Mean Machine Page 2

  “It’s banter.” Les dropped onto his hands and feet to put in a few push-ups. “Gimme fifty, champ.”

  BROOKLYN WAS doing some light bag work late morning when he noticed one of his fellow boxers had stopped his rope-skipping. He paused to reach for his water bottle and half turned when the front door opened.

  Les with two guests. The woman trailed farther behind, looking around like she’d never seen a boxing gym. In their formal dress, they stood out like accountants in the jungle. A tax raid? That would just be too ironic, but he really couldn’t afford to hope for the worst. If ISU blew up, there would be another corporation ready to step in and strip its assets. With the boxers here being the most mobile ones.

  Les led the guests to the side of the ring, explaining something about the sparring going on there.

  Prospective investors? Why was Les doing that and not Cash? He was the money man, after all. They didn’t strike Brooklyn as traders who wanted to pretend they were hard.

  “Oi, I believe you’re here to work.” Curtis drew close, hand on his tonfa.

  “Wanna hold the bag?”

  “Fuck you.” Curtis pulled the tonfa and took the short grip, the length of the weapon protecting his lower arm, with plenty of wood sticking out to allow him some nasty punches. Fuck him.

  Brooklyn kept one eye on the guard and returned to working the bag, imagining it was Curtis’s bulk he was punching, which focused him enough to ignore the visitors. He switched to working with Stu, hitting the man’s body armour with enough force to keep Stu at a distance. Nothing that went on outside the ring was of any interest to him. He shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t ask questions.

  “Brook!”

  Brooklyn added a couple more punches before turning to acknowledge Les, who was speaking in hushed tones to the two strangers. Brooklyn walked to the ropes and followed the gestured command to step out of the ring.

  “That’s Brooklyn. Our great new hope.” How Les managed to say that without sounding completely stupid was a mystery.

  “Hi, Brooklyn.” The guy offered a hand and then withdrew it when Brooklyn lifted his gloves. Besides, nobody shook his hands these days, anyway.

  “Hey.” Brooklyn glanced to Les.

  “Brook, this is Steven and Catherine from Universal Resilience.”

  “We’re journalists,” Catherine added.

  Brooklyn cast a longer glance at Les, but his trainer only smiled.

  “Right.” He wiped his forehead on his arm.

  “They’re here to do a feature on you.”

  “Right.” Universal Resilience? What the fuck was that? He knew Sports Illustrated, Boxing Weekly, even the semipornographic Apex Fighters—featuring “the hardest men and women on the planet,” usually in a state of undress.

  “Are you familiar with Universal Resilience?” Catherine asked.

  “Err, refresh my memory.”

  “Do you know 100% Bulletproof?”

  “Is that some kind of paleo coffee?”

  “It’s our sister magazine. We cover inspirational stories about people who fail—whether it’s their fault or not—and put their lives back together. Bulletproof is more about high achievers in their field, though of course there’s overlap.”

  Brooklyn almost laughed. American-style inspiration porn, then. Their angle had to be his fall from grace and his rehabilitation into a useful member of society again. God, fuck them sideways.

  But the hacks’ eager, open faces told him they meant it. And their presence meant ISU had signed off on it. He cast another glance at Les. “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Relax and do what they tell you.” Les patted him on the shoulder. “ISU will vet what he’s saying, though.”

  “Of course, Mr Flackett,” Catherine said. “We’ll submit the first draft for review next week, which gives you two weeks for quote and fact check.”

  “That should be fine.” Les nodded towards Curtis, who stood at his side, legs braced, arms crossed. “If you need any assistance, Miller over there will be happy to help.”

  Well, happy only if it involved his fucking tonfa.

  “I think we’ll start with the location. This is a very atmospheric place.” Catherine was already reaching for the big camera bag slung over her shoulder.

  Steven looked around with clever, perceptive eyes, pausing on a pink-splattered white towel lying on the ground near the ring. Those eyes were a different kind of camera, and Brooklyn felt weird when they rested on him. What did he see? A brute? A convict? A fellow human? A fighter?

  “We’ll start with a few questions to warm up.”

  Brooklyn exhaled deeply and rolled his shoulders. “Why not.”

  “When did you sign up with ISU?”

  “Thirty-five months ago.” And two weeks, three days. But who was keeping track?

  Steven exchanged a glance with Catherine, but it was hard to read. Pity? Surprise? Brooklyn opened the straps of his training gloves and pulled them off, then set them down ringside.

  “What do you think about corporate stewardship, as someone under contract under those terms?”

  “I focus on boxing.”

  Apart from it being a publicly listed company that had stepped into the void left by government, Brooklyn didn’t know all that much about ISU. Oh, he knew ISU was one of the companies that were “monetising” the state’s “idle resources,” and prisoners sitting in their cells counted as “idle.” He knew ISU focused on sportsmen and women, mostly, but also on farm workers ever since Brexit and the impending state bankruptcy had dissuaded even the hardest-up Romanians and Bulgarians from coming over to work. After breaking a few international treaties and the dramatic spike in unrest and hate crime, nobody was queuing to be let in. In fact, those who could were queuing to get out.

  Enter Jonathan Jones-Williams, previous Tory Minister for Justice who’d first helped gut the police force, then dealt the death blow to the Tory Party by starting his own shop under the “Proud Britannia” label and taking about three hundred fifty seats in Parliament with his young(ish) and charismatic persona of “National Rejuvenation.”

  By instinct a privatising Tory, he’d all but abolished any legal aid funds and made short work of the penal system after months of bloody riots in the decrepit, overcrowded prisons had led to hundreds of dead, though unofficial sources said the real number was in the thousands. Finally sick to the back teeth of having to provide even the most basic of public services, he’d made penal reform a cornerstone of his bid for leadership. And once prime minister, he’d followed through with his customary brutal efficiency, very much enabled by a civil service relieved to finally be doing something constructive again after fighting through the quagmire of the ongoing Brexit process. Which led to the wholescale abolition of all prison terms under six months in favour of either a fine or community service. All suitable convicts with longer sentences ended up in corporate stewardship, which was just a more politically correct term for indenture.

  “I understand you were convicted. What was the crime?” There was a hint of excitement in Steven’s brown eyes. “Was it violent?”

  There were several answers to this, but only one would titillate the readers. Plus, if anybody bothered to look him up, it would be all over the net, anyway. “Yeah.”

  “How do you feel about your crime now? Will you ever be able to forgive yourself for what you did? Do you think society will?”

  Brooklyn grimaced. He couldn’t help it. At least the other people in the gym left him alone. Nobody asked about his past, normally. And if they did ask, he fed them the bare minimum. Convict. Violent crime. Fucked if I care.

  But he did care. Cared a great deal about a head and face covered in blood. Legs on the ground that kicked, uncoordinated, like those of a dog in its sleep. “You call that a warm-up?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “I’m sorry it happened.” He rubbed his wrists, too aware of the way the red cotton bandages hugged his hands and wrists. Hands of a
killer. The very strength that allowed him to survive in the ring, the very strength that allowed him to challenge others and prevail, that strength had ended a life. How long until he’d look at his hands and not remember what they’d done? What they still did? No, he’d take that with him to his grave.

  A soft sound had him glancing to the side, where he noticed Catherine’s enormous camera erection pointed his way. Anger rose immediately, leapt to the fore of his mind, and if not for Les and Curtis so close by, he’d have asked her what the fuck she thought she was doing.

  Instead, more photos. She was cold-blooded to pull the trigger again.

  He turned to face Steven. “Show me a halfway decent human being who doesn’t have regrets.”

  “That’s a good line. I’ll be using that,” Steven said.

  “You’re welcome.” Not like he could stop them. He was glad they didn’t dig more into his prison term. Brooklyn himself had spent only one night there—the next day, he’d been assessed, profiled, and in the afternoon, ISU had already placed a bid on him and paid Her Majesty’s Government restitution for his crimes, minus a percentage of the amount his presumed appeals process and upkeep would likely have cost. He now owed ISU that amount, plus the running costs they paid for his boxing career and interest, of course. Even with his winnings, even with side jobs he could accept or reject (but usually accepted), he’d get out of his contract in fifty years or so. Those were technicalities, however, and their readers likely didn’t care.

  Restlessly he tapped the gloves together. “Want to see some training?”

  Catherine lowered the camera. “I’d like to see what you usually do. Talk us through it.”

  That was easy enough. He could fall back into his routine and just be watched, answer questions like he would explain stuff to a rookie. He put on his gloves.

  Once he’d worked up a sweat, the anger receded, became a dull sensation deep in his belly rather than something tightening his throat. He was good at this. He liked showing off and made Steven hold the bag for him, grinning to himself when the journalist had to take a half step back every time he put all his weight behind a punch.

  “Tighten your abs, mate.”

  “What abs?” Steven huffed back, but leaned into the punches long enough to make this part somewhat worthwhile.

  “Wow, and I thought it looked easy on TV,” he said after Brooklyn was done.

  “You mean taking punches?” Brooklyn grinned. “No, it’s not, but you get to the point where you’re used to it.”

  “Uh-huh.” Steven nodded to Catherine. “Any other suggestions?”

  “I’d like some photos of him sparring.”

  Brooklyn shrugged. “We can do a short one. I was working with Stu. The guy over there.”

  “Can he lose the T-shirt?”

  “Sure.” Brooklyn climbed back into the ring and motioned Stu over. “Lose the shirt; we have guests.”

  Stu grinned. “Gloves off too?”

  Catherine climbed into the ring. “May I?” She pulled the T-shirt from Stu’s body and placed it gingerly over the ropes. Considering that Stu was an enormous heavyweight and scarred to hell, Brooklyn did admire her cool. Then again, Curtis would be on them like a rottweiler if anybody dared to so much as wolf-whistle at her. And for all his appearance, Stu was a kind soul.

  Brooklyn lifted his gloved fists to protect the sides of his face and squared up with Stu. They knew each other well enough to sense when the other was ready.

  It wasn’t much more than a light bout, a few solid punches to the sides and chest, but Stu was holding back. Allowing him to look good in front of the camera? Brooklyn was about to try to lure him out when Catherine told them to stop.

  Brooklyn stepped away and left the ring.

  “I think I want to be at your next fight,” she said, “so Steven can get the atmosphere.”

  “Cash can arrange backstage passes. Can I take the gloves off?”

  “Sure.”

  He pulled them off but left the bandages on.

  “Can you show us your quarters?”

  “Yeah. This way.”

  The communal sleeping hall wasn’t much to look at with its single metal beds, hard and thin mattresses, and grey blankets. But compared to prison, this was still luxury—a converted Victorian-era rail carriage storage building, Les had explained once, which accounted for the high ceiling and vaulted brick structure.

  “Lie down on the bed, on your front, leaning on your elbows.”

  He followed the order, let her take more photos of him on the bed. Then on his back, gazing up at the ceiling, thinking nothing (harder than she could know). She had him pull down his shorts to bare more of his six-pack and show off the lines of his Adonis belt.

  “Now shower.”

  Brooklyn obeyed, undressed in front of the camera, reminding himself he’d done worse for money. And he was in peak shape—currently at his fighting weight, ripped and defined, and he knew that was part of his “popularity.” He was easy on the eye.

  Don’t let them break your pretty face, baby.

  He ignored the camera, didn’t look in Catherine’s direction, merely unwrapped the bandages and stripped before stepping under the shower. He picked up the soap and began washing.

  When she was done, he towelled himself dry and sat down on a wooden bench for more photos. Sitting boxer in terry robe, holding a pair of battered gloves.

  “If you had one wish, one opponent you’d want to fight, who would that be?” asked Steven.

  Two very different questions. But Steven didn’t expect to hear that he wanted to go home, that he wanted his life back. The thought hurt. “I’ll fight whoever dares step into the ring with me. I’ll fight him and put him down.”

  “Where do you see yourself this time next year?”

  “I’ll be the heavyweight world champion.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. There aren’t many of my calibre around. Heavyweight is where the glory and the money are, but there’s no Muhammad Ali, Foreman, or Frazier around that I can see.”

  Steven’s eyes shone with delight, as if the hack had never heard a boxer brag. Catherine screwed the lens off her camera and began to pack.

  Brooklyn chuckled. “Was it good for you?”

  Steven gave him a wide grin, rather more smitten than was strictly necessary. The guy was like a puppy wagging its tail. “I really want to see you fight.”

  “Come on Saturday.” Brooklyn stood and walked them to the door. “Cash is your man. He’s doing the promotion. He’ll be happy to help.”

  Listen to you, Brooklyn, sounding like a cheap phone salesman.

  Once the hacks had been ushered out, Brooklyn grabbed some food in the communal hall. The usual diet of roasted chicken breast, salad, and complex carbs. At least they fed them well. It still didn’t sell him on the whole stewardship thing, though, especially since those costs were taken out of his account.

  He knew all the usual arguments for stewardship—that it rehabilitated convicts, gave them a routine, allowed them to contribute to society, live a largely “normal” life with jobs and relatively free movement, and thus didn’t lead to the same level of reoffending and home- and joblessness because of lacking or outdated skills, or drug habits, or serious illness picked up in prison.

  Meanwhile, the right-wing press was happy because being in prison somehow had been sold as an “easy ride,” and the bigoted masses seethed with the hare-brained idea that convicts sat in their cells, did dope, and played on their PlayStations all day—at the taxpayer’s expense. And if the right-wing press was happy, their readers voted “Proud Britannia.” Everybody won.

  Another training unit, this time with a long cool-down period of light skipping and stretching. More food in the evening, and then most of the other boxers gathered around the TV to watch the Sports Channel. Boxing time.

  Brooklyn was on his way to the sleeping quarters in the back but paused when the TV mentioned Dragan “the Destroyer” Thorne: Se
rbian-American heavyweight champion, six foot six of muscle and attitude, current world champion. Successful, rich, and with a string of ex-wives who sold their insider story of their short marriages to every TV channel and celebrity rag that’d indulge them, and they made Thorne sound like the ultimate badass. Brooklyn was pretty sure there was also a sex tape or two on the internet, not that he’d gone looking for it.

  Thorne was a good boxer, if lumbering, like the worst of the Eastern Europeans, who mistook bulk for finesse. Didn’t matter, because he won by knockout in ninety-five percent of all his fights. Who needed to win by carefully shoring up points if you could just send your opponent to the mat?

  Brooklyn remembered the fight when Thorne’d taken the championship off Darius Smith. From the safety of his couch, cool beer in his hand, he’d been in turns fascinated and horrified that Smith’s coach hadn’t thrown in the towel.

  Hell, Thorne was partly to blame for Brooklyn having gained enough weight to qualify as a proper heavyweight, even if that had involved hundreds of litres of foul protein shakes and mind-numbing amounts of time in the gym. He’d had a goal.

  Going pro was probably the only thing that had kept him sane after the trial. With everything else cut from his life—family, house, job, friends, nights down at the pub—all that remained was boxing. Ironic that, with all distractions amputated, he’d become a pretty good boxer. Better than he’d ever been as an amateur with a day job. It was the only thing between him and despair.

  He paused long enough to listen to Thorne’s opponent—a regional hotspur Brooklyn had never heard about—declare the fight would be even. Brooklyn didn’t believe it for a moment, but at the very least, the kid would get a nice payout for all the pain he’d have to endure.

  Unlike him. All the money went back to ISU, paying for his upkeep and the dividends ISU paid out to its investors. And likely for more convicts to replace those that got too old or hit too often in the head.

  “What do you think of the young contender, Dragan?” the interviewer asked on screen.

  “He’ll look good on the posters—at least until after the fight.”