Page 44 of Mean Machine

Rose held him, but not to restrain him, merely to hold him, their bodies well-matched, shaped by the same sport. Same weight class too. An equal in every sense, except Rose was possibly a little heavier.

“Shit, you are not doing that now.” Not like he could stop the man, in his state, with his hands fucked-up. It still didn’t make any sense. He’d always liked Rose, trusted him, even if the big Cuban could wipe the ring with him if he really tried.

Rose kissed the side of his neck, an almost chaste, comradely touch. “I’m not doing anything, Brook. Unless that would make you feel better.”

Brooklyn shook his head. “I should be in that ring.” It would only be fair.

Rose ran his hands over Brooklyn’s body, the touch paternal, not erotic at all. Not that Brooklyn could have done anything if it had been.

Those human touches broke something inside him. He didn’t deserve that kind of tenderness but hungered for it all the same. Washing him, washing the sweat off. The blood. Brooklyn wanted to collapse somewhere, crawl into a corner, but Rose held him upright with that strong embrace.

“Trust me, Brook. You’re not alone in this.”

What a thing to say. Brooklyn turned around and hugged Rose close with just his arms, hands not touching anything. All he heard were his own pitiful sobs, and all he felt was the heat from the water and the firm body supporting his.

Round 5

ALL BROOKLYNcould think about was whether Odysseus was in the same hospital. Whether he was still alive. It was the closest one to the venue. They’d driven him to the hospital, checked him in. The TV in the waiting room was full of tax talk. Who cared about a dead or dying boxer?

After an X-ray, they waited—Santos sitting right next to him, Eric guarding the entrance. When they were called in, a doctor gave him a shot and set the bones in his hands. Two metacarpals in his left hand were broken clean, one in the right.

They examined his eye, and thirty stitches later, that wound was closed. The doctor didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t tell him that she, on principle, was against boxing, but Brooklyn felt the censure in a place where people fought to save life. Risking it for sport and thrills couldn’t go down well here.

Santos was called into the waiting room. When Brooklyn looked around, Eric was nowhere to be seen. Maybe in the toilets down the hall.

For the first time in three years, he was completely unguarded. He stood, peered down the corridor, and expected the doors to open and Eric to step out, but several breathless moments later, nothing like that happened.

He walked down the corridor, forcing himself not to hurry. Then walked through the main entrance.

Just like that.

Out on the street, he ducked into the next alley against the traffic, and though he had no idea where he was, he kept walking. Expecting every time he heard sirens that the police would come and bag him.

He never thought he’d understand how the young, hooded thugs felt at the sound of sirens, but now he did.

Seemed Santos simply wasn’t used to treating a fighter like a piece of meat. Maybe Eric was too good-hearted to expect a boxer with fucked-up hands and a fucked-up eye to make a run for it. Curtis wouldn’t have made the same mistake.

He found one of those inner-city maps for tourists and got his bearings. He vaguely considered mugging somebody for the Oyster card that would pay his fare on the night bus, but in his state, he wasn’t scary enough, and besides, he didn’t feel like inflicting more horror and pain on anybody today. Or ever again.

He had no cash for a cab, and fare dodging would get him into more trouble. He might be able to talk a bus driver into letting him ride for free, but if any of the passengers recognised him, they could call the coppers, who’d collect him at the next stop. And the last thing he wanted was to see the sneering faces of his former colleagues when they picked him up as a runaway convict.

Lewisham was only eight miles from here. He’d run.

THE DOORto the apartment building wasn’t closed properly. Ever since the ex of one of the tenants had kicked it down—four years ago—it only closed when you pushed hard against it. At least Mrs Chatterton was too frail to do that, and several others in the building didn’t care enough, not even the landlord, as long as the rent was coming in on time.

Brooklyn pushed the door open and reached for the pile of letters. Yes, some advertising from the local gym and Weight Watchers and DFI were still addressed to “Ms Shelley Brown.” She never picked those up, often didn’t even take the bills, as if hoping they’d just thaw away like snow come spring.

Her last name stabbed him in the chest, but at least he was reasonably sure now she still lived here. He headed up, aware of how the wooden staircase creaked under his weight. But no police. Then again, in the middle of a Saturday night, they had all hands full with the drunks in the city.

There. Flat number three.

He breathed deeply and knocked with his elbow, though it still jarred his hand. No sounds. She was probably in bed. Or out. He knocked again and waited.

He heard movement inside—somebody coming down the stairs. He only hoped it wasn’t the new boyfriend. He really wasn’t in a state to punch anybody.

The chain inside ratcheted in place, and somebody opened the door. Shelley.

He’d told her a million times that chain was absolutely no protection. Anybody determined enough could still kick the door open. The anchor of the chain was held in place by four tiny screws that would give in an instant. But right now, he was glad she’d never upgraded security.

---