Page 54 of Mean Machine

Very strange to go up to a hotel room without anybody waiting for him. It was a two-bedroom suite, and Brooklyn did nothing for a few minutes but take in the caramel-and-cream interior. Nothing he could ever have afforded when he’d still been employed and had wanted only to have a regular life, unlike what his parents had had.

He eventually sat down, found the remote, and rotated through several dozen channels before he found the rerun of the match. People were talking about his “remarkable staying power” and Thorne’s “brutal strength.” It seemed so very familiar and at the same time like it didn’t concern him at all. When the post-fight interview with Thorne came on, he turned the sound down to almost nothing and then raided the minibar. He definitely wasn’t going to watch Les tell lies or Cash trying to salvage his honour.

The phone rang.

He was about to let it ring, but he wiped some peanut shells off his shirt and answered anyway.

“A Mr Bishop is here for you, Mr Marshall.”

Oh Jesus. Fuck.“Send him up.”

No, don’t. Just go away.He gathered the wrappers and little bottles and tossed them into the bin. A polite knock startled him out of the nervous preparations, and he went to the door with a sense of impending doom.

Nathaniel. Carrying a leather portfolio. Wearing a tie. God, he looked like something from the cover of a lawyer magazine.

“May I come in?”

“Sure.” The formality threw him. There was so much distance in that straight-backed pose and the noncommittal expression, Brooklyn would have preferred to be shouted or sneered at. Then at least he’d have known what he was facing.

Nathaniel moved to the living room, cast a glance at the large-screen TV that seemed disapproving enough for Brooklyn to switch it off, and sat down. He placed his hands on the leather folder, and Brooklyn realised Nathaniel was as nervous as he was by the way he seemed to have to force himself to stay so still and rigid.

“Okay, let me get this straight. Why the fuck are you here? As one of my shareholders?”

Nathaniel looked up at him. “Not exactly.”

“Answer the bloody question.”

“Very well.” Nathaniel inhaled deeply. “I’m here as an intermediary between a third party and ISU, as well as your other shareholders.”

“Why you?”

“Because I’m the only fully trained solicitor.” Nathaniel opened the folder. “I also asked for it, as I felt I should explain myself to you.” He glanced at Brooklyn, seemed to not see what he was looking for, and took a pile of papers from the folder. “These are your account statements. You’ve seen the ones for the past few years, but not these. You’ll see the total owed, money earned, the value of the shares. You’ll see that your fight purse was enough to pay off everything.”

“What about your share?”

“Same. You’re free and clear. I’ve already submitted the paperwork to the legal oversight committee, who will review your case, and while they in theory could incarcerate you again, this is just a formality.”

“A formality?”

“Yes, because a royal act of pardon supersedes it in any case.”

“What?” He pulled the papers over and spotted an elaborate coat of arms in the header.

Nathaniel inched closer and straightened the papers before Brooklyn. “An eminent person has petitioned on your behalf, which has been granted. Her Majesty the Queen has deemed you worthy of her pardon.”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

“English case law is a jungle. The right to petition the queen or king was established around 1752.” Nathaniel’s lips twitched. “It took a while to dig it up. Apparently, the Royal Household was more aware of the law. But, well, here it is. Signed and effective immediately.”

“Free?”

Nathaniel nodded. “Congratulations.”

“Why?”

“Seems there might be a boxing fan in the Royal Family.” He smiled a little.

“No. No. That’s too fast. I’m too slow for this. What the fuck is going on?”

---