had to pay for a mortgage, two cars, and the three-thousand-pound vet bill that had arrived after Mrs G’s two dogs had fallen off a mountain ledge in the Brecon Beacons. Gavin had taken them on a weekend tab. His story was that they were so excited to be out and about they hadn’t been looking where they were going. Mrs G hadn’t bought that story for a minute, and had started building the pyre.

Gavin had got home just in time to watch his life go up in smoke. His only possession to survive was his Stravinsky CD. And that was only because he’d taken it down to the ranges to rip it a new spin hole.

Satnav could still bench-press his own weight, and for a man of his size that was no small achievement. Tom knew that if the fight got to close quarters Satnav would crush the life out of him. His only chance was to use his speed of thought, foot and hand. If that didn’t work, he’d just try to keep off the floor.

Gavin seemed to read his thoughts. He shot an anxious glance through the castle window as Tom poured more water down his neck. ‘Mate, old Satnav, he’s a strong fucker, but I reckon he’s hitting the weights too much and not doing enough on the speed bag.’ He took another swig of his beer. ‘Mate, we’ve got a lot riding on this one. The sooner I get some cash together, the sooner I’ll be buying my own gear and the sooner I’ll be out of your house. What more can I tell you?’

‘He might be hitting the weights, but he’s still a street fighter, like me. I’ll have to keep on my toes for this one.’

Gavin spluttered into his beer. ‘Excuse me? You? A street fighter? What part of the Malvern ’hood did you work, bro?’

A chorus of cheers and groans greeted Satnav’s progress towards the castle.

‘Fuck me…’ Gavin breathed, as he saw the size of him. ‘I’ve got a grand riding on this…’

‘No pressure, then.’ Tom handed him the empty jug.

‘Mate, Satnav thinks he’s hard, but he’s a big pussycat really.’

Satnav was now close enough to listen in. He bared his teeth in something like a smile. ‘You just keep mouthing off, Gavvers. Soon as I’ve finished with His Lordship here I’ll be loading up and putting another round into that leg of yours.’

For the first time that night, Tom didn’t have a height and weight advantage over his opponent — and Satnav was as quick to the punch. As soon as they’d touched gloves he landed a brain-rattler on the side of Tom’s head, then switched downstairs with a hook that thudded into his ribs. He blocked Tom’s counter with his biceps, then moved in, grappling with him and narrowly missing with a head butt as Tom tried to wrestle his arms free. They fell together and lay for a moment, still trading punches. The PTI signalled them up.

Through his adrenalin ear-muffs, Tom heard Gavin shouting, ‘Come on, Posh Lad…’ For the first time all night, there was a note of anxiety in his voice.

As the two fighters clambered to their feet and the PTI wiped down the floor with bar mats, Jockey gave Tom two thumbs up. ‘Keep going as you are, big man!’

As the two fighters touched gloves again, Tom dummied a left hook, and as Satnav shifted his weight, swaying away from the expected punch, Tom hit him with a round-arm right. Satnav saw it coming at the last moment and began to duck. The shot took him high on the temple but he still staggered at the impact and Tom was on him at once, raining in punches until another big right hand put his opponent down.

Satnav wasn’t finished. He launched himself forward in a rugby tackle from his hands and knees, but Tom saw him coming. Stooping low, he threw a right hand that had every ounce of his strength behind it. It smashed into the corner of Satnav’s eye and the combined force of the punch and his own momentum jerked the other man’s head around as if he’d been hit by a brick.

Tom half turned away, heading for the side of the castle. But Satnav still wasn’t done. His eye already swollen and closing, he had enough presence of mind to grab Tom’s ankle and jerk his feet from under him. Even as he fell, Tom managed to land another short arm right to Satnav’s face, then dropped on him with his knees, driving the air from his lungs.

Satnav struggled to recover, but it wasn’t happening. Tom rose to his feet and the PTI closed down the fight. Tom’s supporters bayed their approval, and those with losing bets booed and jeered as Tom held both hands down for Satnav to grip and pull himself up.

They hugged and Satnav held Tom’s right hand up in the air in congratulation. They both exited the castle and Tom accepted the can of beer that someone pushed into his hand and slapped Gavin on the back. ‘I’ve got to go.’

He pulled his T-shirt over his head, grabbed his jacket and ran for the exit. His Omega told him it was just before 02.00 hours.

‘Shit.’

By the time the door had slammed behind him, he was halfway across the car park. The Beamer was resting on its kick-stand. As he jumped onto the bike, Tom reflected, not for the first time, that the Lines was the only place in Hereford — probably the only place in Britain — where you could leave a fourteen-thousand-pound motorbike with the keys in the ignition and still find it there when you got back. He fired up the engine and rocketed off into the night.