Ли Чайлд - Belfast Noir

On either side of the shed: dogs.

Ed counted at least twenty. Standing there chained to rings embedded in the walls. Each dog wore a heavy-duty chain around its neck, looped twice in some cases. Ed could only imagine the effort required to move, yet the dogs strained toward the men, barking with excitement.

“The lad I’m gonna show ye took out Clancy’s Diamond back in September, twenty-four minutes. Never seen anything like it, one latch and that was it, never let go. Near ripped his fucking leg off. Clancy called it before Diamond was killed, but y’could see he was beat from the off. Heard he’s gone cold since.”

“Not the dog, it’s Clancy, the useless fuck, gone soft,” Lavin scoffed. “Diamond was game, I’m tellin’ ye, Clancy called it too early.”

“Diamond was no match for Blue.”

“Go on out of that, ever see Clancy’s old dog? Diamond’s sire, that was his name? I watched him go near two hours with Antrim Jim’s Spike, best fucking fight I ever saw. Fuckers couldn’t stand up and they were still biting.”

“I was there,” Willie said. “Game dog all right, even with a broken jaw and a punctured lung, he didn’t quit.”

Ed said nothing. He watched Hecky move past the leaping dogs and unchain one near the back of the shed. He walked it back toward them and hoisted it up onto a steel table just inside the door.

“Feast yer eyes,” he said proudly, “on Blue.”

Ed ran his hands over dog: he was a bull cross, heavily muscled, with a broad skull and a wide chest. His coat was short, steel-grey, closer to blue. His ears had been cropped into tight triangular points, scarred along the edges so the skin felt like piecrust. Ed’s fingers traced scars all over the dog’s body; some were fresh, others old and healed. He cupped the dogs balls, checked both were dropped. At each touch Blue wagged his tail furiously. When Ed prized open his massive jaw to check his teeth were intact, Blue licked his hands and tried to lick his face.

Ed stood back. Willie and Lavin were watching him carefully.

“He looks good.”

“Have him on full training. Fucker would swing on a jack line half the day if you let him.” Hecky jerked his head behind him to where a well-chewed tyre hung motionless from a rope in the ceiling. This, Ed knew, was where dogs like Blue developed their jaw muscles.

“Well?” Lavin leaned in.

“He’s a grand-looking dog,” Ed said, putting his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know if he’s what I’m looking for.”

Hecky turned his head and spat, disgusted. “Hold him there, Willie.”

Willie did as he was asked. Hecky walked behind the shed and pulled a sheet of tarpaulin from a set of cages on the back wall. He unlocked one, reached in, and pulled a whimpering dog from the shadows.

“You wait and see.” Lavin said, grinning wildly. “Wait until you see what this fucker can do.”

Ed swallowed. The dog Hecky carried by the scruff was a small beagle, battered and scarred, eyes rolling wildly in its head.

“Let’s go.”

They left the shed and crossed the yard to another smaller enclosure. Lavin opened the door and hit the lights. Ed stared at a small sand-filled arena, enclosed on all sides by wood pallets nailed together.

Hecky pitched the beagle into the sand pit. The dog ran around in a blind panic, before backing itself into the corner holding one paw up, licking its lips frantically. There was dried blood on the boards, Ed noticed, scratch marks and evidence of worse.

Hecky took Blue from Willie. “Don’t even need to face them, this fucker’s good to go at a drop.” With that he lowered Blue to the floor, threw his leg back over the pallets, and winked at Ed.

It didn’t last long. Blue rushed the beagle head-on. The beagle tried to run, but there was nowhere for it to go. Blue, using his superior body strength, flipped him, and before the beagle could rise he had latched onto the side of his neck. The beagle scrabbled his paws against Blue’s chest, screaming in agony, teeth slashing and snapping, aiming for any part of Blue he could reach. Blue didn’t seem to notice; he shook his head, growling excitedly, patches of the beagle’s skin ripped and tore. Blood sprayed across the sand.

“Let him have it,” Willie said, when it looked as though Hecky might intervene.

The screaming drove Blue into a frenzied madness. He dragged his opponent round the ring, shaking his massive head from side to side, jerking until the cries went from high to piercing, then stopped.

Lavin laughed like a maniac and slapped Ed on the shoulder. “What did I tell ye?”

Blue dragged the dead dog around the bloodstained sand, whining and growling with delight, his tail whipping back and forth.

“Pure game,” Lavin said.

“How much?” Ed asked.

Hecky spat and scratched his belly. He mentioned a price.

Ed slipped his hand into his pocket and took out his wallet. He counted out a large number of bills and passed them over. Hecky licked his thumb and counted them rapidly. He passed one note back to Ed, “For luck,” folded the rest, and put them in his back pocket.

Willie held out his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Ed shook.

The dog was his.

Three Months Later

Ed stared at the coded text message on his mobile screen, pressed delete, and pocketed the phone as behind him, Lavin, whinging and complaining to Willie, approached his car. Lavin had lost a ton on the previous fight when Sadie, a pale gold pit bull bred by Antrim Jim, rallied and defeated her attacker with almost ninety-four minutes on the clock. Both dogs had died in the ring from blood loss and shock, but the bitch had lived long enough to be declared the victor, so Lavin was pissed.

“Can’t fucking believe it,” Lavin said, lighting a cigarette.

“Shut the fuck up about it, will ye?” Willie said.

Ed ignored them. He wiped Blue down with a special medicated rag, feeling the dog’s muscles rippling under his ministrations. Blue’s tongue lolled from his mouth, his hazel eyes sparkled with good health.

“Knew I shouldn’t bet against Jim, fucker has those dogs of his amped up on some shit, wouldn’t be surprised.”

Ed wished they would go away and leave him in peace. His nerves were bad enough as it was. Everything they had worked for, all the planning and practice, the subterfuge, everything hinged on this day going smoothly, and Lavin bitching in his ear was not a welcome distraction.

He gave Blue another once-over, lifted him down from the boot, and put him into his cage to rest. He was scheduled to fight a two-year-old UK import, owned by a couple from down Limerick way. Ed had seen the opposition, a square-headed brindle pit. He was a nice-looking dog, but too fat and weak in the hips—Ed knew Blue could take him. So, it seemed, did everyone else: Blue was odds-on favourite, with plenty of money trading hands.

Ed stretched and loosened his limbs.

“Nervous?” Willie leaned against the car, sunburnt, reeking of cheap beer and cigarettes.

“No.”

“Good, that other yolk’s only a cur. Betting has Blue taking him in twenty minutes.”

Ed nodded. He glanced over their heads toward the tree-lined lane. The sun was high above them, the air filled with the scent of honeysuckle.

“You going to bring him out or what?” Lavin asked.

“In a minute.”

“You need to let him take a piss.”

“Will ye let the man handle his own dog?” Willie said.

Lavin flushed, and stalked off.

By eleven the ring had been raked and men gathered around it. Ed’s stomach was in a heap as he let Blue out of his cage and rubbed his head. The dog’s body quivered with excitement; he licked Ed’s hands and nudged him for a tickle behind the ears, his favourite spot.