Counterpunch Page 9

  “What has he got to do with anything?”

  “Well, enough that I’ve been told—in no uncertain terms, Brook—that my relationship with you is strictly professional. I do wonder how they’d get any different ideas?”

  Ouch. Had Nathaniel caused a stir with that thing he’d said about Les? Fuck. All he’d wanted to do was rile him up. “No idea. Maybe they’ve seen you touch me all the time.”

  “I’m your coach, Brook. I don’t want to have to watch everything I do like a priest who ends up not touching a kid because he’d get done for paedophilia.”

  “Tell them that.”

  “I did.” Les groaned. “Bishop is connected. He’s very, very well connected. Just don’t tell him anything. Do what he wants you to do, and just be careful.”

  “Means I can fuck him but not talk dirty to him?”

  “Brook, listen to me.”

  Anger surged, despite the workout and the training, but Brooklyn managed to just stare at his coach.

  “Be careful with that man. He’s very good at getting what he wants.”

  “So what are you not telling me? Yesterday the guy was just a trick, now he’s what, the fucking mafia don?” And wasn’t that a ridiculous idea. Soft, slightly camp Nathaniel, who used words like “aflutter.” “He’s a barrister, Les. Of course he’s good at getting what he wants.” He might even get me my freedom. God, what a thought. “So if you have any real, you know, evidence, tell me, or shut the fuck up. Because I don’t want to hear it.”

  “You don’t want to hear it? Fine. But leave me out of it. I can’t afford to make an enemy like Bishop.”

  And neither can you, the tone said.

  “Pack your clothes, slave.”

  Brooklyn blinked and sat up. Being woken by Curtis was freaky like hell. “What’s up?”

  “Pack your shit. You’re travelling.” Curtis stood on the balls of his feet, rolling back, and then forwards, the tonfa ready as if he was expecting to have to use it.

  With a curse, Brooklyn staggered to his feet. It was early, before seven. The other slaves weren’t moving—even if they were no longer asleep. Still almost sleep-blind, he filled the bag with what he owned. Training clothes, some jeans, a couple hoodies, T-shirts, trainers. That was it. He only owned clothes, nothing else. How on earth had he needed half of a two-bedroom flat for his stuff?

  He got dressed, moving as quickly as he could because Curtis just oozed malice. Had he been sold? Where was Les?

  “Move it, slave!” Curtis shouted, and Brooklyn almost jumped. Holy hell, how did this low-rent bully get so under his skin?

  “Where?”

  “Outside, bitch.” Curtis moved as if to push, but Brooklyn swerved and rushed outside.

  There was light at the entrance of the gym. Shadows of men. One of them was Les. Another was Nathaniel. What the fuck?

  “Move your arse,” Curtis hissed and thrust him between the men, and then stopped himself and smartly snapped to what would have been “attention” in the military. Neanderthal on parade.

  “Thank you, Mr. Miller,” Nathaniel said, voice frosty.

  “Mr. Bishop,” Les said, and Brooklyn heard the coach’s voice hitch when Nathaniel turned to him, rather curtly. “I should come with him. I understand the arrangement, but . . .”

  Nathaniel arched an eyebrow. “But you’re irreplaceable?”

  “I’ve trained Brook for two years. I got him this far. I—”

  “Let us not discuss what else you’ve done with Brooklyn, Mr. Flackett. As far as I am concerned, you are not irreplaceable. I am grateful for what you’ve achieved, but Brooklyn is no longer a small-timer. He’s about to become the slave champion. The management feels they need to furnish him with more support than he’s previously received.”

  “Brook. You have to . . .” Les glanced to Brooklyn as if asking for help. But Brooklyn was stunned. The man who stood there was clearly Nathaniel, but right now, he was a fair bit scarier than Curtis would have been on a drunken rampage.

  Brooklyn stared at him and shook his head. He wasn’t getting involved. He didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on. Only that Nathaniel knew the management and right now was enforcing a directive from high above.

  “Of course, Mr. Bishop. I’m sorry. Curtis, you’ll—”

  “He won’t. I have my own guards.” Nathaniel nodded over his shoulder to two bulky men. “Thank you. And apologies for the rude interruption; we have a plane to catch.”

  Nathaniel motioned Brooklyn to follow the big guys, one of whom watched him carefully until he’d settled in the black Jag parked outside. The other took Brooklyn’s bag and tossed it in the boot, and then opened the door when Nathaniel came to the car. “To the airport, Eric,” he ordered and sat back in the leather seats. He breathed deeply a few times, unbuttoned his jacket, and smiled at Brooklyn. “Sorry for the scene. That wasn’t a very attractive sight.”

  “You got rid of Curtis.” Brooklyn stared, turned in his seat, but only Les stood outside the gym, looking after them in the sickly yellow London streetlight.

  “Eric is going to be your new guard up to the fight against the champion.”

  The tall blond man lifted a hand off the steering wheel. “Hi, Brooklyn.”

  Nathaniel smiled. “As I was saying, apologies for the scene.”

  Do what he wants you to do, and just be careful.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m taking you on a holiday. You’ll be able to train with some of the best. This of course meant a rather harsh detangling of your previous associations.”

  “What about Les?”

  “He’d only hold you back. Flackett has never made a boxer of real importance. That was all your talent. Some people are convinced your talent as a boxer vastly exceeds his capabilities as a trainer. If you are to win against the best slave boxer in the world, you’ll need a far better coach, who is being provided.”

  Great. It sounded like he’d just ruined the career of the only man who’d treated him decently. “He didn’t, I mean. Whoa. He didn’t fuck me. Or I him. That was not true.”

  Hell, and why was he so flustered now? Yeah, seeing Nathaniel waltz in and single-handedly dispatch of Les and Curtis—and possibly the whole place—like it was nothing? Terrifying. Les and the gym was all he’d known for almost two years. What about Cash?

  Nathaniel studied him. Did that confidence waver? He leaned back in the leather seats. “I just wanted you with me.”

  Why on earth? Brooklyn nodded. “You’re working for the management?”

  “I told you, I have connections.” Nathaniel smiled again. “Who, at times, indulge me.”

  “What are they going to say if . . .” He paused, half expecting a barked “shut up, slave.” But none came. Eric was imposing, but he at least let Brooklyn finish a sentence. “I mean, what’s going on? Where are we going?”

  “I’ve finished a major case here. I’m leaving for the sun, and the location provides everything you need to become fighting fit.” Nathaniel glanced out of the window. “Certainly better facilities than you’re used to.”

  Be careful with that man. He’s very good at getting what he wants.

  And wasn’t that the truth.

  The white house was as alien as a starship. The whole island—lush, tropical forest, vines laden with flowers, and the deep, postcard–blue-green sea beyond—felt of a different planet. Compared to strangely weatherless London, the warm breeze from the ocean and the tropical heat were weird.

  Nathaniel nodded towards the house. “Welcome home. In a manner of speaking. I have the use of this place a few months every year.”

  “Holiday home?”

  “Yes.” Nathaniel walked up the path. Eric trailed behind; the second man drove the car into the garage. Not having a guard watch his every step made Brooklyn feel naked. But, true enough, where could he run, as a slave, on a Caribbean island? As a foreigner who didn’t speak any of the languages? Did anybody here speak English?

&
nbsp; And somebody had to be carrying the chip that shocked him stupid if he moved too far away from it. Did Nathaniel have it? Or Eric?

  Inside, the heat was less oppressive—large fans moved the air around, stone floors cooled, and shutters kept out the sun, casting everything into a genteel shade.

  He couldn’t make heads or tails of this. What he should feel. Or think. No opportunity during the flight to Amsterdam, or the connection to Princess Juliana Airport. He’d still been reeling. Just the break in routine set his teeth on edge. He should be training, should be working, should at least know who was training him, rather than waiting for an explanation that was slow in coming. And he remembered too well the expression on Les’s face. Shock. Fear. Hurt.

  He’d thought he understood Nathaniel, knew him a little. But that had been stupid. He had no clue. Barrister? Then how did he work for the management? Was he the one taking care of all their legal stuff? And if he worked for them, how believable was the promise to help him be free again? It just didn’t fit together. And the more he turned it around in his mind, the less sense it all made.

  “Yours are the guest rooms up on the first floor to the left. I’ll check with the cook,” Nathaniel said.

  Brooklyn climbed the stairs, Eric in tow. He wasn’t used to a guard carrying the luggage. Hell, he wasn’t used to any of this. The furniture was as expensive as it was minimalist, the shade pleasant on the eyes, the force of the sun broken by drapes and wooden shutters until the room seemed to glow from within.

  Eric dropped his bag on the bed and remained standing there. “Need any help?”

  Brooklyn rubbed his wrist, inadvertently touching the steel bracelet. “Is there a good place to go running?”

  “There’s a lot of beach just behind the house.” Eric grinned at him. “There’s a gym in the garden too.”

  “Yeah, I’m here to box.”

  “I know.” Eric grinned wider. “I’ve seen your fights. The Mean Machine in the flesh.”

  Brooklyn shrugged. “You’re into boxing?”

  “You kidding? I box a little myself. Strictly amateur, though. Mostly body sparring, but it’s a great way to keep fit. I mean, you’re ripped.”

  Despite himself, Brooklyn relaxed. “Yeah, I went pro rather unexpectedly. Did it at first to work off some fat I’d piled on. I never expected to make it my career.”

  “Must have been weird going from the plod to the ring. But better to be a first-rate boxer than a second-rate copper. Not saying you were, but the sport would have missed out if you hadn’t.”

  The tension was back. He didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to relive the old painful ideals of being a copper and the mistakes and the endless, painful, dark drudgery of it. Or how he’d turned from policeman to criminal. No, that was stuff for the night. Waking up, sweating, seeing the legs kick in their dog dance. The deformed head, covered in blood.

  Was he really better off as a boxer? At least now he could let the rage go. Now he was rewarded for hurting people. He wanted to. Wanted to win. Knew if he didn’t break the other man, he’d end up broken. The rules of the ring couldn’t have been simpler or more primal.

  Eric pulled back, respectfully, like Curtis would never have managed even if somebody had held a knife to his balls. Brooklyn gave him a grin and began to unpack his clothes. They looked shabby and worn in this environment. T-shirts washed so often they were various shades of coloured grey. He took a pile and opened the wardrobe.

  He was greeted by the suit and shirts Nathaniel had bought in Hamburg, freshly ironed, neatly arranged. It suddenly reminded him so much of his old life, he choked up. School uniform, work uniform. There it was, a promise of normalcy.

  “Hey.” A soft knock on the doorjamb. Nathaniel entered the room carefully, as if expecting rejection. “The cook has a small snack for us now or a meal later.”

  “I’ll take the meal later.” Brooklyn closed the wardrobe. “Can we talk?”

  “Yes, we can talk.” Nathaniel sat down on the bed and folded his hands.

  So strange that Nathaniel could be so soft and accommodating and at the same time make men like Les and Curtis shake in their boots.

  Maybe start with the easy questions. “Why am I here?”

  “To get you out of that environment. This is not my personal den of debauchery, Brooklyn. You will work here, and you’ll work hard. If you want to sleep in my bed, you’re welcome, but it’s not part of your engagement.”

  “So what are you getting out of it?”

  “That’s between me and the management.” Nathaniel smiled. “But I certainly wouldn’t mind watching the future world champion frolic on the beach.”

  “That makes me sound like a dog.”

  “So sue me for enjoying watching you.” Nathaniel smiled at him, an odd “bring it on” smile coupled with openness.

  “You work for the management?”

  “No.” Nathaniel looked down at his hands. “I’m connected to them, yes. In certain circles, I’m considered a legal capacity when it comes to slavery. I earn a fair share of my money as a consultant and expert witness.”

  “An expert on slavery?” Brooklyn laughed. “You should try it. You’ll learn a lot more.”

  “I’ve watched slaves and interviewed them and their keepers.” Nathaniel’s tone was strictly neutral.

  “And they’d tell you the truth because there’s no way they’d get screwed by their owners.” Brooklyn shook his head. “Because we learn we can trust our owners; they always keep their word. Freemen treat us just like regular people. Except they don’t.”

  “I am.” Nathaniel looked up as if to challenge him.

  “You always tie up your men on the first date?” Brooklyn laughed.

  “It was the only way to open you up. With you, I needed to take a more circuitous route than I would have dating a freeman.” Nathaniel’s gaze was unwavering. “You wouldn’t have been open to the suggestion. I’m not convinced we would have got this far if you’d been free.”

  And guess which of the two I’d prefer if asked? Brooklyn shook his head. Alienating Nathaniel would get him nowhere. Shelley had often enough thrown her hands up in exasperation and told him to do whatever he wanted, since he couldn’t be convinced. Maybe that was something that the weaker part in an argument always ended up doing. Giving up. Conceding a point without conviction. As a slave, he simply couldn’t win. Just because Curtis “Shut the fuck up, slave” Miller wasn’t in the room didn’t mean Nathaniel couldn’t tell him to shut up.

  “So all this is from the management?”

  “The funding, yes. It’s your reward and another investment in your career.”

  “I always wanted to know who they are.” It would be easier to hate them if he knew their faces.

  “You’re owned by an off-shore fund. Some people went into boxing a couple generations ago, pooled and reinvested their money, and this is where we are now. They are enthusiasts of the sport; some are even eminent people. They aren’t soulless or evil, Brooklyn, even if that may, at times, be hard to stomach. What issues may happen, happen because the stable’s owners are very hands-off about actually running the gym. While they are enthusiasts, they aren’t boxing people; they don’t know how to train fighters. But they take a keen interest otherwise. And I can promise you all this will change. I will keep more of an eye on things. Less brutality, more respect. That is what you want, isn’t it?”

  “I want to be free.” Brooklyn gritted his teeth. “Make a cage golden, it’s still a fucking cage.”

  “Well, in the absence of other options, gold will have to do.” Nathaniel shrugged. “Anything else?”

  “Why would you help free me if you’re working for them?”

  “Because I don’t believe you’ll ever get used to being a slave. My best estimate is you’ll either kill somebody or kill yourself before long.”

  Brooklyn took a step back. Like a straight, long punch he hadn’t seen coming. “So what if I kill somebody? They can only enslave
me once for murder, right?”

  “But the first killing already tears you up.” Nathaniel stood. “You’re not a murderer, Brooklyn. You’re a policeman. You joined because you were an idealist. You believed that by joining the police, you could protect the innocent. Like your mother. Your sister. You must hate that you’ve become a lot like your father.”

  “If you say another word, I’ll kill you. I mean it.”

  “I know you do,” Nathaniel said and turned towards the door. “The gym is out in the back. Just follow the path. Your trainer and sparring partners will wait for you at seven.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Nathaniel didn’t come up with a witty reply. Maybe he’d fired all his guns. Brooklyn watched him go, but there was no relief when the door closed. And while he wanted to punch something—someone—he didn’t. Nathaniel wasn’t an opponent; punching him might actually kill him. And that would look really bad.

  But his words hit home.

  He breathed deeply a few times, and then shed his jeans and pulled on some training trousers and went in search of Eric, who had to be carrying that chip. He needed to run.

  Brooklyn showed up in the gym nice and early. But the place was incredibly weird in that it didn’t smell of stale sweat and disinfectant. Instead, it reminded Brooklyn of the luxury spas in those TV shows about places no working stiff could afford. Shelley had been addicted to that shit. Watched property shows and designer shows and weight loss shows—none of which she needed or served any purpose whatsoever. Light flooded in from two sides, with folding doors pushed wide open to the sea.

  “Right, this is some weird Karate Kid shit going on,” Brooklyn muttered to himself.

  The gym wasn’t empty.

  A fat, squat guy was just kneeling down to tie the laces of one of a pair of ripped men. Lebanese? Yemenite? Dark hair and eyes, and they were very clearly brothers, possibly twins. Great. He’d come to fight the Arab version of the Klitschkos.

  Squatty stood up and turned to Brooklyn, measuring him with a long, thorough glance—up, down, across, down, up, and then settled on his face. The guy’s gaze had the weight of a twelve-pound hammer. “You must be Brook. I’m Santos.”