Not Dead Yet: A British Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1-3, page 58
Sheehan swilled his ale, eyes ever on the object of his loathing. “We’d be fighting the dead to the last man and all the while these rotten scum would be hiding in their ramshackle carriages with all the loot they’d pinched from our boys dying on the front.”
A stunted fellow in tricorn hat stepped ringwards, dodged a projectile and proclaimed that everyone ought keep their ale topped high, purchase tickets for next week’s mill and try not to break too much because furniture was becoming expensive. Finally, he gestured to the brute towering above and introduced him as Davey ‘The Stone’ Malone.
Sheehan leapt up and because the room had silenced for the announcements, his voice easily carried. “Gravestone more like, been robbing the dead too, have you?”
More than two hundred punters broke into spontaneous laughter, more ale was thrown and mocking fingers were pointed at our grave robbing friend who, turning a brighter shade of red, ceased punching air to survey the crowd for the reprobate who’d besmirched his people. Thankfully, there were fifty gents in hats between we and he, though I did manage to get my first good squint at his conk, which might have belonged to any one of ‘em, though for whatever reason my mind descended into that spasm which comes from momentary confusion, and there was no telling why, certainly, the name was of nowt to me.
Sheehan, for the first time in a while was smiling, satisfied as he must have felt after his hard-hitting jest, though if I’d hoped that might slake his belligerence, I hadn’t banked on the Gypsy wench having caught us in the act, and who was now standing on one of the barrels pointing.
“‘Ere, why don’t yous come on over ‘ere and says that to my man’s face.”
Sheehan rose abruptly, spilling contents from our tankards. “Maybe I will.”
Murphy stirred at that and together we both tugged him back down. Drink and Irish were generally a bad mix but all was forgotten when they dragged in the opponent.
The punters parted, though some were getting uncomfortably close, as it was prodded through on the end of a six-foot catch pole. My belly lurched at once, for there were not near enough bodies between it and I, and there always came accompanied that distinctive fetidness, like a family of rats had died beneath the floorboards in the middle of a long hot summer. This one looked freshly perished, for its greeny-brown skin had yet to flake and neither had anyone thought to rob the carcass of the silver that hung about its neck, though doubtless the Pikey would soon see to that. It slavered long transparent ropes down its overalls, feet pointing inwards as it traipsed towards Malone, and showed no obvious clue as to how its human form had come to a close. Two or three drunks stepped plum in its path, gurning, blowing smoke in its face and jumping out of the way at the last second and one likely looking lad, goaded on by his chums, delivered repeated slaps to the bonce before spewing ale over its face. It wasn’t partial to such maltreatment and lashed out with long claws.
“Enough o’ that or I’ll let ‘im ‘av yee.” Warned the handler, who was sweating from the donning of thick leather gauntlets covering the entire length of his arms.
Getting the thing through the ropes was the tricky part, for the zombie had small comprehension of over or under and neither did the overseer fare much better. Again and again, he shoved it against the twine, perhaps in attempts to phase it through them, but the cadaver merely bounced and flailed to the merriment of the rabble until finally, Malone pulled apart the cords to permit entrance. It stumbled over the lower of the three and thus reshaped its nose on the stone but finally, the catch was slid off, which took a chunk of dark curly hair and half an ear with it, and Malone allowed it space to stand and gather whatever wits it may still possess.
Down front a cove was a running book, a bell struck from behind the bar and in the ring, the dead man managed to scramble to its feet.
Malone wasted no time going to work and his style of pugilism was evident at once, for he was straight in there with the haymakers, delivering coconut sized fists on the end of lumbering sweeps from stocky arms. They didn’t all connect, despite the zombie’s erratic speed, but those that did sent it sideways and back yards at a time. One blow hammered the opponent on the shoulder, throwing it against the ropes with such force that the crowd jumped instinctively back. On the rebound, another slug connected with the jaw and the zombie spent the next ten seconds grasping for the chandelier that hung above the ring. Malone took the opportunity to use its body as a drubbing bag and I watched, appalled yet fascinated, as its chest caved from the repeated impact. The opponent of no-fixed-abode gathered itself, or maybe it was feigning all along, and attempted a speedy lurch from the left, reaching out with fangs and bared teeth. The southpaw merely stepped back, his guard non-existent, and delivered a hook that sounded like a mallet striking a full ham. The dead fellow took it on the chin, literally, and came again but the second strike disconnected its jaw entirely, so that the mandible hung a full inch off its face, connected only by sinews and skin. It lurched forwards and the Pikey shoved it into the corner from where he went to work earning his pay, pounding flesh and crushing bones for the cheering crowd and such was the din that I failed to notice the Marquess.
“Good evening, Captain,” he greeted, holding out a hand to myself, Sheehan and Murphy. His man, one of the ramrod types in bowler swatted aside a brace of vagrants before placing a cloth down over the spare seat.
John Douglas, 9th Marquess of Queensbury removed his hat and sat, propping a cane over the table as he did. He raised his substantial chin toward the spectacle and directed the obvious question to me. “Good God, but please tell me that’s not my opponent?”
I shrugged and held out my hands apologetically, “I’m afraid it is, my lord.” Was the man who penned the rules, no less the very man himself, about to plead his bowels before slinking out the side door?
He was still staring aghast and growled. “I came to partake in some great English culture while it still exists and instead I’m presented with some Tinker brute laying into a zombie. How extraordinary. This is not the art to which I gave my name.” That was a no then. The sounds of butchery carried over and he looked on with disgust.
To behold the spectacle that was the Marquess, along with his cultured brace of Oliver Twists, was the real reason we were present this night. A champion of sport amongst the upper-classes, renowned pugilist, true gent and casual acquaintance who’d sought me out personally to give thanks for saving the land of his ancestry. When he awarded me the tickets, I hadn’t the heart to tell the man that Scotland had since gone to the dead anyway and all that remained were the refugees who’d fled south. To his extreme irritation, however, he wasn’t famous merely for having invented the sport of boxing but of late his family had been shamed in the tabloids for reasons far out of his control.
It involved an ongoing dispute, Buggergate, with a supposed author who went by the name of Oscar Wilde, who’d claimed publicly he was tupping his son. Worse, it had been alleged that young Alfred was the letterbox and not the postman. Either way, they were both risking a visit from Calcraft, although the Marquess, through his connections, had managed to have the thing swept under the rug, it had been highly embarrassing for all involved and the persisting whispers were preventing the man from obtaining a Tory safe seat. It was a touchy subject we all knew not to broach.
“The rogue’s covered himself in oil.” Queensbury now protested and the coarse muttons upon his cheeks seemed to be protesting with him, for they had a life of their own. “I really don’t like this filthy place, nor most of the individuals present. Those three reprobates are running books and there’s a scallywag down there who’s drinking. Oh, by Jove, but there’s another. This is not how we play down in Greenwich and not even on the ships are the men permitted to drink during a mill. It’s a bad mix, I tell you.” Sheehan, Murphy and I each instinctively pulled our ales closer but he appeared not to notice. “Oil! This how they do it on stolen wasteland surrounded by their caravans? Bloody stuff just provides an unfair advantage and besides, I prefer to feel the measure of a man … keeps me on my toes, what? Give me a gentleman, is all I ask.”
He settled down a little after that, while Malone continued to brutalise the zombie, throwing wide hooks that would’ve put most men down on the stone.
Sheehan chose a lull in the noise to shout, “this is the closest any of your rotten lot’ll ever get to the dead.”
Irritated, that was when Malone shoved his opponent against the ropes and took the respite to scan the crowd and it was then that the zombie almost got him, for its hands were grasping and its mouth was opening in anticipation but the Tinker managed to get a fist between and shove it away. I was just happy to be wedged in at the corner, with Sheehan, Murphy and now Queensbury in the way.
“How long is this bloody round?” Asked Queensbury.
I leaned casually forwards and tried not to sound condescending when explaining to the marquess that nobody had yet found a way of getting a zombie to observe the end of round bell, or much else besides.
Showboating for the crowd, Malone again flexed his muscles before winding up his arm and delivering an upward cut that finished the job and the head landed plum atop the nearside corner barrel from where, for several seconds, it continued biting at the ale stinking air until one of the serving wenches grabbed it by the tuft and stuffed it in a sack. The corpse was dragged out by the feet, trailing blood and shit.
With an ongoing roar, the victor wasted no time in heaving both legs over the top rope before shoving his way over to us, spilling ale from tankards and near giving me a bowel movement as he approached. These incidents were never good but for once, I could rest easy knowing I had nothing to do with any of it and could melt into the seat whilst pretending to be invisible. Sheehan, most psychotically, was slapping the table in anticipation as Malone made a point of bundling the last man wallwards and then he was looming over us all, stinking like a Bombay latrine and sweating like a Gypsy with a mortgage.
“Yee,” he began, pointing a finger covered in loose flesh at Sheehan, “oy’ll be seeing yous in da ring.”
For whatever ungodly reason, Sheehan was all for it and was just about to stand when the marquess beat him to it.
“How dare you, sir?” He met him nearer than I’d dare. Out of the four of us, he was closest to the Pikey’s height and still fell short by a few inches. “How dare you bring the sweet science of pugilism into such disrepute? You’re no gentleman, just some common ruffian from the tenements relying purely on power. Where’s the poise? The grace? Skill, even? Shame on you, sir. I will not fight you, by Jove, but I will not fight you and neither will Captain Sheehan.” He glanced at his ramrod, that monumental jaw thrust supremely high. “A wasted evening.”
Throughout all this I’d been unable to look away from Malone, who likewise was only half listening to Queensbury, the other half of his attention seemed distracted by me also. It was one of those odd moments when both parties see a familiarity in the other but neither are able to connect the dots, which was the second such instance for me this evening. I gave the man an extra hard squint, tried to place him, the bushy ginger hair, black eyes and toothless mouth. Finally, I put it down to the ale and dismissed it.
“Well, what of it?” Queensbury continued. “Do you even know how to guard? Or what it is, even? And that fellow was so punch drunk he could barely even walk straight and now you want to challenge me?”
Malone wasn’t sure what to make of Queensbury’s verbal barrage and neither did he pay much heed as his tramp appeared and slid her hand through the crook of his muscly arm. She noticed me at once, and her I, because she had teats and buttocks I wanted to thrash with my crop. Little had I noticed the entire host had gathered around our booth in the corner and they now jeered as the marquess snatched up his hat and declared he was leaving.
Acknowledging the assembly around him, the Pikey chose that moment to snigger before saying the words. “Oi see dat yee’re a woman too, just loyk yeer son.” That stopped Queensbury on the spot. “Oy bet dat poet’s sticking it to yee as well? Perhaps yeer erse is still too soar for anudder poundin’ from me.”
Ouch.
Don’t do that, don’t ever do that.
Queensbury grasped his cane so hard I feared it might snap as his shuddering arm transmitted throughout his body to culminate in a face that reddened to some obscene shade of beetroot. The room had silenced and I could quite easily hear an odd rage building within him, which he failed to suppress.
“Right!” He exploded. “If a mill is what you want, a mill is what you’ll have, but only by my rules, damn your eyes, the Marquess of Q rules.” He was already straining to remove his cravat and could not do so fast enough.
“No.” The Tinker said simply.
“What?” A button landed beside my tankard. “What the devil are you about, sir?”
“Oy don’t want to foyt yee anymore,” and now, most appallingly, he jerked his misshapen skull at me, “oy’ll foyt dat one instead.”
I didn’t even know it, but my legs were pressing hard against the ground in an effort to push myself through the upholstery. If he’d clued into who I was, hardly surprising, then I hadn’t he. That apparently there was now more prestige in defeating an untrained cove such as myself than in vanquishing the inventor of the sport himself, spoke much as to the esteem that I was held, which was saying something because I was far from a pugilist.
Sheehan jumped up and stepped in front of Queensbury. “If you want Jack then you’ll have to get past me first.”
“Me too,” declared Murphy, with the kind of conviction you’d expect.
Queensbury moved back in front of Sheehan, who I tugged back down. “It’s you and I, as was the arrangement.”
Malone stepped right up to the Marquess so that their noses almost touched. “Oy’ll only foyt you on da condition dat if oy win den oy get ter foyt da captain der.”
I was about to protest most profoundly but Queensbury, confident he had the measure of his man, answered in my stead. “And when I win?”
This was when Sheehan put forth his suggestion. “Then Strappy gets to rut his whore.”
Now, I was in two minds here. There was absolutely no chance I wanted to face Davey ‘The Stone’ Malone in a mill, of all things, even though I could be confident Queensbury had the thing in the bag, I still wasn’t the sort to risk such an obscene bet. However, the woman in question was looking at me now, thrusting forth her tits in a way that suggested she was hardly against the proposition herself. I had my crop with me, of course, and could think of little I’d desire more than putting it to good use over the Gypsy woman’s bare buttocks.
They continued bickering over the particulars, whilst it was assumed I’d be all for it on both counts, the wench persisted in eyeing my cavalry whiskers, which usually did it with them and the only one who had a problem with the arrangement was the marquess, who thought it somewhat distasteful, though not enough to prevent him going along with it.
And so, minutes later, Malone was back in the ring receiving more oil. The inventor of the sport was there too, kissing his knuckles and declaring, “my fists are my unfair advantage.” He donned only boots and white pantaloons and used the ropes for balance as he stretched out his quads. His chest was thick, if a little flabby, and his dark leathery skin was showing age, though I hoped the years he had over his opponent would count advantageous. More bets were taken and odds of 5/3 for my man gave heart. The room was thick with ale, smoke and piss, the landlord was pulling pints most feverishly whilst declaring, “oi, currant bun, read the sign … no Irish.” Somewhere over the other side another bout of fisticuffs had broken out, culminating in a likely lad plunging through a table and kids were wandering around all black hands and scruffs offering lumps of coal for a penny before being turfed out by the ear, but there was a certain something particular and most exquisitely unique to this place, this time. This was my England, the greatest and most advanced culture in the world and if nothing else, we were getting a good dose of that this night, before it came to an untimely end tomorrow. And perhaps that was why I hadn’t yet run. Had I been permitted attendance, I imagined this moment was akin to the last day at school; you were there only because you had no choice but when all was about to end you were reluctant to leave. Maybe it was the ale doing its business but I would wait for the culmination of this bout and chance my luck, something usually came up, either to plunge me in the shit or to lift me out from it, and I’d little doubt tonight would be any different.
From opposing sides of the ring, the combatants were eyeing each other with penetrating stares. Gents were standing in the doorways, peering through the windows, one or two stood on the bar in contravention of city bylaws and finally, the bell dinged to a roar.
ROUND 1. It began with a solemn pause before Queensbury commenced dancing around him, feigning the odd jab, testing the opponent. Malone’s guard remained low, almost tempting the older man to strike. The round ended to deafening taunts, with no blows landed by either.
ROUND 2. The Pikey came out from the blocks swinging, the lord of the realm ducked and weaved with ease, exhausting the bigger man and deflecting one blow with his jaw. Queensbury found space and jabbed the brute in the ribs.
ROUND 3. More dancing by Queensbury and the punters were taunting him to make a show of it, or why bother coming at all. He landed three easy jabs to the nob and the drifter returned with swings that found air.
