The Virus, Lee, Damien [summer beach reads .txt] 📗

He watched as Andrew Hardy rose to his feet, shaking his head and blinking hard. Frank advanced, eager to keep the man down. As he neared, a firm hand from within the crowd grabbed his shoulder. He felt himself being dragged back. He turned as a fist smashed into his face. The roar of the crowd intensified as Frank reeled away. Tears stung his eyes, blurring his vision as more blood gushed out of his nose. He could see his attacker being subdued by members of the crowd; prisoners and corrupt guards alike. A barrage of punches rained down on the foolhardy assailant as he was dragged away.

Frank composed himself, blinking hard and wiping away the warm fluid with the back of his hand. He glanced back at his opponent and saw that he was now bouncing on the balls of his feet. Twin lacerations adorned Hardy’s lip, and he had a deep cut above his left brow. Blood trickled from the wound into his eye, causing him to squeeze it shut. With the temporary distortion to his opponent’s vision, Frank knew he had to act fast.

He raced forward, throwing a flurry of punches to Hardy’s face. The man dodged and weaved; successful at evading some, but not all of the blows. One fist caught him in the mouth, snapping his jaw sideways. Blood and spittle sprayed the jeering onlookers. The man’s fractured jaw hung limply as Frank finished him with a powerful uppercut. The force of the punch snapped Hardy’s head back. He fell, hitting the ground hard.

The crowd roared with a mixture of emotions. Some cursed, others cheered. The punters quickly exchanged cigarettes, drugs and other commodities before they dispersed. Those that had profited from the brawl hung around to congratulate the victor. Those that had backed his opponent slunk away, muttering obscenities under their breath. Frank turned as a man clasped his shoulder.

“You did well, Frankie.”

Gus Razor grinned as he passed him a shirt. Frank took the garment and used it to wipe his bloody face. He tossed it back to Razor’s bodyguard. The thug was a man-mountain. At almost seven feet tall and thirty stone, ‘Big Tony’ Swales was one of the toughest inmates in Harrodale.

“I made quite a bit out of you today,” Gus Razor continued. “Not many thought you’d get the better of Andy Hardy. He used to be a cage fighter until he got banged up in here.”

“Yeah, well you know me, I’d fight anything,” Frank replied, eyeing the huge man next to Razor. Tony sneered and cracked his knuckles. Whether it was a threat or just out of habit, Frank was unsure. He looked back at the gangland boss, who spoke once more.

“Indeed. Well, I’d say about eight more fights and your debt should be clear.”

“Eight?” Frank snapped. He lowered his voice as the guards returned to their duties. “You know it won’t take eight fights to get your money back.”

“It’s just business, Frankie. Have you heard of interest?”

“Have you heard of broken legs?” Frank stepped forward, glowering at the gangland boss. Razor burst out laughing.

“Oh, Frankie, you’re a hoot. I’ll be in touch when I want you to fight again.”

Chuckling to himself, he walked away with his thug in tow. Frank turned to leave, grabbing his shirt from the floor.

“Frank Lee!”

Frank stopped and looked over at the guard. Barry Henderson was a typical screw. He would play everything by the book but was more than willing to look the other way if the price was right. The prisoners had paid him to turn a blind eye for months whilst they gambled on the bare-knuckle fights. His companion, Michael Jones, was even more corrupt and the two often made a wager of their own. Both approached as Frank put on his shirt.

“That was some fight, Lee,” Henderson said. “Didn’t think you’d have it in you!”

Frank remained silent, waiting for the officer to reach the purpose of the conversation.

“You’ve surprised everyone with your recent fights. You’ve only lost against Big Tony, which was an obvious conclusion. Then there was Charlie Clapton, but that wasn’t your fault.”

“Get to the point.”

“Don’t get snappy with us, son,” Michael Jones said. “We can put you in segregation at the drop of a hat.”

“All we’re saying is that people around here think you’re pretty tough,” Henderson continued, smoothing his thick moustache. “They’ll be betting in favour of you winning your next fight. And we want in on the action.”

“What?”

“I think this guy has had too many blows to the head,” Henderson said. “Shall I spell it out for him, Michael?”

“I think you might have to, Barry.”

Frank eyed the charade with disgust.

“We want you to throw your next fight,” Henderson continued. “A lot of value will be wagered, and we stand to earn a considerable amount by betting on the other guy.”

“Forget it,” Frank said, turning to walk away.

“I don’t think you understand,” Henderson urged, raising a hand to halt Frank. “It wasn’t a request.”

“Look, I need the money to pay Gus back!”

“We’ll give you a share of our takings.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure that’ll go down well with the other lads, especially when they find out I helped a couple of screws cheat them.”

“Who’ll know?”

Frank cast an appraising eye around the room. Most of the inmates had dispersed, but there were still some within earshot.

“They always find out.”

“Well, I guess you better watch your back then, Lee.” Jones sniggered, clapping the prisoner on the shoulder.

“And if I refuse?”

“We’ll make your life hell,” Henderson replied. He rocked on the heels of his feet with a smug grin.

“Okay.” Frank sighed. “I’ll sleep on it. Now can I get my face looked at?”

“They’re doctors, not miracle workers, Lee.”

The pair cackled as Frank pushed past them, not looking back as he made his