Page 129 of Fighting Mr. Knight

The press will be outside by the time I leave. It won’t make the News at Ten but it’s enough to get the local rags mildly excited.

It’s clear Wicks gets special treatment. Like a V.I.P., he sits in a far corner away from the other prisoners with a prison guard entourage.

He extends his hand. Wicks expects me to rebuke him, but I take it with an iron grip, squeezing so tight I can feel the old man’s veins squishing.

I tower over the bald, slightly overweight man, meeting his gaze for the first time in a decade.

I could do serious damage to this guy. I’m trained well enough to crush him before the guards have time to react.

He knows this but he meets my gaze head-on with a certain steel in his eyes that proves the mind makes the man more than the muscle.

Donnie Wicks never loses his temper or cool. He has people to do that for him.

“Alright, lad.” He smiles, a relaxed smile that could trick you into believing the guy hadn’t been responsible for the death of at least twenty people. “Last time I saw you was the night you beat young Slater to a pulp. Great bloody fight that was.”

It’s a fucked-up opening but I expected no less. I remember that night. It was my last fight before Dad died.

I regard him coolly. I’m calm. Surprisingly calm for someone who has harboured a vendetta for ten years. But going on the attack with your enemy before they’ve shown their cards isn’t wise. I didn’t get to where I am today by doing that and neither did Wicks.

“Take a seat,” he says with the relaxed ease of someone inviting me in for an afternoon tea at his house.

I clear my throat and sit in the plastic chair. Plastic because at a max security prison, a steel or even wooden chair is the perfect weapon.

“Well? What is it you wanted to say to me?”

Three prison guards watch me like hawks. No doubt our conversation will be recorded covertly.

I notice the crucifix around his neck. It’s always the lifers that find God.

Donnie nods his head to one of the female prison guards. “Two teas, love.” He looks at me. “You like tea?”

I clench and unclench my jaw, which is starting to ache. “I’m not thirsty.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs and leans back in his chair like we have all fucking day to chit-chat. “You’ve come a long way since that fight. Your old nan would be proud, God rest her soul.”

“She’s not dead.”

He looks surprised. “Good on her.”

I lean over and fight the urge to put my hand around his neck. “Wanna get straight to the point, Wicks? I didn’t come here to have a nice chinwag.”

It’s only when he smiles that I notice how sick he is. Under the bravado is a weak sick man. Lung cancer, I was told.

The smile turns into a coughing fit to the point of choking. As his spittle lands on his chin, he takes out a handkerchief and gently wipes it away with a reserved calmness.

“Your nan’s a lucky sod,” he says, putting away the handkerchief. “She must have great health at her age.”

I sigh a frustrated breath. “Get to the point, Wicks.”

“Alright, alright. I’ve got no place to be.” He chuckles. “You’ve spent a lot of energy trying to nail me for your dad’s death. I get it, lad. I would have done a lot worse if the tables were turned.”

“And?” I snarl.

“I didn’t kill your old man.”

I actually laugh. A hateful laugh. “You drag me down here to say this shit?”

He puts his hands up. “It’s true. It’s a fucking paradox, right? The whole thing pointed to a revenge killing.”

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