The blonde lad's nose makes a noise, thick and sticky. Next thing he knows, he's hanging onto the ropes with his gloves over his face. The other kid, gangly with eyes like a dead cow's, he's got white flecks on either side of his gum shield. There's also a bloody mark in the centre of his forehead. He bounces back across the ring, leans on the ropes. A grin spreads across his face and with that gum shield in, the kid looks vicious.

His name’s Liam Wooley. He's been robbing since he was taller than his old man, just come off the back end of a custodial sentence for taking some old dear's bingo money with menaces.

Now he's at Paulo's club. Told to work out that violent streak and get some exercise. He's getting the exercise in spades. All he needs to do now is start using his fists instead of his forehead.

Paulo jumps into the ring and backs Liam up into a corner. Yelling at him, proper in his face. Liam's going to get a kicking, he keeps up that kind of shit. Paulo's this close to telling Liam’s social worker and then he can kiss his parole goodbye. It’s not going to be long until Liam fucks up again and this time it won't be the institute, it'll be prison.

I light a Regal, watch some of the lads take the walking wounded to a bench. The boy's trying to not cry into a blood-soaked towel, but his back's heaving. I catch Liam glaring at him from the other side of the club, giving him the scally dead-eye.

I get the feeling it'll take more than harsh language from Paulo to sort this out.

The main doors squeal open, and nobody notices the sound but me. A little old guy, face like a tan satchel, tiny twinkling eyes set deep in his head, stands at the entrance as if he's not sure he's come to the right place. He starts walking across the club, keeping his distance from anyone he thinks looks threatening.

The old fear the young.

He spots me and  I see a flicker of something that looks like relief.

I must have a safe face. Or a wrinkled one. Suddenly I don’t feel as young and dangerous as I used to.

"Mr. Innes?" The guy's voice bubbles through too much phlegm in his throat.

Mr. Innes. He's too scruffy to be the police or a debt collector. So I point him in the direction of my office and follow him to  my door. "Step inside and pull up a pew," I say.

He does so. I close the door on Paulo telling Liam if he wants to be a head banger, he'll show him how to bang heads.

As soon as the door's shut, the old guy pipes up.

"I want my dog back, Mr. Innes."

I look at him, take time to flick ash and walk round to my chair.

"I don't think I've got him," I say. "What does he look like?"

He runs his tongue over his bottom teeth. "He's a she. Millie. She's a Staffy."

"Right."

"And I know you haven't got her."

"That's a start."

"But I want you to get her back for me."

"You have any leads?"

"That supposed to be funny?"

"Slip of the tongue."

"Mr. Innes..."

"I didn't catch your name," I say.

"Harry Lounds," he tells me. Then he pauses, waits to see if it means anything to me. It doesn't. "I have money, Mr. Innes."

"A lot of people do. You have a picture of the dog?"

"Millie," he says.

"Sorry?"

"Her name's Millie."

"I see."

He pulls a glossy photo from his jacket, pushes it across the desk. A dog uglier than a bucket full of arses stares at me. I look up at Lounds. He's looking at this photo, wistful, as if she were some long lost lover from his teens. This ugly mutt, all snout, eyes like grit. Looks like a cross between a rottweiler and a pit bull, a really mean-looking combo.

"So did she just run away?"

"She was stolen."

"You have any idea who did it?"

"I know exactly who did it."

"Then why d'you need me? Just go to the police."

"I can't go to the police, Mr. Innes. This isn't a police matter. These men that took Millie, they're not simple thieves."

"You know them?"

"You could say that."

"What else could you say?"

"I can tell you exactly where they are."

"Then why don't you go and get her back yourself?"

"Look at me, Mr. Innes. I'm an old man. These men know me on sight. If I go round there and try to get my Millie back, they'll put me in hospital."

I grind out my cigarette.

"Sounds like an awful lot to go through for a dog."

"She's special to me, Mr. Innes. I owed them money, they took my dog. I paid them off, they kept her."

"That doesn't seem fair."

"That's what I thought. I just need someone to bring her back."

I take a moment to stare at him. He doesn't get stared at often, judging from the way he shifts in his seat.

"How much is this dog worth to you?" I ask.

"More than I could possibly afford."

"Well," I say. "We'll start from there."

It takes us a while to settle on an amount. This old guy may look pathetic, but he’s got a gypsy’s touch when it comes to haggling.

When we’re finally agreed on a price, his body seems to relax. He leans forward and scribbles down an address on a piece of scrap paper.

"This is where you'll find her, Mr. Innes."

"I'll be in touch," I say.

***

The address is in Moss Side, some garage I thought was long since deserted. Turns out it's still operating, but it deals mostly in cut and shuts and thefts-to-order. Lounds told me the guy who runs it spent some time at Her Majesty's Pleasure, got this tattoo of a swallow on his throat.

I pull up Claremont Road, pass Maine Road. The ground's deserted. Come Saturday it'll be swarming with City supporters, Manchester born and proud--the last season before they move to the new stadium. The garage is round here somewhere, but now the sky's tattered with black clouds. It's getting darker. I can hear the start of rain on the roof. I have to turn up Strummer.

Bad vibes round here, too many lads and lasses gunned down in the streets. Four years since the all out gang war of the Year of Living Dangerously, but still too many scallies swearing allegiances to long-dead gangsters for my liking.

I slow to a stop and light another Regal. The garage is up the road; looks like there's nobody home. I cut Bowie off in the middle of a song, step out onto the street and get spotted with rain. Somewhere I can hear dogs barking, growling.

So I start walking. The sound gets louder, then cuts out.

The front of the garage is all closed up, shutters that look as if they haven't been opened since City won the F.A. Cup. Someone's sprayed "Gooch Forever" across them. I check the front door. It's shut with a rusty padlock.

Tyres, weeds, cigarette packets and a couple of pages from The Sunday Sport. And now that barking's started up again. It's definitely coming from behind the garage.

The problem's how to get round there. A side entrance is blocked by a huge, vicious-looking gate decked with barbed wire. If that wasn't enough, someone's cemented broken glass along the top of the wall.

There's no way I'm getting in. Not without a blowtorch and a crowbar. I chuck my cigarette and start making my way back to the car. Regroup and come up with something new.

As soon as I settle, I see a white van in the rear-view mirror. A dirty Bedford with two guys up front. It's moving slowly, not a care in the world. I shimmy down in my seat as the van passes, get a peek, and straight away I know by their look they're a couple of ex-cons. The Bedford moves towards the garage, slows to a stop. One of the guys hops out, walks to the gate and fishes around in his pocket for the keys. He looks like he's lifted a few weights in his time, got that thick neck to show for it.

The dogs get louder. The guy with the keys pushes open the gate and heads off to the back.

Check on the van; the engine's idling. This is a short visit.

Thick Neck shows his face again, pulling a muzzled Staffordshire terrier on a length of chain. I squint through the mist of rain, check the photo. Same markings as Millie, but that muzzle might as well be a hood. If it is Millie, she's not happy--the dog's going apeshit, claws skittering on concrete. Thick Neck yanks hard and the dog jerks forward with a yelp, choked for a second.

This pooch isn't out for a walk in the park.

I wait until the van pulls away, passes me, then I turn my car around and follow.

***

The drive is a long one. Twisting country roads, difficult to stay inconspicuous. No doubt the guys in the Bedford have noticed me and that's making my bowels feel loose. But there's nothing I can do about it. Not unless I had some idea of where they're going.

To be honest, I'm not even sure if I know where I am. I'll guess at somewhere near Chester, but I could be way off.

I don't suppose where I am matters much. These are the guys who have Millie, I'm sure of it. And Lounds is paying through the nose for her, so I better seem as if I care.

Up ahead, the Bedford turns left into a field. I crane to see where it's going. Looks like a barn about a mile away. I pull in as close as I can to the hedgerow without scuffing the paintwork and watch the van trundle off into the distance.

Now what? I know where this is leading and I don't like it one bit. But I leave it too long and there might not be a Millie to deliver, then bang goes the cash.

Twisting the key in the ignition, I start the car rolling after the Bedford. Rain's coming down in sheets now, turning the field to mud. My car's not built for this. It has a hard enough time on tarmac.

As I get closer, I can make out groups of men, huddled together, looking like they don't have a single job between them all. A couple of kids are running around with labelled coats that weren't bought at label prices.

I get out of the car, pull my jacket tight and flip up the collar. Narrow my eyes against the rain and make my way slowly through the crowds. Nobody's paying much attention to me. As far as they’re concerned, I’m just another guy with money to burn. Another stranger who gambles on blood sports.

The white Bedford's parked with a load of other vans near the barn. I follow the noise of maybe a dozen dogs. Short, sharp barks that mean they've been starved the past two weeks and need the taste of blood in their mouths. In the shelter of the barn, the smells of wet dog and resin batter my head. I brush past a bunch of guys looking mean and cold. One of them gobs at the ground as I pass. I don't look at him.

Thick Neck's over by the pit, holding Millie by the scruff of her neck, one huge hand sliding over her back. Millie's got wild eyes, looks as if she's raring to go. She pulls against his grip and rises up onto her hind legs, front paws battering the air.

"You like her, mate?"

I flinch as this hand clamps itself onto my shoulder. As I turn, I notice it’s the other guy from the van.

 And he has a blue swallow tattoo on his neck.

"Having a bet?"

"That's why I'm here."

"She's a fuckin' champ. Three fights so far. Last one, she got her back legs broke, went straight on and fucked this Mastiff right up. We had to pry her loose."

I nod and smile. "Sweet."

"Too fuckin' right," says Thick Neck.

"We got about twenty dogs, she's the killer."

"Where'd you get her?"

Swallow stops grinning, runs a long finger under his nose. "Bought her off some old lad. He didn't reckon on her, but I know talent when I see it. She's a game one. She'll go the whole way or she'll die trying."

"You bought her from a breeder?"

"Nah, Lounds is a dogger, thinks he's a breeder. He's got this gym set up in his back yard, and he gets the dogs to fuck, but that's all he knows. You should've seen his face when this one tore loose the first time. He thought she was this proper little puppy dog, but she was mad for it."

"I see."

"She was a bargain, man. Lounds always was a fuckin’ muppet."

"Always?"

"Yeah. You know him?" Genuinely interested, but still pumped about his bargain.

"I spoke to him once or twice."

"Then you know he’s a loser. Christ, the guy breeds a winner and he doesn't even know it."

Swallow moves us towards Millie. Thick Neck looks up from the dog and fixes me with a stare that means his brain's working overtime at trying to place me. Swallow nods to him.

"When we on?"

"We're first up," Thick Neck says.

"Who?"

Thick Neck nods towards a couple of gypsy-looking guys with a pit bull. One of them's smoking a roll-up, the other one intent on a bottle of White Lightning. The dog's rasping, tongue lolling out of its mouth.

"Right," says Swallow. And he walks over to the gypsies.

"I know you from somewhere?" says Thick Neck to me.

"Nah, I don't think so."

"First time?"

"First time here," I say. Then, pick a town out of a hat. "I was down Birmingham before this."

"Ah."

I can't take my eyes off Millie. She's straining against Thick Neck's grip; her eyes are bugging out of her head. She's no ordinary house pet, certainly not an old man's companion. Then, I should've guessed that already. Harry Lounds isn't your average old man. Now the problem of getting Millie the Man Biter off this guy, into the back of my car and off to Manchester without losing a limb in the process is making me think too hard.

Swallow comes back over. "We're about ready to start."

***

The owners run a soapy sponge over the other guys' dog, make sure they're clean of toxins, anything that might react badly in a dog's mouth. The referee, a giant with a face like a sack of boiled meat, watches Thick Neck and the gypsy drag their dogs to the pit, steadying them behind the scratch lines, about fourteen feet apart. The owners' sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, forearms twitching and tensing against the dogs.

A crowd's developed around the pit and I'm at the front alongside Swallow. He's taken bets from most people there, including a kid who doesn't look much older than twelve, but who seems to have a donkey-choking wad in his hip pocket.

The general din becomes a hum of anticipation.

Then they let go of the dogs.

Millie launches herself straight at the pit bull, snarls and clamps her jaws around the dog's snout. She shakes her head, blood trickling out from between her teeth. The pit bull yelps, squeals, and there's a sharp crack as Millie's hold snaps through bone.

Swallow watches intently.

The pit bull scratches Millie deep on her front leg, squirms out and back, blinded in one eye. The sound of the crowd is overwhelming now, a rising tide of male voices punctuated with childish screams and the snarling hate in the pit. Below it all, I can hear Thick Neck chanting "sic-sic-sic" at Millie, psyching her up.

It's the rhythm that counts.

The pit bull staggers back, the ref calls a turn and Thick Neck and the gypsy dodge in to grab their dogs. Millie's snout is soaking red, eyes rolling back in her head. The pit bull is breathing hard, blood bubbles popping on its battered nose. It's limping from a wound I never saw happen.

Then the pit turns, jaws open, slaver hanging from its mouth.

The owners let their dogs go again.

And Millie is taken down at once.

The pit bull lurches forward, paws scrabbling at the dirt, a look of wild hatred in its eyes. Claws scrape into Millie's eye; she ducks and yowls. But the pit bull's dug in. It clamps its jaws around Millie's neck, hangs on for dear life.

There's a deep, sickening crunch and Millie spasms.

The pit bull twists his head, there's another crack and Swallow's jumped into the pit with a break stick in his hand. He jams it into the pit bull's mouth and pries its jaws open.

Thick Neck shakes his head.

The chorus of shouts peaks, then simmers into a buzz of activity. Money changes hands. The gypsy pulls at the back legs of his dog. Swallow forces the pit's bite open and away from Millie.

As the dogs break apart, there's a rising stench of shit and blood. I have to turn away.

Swallow pulls Millie to one side and Thick Neck's found a needle to use. He feels under the scruff of her neck, sticks her with the needle and pushes the plunger. She's still twitching a little, eyes open wide in shock. Then the painkiller kicks in. One paw looks as if it's playing in the dirt.

Swallow throws a blanket and lifts her in his arms, carries her out.

I follow at a distance.

He puts her into the van, turns, and it's only now I get to see the look of total disappointment on his face. As if he's been conned. One of the gypsies collars him and they disappear into a crowd. I watch him go.

Then turn my attentions to the dog in the Bedford.

***

Millie's a heavy bitch, and running with her isn't much fun. Especially through the rain and mud. Especially when I hear shouts from the barn that sound like Swallow's finished paying off the gypsies, come back to the van and realised that someone's half-inched his dying dog.

I make it to the car, slide Millie into the back seat. I'm breathing hard from the run, wishing I'd parked a little closer, but it's too late for that. My lungs feel as if they're about to burst.

And my heart twists against my ribs as I look over my shoulder.

Thick Neck's having trouble keeping up, but Swallow's got some speed on him. He's carrying a baseball bat in his right hand. And he’s itching to test it out on my kneecaps.

I jump into the car, get the engine started before I manage to close the door.

And that bat bounces off the side window as the door slams shut. Glass rains inwards, my hands are up over my face and the engine's sputtering like it's about to give up already. I keep my foot on the accelerator, wrangle with the gear stick.

Swallow's hand shoots through the side window, scrabbles at my shoulder. I try to swat it away, but his fingers grip tight, slide up to pinch my throat. Suddenly I've got black flies instead of vision and my mouth's gone dry.

I grit my teeth and stamp on the accelerator as hard as I can. The clutch slips and, at last, the car lurches forward. Swallow loses his grip, whacks his wrist against the window frame and pulls his hand to safety as I gun the engine for all it's worth.

The car roars and jerks forward. Swallow puts his bat through the back window, showering Millie with broken glass.

He goes for the third swing as the car leaps into life, barrelling across the open field. Swallow gets drenched, ends up throwing the bat into my tyre tracks. It bounces once, then settles in a muddy rut which I watch in the rear-view. He spits at my brake lights.

I massage my neck and stick on the radio. Breathing’s not easy, but I'll live.

Which is more than can be said for Millie.

***

"Mr. Lounds..."

I'm standing in his living room. Dirty net curtains, a brown sofa, beige carpet. Harry Lounds kneeling in the middle of the room, holding a dying dog in his arms.

I can't get through to him. He's crouched over Millie with tears in his eyes, murmuring something into her bleeding ear. Harry Lounds, that dear old man, wouldn't hurt a fly, couldn't go and get his dog back from the nasty criminals. Harry Lounds, crying like a baby over something he could've stopped years ago. Harry Lounds, the dog fighting man who couldn’t hold on to a winner.

"My Millie, my poor girl, my poor girl..."

"Mr. Lounds..."

"Why didn't you stop them?"

"You sold her, didn’t you?"

He shakes his head. "They as good as stole her."

"You still took their money."

"She shouldn’t have been fighting," he says, but it's more to himself than me. He's tapped out, clouded with grief.

It's about time he woke up.

"No, you sold her. They paid cash for her. Not as much as you realised she was worth, but enough to throw you off for a couple of months."

"I didn't have a choice. I was scammed, Mr. Innes."

"You had a choice. You had a choice when she was a pup."

"She was nothing when she was a pup."

"So you were pissed off when you saw what a little money-spinner she turned out to be. Except she wasn't yours anymore."

"She's my champ." Then, to Millie: "You're my champ, sweetheart. We'll fix you up."

"Then what, Mr. Lounds? You're going to fight her again?"

He looks up at me, startled. "I paid you to get my dog back."

"I got your dog back."

"She's dying!"

"That's not my fault."

"What fuckin' good is she if she's dying?"

I bite my tongue. Because I want to lay this bastard out so badly.

And I can't look at Millie. She's clawing at the carpet, a tacking sound that makes my throat close up. Still a game girl, still fighting to hold onto what little life she has left.

"I got your dog back, Mr. Lounds. Now I want to be paid."

Trying to be a hardcase when he's in tears. Playing tough when I feel like spewing.

But I keep his stare long enough to register the point. He gets up off the floor and pulls a large biscuit tin from under the television. Opens it, fishes inside for a bundle of twenties and throws it on the table next to me. There are dark red spots on Elgar's portrait. …Blood money.

"There," he says. "Now get out of my house."

"With pleasure."

And I leave through the back, past the treadmill and the bait cage and the rope attached to a spring mounted to a tree. The treadmill for stamina, the bait cage as incentive. The spring to strengthen the jaws so they can lock and hold. A regular killer factory. I leave him mourning the dog, his face buried into a lifeless mass of muscle and fur. And I spit because the taste in my mouth is so bad.

I should have knocked him out. I should have done something to release the pressure in my chest and get back at him for killing Millie. Stupid, but true. Avenging a dog, a conditioned man biter. Like Liam, the conditioned hardcase, Paulo’s problem kid at the club, proper little Scrappy-Doo.

I get in the car, but I can't start it. I can't move. My fingers feel numb on the steering wheel. A stiff breeze comes in through the broken windows. I take a few deep breaths that don't do anything to shift the weight on my lungs.

Trouble is, the fighting pups end up growing old. And when they're old, they're slow and there's no one to protect them. When I get back to the club, I'll remind Liam of that.

After he's mopped up the blood on the back seat of my car.

Copyright(c) 2003 by Ray Banks