ever been like this before; the others had been different. They’d deserved it – or he’d told himself that to soothe what little conscience he had left.
“Mr Roscoe.” She said his name like a curse, a promise. It forced him to halt in the doorway. He would hear her; he owed her that much. “I never thought I had it in me to hate anyone,” said Ruth coldly, as she pulled herself up onto her feet, hardly strong enough to stand. “Not until this very day, this moment.”
Isaac nodded, his back to her, unwilling to face his sins. He was set on forgetting her, and all he had done, as soon as he stepped from the room and left that rotten city – a city capable of corrupting even the best of men. But fate had a different plan.
Part Two
Chapter One
Isaac
A wild swing caught Isaac across his jaw. The smack thudded through his skull, head snapping back. That would hurt tomorrow. But tomorrow was a world away, unreachable, intangible. All that he felt now was the copper tang on his tongue, the ringing in his ears, the aches and bruises darkening his ribs. His opponent was as bare-chested as he was, a brute twice his bulk, with a face not even a mother could love. Well, unless she was blind, deaf and dumb.
The Oak, they called him, thick as a tree – in body and mind. Though he was slow, he made up for it in strength. One good blow and it would be all over. Everyone knew what the Oak could do and everyone remembered the men he’d killed. And no one would bet against him on that mild, drizzly, August afternoon in Brighton. Isaac was as good as dead.
Knuckles split, Isaac grinned, a red sheen across his teeth.
He’d never felt more alive.
“Come on then,” he beckoned. “Is that it?”
There was no fear, no thought to the end result, nothing, only that moment – the fight, the thrill, the adrenaline in his system – the money waiting when he won. Because he would win this one, not like the others when he’d been paid to throw it, to fall. That would be suicide, to lose a fight with a man this size. He wasn’t that desperate, not yet.
Soon enough Isaac would have enough funds to buy back his father’s lands and make them profitable again, instead of the wasted, ruined, overgrown and tangled mass they were now. The name Roscoe would be restored to its rightful place, if he fought hard, if he worked for it, if he bled for it.
And he wouldn’t need anyone’s help or charity in order to do it.
The Oak lumbered forwards. Isaac jabbed, his fist meeting a hard jaw that didn’t mark. There was nothing, no effect, not even a flinch. The answering blow pummelled his own cheek with such ferocity that his sight briefly failed, as though it were snowing indoors. It all went dark. He was on the dusty floor. There was sawdust strewn beneath him – good for soaking up blood, piss, bile and whatever was beaten from the other men who’d tried their luck in the pit. It stank and stuck to his chin, mixing with saliva and too much red.
Moving was a battle; his entire body hurt. At least he still had all his teeth. For now. The Oak was playing with him. The smile offered – mainly gum, for that’s all that was left – told him that much.
The spectators roared, spat, snarled. It was a mix – rich and poor – all gamblers eager to make a win. One of them was a man Isaac recognised, who stood out amongst the rest, looking ill at ease and disapproving. He knew that man. It was his great-aunt’s ‘helper’ for lack of a better word.
Another heavy punch came his way, but Isaac was fast. He craned back, slipping on the gritty floor and barely holding his footing. He’d served for years at sea and developed a good balance, amongst other things. The Oak, on the other hand, had overstretched, gone too far, stumbled. It gave Isaac a brief advantage. A smack to the kidneys and a kick behind his knee forced the Oak down – and thankfully – sent his head into the wood panelling that fenced the boxers in. There was
“Mr Roscoe.” She said his name like a curse, a promise. It forced him to halt in the doorway. He would hear her; he owed her that much. “I never thought I had it in me to hate anyone,” said Ruth coldly, as she pulled herself up onto her feet, hardly strong enough to stand. “Not until this very day, this moment.”
Isaac nodded, his back to her, unwilling to face his sins. He was set on forgetting her, and all he had done, as soon as he stepped from the room and left that rotten city – a city capable of corrupting even the best of men. But fate had a different plan.
Part Two
Chapter One
Isaac
A wild swing caught Isaac across his jaw. The smack thudded through his skull, head snapping back. That would hurt tomorrow. But tomorrow was a world away, unreachable, intangible. All that he felt now was the copper tang on his tongue, the ringing in his ears, the aches and bruises darkening his ribs. His opponent was as bare-chested as he was, a brute twice his bulk, with a face not even a mother could love. Well, unless she was blind, deaf and dumb.
The Oak, they called him, thick as a tree – in body and mind. Though he was slow, he made up for it in strength. One good blow and it would be all over. Everyone knew what the Oak could do and everyone remembered the men he’d killed. And no one would bet against him on that mild, drizzly, August afternoon in Brighton. Isaac was as good as dead.
Knuckles split, Isaac grinned, a red sheen across his teeth.
He’d never felt more alive.
“Come on then,” he beckoned. “Is that it?”
There was no fear, no thought to the end result, nothing, only that moment – the fight, the thrill, the adrenaline in his system – the money waiting when he won. Because he would win this one, not like the others when he’d been paid to throw it, to fall. That would be suicide, to lose a fight with a man this size. He wasn’t that desperate, not yet.
Soon enough Isaac would have enough funds to buy back his father’s lands and make them profitable again, instead of the wasted, ruined, overgrown and tangled mass they were now. The name Roscoe would be restored to its rightful place, if he fought hard, if he worked for it, if he bled for it.
And he wouldn’t need anyone’s help or charity in order to do it.
The Oak lumbered forwards. Isaac jabbed, his fist meeting a hard jaw that didn’t mark. There was nothing, no effect, not even a flinch. The answering blow pummelled his own cheek with such ferocity that his sight briefly failed, as though it were snowing indoors. It all went dark. He was on the dusty floor. There was sawdust strewn beneath him – good for soaking up blood, piss, bile and whatever was beaten from the other men who’d tried their luck in the pit. It stank and stuck to his chin, mixing with saliva and too much red.
Moving was a battle; his entire body hurt. At least he still had all his teeth. For now. The Oak was playing with him. The smile offered – mainly gum, for that’s all that was left – told him that much.
The spectators roared, spat, snarled. It was a mix – rich and poor – all gamblers eager to make a win. One of them was a man Isaac recognised, who stood out amongst the rest, looking ill at ease and disapproving. He knew that man. It was his great-aunt’s ‘helper’ for lack of a better word.
Another heavy punch came his way, but Isaac was fast. He craned back, slipping on the gritty floor and barely holding his footing. He’d served for years at sea and developed a good balance, amongst other things. The Oak, on the other hand, had overstretched, gone too far, stumbled. It gave Isaac a brief advantage. A smack to the kidneys and a kick behind his knee forced the Oak down – and thankfully – sent his head into the wood panelling that fenced the boxers in. There was
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