Bronson tried to appear casual. “I shouldn’t have brought you here. If your boss is a bully, then I guess I am too. I should have been honest from the start.”

  Terence began kicking the car tyre, staring at the broken ground. “I don’t know who’s in that Mercedes, but I heard the driver say something once. He said, his next stop was the Cellar. Said there were new dogs coming in and the person in the back was a regular. That’s all I know. It didn’t make any sense.”

  Terence climbed into the passenger seat and played with the controls on the dashboard, making appreciative noises.

  Bronson leaned on the roof of his car, looking to the dilapidated entrance of the track. The racing hounds had moved on, the owners and enthusiasts trailing behind them. But a minority had lingered, empty betting slips in hand, searching for the adrenaline rush only gambling could bring them. Eventually, they’d found their fix in places like the Cellar where money was made in the flash of a smile and the snarl of a bite.

  Suddenly, Bronson wasn’t hungry anymore.

  Chapter Twenty

  In a terraced house in Seaburn, there was a sitting room where the curtains were drawn and the lights were off. The air was fetid, but the windows remained closed. He didn’t want a draught on his already cold bones.

  A pile of rags stirred on the floor and Scott emerged from the blankets like a spider from its nest, his spindly arms pulling himself upright. His teeth chattered and his throat was raw from sickness. He hadn’t eaten since he’d arrived, but his nausea was abating and Scott had an appetite.

  Monica kneeled beside him with a bowl of cereal. She was small, petite. Her once short hair had grown long and wiry, but her pretty face still warmed him.

  “It’s all we’ve got,” she said. “Sorry.”

  The smell of milk turned his stomach.

  “Thank you,” Scott said, ignoring the meal and placing a shaking hand on her pregnant bump. “Not long now.”

  “I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl. I didn’t want to find out. Not without you. What happened?”

  Scott remembered announcing his engagement to Monica on the staircase of Five Oaks’ great hall. His guests had been appalled, but he’d felt as if a light had been switched on inside him. He’d glowed at the thought of starting a family, but he also remembered how his brother had gate-crashed the party, stealing the thunder for himself.

  Scott was unclear on how much time had passed since that moment, but it seemed like yesterday to him. The hate he felt then was with him now. It had sustained him through his incarceration at the Playground.

  “I was taken,” he said, his voice croaking. “Kept like an animal.”

  “By who?” Monica asked.

  “By the man we burned alive.”

  After finding the phone in Clive’s shirt pocket, he’d called his fiancée for help. Monica had braved the Playground and its half-human occupants to find him and set him free, using the bolt cutters his captor had teased him with. She hadn’t flinched at Scott’s emaciated form when he’d been chained to the soiled bed or the way he spasmed from withdrawal now. Neither had she objected when he’d sought revenge on his captor.

  “I should have thanked you for rescuing me,” Scott said.

  Monica smiled, her eyes brimming with tears. “I never gave up hope. He’s Scott Dayton, I said to myself. He couldn’t be dead. No matter what they say.”

  “Knowing you were waiting for me gave me the strength to survive.”

  And it was true. Despite the nightmares and drug-induced fugue, his thoughts had been with Monica and the baby he wished to see born.

  “How are you?” he asked. “After what we did.”

  Scott had been too weak to do the deed himself. They had found Clive alone in his flat and without prompting, Monica had swung the bolt cutters to his head, knocking him unconscious. That would have been enough for her if it hadn’t been for Scott whispering in her ear. He persuaded and cajoled Monica into doing what he had imagined for so long. A death as awful as possible.

  Monica took his hand and squeezed. “We did what we had to do.”

  Where had she been, Scott wondered? Who had she been with? It didn’t matter in the end. Like him, Monica had done what was necessary to survive, but the woman he had proposed to wasn’t the same woman who had struck the match against Clive’s petrol soaked head.

  “What are we going to do next?” Monica asked.

  Scott struggled to his feet and with Monica’s help, made it to a sagging sofa. He sank into its embrace and beckoned her towards him.

  “I heard rumours in the Playground of a new drug on the scene,” he said. “Could be lucrative.”

  Monica wrapped protective arms around her bump. “We’re going to have a baby soon and you’re not well. This isn’t the right time.”

  “There won’t be another time,” Scott said, attempting to disguise the growl in his voice. “Look at this place. It’s disgusting. We need money. We need power. We need something. Whatever it is, we won’t find it down the back of this bloody sofa.”

  His breathing grew rapid and Scott began to cough. He clamped a hand over his mouth until he’d regained control.

  “You don’t know where I’ve been,” he said eventually. “We killed Clive, but it wasn’t him who put me in shackles. It was Bronson. He deserves the same fate as the Rat King of the Playground.”

  Monica shuffled to the edge of the sofa, looking back at Scott over her shoulder. “So what do you want? This new drug or to kill Bronson?”

  The effort of climbing out of his blankets had exhausted Scott. His body ached and he needed to rest. Closing his eyes, he thought about Monica’s question and the answer came easily.

  Scott didn’t know how, but he wanted them both.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Terence had finished off two burgers and a milkshake while Bronson pushed a glass of tap water around the table. He had dropped the boy off on the outskirts of the Playground and driven to Jarrow where night was descending on Henderson’s Pet Store. The shop’s window was dark, hiding the shapes of cardboard cut-outs of cats and dogs. The entrance was shut with a closed sign taped to the front.

  Bronson waited in a nearby doorway, his eyes moving from his watch to the pet store. After half an hour, he eased from the shadows and slipped down the street, hugging a wall.

  The Cellar was beneath the store and its entrance was in a back lane behind the shops. The streetlamps were broken, possibly on purpose and Bronson edged through the inky blackness. Pausing by a bin, he saw a halo of light surrounding a steel door. A man stood sentinel, draped in dark clothing. Eyes closed, he appeared to be humming to himself.

  Hoping for the element of surprise, Bronson moved quickly. He leapt in front of the guard, ready to swing the first of many fists.

  The guard opened his eyes and lifted a cautionary finger. He pulled the headphones from his ears and fiddled with his iPhone until the music stopped.

  “New Taylor Swift album,” he said, wrapping the leads into a bow.

  Bronson loosened his collar against the heat creeping up his neck.

  Bear was an ex-wrestler. He and Bronson had worked together as Dayton men, patrolling the grounds of Five Oaks. Bear’s stomach stretched over his belt, but he remained broad-shouldered. He tapped a monitor by his side and pointed into the lane. “Night vision cameras. No one sneaks up on me without me knowing.”

  “Should have known this place would be rigged,” Bronson said, flinching as Bear shook his hand in a massive paw. He nodded at the headphones. “Are you supposed to be listening to music while you’re on duty?”

  Bear glanced at the steel door behind him. “It helps to drown out the screaming. Don’t tell me you’re going in there?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  Something howled in pain and Bear moved closer to Bronson. “Well, there’s a lot of someones in there and most of them won’t like you.”

  “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

  “You know the rules, mate. You can’t take your grievances in with you.”

  In every city, there was neutral ground where criminals of differing stripes could socialise without fear of being harmed. The Cellar was such a place. At their core, gangsters were all the same and although they might fly under separate flags during the day, at night they enjoyed the company of like-minded people.

  “I wouldn’t go in if I didn’t have to,” Bronson said. “I’ll be ten minutes. Any longer and you can come and collect the body.”

  Bear produced a set of keys from his coat and fitted one into the door’s lock. “It’s a strict no tools policy. Are you carrying a weapon?”

  “Into a safe haven? No.”

  “Pity. You might have made it out in one piece.” Bear opened the door and they were met with a gush of steam and the coppery perfume of blood. “Seriously, though. Henderson is in there and he can always tell when someone has a weapon on them.”

  Bronson heard chanting and a whine that cut through him like a lance. It lasted forever, grating on him, setting his teeth on edge.

  “Why do you work in such a hole?” Bronson asked.

  “You fired me when the money ran out, remember? Not everyone was as lucky as you.”

  If this was luck, then it was all bad, thought Bronson. He stood at the top of a flight of stone steps before holding onto a wall as he navigated his way down. Another door waited for him, this one partially open. He paused outside, adjusting the sleeve of his shirt where he’d hidden the crowbar.

  Bear had always been bad at his job.

  “And thank the Lord for that,” Bronson whispered as he slipped into the Cellar.

  The room was packed with sweaty bodies, their faces twisted in anguish or glee. They clutched wads of notes in grubby fists, waving them at a sunken pit in the floor. Bronson pushed through them, keeping his head down, but glancing up whenever he could. The owner of the Mercedes was in here somewhere. Bronson only hoped he would recognise them when it mattered.

  He moved through tables bolted to the floor, his ankles deep in discarded betting slips. In the corner was a bar and next to it were two men by a blackboard, furiously modifying the odds in chalk as they snatched money from the punters.

  Henderson the pet store owner stood on a wooden box, head and shoulders above the gamblers. He was in his fifties with muscles like corded rope. He loomed over the pit, his shirt open and beads of sweat collecting in the grey hairs of his chest. By his side was a mangy Alsatian on a length of chain.

  Unlike everyone else, Henderson wasn’t holding money. His payment came from a percentage of the bets placed. In his hand was a microphone.

  “And that’s the final round for this match,” he shouted, spraying saliva over the darkened pit. “A round of applause for our fierce competitors.”

  The winners cheered. The losers groaned, but they all shared in the ovation. Bronson backed away from the pit, not wanting to witness the carnage. If the rumours were true, then he already knew what was down there.

  But the crowd swelled forwards, taking him with it.

  The pit was five foot deep and layered with sawdust. Some of it was clotted with blood. Some of it wet with urine where a competitor had pissed himself in terror. The fight had finished, but the victors remained at the height of frenzy. Two men in ragged trousers kicked at the body of another who had long since left this world.

  The crowd parted, allowing a man wearing a protective butcher’s apron to jump into the concrete arena. He forced the homeless men into a corner where they cowered from his boot. Scooping up the loser, he dragged the body to a trapdoor under the sawdust and fed it into a waiting void below.

  And the crowd bayed their approval.

  There was no room to manoeuvre. For every step Bronson took, he was pushed back to his original position. The air was close and he fought for breath. Jabbing an elbow into someone’s stomach, Bronson created enough space to slide into it and from there, he was able to gain further distance away from the pit. The crowd thinned and he stepped into open ground, but slipped on a mound of betting slips. Stumbling, he grabbed the nearest table, saving himself from a fall. He stood upright, his cheek twitching and looked directly into the face of Eleanor Maguire.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Eleanor sipped from a cocktail and twirled a paper umbrella around her glass. At the bottom, an olive rolled like a body caught in the currents of the River Tyne. Her hair was lacquered into a grey bun and her cheekbones had a hint of rouge. Her silver handled walking stick rested against her useless leg.

  “Don’t tell me you’re the woman in the Mercedes making a move on Clive’s patch?” Bronson asked.

  Eleanor smoothed out the wrinkles in her neck. “Are you carrying a weapon?”

  Bronson rolled his wrist, checking the crowbar was still taped to his arm. “They’d beat me to a pulp if I brought in a tool. I came to talk, that’s all.”

  “Then let’s talk,” Eleanor said. “The Maguires are expanding. That shouldn’t be a surprise to you.”

  “No, but I’m surprised you’re getting your hands dirty.”

  Eleanor finished her drink. She caught the olive in her back teeth and made slurping noises as she sucked the skin dry of oil. “It was my daughter’s idea. Like the Daytons, the Devil’s Playground was always considered off limits. Things change, apparently and I’ve been given a day job.”

  “You’ve gone from ruling with a manicured fist to using children to sell your heroin. Is Angel here with you?”

  The empty cocktail glass rang when Eleanor flicked it with a nail. “She’s not a well girl. I’m afraid the theft of her merchandise has sent her over the edge. I pity the man who meets her on the other side of that madness.”

  Bronson rested his elbows on the table. “Perhaps she just needs a stern hand.”

  Eleanor readjusted the grey bun on her head. “I’ve never seen you here before. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  The way out, thought Bronson. He’d come looking to unload his stolen merchandise and hadn’t imagined he might find the person he stole it from. It was clear the Maguires’ hold over the drug market was tightening and Bronson was reluctant to have that same hold around his throat.

  He was shoved to one side as a drunken gambler collapsed upon him. Bronson grabbed him by his clothing and hurled him into an unappreciative crowd.

  “I came for the atmosphere,” he said. “It reminds me of Christmas with my family.”

  Eleanor didn’t look amused. “Let me offer you a deal. I want you to do right by my daughter. Give her the cocaine back. Angel is desperate to prove she can rise above her many insecurities. Give her back what she deserves to have.”

  A movement in the swirling crowd caught Bronson’s eye. He’d been spotted. Henderson and his grey chest were forging a path towards them.

  “We already have a buyer,” Bronson said.

  “Good try, my dear, but the Playground is full of rats. I have one called Terence and he tells me your scabby friend Clive is dead. Every other dealer in the city works for the Maguires. You won’t be able to sell it anywhere else.”

  Bad news travelled fast, especially in places like Henderson’s Cellar. The exact details of Clive’s death would circulate soon enough. After that would come speculations about the perpetrator and Bronson didn’t want to be around when those questions arose.

  “I’ll buy the merchandise from you,” Eleanor said, “at half its original price. Consider it a finder’s fee, but I have one condition. Angel isn’t to know. I want my daughter to think she’s won.”

  “What a wonderful mother you are. I had always believed the Maguire women ate their young.”

  Eleanor shifted in her seat. “This is your only deal. Back out of this and it will be over for you. Do we have an agreement?”

  The hulking crowd parted. Henderson was near enough to smell.

  “I’ll have to convince Daniel,” Bronson said, easing away.

  But Eleanor grabbed his hand. “If we have an agreement, we’ll need to shake on it.”

  “Fine,” Bronson said. The tape holding the crowbar to his arm came loose as they shook. It slid from his sleeve, clattering onto the table. Eleanor looked upon it in horror and Bronson turned to find Henderson over his shoulder, his muscles bunched and a snarl on his face.

  “You have a weapon,” Henderson shouted.

  The crowd gathered around and reached out for Bronson. The room was a swirl of angry faces and he was dragged towards the pit. Teetering over the edge, he saw the sawdust caked in blood.

  Henderson sprang onto his makeshift podium, microphone in hand. “New match, ladies and gentlemen. Place your bets.”

  Bawls of excitement rolled around the Cellar like thunder. The crowd surged to the tables, scribbling furiously on their betting slips. A cloud of chalk dust covered the bookies as they changed and re-changed Bronson’s chances of survival. The first bead of sweat trickled down his spine as he glanced at the blackboard. His final odds of continued existence weren’t inspiring.

  “You don’t want to do this,” he said to Henderson, but the pet store owner grinned, his teeth like tombstones.

  “This is exactly what I want to do,” he said. “Break the rules, you pay the price.”

  The crowd chatted amongst themselves, rubbing their hands. They stood in a jostling semi-circle. Their depravity was electric.

  The man in the protective apron appeared by the pit and Henderson beckoned him over. They swapped hushed whispers until Henderson handed over his dog.

  The Alsatian strained on the leash, its snapping jaws laced with froth. It whined, nostrils flaring as it detected blood. The dog bolted at Bronson who scrambled out of harm’s way.

  “Looks like we’ve got a live one,” Henderson said to a laughing audience. “Blink and you’ll miss it.”

  Bronson was tipped into the pit, landing with a grunt. Sawdust rose like angry wasps. Shaking it from his hair, he scrambled on his hands and knees into a corner. Bronson jumped to his feet, but the crowd crushed him down with their boots.

 

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