The sergeant’s grip was tight on Tom Sayers’ arm as he was walked down the corridor, away from the interview rooms and in the direction of the lockup cells. As well as being an effective form of restraint, it allowed the sergeant to sense the intentions of the man in his charge. Any impulse to bolt or rebel would signal itself, even as the thought was beginning to form. Sayers could see that any such attempt would be futile. However he considered it, his position seemed bleak.
He needed friends outside this place, and he needed them urgently. He thought of Edmund Whitlock, his employer, and almost in the same moment dismissed all hope of help from that quarter. The thought of him so teary-eyed and regretful in the lodging-house hallway was still fresh in Sayers’ mind. For all his playing of kings and heroes, the actor was not a steadfast man. He clearly took Sayers’ guilt at face value, as would many. Whitlock was unlikely to be an effective ally—especially if it meant that he’d have to turn against James Caspar.
Sayers still could not fathom the hold exercised by the younger man over the older, but he had seen its effects over the months. In Caspar’s presence the normally intolerant actor became indulgent, and forgiving of his protege’s faults to the point of embarrassment. The younger man’s influence was like the sergeant’s grip; where it bound, it also gave control.
As they drew level with a door in the jail corridor, the sergeant forced him to a halt. It was a heavy door, reinforced and painted gray, but it was not like those to the cells. The sergeant rapped on it twice, and within seconds was answered by the sound of a turning key and the door swinging open into daylight. Sayers was shoved through without ceremony. He tripped on the threshold and only regained his balance once outside.
He found himself in a cage within the police compound. It resembled a large zoo enclosure and appeared to be a corner exercise yard for prisoners. Although open to the sky, it had a roof of bars that cast their shadow across the ground. Over on the far side of it three men waited, spread out in a line. They’d removed their helmets and tunics and rolled up their shirtsleeves.
When Sayers looked to the sergeant for an explanation, it was to see him unbuckling the wide belt that he wore over his own tunic. The constable who’d unlocked the door was now securing it after them.
“I see,” said Sayers.
“No rough handling,” said the sergeant pleasantly. “But you being a sporting man, we thought you might appreciate a little friendly competition.”
His tunic came off to reveal a shirt and braces that clothed the wide chest and thick belly of a natural brute. Ugly as an afterbirth, here was a man who need live neither cleanly nor well to give off an air of physical threat.
“You wish to fight me?” said Sayers.
“You were the famous Tom Sayers, once,” the sergeant said. “Call it a private demonstration of the fistic arts.”
With the door now secured, the constable took the sergeant’s tunic and helmet and carried them across the cage. He passed the other three, less hefty than their sergeant but born brawlers all. Outside the enclosure, police wagons had been drawn forward to screen the area from general view. Dropping the tunic and helmet onto a general pile, the constable now let himself out through a gate and took up a lookout position in the yard.
Sayers’ heart had quickened, and without even thinking he shifted his weight to a more ready stance. He said, “And by what rules would such a friendly competition be conducted?”
“Newton Street rules,” said the sergeant, turning away. Sayers began to reply, but mistook the man’s intentions. The sergeant came back with his elbow raised and smashed the point of it into Sayers’ upper arm, as hard as he could.
Sayers staggered back, clutching at his arm just below the shoulder. The pain was sudden and enormous. It was the same limb and almost the same spot at which he’d been struck and disabled by the mob that had ended his career. Back then, they’d cornered him in an alley and overwhelmed him. He managed not to cry out, but tears came to his eyes and for a few moments he was blinded.
Had they gone at him right there and then, all would have been lost. But the men stood back and watched, one or two of them grinning. Sayers let go of his arm and flexed his hand, trying to set his face so that he would not wince further and show them weakness.
He said, “I think I have grasped the basic principles.”
He could see their intentions now. Each man wanted to be able to brag that he had taken on the celebrated prizefighter and beaten him, yet none had any interest in an equal contest. However they might dress it up as sport, in the final reckoning this was to be rough justice over the death of one of their own. Should the magistrate query his condition in the morning, it would be explained that he had become violent, or had attempted an escape. Five witnesses would all agree. More might be found if required.
He said, “Will you allow yourselves the dignity of coming on one at a time, instead of all in a gang?”
“Certainly,” said the sergeant, and moved around to the middle of the yard to be first.
Sayers raised his fists, and worked his shoulders a little to relax them. The pain in his upper arm still raged, and he knew that he would have to protect it. He felt no fear, even though there was little chance that this would go well for him. Fight back with any success, and they’d be on him like dogs. But like the onetime professional he was, he concentrated entirely on the task in hand.
The sergeant squared up, mocking Sayers’ stance in a womanly way. Sayers felt dwarfed and slight in comparison to the quarter-ton of beef in shirtsleeves before him. The sergeant was clearly a man who had both dealt out and taken a good deal of punishment in his time, and had no need of grace or finesse.
Suddenly, the man came on. No circling, no testing out of his opponent’s defenses, just a straight walk toward Sayers for the purpose of landing a blow. Sayers aimed a jab, but it was weak because he was trying to hit his man and back off at the same time. The sergeant didn’t stop, but came crowding on in. He got one arm around Sayers and a fist in against the side of his head, a knuckle-skidder that hurt but did no resounding damage.
Sayers got out from under and circled around behind his man, as the sergeant turned around to keep facing him.
“What’s the matter, Molly-boy?” the big man said. “Old men and children more to your taste?”
This was like fighting an ape or a bear. Had this been the ring, the sergeant would have been booed out of it or disqualified within a round or two. But he wasn’t here to play by the rules. He was out to slap down and maul the little dancing man for the amusement of all.
Sayers stayed out of reach, and tried a couple of feints that the sergeant didn’t fall for. When one of the policeman’s big fists took a swipe for his head, he ducked it and got in a couple of body blows that the sergeant seemed hardly to feel.
As they continued to circle, the sergeant turned his own trick back on him, moving as if to strike without actually striking. Sayers overreacted, provoking derision from those watching. As one made noise, another cautioned silence. The man outside the bars looked back at them, anxiously.
Sayers saw an opening, and aimed a hook. But the policeman did no less than catch Sayers’ fist in his own enormous hand and hold it there in midair, squeezing it hard and laughing as Sayers tried to pull it free. The sergeant had caught it in such a way that the bones of his hand were being mashed together, causing him cruel pain.
As his heel made contact, he felt the edge of it hook under the bone. In the same moment, he felt the gristle rip as the entire kneecap dislodged.
Instantly, the grip on his hand was released. The sergeant’s jaw had fallen open in a big O and his eyes bulged wide. He made no sound.
Sayers took the opportunity to choose his move with science and care. He put in a right uppercut that slammed the sergeant’s jaw shut with an audible snap, and then a left hook that made the big man’s face ripple from one end to the other like a reflection in water.
The sergeant seemed to hesitate in the air. Then he went down.
The others were rushing at Sayers before his man had hit the ground. When he did, the air came out of him like a canvas bag.
Sayers struck at the first oncomer. He hurt him, but did not stop him. The other two were grabbing for his arms, but he knew better than to allow himself to be held. He winded one and butted the other.
The winded man was out of it, but the others came back on. Sayers grabbed the nearest and ran him back
