fredbassett

Title : Fight Night, Part 1 of 7
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 18
Characters : Fiver
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Fiver and other OCs), no money made, don’t sue.
Word Count : 15,100 in 7 parts.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Fiver is down on his luck after being slung out of the army, but gets an offer he can’t refuse.
A/N : 1) Written for Soldiers Week as part of 52 Weeks of Primeval on

primeval_denial 2) Part of my Stephen/Ryan series

The smell hit them as soon as they opened the car door.

The warm musk of animal bodies pressed together combined with the stink of their muck. The men wrinkled their noses in disgust, and one of them started to cough.

The farmyard was littered with rusting machinery. Only an ancient Land Rover looked like it was still able to move under its own steam. The farmhouse wasn’t much better. The exterior was as run down as the rest of the place. Pain peeling off the window frames and grey stone crumbling from the walls. The place stank of shit and decay. Opposite the animal pens, a large, newly-built shed the size of an aircraft hangar stood in stark contrast to the mess everywhere else, with breeze-block sides and a grey corrugated roof. It was the only new thing to be seen on the farm.

Terry Speight nodded towards the boot of the car.

Two of the lads hauled out a long shape wrapped in a blue tarpaulin. Without needing to be told, they lugged it over to one of the pens and heaved it over the metal rail, letting the contents tumble out.

The snorting and squealing intensified as the pigs jostled with each other for position. Speight wandered over and looked into the pen. All he could see was a heaving mass of heavy, bristle-haired bodies, pressed up against each other, mouths open to display an array of formidable teeth as they started to chomp on their latest meal.

“Hungry little fuckers,” he remarked approvingly.

“Likes their grub, they do.” The words came from a man leaning against the corner of a barn that adjoined the pen. He was short, round and had even less hair than his pigs. His pink, bald head shone with sweat, and more beaded on his upper lip.

On balance, Speight thought he preferred the pigs. “Must be saving you a fortune in grub.”

The man held his hand out. “None o’ your business ’ow much I feeds ‘em, or ‘ow much it costs, Tel-boy. But best for you if I keeps ‘em ‘hungry, eh?”

Speight slapped a wad of notes secured with an elastic band into the man’s damp palm.

The farmer’s fat shiny face broke into a wide smile displaying small, white teeth. “Nice doin’ business with you.”

Speight wasn’t sure he echoed that sentiment, but he had to admit that as disposal methods went, this was a sure-fire winner. The only drawback was that it had put him off pork for life.

He nodded to the farmer and walked back to the car. The two lads with him were already back inside, windows up and air con running full blast to keep the smell at bay.

Behind him, the pen of Tamworth pigs continued to tear at their latest prize. One of the smaller pigs made a grab for something on the ground and then jostled its way out of the pack, carrying something in its mouth.

A human hand.

*****

“We done for the night, Tel?”

Speight looked at his watch. “Just one call on the way back. Stop off by the arches. Need to check out the latest lead.”

The car bounced down the rutted track that led past the sign that said Pear Tree Farm – Finest Pork and back onto to the main road. Half an hour and they’d be back in town.

The driver flicked the windscreen wipers on. The weather had gone from a warm evening to teeming rain in less than a minute.

Speight grinned. Bring it on. Crap weather was a godsend in his business.

By the time they reached the shelter of the motorway bridge, the wipers were on as fast as they’d go and even with that, visibility was poor. The driver pulled over and ran the car up onto the island in the middle of the big roundabout formed around the huge struts of the bridge.

Speight jumped out and walked up to the grey concrete pillars, lit only by the faint light from the streetlamps on the road. He pulled a torch out of his pocket and played the beam over several piles of filthy rags huddled against the bridge supports.

“Anyone need a bit o’ dosh?” he asked, poking at one of the bundles of dirty, ragged clothes.

A muffled fuck off came from the pile of rags nearest to him.

“Manners,” Speight chided, and aimed a kick from his steel toe-capped boots at the rough sleeper.

A grunt was all the answer he got, but he’d made his point.

He worked the line, repeating his question.

The only answer he got came from the last noxious bundle. “Giss a fiver, mate?”

“Didn’t your mam teach you the magic word?” Speight asked, crouching down beside the man.

In the light of his torch, Speight could see a young black face staring up at him out of a mess of old clothes and what might once have been an army greatcoat. The man was wearing a navy-blue bobble hat pulled down over his forehead. His eyes were bright, and Speight saw a flash of white teeth as the man grinned up at him.

“Giss a fiver, please, mate?”

Speight dug around in his pockets and came up with a tenner. He held it out by his finger and thumb, dangling it in front of the man’s face.

A look of suspicion crossed the man’s face. “I ain’t suckin’ yer dick fer that,” he muttered.

“Ain’t askin’ you to. You’re not my type.”

“Iz it ‘cos I’z black?”

Speight grinned. “No, mate, it’s ‘cos you’re a bloke.” He dropped the tenner into the man’s lap and stood up. “See you around… mate.”

The man’s hand shot out, as fast as a striking snake and the tenner disappeared into the pile of rags.

The rain was already driving under the arch of the bridge and a cold wind was whistling through the meagre shelter. Speight stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat and started to walk back to the car.

As if on a whim, he turned around and said over his shoulder, “If you’re looking for work, meet me at Joe’s Kaff tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock sharp.” Without waiting for a reply, he got back in the car.

“Home, Jim lad, and don’t spare the horses.”

*****

Joe’s Kaff overlooked the motorway bridge, with a burned-out bookie’s on one side and a dingy sex shop on the other.

The café attracted the dregs of the neighbourhood, but was known to serve the best fried breakfast in the area. Provided you like grease, that is. The tea was dark brown and thick enough to stand a spoon up in. And if you asked for a skinny latte you’d be told to fuck off. There were only two choices: tea or coffee. Anything else came under the heading of poncey bollocks. And woe betide anyone daft enough to ask for wholemeal toast.

The woman behind the counter had worked there for longer than Terry Speight could remember. She went by the name of Big Marge, and rumour had it she was Joe’s wife. But no one remembered much about Joe, and Speight’s money was on the fact that he’d never existed.

“Me usual, luv,” he said, pushing a tenner across the bar before settling down at one of the seats at the back of the café. Despite its grungy exterior, the inside was scrupulously clean and the old-fashioned formica table tops looked like they’d been scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. It reminded Speight of his gran’s kitchen. Two minutes later, a mug of strong black tea was plonked down on the table in front of him along with a bacon butty. The bread was white and thick cut, dripping with butter and grease. The bacon had been fried – Joe’s Kaff didn’t possess anything as new-fangled as a grill. Everything was fried and tasted better for it. As long as you didn’t stop to think about the effect on your arteries.

Speight munched his sandwich and idly flicked through a copy of The Sun that had been left behind on the table by the last customer to enjoy the culinary delights Joe’s Kaff had to offer. A glance up at the clock on the wall told him he had two minutes to go before he found out if his latest mark had taken the bait. He finished the butty and swilled it down with the rest of his tea.

Two minutes later, the door swung open, the bell jangling loudly. The young black guy from the night before shuffled in, looking cold, hungry and knackered. His eyes immediately settled on Speight and the back of the café and he walked towards him, an uncertain look in his eyes.

Speight waved a hand to the seat opposite him.

The lad looked over his shoulder before sitting down. It was clear that sitting with his back to the door went against the grain. Speight suppressed a grin. This one was going to be worth the effort, he could feel it in his bones.

He glanced over at Big Marge. “Full English and a mug of tea when you’re ready, Marge.”

She grunted something unintelligible, but a minute later, two mugs of tea were planted unceremoniously on the table. One black, the other white, which told Speight that the lad had been in here before. Big Marge never forgot an order. Speight had seen her ladling in three sugars, as well.

A pair of grubby, dry-skinned hands were promptly cupped around the mug. The lad looked frozen. Hardly surprising after spending a night huddled under a bridge while the rain came down in stair-rods. He gulped the tea down while it was hot, and continued to hold onto the mug. Speight nodded at Marge and another one appeared in the blink of an eye.

Neither of the men spoke. The breakfast arrived a couple of minutes later. Two rashers of middle cut bacon, two sausages, two eggs, two slices of black pudding, a large dollop of baked beans, a large bubble and squeak potato cake (ask for hash browns and be shown the door), a fried tomato and two thick slices of fried bread. The bloke demolished the lot with the same single-minded determination Speight had last seen in a herd of pigs.

After wiping his plate clean with the last of the fried bread, the black lad eyed Speight warily. “You said about work…?”

Speight kept his expression strictly neutral. “So how long have you been out of the army?”

The lad’s expression went from wary to hunted in the blink of an eye. He finished the tea. Clearly debating whether to simply fuck off now.

“Seen lads like you before,” Speight said. “Not hard to make your type. Don’t like sitting with your back to a door. Never stop sizing up what’s goin’ on around you. Eyes that have seen too much, too young. Am I right or am I right?”

His companion took a gulp of tea. “You’re right,” he admitted. “So what’s it to you?”

“My brother was in the army.”

A glimmer of interest in the lad’s dark eyes. “What unit?”

“2nd Battalion Royal Fusilliers.”

“Sangin.”

Speight nodded. The lie well-rehearsed.

“What happened to him?”

“IED. Two days before he was due to fly home.”

The lad grimaced. Genuine sympathy on a face that might have been good-looking if it hadn’t have been a mix of knackered, scared and totally fucked-up.

Speight shrugged. “Shit happens. It was a long time ago. You?”

“Two Para.”

“So how long have you been out?”

“Six months.”

“Had enough of it?”

The look that crossed the lad’s face was wary.

Speight knew his instincts on this one had been good. It was time to reel in his catch. “What did they bin you for?”

“Got pissed and decked a Rupert. Slimy fucker had never even been in theatre.”

Speight grinned. “Bet he deserved it.”

“Too fuckin’ right. Hadn’t done four tours there to take crap from some bastard straight out of Sandhurst.” A swift grin lit up the lad’s face. “Should’ve seen his fuckin’ face. Cunt.”

“Colchester?”

“Two months, then they kicked me out. Been on the streets ever since.”

“Bastards. Fancy another brew?”

The answering nod was eager.

Speight waiting until the lad was halfway down his next drink before asking, “So what’s your name?”

The wary look came straight back and the shutters came down.

Speight plastered a friendly grin on his face. “What did your mates call you?”

He finished the tea before answering, as though afraid it’d get snatched away.

“Fiver.”

Speight frowned. “Gave you a tenner last night, mate.”

The lad grinned, showing once-white teeth that probably hadn’t been brushed for a month. “Lend us a fiver, mate. Fiver, it’s what me mates called me.”

“Nice one. OK, Fiver, what’re you gonna do with that tenner I gave you last night? Blow it on drugs?”

“Don’t do drugs. Fuckin’ mugs’ game.”

“You will after another six months under that fucking bridge. By then you’ll be glad of a few hours out of your head. Trust me, mate, I’ve been there.”

The look he got was sceptical. Speight shrugged off his jacket and pushed his sweater up past his elbow, revealing the track marks on his arm. The look of scepticism dropped away. Speight kept a straight face. It had been worth an afternoon spent jabbing a needle into his arm. The scars did more to convince his targets he knew where they were coming from – or going to – than any words he could use.

“So what happened?” The question came out almost grudgingly.

Speight shrugged. “Somebody offered me an alternative. Same as I’m goin’ to offer you. Want to get yourself off the streets? Get some more food in your belly? Decent clothes that don’t stink of sweat and piss? A proper bed at night?”

“What’s the fuckin’ catch?”

“For a lad like you, there isn’t one. You can hold your own in a fight, I bet. Must be able to if you laid out a Rupert.”

“You need muscle?”

“I need a scrapper.”

A swift grin lit the lad’s face. “Could scrap for England, me.”

Speight stood up pulled his jacket back on.

He’d reeled in his catch and landed it, hook, line and sinker.

“Come on, I’ll tell you the rest in the car.” He held his hand out. “Speight. Terry Speight. Me mates call me Tel.”

The handshake he was given was on the bruising side of firm but stopped short of bone-crunching.

It was a good start.