She looked round. The office was empty apart from them. She turned back to him, a glint in her eye this time. ‘You ever wanted to have me here, on my desk?’
Mickey’s mouth dropped open. Words seem to form but failed to escape.
Anni giggled, pushed her leg nearer to his. ‘Have I shocked you?’
Mickey swallowed, blinked. Twice. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Not shocked.’
‘What then?’
The glint reappeared in his eye.
‘Just amazed that you can read my mind … ’
75
Marina had never experienced anything like it.
The barn was huge, modern and functional. Metal sheets clad to a concrete skeleton. Concrete floor. It had been cleared of its day-to-day use with bales of hay pushed to the walls alongside farming machinery, but it couldn’t shake off the farm smell: animal waste, nitrates. Marina was sure it never would. That smell had permeated into the foundations. But it was about to be joined by other, more pungent smells. Sweat. Blood. Money.
She had returned to Sandro’s house and told him the news about Phil. Sandro hugged her, somewhat awkwardly. She knew that wasn’t the kind of thing he was comfortable with but was pleased he had done it. Because that gesture of affection made her, for the first time in her life, feel an abiding love for him. And she was sure he knew it.
And that in turn made her feel guilty about the phone call she had made to Franks. But she would deal with that later, as Sandro had to prepare for the fight and she had to ready herself too. She was going to get her daughter back. No matter what it took.
Sandro emerged from the bathroom, his gym bag over his shoulder, all tracked and hoodied up. She tried to talk to him but he barely responded. She checked his eyes. Her brother wasn’t there any more. In his place was another person. Harder, colder, angrier. A fighter. Marina had flinched. She had looked in her brother’s eyes and glimpsed their father.
They had taken Sandro’s near-dead and rusted-out Mondeo, as she didn’t want to be spotted in Anni’s car. They had driven in near silence. Next to each other but inhabiting different worlds. Both focused on what they had to do in the next few hours.
Turning off the main road and driving up to the farm, Marina had been amazed. They had had to join a long queue of cars to get in. She had expected them all to be like Sandro’s — junkers and clunkers, all tattered and falling apart. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Although there were a fair few cars like that, there were also plenty top-of-the-range numbers, BMWs, Mercs, some Lexus models, dotted about.
There was also security on the gate. Stringent, serious. Big guys who looked like they could double for the night’s entertainment took money and gave directions. Sandro didn’t pay. He was just given a nod of recognition, directed to a field that had been turned into a car park. There, as in the queue to get in, status symbols rubbed bumpers with working Land Rovers, pristine 4x4s, Transits and rust buckets. It was, Marina was amazed to discover, one of the most truly democratic gatherings she had ever been to. All united in their wish to watch two people beat each other up.
Marina followed Sandro to the barn. When they reached the entrance, he stopped, turned to her.
‘Time to part company for a bit, kid.’
Marina looked round. She didn’t welcome the idea of being left alone in this environment. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Got to get ready.’ He held up his fists. ‘Got to prepare.’
‘Right. Of course. Good luck.’ She kissed him on the cheek.
He smiled. ‘Jesus Christ, woman, you’ll be gettin’ me a reputation for being soft.’
She smiled in return, then quickly scanned the entering crowd.
‘They’ll be here. Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘And you know where I’ll be when you need me.’ He walked away. Turned. ‘I’m third on the card, remember.’
Marina watched as Sandro walked towards a group of men just inside the door. An older man stood in the centre of the gathering, the men around him bodyguards or acolytes. He was middle-aged, well dressed. His corpulent figure and red and pink features made him look like a huge boiled pig. Marina recognised him. Milton Picking, one of the biggest gangsters in the region.
Is that who Sandro owes money to? she wondered. Is that who he’s fighting for? Oh baby brother, what have you got yourself involved in?
Sandro was greeted by Picking, then taken away by his followers. Marina took a deep breath, another. Stepped inside.
76
Inside the barn, a fight was just about to start. The centre of the building had been cleared and straw strewn on the concrete floor. Marina was confused by that, thinking at first that straw wasn’t sturdy or thick enough to absorb an impact and make for a sprung base on which to fight. Then she realised what it was for, and with that realisation came a small wave of nausea: it was there to mop up the blood.
A rope had been placed round the centre, marking out the ring. The bales of hay stacked on all sides almost to the ceiling acted as tiered seating. Wooden benches made up the first few rows. Trestle tables served as a bar. It was crowded.
She looked round at the crowd. Like the vehicles outside, it reflected the same patchwork make-up of different types. She recognised the travellers straight away. Jeans and polo shirts; they all looked like they could handle themselves and would be happy for a turn in the ring. There were also plenty of women with them, young, blonde and orange, dressed like sexualised Barbie dolls. And children, the boys mini-mes of their fathers. Dressed the same, running round shrieking, doing their own bare-knuckle sparring in the corners.
There were other types. Men with Marbella tans and expensively tasteless clothes, chunky gold jewellery and reset noses. On their arms Chigwell-opulent trophy wives and mistresses.
And everyone in between. The career gamblers and born losers. The nine-to-fivers seeking a thrill. The curious. Those claiming it as research. All there with one thing in common: they enjoyed watching other people get hurt.
Marina checked her phone. Nothing. The place was noisy, so she kept it in her hand. An announcement was made: the first fight was about to start. She sat down on one of the benches, looking round all the time, scanning the crowd for Josephina. She couldn’t see her.
The first two fighters were brought out. They were teenagers, boys. Both had the hard bodies and wild eyes of travellers. They were led into the ring and she saw immediately that even if they weren’t making money from it, they would still be doing it for fun.
All around, the crowd were on their feet, baying and calling, the excitement palpable, the air thick with sweat and bloodlust. She saw money change hands as odds were made and bets taken. She watched as the two boys squared up to each other, fists in front of their faces, ready.
The referee looked like he could have just walked in from the crowd. He spoke with the familiar Irish-Essex traveller twang, implored the two fighters to make it a good clean fight. They both nodded, eyes fixed on the other. He went on to remind them that one clean hit was worth ten dirty ones, but it was clear they weren’t listening to him. They were both ready to hurt.
The bell went. They danced round each other as the crowd shouted encouragement. Marina was suddenly surrounded by baying red faces. The boys became braver, started fighting. Fists were flung, blows placed. Marina heard the flat slap of knuckle on skin, like a butcher tenderising a side of pork. Felt the blows as they landed.
