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

declined a sling whilst in the hospital ward. Any sign of vulnerability and his opponent would target that spot.

The crowd suddenly roared with vigour, signalling the end of the bout. Frank watched the usual exchange of commodities, noticing that several guards stepped forward to collect their earnings as well. He looked from face to face, trying to spot Henderson amongst the crowd. With his distinct features, it wouldn’t be hard to locate the guard. After scanning the area, Frank determined he was not amongst those in attendance. Gus Razor was easily visible, as was Tony Swales, who stood almost a foot higher than everyone else.

Frank tore his eyes from the crowd and began looking around at each of the posted guards. He couldn’t see Henderson or Jones. It was surprising, as neither had ever missed a fight. The teeming crowd spread out as they waited for the next bout to begin.

“Frankie!”

Frank turned to see Gus Razor holding out his arms as if greeting a long-lost son. “We were wondering where you’d gone off to.”

“I was in the hospital wing. Is it true that I’m fighting tonight?”

“It certainly is, hair of the dog and all that. The best way to recover is to take another beating.”

“Henderson talked you into it, didn’t he?”

“Sure did. I gave him stupid odds as well, and he still placed a whopping wager.”

“It’s because he knows I’m going to lose, you prick!”

Frank stared fiercely at Gus, who looked over the crowd.

“That’s why I put you up against a new kid,” Gus replied, not looking back at Frank. “Some punk who had a problem with mummy and daddy and beat them to death with a shovel.”

“Oh, great.”

“Don’t sweat it; the kid’s a scrawny midget. He won’t stand a chance.”

“Gus, I’m not fighting.”

The gangland boss stopped scanning the crowd. He fixed Frank with an icy glare.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” he said. “Tell me, Frankie, does this ring a bell? ‘Oh, Mr Razor, can you please help me? My horrible wife was being shafted by a young stallion. Can you get your boys to kill him?’”

Frank didn’t answer.

“I responded with kindness,” Gus continued. “I said ‘Of course, Frankie m’boy, I’ll be happy to help, for the princely sum of thirty thousand British pounds.’ You couldn’t afford that, could you? So, you agreed to fight for me to pay off the debt. Do you remember?”

Frank nodded.

“I held up my side of the bargain. Casanova’s dead. So, in response to your insolent comment; yes, you are fighting, and you dare question me again, you’ll end up the same way as your slag wife and her fucking toy boy.”

“You don’t understand Gus, I—”

Razor ignored Frank’s retort as he spied an inmate in the crowd.

“Oy, Craddock! You owe me a gram!”

Within seconds, Razor and his thug had left Frank behind.

He sighed and looked around the room once again. Despite reassurances by Gus that his opponent was only a kid, he couldn’t dismiss a feeling that Henderson had more up his sleeve. His fears increased tenfold when he finally spotted the guard conversing with a small teenager away from the crowd. They were too far away for him to hear, but Frank could tell by the body language what Henderson was saying. He was patting his left arm; revealing to the kid where to aim his punches. A feeling of dread developed in the pit of his stomach as he flexed the muscles of his left arm. Searing pain shot up to his shoulder.

“Shit.”

He flexed his fingers, gritting his teeth through the pain. His left hand would be no use in the fight, not without causing more harm to himself. He sighed as Gus Razor yelled at him, beckoning him over to the centre of the room.

“Frankie! Get over here, you’re up!”

The milling crowd formed a circle once more as Frank made his way into the make-shift ring. He watched his young opponent emerge from the mass of spectators. He barely looked old enough to shave, yet he hopped confidently on the balls of his feet as he approached. He shot Frank an acid glance as he stopped next to Gus, who held his arms between the fighters.

“You girls ready?”

Frank remained silent. He stared at the teenage inmate. The youngster’s eyes met his, before flitting to his injured arm. There was no doubt about it; he knew his weakness. The babble of the crowd intensified as they placed bets. The chatter was almost inaudible, but Frank could make out some wagers. All were on him to win, some stating it would be after the first punch, and others predicted two minutes into the fight. Oh, how wrong they are, he thought as he lifted his shirt over his head. He winced as he stretched out his arm, but tried not to show pain as he hurled the garment aside. He locked stares with his opponent as the crowd fell silent.

“Right then, you know the rules,” Gus said. “Are you both ready?”

He looked between the two opponents who both gave quick nods, maintaining their icy stare.

“Good. Then beat the shit of each other!”

He stepped to the side as the crowd roared. No sooner as Gus was out of the way, the young prisoner dashed forward, his attention focused on one place. He threw a flurry of punches towards Frank’s disabled arm. One punch connected, spreading a wave of pain up to his shoulder. The crowd jeered as Frank sidestepped the teenager’s rapid punches, all directed at the same spot.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Gus bellowed. “Knock his fucking head off!”

Frank continued to sidestep, parrying some of the punches and dodging others. He could see the frustration in his opponent’s eyes as he persistently retreated. The crowd roared in anger. An abrupt shove from a spectator sent