Page 7 of Mean Machine

The communal sleeping hall wasn’t much to look at with its single metal beds, hard and thin mattresses, and grey blankets. But compared to prison, this was still luxury—a converted Victorian-era rail carriage storage building, Les had explained once, which accounted for the high ceiling and vaulted brick structure.

“Lie down on the bed, on your front, leaning on your elbows.”

He followed the order, let her take more photos of him on the bed. Then on his back, gazing up at the ceiling, thinking nothing (harder than she could know). She had him pull down his shorts to bare more of his six-pack and show off the lines of his Adonis belt.

“Now shower.”

Brooklyn obeyed, undressed in front of the camera, reminding himself he’d done worse for money. And he was in peak shape—currently at his fighting weight, ripped and defined, and he knew that was part of his “popularity.” He was easy on the eye.

Don’t let them break your pretty face, baby.

He ignored the camera, didn’t look in Catherine’s direction, merely unwrapped the bandages and stripped before stepping under the shower. He picked up the soap and began washing.

When she was done, he towelled himself dry and sat down on a wooden bench for more photos. Sitting boxer in terry robe, holding a pair of battered gloves.

“If you had one wish, one opponent you’d want to fight, who would that be?” asked Steven.

Two very different questions. But Steven didn’t expect to hear that he wanted to go home, that he wanted his life back. The thought hurt. “I’ll fight whoever dares step into the ring with me. I’ll fight him and put him down.”

“Where do you see yourself this time next year?”

“I’ll be the heavyweight world champion.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. There aren’t many of my calibre around. Heavyweight is where the glory and the money are, but there’s no Muhammad Ali, Foreman, or Frazier around that I can see.”

Steven’s eyes shone with delight, as if the hack had never heard a boxer brag. Catherine screwed the lens off her camera and began to pack.

Brooklyn chuckled. “Was it good for you?”

Steven gave him a wide grin, rather more smitten than was strictly necessary. The guy was like a puppy wagging its tail. “I really want to see you fight.”

“Come on Saturday.” Brooklyn stood and walked them to the door. “Cash is your man. He’s doing the promotion. He’ll be happy to help.”

Listen to you, Brooklyn, sounding like a cheap phone salesman.

Once the hacks had been ushered out, Brooklyn grabbed some food in the communal hall. The usual diet of roasted chicken breast, salad, and complex carbs. At least they fed them well. It still didn’t sell him on the whole stewardship thing, though, especially since those costs were taken out of his account.

He knew all the usual arguments for stewardship—that it rehabilitated convicts, gave them a routine, allowed them to contribute to society, live a largely “normal” life with jobs and relatively free movement, and thus didn’t lead to the same level of reoffending and home- and joblessness because of lacking or outdated skills, or drug habits, or serious illness picked up in prison.

Meanwhile, the right-wing press was happy because being in prison somehow had been sold as an “easy ride,” and the bigoted masses seethed with the hare-brained idea that convicts sat in their cells, did dope, and played on their PlayStations all day—at the taxpayer’s expense. And if the right-wing press was happy, their readers voted “Proud Britannia.” Everybody won.

Another training unit, this time with a long cool-down period of light skipping and stretching. More food in the evening, and then most of the other boxers gathered around the TV to watch the Sports Channel. Boxing time.

Brooklyn was on his way to the sleeping quarters in the back but paused when the TV mentioned Dragan “the Destroyer” Thorne: Serbian-American heavyweight champion, six foot six of muscle and attitude, current world champion. Successful, rich, and with a string of ex-wives who sold their insider story of their short marriages to every TV channel and celebrity rag that’d indulge them, and they made Thorne sound like the ultimate badass. Brooklyn was pretty sure there was also a sex tape or two on the internet, not that he’d gone looking for it.

Thorne was a good boxer, if lumbering, like the worst of the Eastern Europeans, who mistook bulk for finesse. Didn’t matter, because he won by knockout in ninety-five percent of all his fights. Who needed to win by carefully shoring up points if you could just send your opponent to the mat?

Brooklyn remembered the fight when Thorne’d taken the championship off Darius Smith. From the safety of his couch, cool beer in his hand, he’d been in turns fascinated and horrified that Smith’s coach hadn’t thrown in the towel.

Hell, Thorne was partly to blame for Brooklyn having gained enough weight to qualify as a proper heavyweight, even if that had involved hundreds of litres of foul protein shakes and mind-numbing amounts of time in the gym. He’d had a goal.

Going pro was probably the only thing that had kept him sane after the trial. With everything else cut from his life—family, house, job, friends, nights down at the pub—all that remained was boxing. Ironic that, with all distractions amputated, he’d become a pretty good boxer. Better than he’d ever been as an amateur with a day job. It was the only thing between him and despair.

He paused long enough to listen to Thorne’s opponent—a regional hotspur Brooklyn had never heard about—declare the fight would be even. Brooklyn didn’t believe it for a moment, but at the very least, the kid would get a nice payout for all the pain he’d have to endure.

Unlike him. All the money went back to ISU, paying for his upkeep and the dividends ISU paid out to its investors. And likely for more convicts to replace those that got too old or hit too often in the head.

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