Authors: Euan Leckie
‘Look. Here.’ Stevo pointed at the spatters of dried blood. He acted like it was the greatest thing in the world. ‘Look at the bottom of that bale you just pulled out.’
It was coated a dark, reddish brown.
‘This isn’t right,’ said Tom, looking down into the open space. ‘It shouldn’t happen. It’s cruel.’
‘You don’t know, mate. Not until you’ve been at a fight. Dogs that go in there want it, see? It’s in the blood …’
‘It’s in
your
blood,’ Tom countered under his breath. Stevo carried on, ignoring the look of disgust on his friend’s face.
‘… They don’t call the trainers “dog-men” for nothing. You’ve got to make a dog hard and dangerous for the pit. When the pups first come, they’re meek as lambs. Once my stepdad’s had them a while, you can’t recognise them. He turns them into machines. These ain’t pooches, Tom. These are the real thing. You should see the crowd. You should see the dogs. It’s fucking mental in here when it kicks off.’
‘You can keep it,’ spat Tom. ‘It’s so wrong. I want to get out of here.’
‘Well, I got
you
wrong, didn’t I?’ Stevo eyed him suspiciously. ‘Alright, we’ll go. But you promised: not a fucking word. To anyone.’
‘I don’t want to know any more about it. It stinks.’
They replaced the bales.
Once out of the window and back in the fresh air, Stevo took a moment to patch up the dislodged board and walked round to the front of the barn, Tom following him. The dogs were still barking.
‘Don’t s’pose you want to see his dogs, then? See what it’s really about.’
Tom thought for a moment, his curiosity about the dogs getting the better of him. However much the place sickened him, he felt he had to see them.
‘Okay,’ he said, half-heartedly. ‘If you like.’
‘That’s better. They treadmill them in there,’ Stevo added as they passed the second of the barns. ‘Force them to run. Work the lungs and build up stamina. So they go longer in the pit, even when they’re cut up.’
The appalled look on Tom’s face made him wonder whether he should carry on.
‘Bait them in there too, on the Jenny,’ he continued after a moment. ‘He’s got everything: springpoles, flirtpoles. It’s the business. That’s why his dogs go best.’
‘What d’you mean, bait them?’ Tom couldn’t stop himself asking.
‘They give them a cat or a small dog to play with, ones they nick off the estates. They chase them on the Jenny.’
Stevo grinned when he noted the distinct lack of comprehension on Tom’s face.
‘It’s a circular run with a rotating arm that they're tied onto,’ he explained. ‘Dogs chase ’em round and round for hours on it. Or they just string them up on the springpoles and let the dogs latch on. Dogs tear them to pieces, really gets their blood up.’ Stevo’s enthusiasm was almost as shocking as the horrors he was describing. ‘You can’t beat rolling them, though; a few minutes with another dog gives them a taste for it, gets them used to being bitten, so they learn to ignore the pain. Then it’s not such a shock when they’re matched for the first time.’
As they arrived at the smallest of the barns, the threatening barking rose to a piercing pitch. Stevo fumbled about in his pocket, bringing out a single key. He held it up in front of Tom.
‘This is his spare,’ he said, the nervous grin on his face looking more like a frown. ‘He’ll kill me if he finds out I’ve taken it. I’m risking it for you, mate.’
Stevo appeared to enjoy walking the tightrope that seemed to be his life, getting his kicks from crossing perilous lines and breaking rules. Tom wondered how long it would be before he got him into some kind of trouble.
‘We’re not going to go in there, are we?’ he asked, the noise from behind the door making him anxious.
‘Course we are. Don’t worry, they’re all caged and chained. Just like to make a bit of noise, that’s all. Let you know they’re there. Keep out any unwanted visitors, eh?’
He placed the key in the lock, turned it and swung open the door. The noise level doubled. Tom was taken aback by the stench of excrement, the air heady with ammonia.
‘Fucking stinks, don’t it?’ said Stevo, grimacing as he stepped inside. ‘Come on, then.’
Tom could hardly hear him over the barking. As he followed Stevo into the gloomy barn, he grabbed at his nose, leaping back when the dog in the first of the cages jumped up at him. It struggled against its chains, just feet away, eyes wild and lips curled back in a deep snarl, blood-red gums showing over its bite.
‘You’re alright,’ Stevo reassured him. ‘They can’t get you.’ To prove his point, he kicked at the cage, sending the dog back on its feet: ‘Can you?’
Tom felt genuinely sick, the stink in the barn almost too much for him. He covered his face with his hand, watching the dog as it circled its soiled cage.
‘That’s Mugger,’ said Stevo. ‘Fucking great, ain’t he? He’s his number one. Just uses him for studding now.’
As he looked him over, Tom noticed the dog’s cropped ears, cut back to little more than stumps, the mutilation giving him a permanently malevolent look. His fangs flashed as he growled at them, their whiteness intensified by the animal’s sleek, jet-black coat.
‘What kind is he?’
‘Pit bull.’
‘I thought they weren’t allowed.’
‘Nor’re guns, are they?’ said Stevo. ‘Or knives, drugs: you name it. Not like anyone’s going to find them, is it?’
‘Where do they come from?’
‘He breeds them. Keeps the best pups for himself, sells whatever’s left. Big money in it. Sometimes he gets them off a mate who checks out the sanctuaries, if they’re good quality and look like Irish or American. There’s enough around, if you know what you’re looking for.’
‘Look at the scars on him,’ said Tom. There were so many puncture wounds and scratches speckling the dog’s face and forelegs, they looked like mottling in the fur.
As Mugger got used to their presence, he quietened down. Tom felt sorry for this dog, pathetically cramped in his cage, his life a never-ending ordeal of abuse and incarceration. He was still just a dog, regardless of what Stevo’s dad had turned him into.
‘This one’s Tess.’
The dog in the cage next to Mugger was slightly smaller, a brindle bitch. She stood making no sound, hackles raised and head lowered, eyes constantly on them. Tom thought she looked scared.
‘She’s pregnant. Can you see the bulge of her belly? He covered her with Mugger. Reckons they’ll be the best pups he’s ever had. Going to get them off her quick this time; she killed two of her last ones. Pissed him right off; cost him a packet.’
‘Not surprised she’d do that,’ said Tom, sadly. ‘Not when they’re kept like this. It must drive them mad.’
‘That’s the whole point. It breeds all that aggression back into the pups, so they’re easier to bring on. All they need after that is someone who knows what he’s doing and how to get the best out of them. These ain’t pets. Once they’ve had it lashed in, you don’t want them at home. Not unless you want to get someone killed.’
The next cage was empty, but just as filthy as the others. Tom moved on to the last in the line.
‘This is Jeffo.’
Tom leaned down to get a better look. This one wasn’t much larger than the bitch, his head not as bull-like as Mugger’s, more in proportion with his body. He cowered back into the corner of his cage, hiding in the shadows.
‘Jeffo,’ Tom whispered. He crouched and put his hand on the mesh of the cage door. ‘Jeffo,’ he said again, quietly. ‘Come on, boy.’
His voice seemed to stir the animal. Standing up, Jeffo took a moment to better see who was there, then took a couple of steps forward, into the light, looking up with the saddest eyes Tom had ever seen. They were bright yet timid, spaced far apart on the white head, almost puppy-like. A surge of emotion rushed through Tom as he looked back at this dog; it was just like the one in the picture with his mum.
‘This one’s from a sanctuary, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah,’ replied Stevo, slightly nonplussed. ‘How did you know? Haven’t had him long. Not long enough to really get him going.’
‘He shouldn’t be here, can’t you see that?’ Tom was getting angry. ‘He’s not like the others. He’s not even the same type. He’s tame.’
‘What would you know about it?’
‘I can see it.’ Tom tapped his fingers against the front of the cage. ‘It’s okay, Jeffo. I’m not going to hurt you.’
Jeffo took a couple more steps forward. His tail wagged tentatively and he drew his lips back over his teeth, not in a snarl, but in what to Tom seemed like a plea not to be mistreated. A tear welled up in Tom’s eye; he quickly wiped it away, so Stevo wouldn’t see.
Jeffo edged closer to Tom’s fingers, which wriggled through the mesh, urging him on. Any timidity evaporated the moment contact was made. He became animated, tail wagging in earnest as he licked Tom’s fingers, turning this way and that as he tried to find the best position to be patted. It was like a reunion: as if they knew one another, the sadness in the dog’s brown eyes mirroring his own. Tom wondered whether Jeffo had lost someone too.
‘Alright, boy.’
Tom tried to ignore the dog’s welts and cuts, the sight of them infuriating him. He concentrated his attention on giving Jeffo a few moments of friendship and kindness.
‘I wouldn’t get too cosy with that one,’ said Stevo, behind him.
‘Why not?’ Tom couldn’t take his eyes off Jeffo.
‘’Cos he’s the one matched for Friday night.’
‘He can’t fight. Look at him. He wouldn’t stand a chance.’
‘Ain’t meant to. I overheard him talking about it with his mate. The fight’s a fix. They’re doing a deal with some bloke. Needs a loser, doesn’t he?’
‘What d’you mean, “loser”?’
‘For the knackers, ain’t it?’ replied Stevo, without any hint of emotion. ‘They need a dog that’ll stay, that’s all. Don’t matter it won’t go on the attack, as long as it can take a hold or two. See the chest on him? Those lungs’ll keep him in it. Match should last, whatever they put him up against.’
Tom couldn’t believe what he was hearing. In that instant, he hated Stevo. What he had seen and heard horrified him. It needed to be stopped.
‘Come on.’ Stevo suddenly sounded anxious. ‘We need to get going. We’ve been here way too long already.’
‘I can’t believe your dad’s going to fight him. Can’t we just let him go?’
‘Are you taking the piss? No chance. If he finds out I’ve been here, he’ll have me. What d’you think he’d do if one of his dogs went missing?’ Stevo was getting heated. ‘Look, we’ve got to get going. He could turn up anytime, and you’re going to get me in the shit. You want that?’
‘Course not.’
‘Well, fucking move it, then. We’ve got to go.’
‘Don’t worry,’ whispered Tom, making sure Stevo didn’t hear him. He looked into Jeffo’s eyes. ‘It’ll be alright. I won’t let them hurt you. I promise.’
He pulled himself away. Jeffo jumped up at the cage, gnawing desperately at the mesh, not wanting to be left behind, his eyes begging Tom not to go. When Tom turned to walk to the barn door, Jeffo began to bark.
As he watched Stevo lock the door behind them, Tom willed himself not to cry. He felt like retching and sucked in the fresh air deeply to control it, aware he needed to keep it together. He needed to know more, banking on Stevo’s inability to keep his mouth shut.
‘Why doesn’t your dad fight the bigger dogs from his kennels?’ he asked, trying to sound as if nothing had changed between them as they headed back down the track, like he had enjoyed seeing the whole miserable set-up.
‘You wouldn’t want to be in a pit with Roland or Lucas once they get going.’ The very idea of it made Stevo smirk. ‘They turn on you when they’re full tilt, and you’re dead, mate. Crush your bones to dust.’ He stopped to light a cigarette, offering the packet to Tom.
‘No. Don’t want one.’
‘Big dogs ain’t as good anyway,’ Stevo continued as they started walking again. ‘No speed. No stamina either. You can trust pitters in a fight, you’ve got to if you’re in with them. They’re so loyal, they’d sooner die than go at their handlers. They can stick at it for hours once they’ve been properly tuned up. Always come back for more, even when they’re hurt real bad. My stepdad says he’s seen them crawl across the pit with broken legs, just to get back into a fight.’
Tom wasn’t sure which he wanted more: to be sick on the spot, or to punch Stevo in the face.
‘And they’re fighting again this Friday?’ he asked innocently.
‘Friday night. Ten o’clock. He reckons it’s going to be well brutal.’
They jumped over the gate at the end of the track and marched up the road, keeping to the verge, Stevo constantly watching out for cars and his stepdad. Tom was silent walking beside him, already decided about what he was going to do. He began to pick up the pace. He needed to get home.
Keith groaned as his eyes blinked open. The room was spinning and his head felt ready to burst. He dragged an arm across his face to shut out the daylight streaking through the curtains, then lay still, fully clothed and sweating beneath the sheets. The taste in his mouth and stale smell of his breath made him nauseous. He couldn’t remember getting home.
When he finally managed to drag himself out of bed, it took him a minute to find his balance. Walking unsteadily to the bathroom, he got in the shower, the first splash of cold water shocking the worst of the hangover from him. As his head cleared and the events of the previous evening came crashing back, he felt increasingly angry with himself. He scrubbed the soap roughly into his wet hair and over his face, ashamed for having used the knife to humiliate his son when he should have been trying to help him. As he got out of the shower and dried himself off, he tried to put Tom’s wounded look out of his mind.
When he came downstairs it was bright outside, already into the afternoon. A smell of burnt toast hung in the air and led a trail to the kitchen. The sink was full and a plate, streaked with half-eaten leftovers of his dawn fry-up, lay on the table next to a near-empty bottle of vodka. Shaking off the desire to go back upstairs and lie down, he opened the back door and set to work tidying up. When the dishes were done and everything else was cleared away, he picked up the bottle and binned it.
After making himself a strong black coffee, he sat down at the table, turning on the radio for company. Head in hands, he drifted as he waited for Tom to come home. He wondered what Gayle would think if she knew how badly things were going for them; that her son was so unhappy, he was harming himself. A desperate feeling of loneliness swept over him as he tried to think of a way to show Tom how much he loved him, that he was all that really mattered.
The phone ringing made him sit up with a start. It was Sonia.
‘I hate to be a bother, Keith, but I was wondering if I could ask a favour?’
‘Sure. What’s up?’ he asked, picking up on the stress in her voice.
‘It’s my car. It’s ticking over but I just can’t seem to get it started. You wouldn’t come over and have a look for me? I wouldn’t ask, but I really need it to get in to see Mum again. I’ve had another call from the home …’
It was the last thing he needed. ‘How quickly do you need to get up there?’
‘As soon as I can. I’d take the bus, only you know what they’re like round here, and it’s not the easiest place to get back from if it’s late.’
‘Don’t worry. If it’s ticking over, I should be able to get it going. I’ll bring the jump-leads. If I can’t start it, I’ll give you a lift.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, sounding relieved. ‘It’s really kind of you. Hopefully it won’t come to that.’
‘Give us half an hour.’
Keith hung up and made himself another coffee. The five o’clock news came on the radio, but there was still no sign of Tom. He waited as long as he could before getting his things together and fetching his toolbox from the back. His shoes on, he headed out of the door, throwing the toolbox onto the back seat of the car. Having checked the boot for the jump-leads, he got in and drove off, keeping an eye out for Tom.
***
Tom’s mood lifted when he saw his dad’s car wasn’t parked in the street. It would make things easier without him there; no need to lie. All he had to do was get rid of Stevo, who had stuck to him like glue and insisted on walking all the way back home with him. Tom only agreed because he didn’t want him to suspect anything. He even feigned interest when Stevo hassled him about phoning Alison and fixing him up with her friend. Not that he was going to; Tom didn’t want him anywhere near Alison. Stevo and his ‘dog-man’ dad could go to hell.
‘Someone’s been having a go, eh?’ Stevo said as they arrived at the house. He pointed out the broken pane in the bedroom window.
Tom glanced up briefly at the shattered glass, not about to go into what had happened.
‘Going to ask me in, then, Tom? Show me round the palace?’
Tom noticed the sneer on Stevo’s face as he gave the front of the tiny pebble-dashed semi the once-over, but his only concern was getting him away as quickly and efficiently as he could. What he thought of the house didn’t matter; it was going to be the last time he ever saw it.
‘Just for a minute, okay?’ said Tom. ‘I’ve got some things I need to do. Dad won’t be expecting anyone when he gets back.’
‘No worries. I only want to get a drink. I need to be getting back anyway. Got some business tonight, ain’t I? Couple of drops to make.’
The news pleased Tom. If all it was going to take to get rid of Stevo was give him a drink, then he would oblige.
‘Nice place you got here,’ said Stevo, taking the piss as they entered the rundown council house.
‘I’ll get you that drink.’
Tom led him into the kitchen. He grabbed a mug from the basin and filled it from the tap, not bothering to wash it out first, watching impatiently as Stevo glugged it down.
‘Get us another, eh?’ Stevo demanded, wiping his shirt sleeve across his mouth as he handed back the mug. ‘That yours?’ he asked, eyeing Tom’s old red chopper that was standing against the wall near the kitchen door.
‘Yeah,’ replied Tom, giving him a ‘so?’ look. But for once Stevo said nothing and just drank down his water.
‘I’ve got to get on,’ said Tom, hurrying him up. ‘Me and Dad are off for a couple of days tomorrow. He’s taking us fishing. Said I’d have everything ready for when he gets back. Give us your number and I’ll ring you next week. Sort out seeing Alison and her mate.’
Stevo seemed happy enough as he scribbled down his name, number and address on the note paper, the thoroughness of the details intended to leave Tom no excuse for not contacting him.
‘Right, then,’ said Tom, glancing briefly at the note before sticking it to the fridge as a further act of reassurance. ‘Dad’ll be back any minute.’
‘Oh, yeah. We don’t want plod after us, do we? Just remember to give us a call when you get back, set things up with those birds. Oh, and not a word, yeah?’ He put a finger to his lips. ‘Keep it shut.’
Tom led him to the front door and ushered him out. He waved, even managing a smile as Stevo walked down the street.
‘Put in a good word for me when you speak to that Alison,’ Stevo shouted back at him. ‘Tell her how great I am.’ He swaggered off.
‘Arsehole.’
When Stevo was out of sight, Tom shut the door and ran upstairs to his room. He went straight to the cupboard and opened it, rummaging around until he found his rucksack. The bag, its red nylon material rough and torn around the edges, hadn’t been used in ages. It was smaller than he remembered, but just what was needed: easier to carry on his bike. Unbuckling the flap at the back, he stuffed in some clothes.
On his way out of the room, he took his windcheater off the door peg, cramming it into the rucksack as well as he sped downstairs to the front room. He searched around for his penknife, delighted to find it stuffed down the back of the sofa. Slipping it into his jeans pocket, he stepped back into the hallway. Pulling out the fishing bags and equipment from the cupboard under the stairs, he looked for anything he thought might be useful, putting a small black flask to one side. A couple more things and he would be ready.
Back in the kitchen, Tom poked around in the fridge and cupboards for food, but there was nothing worth taking. Instead, he grabbed a small milk pan and put it on the table with the other items he had collected. These, too, he packed into the rucksack, squeezing the wooden-handled lump hammer and groundsheet in as best he could. Having filled the flask with water from the tap, he put it in last. The rucksack was nearly full, leaving just enough space for the bits and pieces he wanted to pick up from the shop.
Sitting down at the kitchen table, he quickly scribbled out a note for his dad. The cut on his hand stretched painfully under his bandages as he wrote. The tightness of the material made holding the pen tricky, but it was important his dad didn’t think he had just run off for no reason. He didn’t want him to worry, or come looking.
Wheeling his bike outside, Tom locked the back door behind him, positioning the rucksack so that it sat comfortably and securely on his back. Having pushed the bike round to the front of the house, he jumped on and raced down the street.
***
He was still breathing hard when he placed his armful of items onto the counter: five minutes later and the shop would have been shut. The middle-aged lady at the till smiled at him as she scanned in the amounts for the food, tins and cans of drink. As she did so, he took four Mars Bars from the rack in front of him and handed them over as well. About to ask for cigarettes, he stopped himself; he didn’t want or need them.
Once out of the shop, it took a few minutes to fit everything he’d bought into the rucksack; it looked like a ripe tomato by the time he finished, tight and ready to burst. The weight of it pressed into his back when he slung it over his shoulder, and he hoped its torn material would hold.
A nervous sensation rippled through the pit of Tom’s stomach as he got back on the bike and started riding, the feeling growing all the time as he cycled through the town, sweat making his grip on the handlebars slippery as he sped along. He felt scared, his mind racing with ideas of what might happen should he get caught. A thought of his mum gave him courage and he cycled even faster, sure she would want him to go through with it.
‘Shit!’
He suddenly realised he had forgotten something, probably the most important thing of all. It was too late to turn around and go back; his dad might have returned home. An idea came to him and he carried on.
Beyond the town, he stopped at the service station on the dual carriageway roundabout. Inside, he looked around the aisles to see if he could find what he was after, but there didn’t seem to be anything appropriate.
‘’Scuse me,’ he asked the attendant at the counter. ‘Have you got anything like rope in the shop?’
‘Depends. What’s it for?’
Tom thought for a moment. ‘So I can tie my bag onto the back of my bike.’
‘Well, we don’t stock any rope, but if you look down there,’ said the man, leaning over the counter and pointing to the back corner of the shop, ‘you’ll find some stretch cords, ones with hooks on the end. They’ll do it.’
Tom went and checked them over, picking up the sixteen- and twelve-inch lengths. Satisfied, he took them back to the counter, paid, then hurried back outside. Once the cords were safely tied around the back of his bike saddle, Tom got on, taking a deep breath as he set off for the footpath, trying to shake off the giddy mix of nerves and excitement churning inside him. He was just a matter of minutes away.
Despite the relief of finally making it across the busy carriageway and into the village, Tom was acutely conscious of being spotted, exposed as he was on the narrow village road. Every time a car passed, he turned his head away, wondering if the driver might be Stevo’s dad.
Passing the last of the houses, he let the bike freewheel as the road sloped down into the countryside ahead of him. Within a few minutes, he was pulling up in front of the gated track that led to the barns.
Tom’s heart pounded in his chest. Removing the rucksack, he walked his bike onto the verge and was just about to pull the latch on the gate when he heard a car coming up behind him. With nowhere to go, he crouched down, pretending he was checking his bike’s back wheel. As he watched the car pass by and carry on up the road, a fresh surge of adrenalin shot through his veins, throbbing in his fingertips. Taking one more look up and down the road, he opened the gate.
Once on the dirt track, Tom unravelled the stretch cords, laying his bike down and hiding it in the undergrowth. He hurried up the track, his fear at being caught making him doubt himself and whether he should go through with it. Even as he was on the verge of faltering, the image of Jeffo chained in his cage spurred him forward. Whatever happened, Tom knew he couldn’t leave him.
Carried on the still air, the sound of barking sent a shiver through him. He wondered if the dogs could have sensed his approach from so far away, whether they had heard or smelled him, or worse, whether someone was already up there with them. Stepping off the track, he pushed his way as far into the bushes as he could, using the field fencing hidden behind them for balance as he crept forward and forced his way through the branches. He was concentrating on trying not to make any noise as he tiptoed over the carpet of dry leaves underfoot, when another sound stopped him dead. Turning his head, he listened intently: voices, faint in the distance. Commands being shouted. He crouched lower, trying to control, and quieten, his breathing.
The bushes were thicker and harder to negotiate as he neared the barns. Although it made his progress slower, Tom was grateful for the extra cover, and for his green sweatshirt, which provided camouflage and some protection from the prickly foliage. He inched his way forward until he could just see the buildings and the parked black 4x4 in front of them. Removing his rucksack, he dragged it behind him as he crawled along on his belly to get a better view.
No more than a couple of hundred feet away, two men were leading the dogs out of the second barn. Tom hardly dared to breathe.
‘Hold them tight, Andy,’ said the larger of the men as he stood at the back of the car and opened the boot. He took out a workman’s glove and put it on.
Andy, smaller and wiry, was doing his best to hold onto the chains and keep the dogs at his sides. They were the dogs Tom had seen earlier: Mugger and Tess. Both started barking at the larger man when he turned round and walked back from the car holding a black cat by its neck. Their eyes bulged wildly and they started frothing at the mouth, jaws snapping ferociously.
The man thrust the cat in front of Mugger, taunting him with it. Then he did the same to Tess, shaking the struggling creature violently at her. An electrifying sound of spitting and hissing erupted as the dogs lunged at the cat, their bites falling short by inches. The cat’s legs flailed wildly in a useless attempt to free itself, its thrashing claws making no impact on the man’s gloved hand.