Page 45 of Crocodile Tears

“This here is Fred.” Winston jerked his head at the kid.

“Fred? Really?” Josiah snorted.

“Tonight he is.” Winston smirked. “Fred – this here is the sergeant. He’s a vicious bastard when he gets going, so don’t expect any mercy. Sergeant – Fred here wants to go into prizefighting, and he thought I’d help him get onto the circuit. I told him he wasn’t good enough, and I reckon a few rounds with you will make him see I’m right.”

“You sure about this, Fred?” Josiah asked quietly.

Fred looked him up and down dismissively. “Oh, I think I’ll be okay, Granddad,” he sneered. “You take care of yourself.”

“Fine.” Giving a tight smile, Josiah stepped into the ring.

“No rules,” Winston said as Fred joined him. “Kicking, biting, hitting below the belt – all that’s fine. Only thing you do is stop when Isay so. That’s all. If you don’t, I’ll take a stick to ya ’til you do.” He gave them both a pleasant smile. “Okay, lads – go for it.”

Josiah didn’t even hesitate. Storming forward, he swung a punch. Fred didn’t duck in time, and the blow connected with his cheek. He regrouped and came back, but Josiah was in the zone, as Winston had said, and he easily parried the blows.

The sensation of real fighting – no gloves and no rules – lent the edge of danger he needed. He could hear his breathing from a distance, could feel the pain as Fred landed a blow on his jaw, and then the satisfaction of landing one of his own on Fred’s chin.

Feet danced, arms punched, bodies sweated and panted, and Josiah lost himself in it. The events of the day churned in his head, unconnected to him and who he was right now. Esther’s call this morning swirled into his mind, accompanied by feelings of both relief and guilt. He pushed them away. Then he was looking at a holopic of a beautiful, naked man, while a corpse lay sprawled on the floor, bright red blood staining the cream carpet.

Another image took its place, unwanted and unexpected: Peter’s body, covered in blood, lying in the front seat of his stupid car.

Suddenly, Josiah was furious. For the first year after Peter’s death, that image had been his constant companion, seared into his mind, replaying over and over again. He’d worked hard to remove it, replacing it with images of Peter from before that night, vibrant and alive. Why had it come back now?

He went in for the kill, needing to lose himself in the steady thump of fist on flesh, crunch after satisfying crunch. He heard sobs and someone yelling at him, but he didn’t care. He was in the zone.

“STOP!” The word was bellowed in his ear, penetrating the haze. He came to and found Fred cowering on the floor, one eye closed, his arms covering his head in surrender.

Josiah took a few moments to get himself under control, breathing hard. The fight had helped – the heat in his blood had been let out, and he could feel his head clearing.

“Thank you, Fred,” he said politely, walking over to the edge of the ring.

“Y’know, sex would be easier than this, Sergeant,” Winston called after him. “You should go an’ find yerself a rent boy to shag next time.”

Josiah turned, slowly. “This wasn’t about sex.”

“Yer sure?” Winston winked.

Josiah turned away again, his heart pounding, then walked stiffly to the locker room. He was too old for this; it wasn’t healthy. He should find a less dangerous hobby. He told himself it kept him sharp, and that in his line of work he needed to be in good shape to fight the bad guys. But that wasn’t why he did it, and he knew it.

He took a shower, letting the hot water pound on his shoulders and wash away the blood on his jaw. He hurt, but he felt better. The fight had punctured the tension that had been building all day.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he returned to the locker room to find Fred getting changed, with one closed eye and a badly bruised face.

“I’m sorry,” Josiah said softly. “Today was a bad day for me, and I took it out on you.”

“S’okay.” Fred shrugged. “I should thank you, really. Winston was right – I’d be eaten alive on the prizefighting circuit. I was stupid to think I could make it.”

“He told me you’re from the Quarterlands. Do you need money?” Josiah glanced at Fred’s tatty clothing.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Fred sighed. “I was hoping to get noticed by some rich guy with his own fighting stable and be given his indie tag. Then I could do the circuit. But you showed me I don’t stand a hope in hell.”

“That’s a good thing,” Josiah said grimly. “Most of those fighters end up taking the Quarterlands splash sooner or later.”

Although prizefighting was illegal, that didn’t stop there being a well-organised underground ring where wealthy houders pitted their tough young indies against each other. The fights were brutal and only the best survived, the bodies of the losers being tossed into the water at the end of the evening with weights attached, never to be seen again. The so-called ‘Quarterlands splash’ had been the sad end for many a hungry young man like Fred.

“I had a best friend, growing up,” he said hesitantly, unused to sharing intimate details of his life with a stranger. “We both took up prizefighting as freelancers in our teens. He didn’t survive the ring – he was only sixteen when they threw his body into the water. Only the best make it.”

“Like you?” Fred asked.

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