pinning Lee to the ring with the weight of his body as he drew his arm up high and then swung down.
The soft, meaty impact of fist on face cut through the roars, was followed immediately by a massive, collective groan. Then the Russian drew back and swung again.
Again.
Again, until the referee was hanging onto his arm, his whole body lifted into the air as the Russian tried to strike one more time.
Dean brushed me aside, now, pushing away from the table, pushing through the crowd.
“Lee!” he cried. “Dear God, Lee!”
8
You know the risks when you set the stakes this high. When you’re playing the game.
Dean Bailey knew them. His kid brother, Lee, certainly knew them.
But still...
As Dean barged through the crowd thronging around the cage, all he could see was that image of Maliakov holding Lee in a headlock and driving his fist into the kid’s face. Of the blood geysering out. The sound of the Russian’s fist impacting on Lee’s face one, two, three times before the referee was able to stop him.
“Lee!”
His fingers twined through the mesh, taking his weight painfully as he tried to haul himself up, as if he might somehow manage to climb right over.
Lee lay there, inert, while the blond Russian swaggered around the ring, fist raised in some kind of power salute.
Bodies pressed against Dean, and he had to relinquish his grip, slide back down.
Turning, he forced his way through again. He had to get to Lee. Had to see if the damage was as bad as it looked.
§
Earlier, he’d done what he’d had to do. He’d placed his bets, he’d glad-handed the guys – the ones he could trust, and the ones he couldn’t.
You get a nose for it, in this life.
He’d seen Putin leering and crowing. There with some of the big guys, the ones you never see on the street. They’d come for the night out. They hadn’t anticipated anything other than victory, and the first of a succession of nails in the coffin of the Bailey Boys.
If Lee lost this fight the Russians would be lording it. They’d believe then that they owned this city, if they could slap the Baileys down in so public a manner.
All this had hung on the fight with Maliakov, and Lee had been beaten to a pulp.
Now, Dean found himself at the foot of the steps that led up to the cage entrance.
The mesh gate was open. Someone had got there ahead of him.
A doctor he hoped. Please let it be a fucking doctor!
He paused at the foot of the steps, suddenly wanting to prolong these last few moments when he didn’t know how badly damaged his kid brother was.
Then he climbed the steps.
In the ring, across towards the far side where he’d fallen, Lee still lay flat on his back, arms and legs spread wide.
Starfishing, they’d always called it: when you finish a fight and the other guy’s lying like that. You want to get him starfishing.
Lee Bailey was no starfish. He’d gone fifteen fights since anyone had stopped him, and that one was still controversial enough to be talked about regularly in pubs right across London, and beyond.
There were people around the fallen fighter. The referee, the doctor Reuben used – a safe pair of hands who still owed the Baileys a few favors – and Reuben himself, the top man, the one who put these fights together and provided the security that allowed some of the capital’s most sought-after villains the confidence to get together like this.
Dean approached cautiously, his throat tight.
Stooping, he put a hand on Reuben’s shoulder, said, “Hey, man. What’s the damage?”
Reuben turned his head. He was a wiry man with cropped curls of thick black hair and a piercing blue eyes, and a habit of constantly moistening his thin lips with the tip of his tongue that made Dean think of snakes. Kaa, the python from that cartoon, The Jungle Book .
“The damage to Lee, or to your reputation, Dean? Know what I mean?” He laughed – a thin, dry sound – and turned back to the doctor, a fastidious Indian man with silver
The soft, meaty impact of fist on face cut through the roars, was followed immediately by a massive, collective groan. Then the Russian drew back and swung again.
Again.
Again, until the referee was hanging onto his arm, his whole body lifted into the air as the Russian tried to strike one more time.
Dean brushed me aside, now, pushing away from the table, pushing through the crowd.
“Lee!” he cried. “Dear God, Lee!”
8
You know the risks when you set the stakes this high. When you’re playing the game.
Dean Bailey knew them. His kid brother, Lee, certainly knew them.
But still...
As Dean barged through the crowd thronging around the cage, all he could see was that image of Maliakov holding Lee in a headlock and driving his fist into the kid’s face. Of the blood geysering out. The sound of the Russian’s fist impacting on Lee’s face one, two, three times before the referee was able to stop him.
“Lee!”
His fingers twined through the mesh, taking his weight painfully as he tried to haul himself up, as if he might somehow manage to climb right over.
Lee lay there, inert, while the blond Russian swaggered around the ring, fist raised in some kind of power salute.
Bodies pressed against Dean, and he had to relinquish his grip, slide back down.
Turning, he forced his way through again. He had to get to Lee. Had to see if the damage was as bad as it looked.
§
Earlier, he’d done what he’d had to do. He’d placed his bets, he’d glad-handed the guys – the ones he could trust, and the ones he couldn’t.
You get a nose for it, in this life.
He’d seen Putin leering and crowing. There with some of the big guys, the ones you never see on the street. They’d come for the night out. They hadn’t anticipated anything other than victory, and the first of a succession of nails in the coffin of the Bailey Boys.
If Lee lost this fight the Russians would be lording it. They’d believe then that they owned this city, if they could slap the Baileys down in so public a manner.
All this had hung on the fight with Maliakov, and Lee had been beaten to a pulp.
Now, Dean found himself at the foot of the steps that led up to the cage entrance.
The mesh gate was open. Someone had got there ahead of him.
A doctor he hoped. Please let it be a fucking doctor!
He paused at the foot of the steps, suddenly wanting to prolong these last few moments when he didn’t know how badly damaged his kid brother was.
Then he climbed the steps.
In the ring, across towards the far side where he’d fallen, Lee still lay flat on his back, arms and legs spread wide.
Starfishing, they’d always called it: when you finish a fight and the other guy’s lying like that. You want to get him starfishing.
Lee Bailey was no starfish. He’d gone fifteen fights since anyone had stopped him, and that one was still controversial enough to be talked about regularly in pubs right across London, and beyond.
There were people around the fallen fighter. The referee, the doctor Reuben used – a safe pair of hands who still owed the Baileys a few favors – and Reuben himself, the top man, the one who put these fights together and provided the security that allowed some of the capital’s most sought-after villains the confidence to get together like this.
Dean approached cautiously, his throat tight.
Stooping, he put a hand on Reuben’s shoulder, said, “Hey, man. What’s the damage?”
Reuben turned his head. He was a wiry man with cropped curls of thick black hair and a piercing blue eyes, and a habit of constantly moistening his thin lips with the tip of his tongue that made Dean think of snakes. Kaa, the python from that cartoon, The Jungle Book .
“The damage to Lee, or to your reputation, Dean? Know what I mean?” He laughed – a thin, dry sound – and turned back to the doctor, a fastidious Indian man with silver
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