in the boxing underworld can be pretty rough.’
‘Inside the ring and out of it,’ said Gene, nodding to himself. ‘So – our boy Denzil was looking to go straight, make an honest living at last. But somewhere along the way he’d piddled on somebody’s chips – and aforesaid somebody caught up with him, popped round his flat and aired his grievances. Come on, Ray, get me some names – who were Obi’s acquaintances? Did he have a trainer? Sparring partners? Boxing buddies?’
‘I don’t know about none of that – but this was found at his flat,’ said Ray, and he passed a laminated card to Gene.
Gene peered at it and read out loud: ‘Stella’s Gym. Denzil ‘The Black Widow’ Obi. Full membership.’
‘The Black Widow!’ grinned Chris. ‘That’s wicked, that!’
‘Stella’s Gym …’ Gene mused. ‘Don’t know it. Got an address for it, Raymond?’
‘It’s on the back of the card, Guv.’
‘Excellent. Ray, you stay here with ‘wicked’ Chris Skelton and carry on digging up everything you can about Obi. Go through the arrest files, see what dodgy underworld boxers we’ve got on the records. And find out who’s in town – boxers, brawlers, shady fight promoters, anyone Obi might have come into contact with. And as for you, Sugar Ray Tyler-’
‘Yes, Guv?’
‘Grab your shorts and skipping rope. We’re popping down the gym.’
‘Can this really be the right place?’ asked Sam as he and Gene clambered out of the Cortina and approached the entrance of a gloomy, filthy alleyway.
Gene sniffed the air with contempt: ‘Much like the aroma in your flat, Sammy. I can see why you try to cover it up with that druggy pong.’
‘They’re not drugs, they’re joss sticks,’ replied Sam. ‘How many times do I have to explain that, Guv?’
‘No amount of explaining’s going to make your gaff stink any less like a dope-smoking pansy-boy’s boudoir. Now then; lead on, Samuel, and boot any dog-eggs out the way. I don’t want to get my loafers soiled.’
‘Heaven forbid you should soil your loafers,’ said Sam, and gingerly he stepped into the alley, picking his way through the heaps of reeking garbage. ‘This place is worse than a pigsty! Doesn’t seem like a good location for a gym.’
‘Get over it,’ Gene growled as he loomed menacingly after Sam. ‘Real men ain’t frit by a spot of dirt.’
‘It seems they are if they’re wearing their best loafers, Guv.’
‘Second best, you prannet. First best’s for the ladies.’
They reached a set of filthy doors, above which hung the remains of a sign. The few letters still attached to it said: ST LLA’S YM
‘This must be it,’ said Sam.
He pushed open the doors and revealed a gloomy passageway beyond, with a set of stairs leading down into even deeper darkness. For a moment, a sharp, icy sensation passed through Sam’s blood. He sensed something – something he could not define. For a moment, he could not bring himself to descend that bleak staircase and enter the darkness at its foot.
But why? What am I afraid is down there?
But it wasn’t the descent into Stella’s Gym that froze his blood with fear. It was that deeper descent into the even greater darkness of the subconscious that terrified him. Because he had glimpsed into that pit of his own psyche before, not least when he had been pistol-whipped unconscious in the compound of the Red Hand Faction and found himself lost in a black, nightmarish void.
Something stared back at me from that void … something with inhuman eyes, an inhuman face … a devil … a devil in the dark! I saw it … and whatever it is, it saw me. It knows me. And it’s coming for me. Slowly, but surely, it’s coming for me … and then … and then …
But at that moment Gene shoved roughly past him and strode confidently into the murky hallway.
‘Keep up, Sam, we haven’t got all day.’
Forcing his nameless fears aside, Sam followed Gene down the steps and through another set of doors.
They found themselves at once in Stella’s Gym. It was a stark, windowless, concrete cavern lit by overhead strip lights. It felt more like an underground car park than a gymnasium. Between the hard concrete floor and the hard concrete ceiling stood rows of hard concrete columns plastered with photos of slab-faced boxers and naked women. Moving between the columns were an assortment of huge, sweating men pounding away at punch bags, heaving weights, dancing over skipping ropes. The air was thick with the mingled stench of body odour, embrocation and stale, wet towels.
One again, an overpowering sense of dread swept across Sam. His heart was pounding. He leant against a concrete pillar, afraid he might pass out, and in horror he saw amid the pinned-up photographs a face he knew at once; staring out at him was the Test Card Girl – a faded, dog-eared, black and white snapshot pinned up between pictures Henry Cooper and Raquel Welch.
‘Don’t you want to know the truth, Sam? Don’t you want to know what I know … about Annie?’
Sam’s head swam. He braced himself, forced himself not to faint. The girl’s mocking voice echoed through his mind, stirring up the terrible sickness that threatened to overwhelm him.
‘She has a past, Sam. Shall I tell you about it? Shall I? Shall I, Sam? Shall I?’
In sudden anger he snatched the photo of the Test Card Girl. But all at once he found himself holding nothing more than a tatty newspaper cutting of Joe Bugner poised for action.
To hell with your mind games, you little brat! You won’t get inside my head! You’re not real! You’re nothing!
Sam crumpled the photo into a ball and fell into step with Gene. Together they moved forward, making for a roped-off boxing ring where two men lunged and clashed under the under the noisy guidance of a short, pug-nosed Irishman.
‘Hey you!’ Gene barked.
The Irish trainer fell silent, turned, and looked Sam and Gene over. His flat, ugly face was not friendly, and neither was the atmosphere in the gym.
‘You addressing me?’ the trainer asked in his spiky Belfast accent.
‘I most certainly am, Paddy.’
‘The name’s Dermot.’
‘I don’t care what you call yourself, you gobby spud. Zip your trap and pay attention. And that goes for all of you!’
All the men had stopped working out and were staring at the unwelcome visitors, clocking at once that they had a couple of coppers amongst them – Sam’s leather jacket and Gene’s voluminous camel hair coat were as much giveaways in this place as bobby’s helmets and badges.
The atmosphere tightened. Sam set his face, determined not to show that he was intimidated. But Gene, who thrived on machismo like a rosebush thrives on quality shit, hooked his thumbs into his belt, thrust out his chest, and squinted slowly round at the men who surrounded them.
Please, guv – don’t antagonise them, Sam silently willed him. Keep it cool, keep it calm … no need to wind anyone up …
‘Right, you faggots,’ Gene declared. ‘Stop eyeing up each other’s arses and pay attention. I’ll keep it simple so as not to confuse you. My name’s Detective Chief Inspector Hunt, CID, A-Division – you know, the police. And this here’s my retard nephew tagging along on work experience.’
Sam kept his face fixed, maintaining what professional dignity he could.
Dermot, the pug-nosed trainer, leant casually on the ropes of the boxing