Choked

47

Midnight. And Alessandro couldn’t sleep.

He often felt like that before a fight. Tense. Agitated. Wired. His body just a machine of sinew and muscle, primed, fuelled and ready to be put to use. Coiled and unable to relax. His mind was focused on that one specific event, anticipating it, working towards it. Making and countering moves in his head, trying to out-think, outguess his opponent before the first punch had even been thrown. He planned and plotted. Tried to come up with an offensive strategy that would defeat his opponent while minimising the pain to himself. He had jabbed and weaved his way round the room all evening. And now he lay staring at the ceiling, the walls, unable to think of anything else.

Except Katrina. His girlfriend until two nights ago, when his anger, jealousy and fists had got the better of him. He knew that what he had done was wrong, but that still hadn’t stopped him. The others had all been interchangeable, forgettable. But not her. She had got into his head, this one. And she still hadn’t called. Not one word, one text. Nothing.

He had texted her. Repeatedly. Apologising. Saying he knew that he had done wrong, that it was all his fault. Asking for her forgiveness. Then, when there still no reply, begging for her forgiveness. He had checked his phone regularly. Too regularly.

And now he couldn’t sleep. So he might as well stop pretending.

He sat up, threw the covers back. Swung himself over the edge of the bed, sat head in hands. He could feel the tension zinging round his body, his fingers static, his muscles humming like electric cabling. He stood up. Paced the room. Desperately, bouncing off the walls. It seemed smaller than usual, a zoo enclosure for a captured animal. He sat back down again. There was nothing he could do. He could find no outlet for his pent-up rage, his frustration. He had to wait until the fight. Let it all out then. Channel it. Make it count.

He looked round the room once more. It was run-down, cheaply furnished. Everything either rented, second hand or stolen. Nothing cared for, looked after. No value to anything. A mess. The room was his life.

He flexed and unflexed his fists. Tried to relax his jaw. He had been grinding his teeth unconsciously. Channel, he thought once more. Focus. Make it count.

He had to win this one. Had to. He couldn’t keep living like this. Had to move on. That was why he had agreed to this fight. Make some money, let him and Katrina move somewhere else, somewhere decent. Have a good life together. A happy life.

And pay off his gambling debts. That was how he had got into this in the first place. Drinking, gambling, fighting. The unholy trinity, the nuns at school used to say. What he used to see at home. And that was him. The father and the son. The father in the son. Both imbued with the same unholy ghost. When he had become indebted to several people that he should have known better than to be indebted to, namely Mr Picking, it was suggested that he put his fists to good use. Start paying off some of that interest, said Mr Picking with a smile that had different meanings for both of them. Knowing what was waiting for him if he said no, Sandro realised he had no choice.

Before the first fight, he was terrified. He had fought before, won most of them. But they were scraps, clashes. Arguments settled. This was something different. He had stood there at the back of the barn, watching the crowd. Hearing them baying and cheering at the sight of blood. Watching them get turned on by two men hitting each other until they were unrecognisable. This wasn’t the kind of fighting he was used to. This was gladiatorial combat.

And then it had been his turn. And he was scared. He saw the man he was supposed to face. A big guy, tough-looking, a traveller carrying his hardships on his body. And angry. A total stranger, angry at Sandro for no reason. Ready to make him hurt.

If Sandro didn’t make him hurt first.

So Sandro went at him. Arms flailing, punching, jabbing. Wildly, desperately. No plan, no technique.

The bout didn’t last long. Less than one round. Sandro took a smack to the ear, went down and stayed down. He was dragged out of the ring, face and body bruised and bleeding. His benefactor and debtor was waiting at the ringside.

‘You were shit,’ Mr Picking had said. Then, to his attendants, ‘Patch him up and send him home. He’ll get better.’

And he had. Once Sandro had recovered, he had been put in to another fight. And another. He had improved, until eventually he was like his first opponent, big and angry and wearing the hardships of his life on his body.

And yet he still hadn’t settled enough of Mr Picking’s debt to be free of him. But Sandro had been around long enough. He understood how it worked now. He knew what Mr Picking was like, how he operated. And he doubted he ever would be free.

But he had to do something if he wanted to get out. He had to bet on himself. He would wait until he got there, see what the odds were and then put plenty on himself to win. It was risky; it could lead people to think the fight was rigged. No. He had to be secretive about the bet, then go out there and fight to win.

No pressure, then.

He stood up once more, pacing the room. Maybe he should go back to bed. Try to get some sleep. But he couldn’t. There was the fight, but there was Katrina too. He wondered where she was now. What she was doing.

And who she was doing it with.

Thinking that, his insides turned to acid.

And then he heard a knock at the door.

He stopped pacing, startled. Looked at it as if he could see through it, see who was calling. He checked his watch. Nearly half past midnight.

Another knock.

His heart jumped. He knew who it was.

Katrina …

The acid gone from his insides, he ran to the door, ready to pull it open. Ready for his lover to fall into his arms. Ready to do anything, say anything to start again.

Hand on the lock, he stopped. What if it wasn’t Katrina? What if it was Mr Picking or one of his associates? Telling him to lose. Telling him what kind of punishment he had to take. It had happened before. If that was the case, his plans would all fall through.

Another knock.

His heart hammering, he knew he had no choice. He had to open the door.

He flung it wide open. And stared. Stunned.

Standing there was his sister, Marina.

She looked at him. ‘Sandro … ’

And collapsed on to the floor.

48

The needle was pushed into the Golem’s ruined flesh. Poked through, pulled out again, leaving a visceral red trail. He watched, his eyes flat, his expression detached. His mind somewhere else altogether.

When he had woken up, the interior of his car looked like an abattoir. The thought was almost amusing. Because the only meat butchered in there had been his own.

Before he passed out, he had phoned Michael Sloane. Told him it hadn’t gone to plan, that he was injured and needed picking up. He left the phone on so the GPS could track him down.

Sloane, clearly not wanting to be seen to be involved, sent two of his lieutenants. They hauled the Golem from his car, laying him in the back of a Transit van, and torched his car. That didn’t upset him. He was never angry at the loss of possessions. Besides, he would invoice for the cost of a replacement.

He had lost consciousness again then, but he knew where they would be taking him. Dr Bracken. The