Survival (Twisted Book 1) Page 2

  We finally closed the coffee shop at 8pm. I was sure we spent more money staying open than we made, but I wasn’t going to complain. I waited while Mark locked the door, said goodbye and made my way to the shop. I shoved my hands in my coat pockets to keep the cold away and walked further away from home. I had to buy Mum’s cigarettes. I didn’t want to talk to her but I knew I would have to if I went home without two fresh decks of twenty Marlboro’s.

  “Shit.” I cursed when I saw the shop was closed. I ignored my shivering body and carried on to the next row of shops.

  By the time I had found a shop, bought her cigarettes and made it home, it was 9.30. My stomach growled with hunger and my throat was dry from the crisp winter air. I grabbed a glass of water and stood at the sink.

  “Did you buy my fags?” My mother skulked into the kitchen wearing the same clothes she’d worn all week.

  She hadn’t showered either. I could see the thick layer of grease that matted her once luscious golden hair. Her voice was hoarse and dry, ruined by smoking forty a day for the past year. The smoke from her last cigarette billowed up from the ashtray as she held her greedy hand out for the next supply. I threw the boxes on the counter, refusing to touch her, talk to her, or make eye contact.

  I headed out of the kitchen, but she stopped me at the door.

  “A man turned up for you,” she croaked and shoved a piece of paper in my hand. “He wanted you to call him immediately… Don’t bring your work home.”

  “Fuck you.” I hissed and left the kitchen.

  I wondered if she would have passed the message on if she knew it had nothing to do with money, although I had no idea who it was or what they wanted.

  I shut my bedroom door, making sure nothing was out of place. I sighed in relief when it looked how I left it and flipped open my mobile phone. I dialled the number on the paper and waited.

  “Hello?” A low voice crackled on the other end.

  “Who is this?”

  “Who’s this?!” The man jumped on the defence.

  “It’s Skye. You turned up at my house.”

  “Oh, Skye! It’s Curtis.”

  “Who?!”

  He chuckled, “Cut Throat.”

  “Cut Throat Curtis?” I scoffed. What a name.

  “That’s me, Skillet. Are you at home?”

  “Yes. Or I wouldn’t be calling you.”

  “See? You burn.”

  I smiled, “What do you want?”

  “I’m coming to pick you up. Be waiting outside in five.”

  He hung up and I stared at the phone for a minute. Odd. I quickly changed out of my uniform, grabbed my things and left. I didn’t say goodbye to my mother. She had what she wanted; she wouldn’t notice I was gone.

  I waited outside in the cold for mere seconds before a beat-up little Volkswagen Polo screeched to a halt in front of me. No way. No way would a man Cut Throat’s size fit in that car. But sure enough, as he wound the window down, I saw that he did indeed fit. And even left a little room for me.

  “Get in, Skillet. It’s freezing!”

  I rolled my eyes and climbed in the car, warming my hands on the vents that furiously pumped hot air into the tin can I was sitting in.

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s your brother’s big night,” he answered as he set off down the road. “I’m taking you to see it.”

  “See what? What big night?”

  “You haven’t figured it out?” He looked at me but I shoved his face back in the direction of the road.

  “Clearly not. Eyes on the road, Curtis.”

  “Easy,” he laughed. “And it’s Mr Curtis to you.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Slasher, Cut Throat? I thought you’d get it. Ollie is Juggernaut Jones.”

  “Why does he have a nickname?”

  “Oh, Skillet,” he shook his head and sighed. Patronising git. “We’re fighters. Lovers, too. But that doesn’t pay.”

  “What?!” I gripped the door handle and my body jerked in shock. “What?!”

  “Calm down.”

  “My brother fights?”

  “That’s why he didn’t want you there. I thought it was just ‘cause it’s the big one…Too late now.”

  I didn’t think the car could get any smaller. It could, and it did. I was suffocating. My brother was a fighter. That wasn’t okay. I thought he just swept the floor at Geoff’s Gym. Naive, much? How the hell did I not see it?

  Cut Throat – No, Curtis. I refused to call him his nickname when I knew why he had it – pulled up on an unlit road and killed the engine.

  “Where is he?”

  “In there,” he pointed to a black door and I was out of the car before he could say anything else. I banged on the door furiously with both fists.

  “Password,” came a quiet voice as the door opened just a crack.

  “Screw the password. My brother is in there.”

  “Password,” is all the voice replied.

  “I told you to wait,” Curtis said from behind me.

  “Password,” the damn voice repeated.

  “Row row row your boat.”

  The door opened and I looked at Curtis, dumbfounded.

  “What kind of password is that?”

  “Would you have guessed it?” He arrogantly cocked an eyebrow.

  “No.”

  “Then, Madame, continue.”

  He smiled and nudged me over the threshold.

  We climbed a set of dark stairs and then descended another set. Curtis opened a door at the end of an unlit hallway and led me into something that looked like a scene from a Rocky movie. Only there was a cage in the middle…

  Four

  I could have stopped it…If I’d have just opened my eyes, I could have stopped it…

  January 1st, 2003

  “Are you kidding me?!” I yelled over the thumping music as I watched the swarms of people around me. “This is really happening?”

  “Yes, it’s happening,” Curtis held the top of my arm and led me towards the front, through the madness until we were at a table at the front, two metres from the cage. “Is it really so bad?”

  “Yes!” I screeched, feeling more and more terrified by the minute.

  There was so much noise. There were so many people. The excited energy buzzed in the air. The audience was getting a kick out of what was about to happen and then it hit me. We were in the thick of it. The night had already started; there had been previous fights, and there were more to come. The excitement grew with every second, telling me we were building up to something much bigger.

  “Curtis?” I looked up at him as he held a chair out at a table for me and I sat down. He sat down next to me and my eyes never left him. “What did you mean about this being Oliver’s big night?”

  “Ah,” he groaned and chewed on his thumb nail. “I don’t know that I should tell you. You already look like you’re about to spew. Water?”

  “Spill it.”

  “The water?”

  He was trying to be funny, the bastard. He’d brought me here, to the most terrifying night of my life and he was trying to be funny. I wanted to punch him. Hell, I was in the right place to do it.

  “The truth, Curtis.”

  “I can’t resist a pretty face,” he said, waving at someone in the distance and mouthing that he wanted bottled water. He turned back to me. “It’s the way this industry works. The bigger the fight, the more money. The bigger the win, the more sponsors next time you fight. Get it?”

  I nodded.

  “Like any area of the entertainment industry-”

  “This is entertainment?”

  “Wait ‘til you feel the rush. You want the story or not, Skillet?” I nodded for him to continue. “The smaller fights go first. They go for five minutes in each round, a maximum of three rounds. You with me?” I nodded, speechless, “Championships and main events last for five rounds. The further on in the night, the bigger the profiles. People will stay for
the main event, spend loads of cash, voila. The organisers made their moolah.”

  “Stop trying to be funny!” I shoved at him but he didn’t even notice I’d touched him.

  “I’m trying to make you feel better. Ollie has been a surprise mover up the ranks.”

  “Why is he fighting?” I asked, scanning the arena for my brother. I couldn’t see him. I could usually feel him when we were close – twin sixth sense or whatever – but I couldn’t feel him.

  “For the same reasons we all do.”

  “Money? All this danger for money?”

  “It’s not dangerous if you do it right. This isn’t pit fighting, Skillet,” he chuckled, but I felt like a fish out of water. I had no idea what was going on. “And it isn’t for money. It’s for the rush, the release, the freedom, the passion. It’s climbing the steps of that ring and standing in the middle to look at the crowd, knowing you and just one other are in control of your life for twenty-five minutes. During that time, nothing else matters.”

  I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to switch on the twin radar, find my brother and get him out of there. If he was doing it for release, there was only one thing he needed to escape from. Home. Me. We would find another way to solve it. I just had to find him.

  “He’s not here,” Curtis said, causing me to stop looking at every face I could see. “He’ll be in the back. Greasing up or shadowing,” he continued when he noted my confusion. “Vaseline. Helps the punches slip off…and shadowing. Like a fight in slow motion. It’s conditioning. He’ll be fine.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “He isn’t called Juggernaut Jones for nothing.”

  My heart was racing. Nothing Curtis had told me made me feel one iota of comfort. My brother was about to get in a cage and fight. Fight. And there was nothing I could do to stop him. I was about to lose my cool, when the lights fell dim and the strobe lighting began. The music made me jump as it burst from the speakers. The drums of a post-hardcore band, accompanied by the scream of the male lead singer, bled out and filled the arena. My ears hurt and the aggressive music relentlessly attacking me only made my nerves amplify.

  “Okaaaay!” the MC in the middle of the ring shouted. “Deep breaths…clenched fists…”

  The audience chanted with him.

  “Deep breaths…clenched fists. Deep breaths…clenched fists.”

  The MC continued, “Deep breaths, clenched fists, here comes Juggernaut Jones!”

  I stopped breathing altogether as my brother jumped out, barefoot and topless wearing open fingered gloves, and I saw a bright green mouthguard in his hand as he raised his arms. He didn’t look like my brother. Oliver was always the quiet one, the reserved one; the one more likely to stop a fight with carefully chosen words. No way would he walk out into a crowd of hundreds, ready and willing to punch a man. For fun. I didn’t know who I was looking at as he walked the ramp, climbed into the ring and shook hands with the MC, but it wasn’t Oliver Jones…It was Juggernaut Jones. Was it possible that he could have been both? I wasn’t convinced. I was terrified. Beyond terrified. I was delirious and nauseas and my hands were locked so tightly together they hurt.

  The other guy made his entrance. He was huge too. Couldn’t Oliver have been up against someone who didn’t match him muscle for muscle? More screaming from the speakers and I covered my ears with my hands, my eyes never leaving the other fighter. I didn’t even catch his name. The MC’s voice was drowned out by the screams, whistles and cheers of the people who had made their way forward and were now surrounding us. He bounced down the ramp and glared at my brother; he bared his teeth in a snarl and more screams erupted from the spectators. I turned my gaze to Oliver as he shook his arms and bounced from foot to foot. He was focussed, I could see that much. His eyes had glassed over and the small smile on one corner of his mouth told me he was confident. I thought I could feel it permeating from him to me. I must have been imagining it; making it up to ease my fear.

  “Okay,” the referee called and Oliver and the other fighter met him in the middle. “I want a good clean fight. I won't tolerate anything less. Are you ready?” he looked at Oliver, who nodded. He looked to the other guy, who nodded. It was happening. “Alright. Touch gloves, let’s go.”

  They bumped gloves and backed up. The bell rang and they began to circle the ring, neither wanting to make the first move. The first guy swung his arm out and I held my breath as his fist passed Oliver’s face. Oliver tried next, and missed. They edged closer and closer, until they locked hands behind each other’s heads and tried to off the other’s balance. I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t look away. In my peripheral, I could see Curtis on tenterhooks. One leg was bouncing and he was clenching his fists. He was nervous. He told me Oliver would be fine. Why was he nervous if Oliver was going to win?

  The other fighter hit Oliver straight in the jaw. I raised my hand to my cheek; I could feel it. I was out of breath, my oxygen intake reduced the more Oliver exerted himself. They were on the floor, one trying to make the other submit and then they swapped. There was kicking and punching and flying fists. I couldn’t keep up; I only knew that the first round felt a hell of a lot longer than five minutes. It felt like long, agonising hours of watching my brother fight. I didn’t want it. Why would he want to do it? I got no rush; there was adrenaline, but the flight or fight response? I wanted to run and take him with me.

  The same torturous routine went on for three rounds. Curtis comforted me in between, while Oliver was having Vaseline rubbed on a cut above his eyebrow and a load of water squirted into his mouth, but it didn’t work. Nothing would work. I wouldn’t feel better until I could slap some sense into my brother myself and make him promise he wouldn’t do it again.

  The fourth round started and my heart felt heavy. It felt too weighed down to beat. It was slow, but it was fast. It was heavy, but it was fluttery. I was a concoction of nervous anguish and I just wanted it to end.

  “Knock him out, Ollie!” I cried. I just wanted it to be over.

  The bell rang as the words left my lips and Oliver turned to find me. He didn’t see the fist coming in his direction. His eyes connected with mine and a look of terror flashed across his face before the fist connected with the back of his head and sent him to the floor. His body went limp, his eyes closed. He didn’t move.

  Five

  Twins. You’re born together, you grow together, you learn together. You laugh together, you cry together…you fight together.

  And then what?

  January 1st, 2003

  Oliver was unconscious before he was able to put his hands out to break his fall. His body slumped to the floor and my heart stopped as I watched it.

  Time stopped. There was no bell.

  Silence deafened the building.

  The only movement was the referee standing over my brother and waving his arms in silent panic.

  I couldn’t breathe. I felt numb.

  I took off towards the ring and launched myself at the cage. I could feel the cold metal; it was the only thing I felt. Cold.

  Curtis wrapped his arms around my waist. I knew it was him; I could hear him shushing me. I could hear someone in the ring telling him to get me away. I was panicking. I was hysterical. I clung to the cage and watched as people dressed in black surrounded Oliver until I couldn’t see him. I allowed Curtis to wrench me away but my body continued thrashing.

  “You said he’d be fine!” I screamed when he set me down. I pounded his chest and repeated, “You said he’d be fine.”

  “I know.”

  I looked past him.

  “No!” I cried, trying to get to Oliver as he was strapped to a stretcher. “No, no, no!”

  “Skye, let them look after him”

  “He needs me!”

  Curtis lifted me off my feet and I stopped fighting. My body sagged as he threw me over his shoulder and made his way towards the exit. I silently sobbed as I was separated further from Oliver’s lifeless body.


  I sat in the waiting room surrounded by people, but I wasn’t really there. I was still in the arena watching Oliver fall over and over again. All I could see was the pained expression on his face when his eyes met mine.

  Curtis never let go of my hand, not once. But I didn’t hold back. I couldn’t.

  Time ticked by; hours, minutes, I didn’t know. All I knew was that with each agonising second that passed, my brother was somewhere in the hospital. Alone.

  The door clicked open and I heard muffled voices as I continued to stare blankly at the floor.

  “Skye…Skye…Skye,” Curtis shook me and I looked up into the eyes of a doctor.

  “Are you next of kin?” She asked. I nodded. “Are you his wife?”

  I shook my head.

  “She’s his sister,” Curtis answered for me and gave my hand a gentle squeeze.

  “Where are your parents, Skye?” I just stared back at her, “Skye?”

  “Unfit,” I rasped. “Dad left, Mum is drunk. It’s just us.”

  She nodded in understanding and turned to Curtis.

  “Would you come with her to my office?”

  Curtis stood and helped me to my feet. We reached the door before I stopped.

  “I’m okay,” I stepped away from him.

  “But-”

  “I said -- I’m okay.”

  I followed the doctor to her office and she shut the door behind us. She sat behind her desk and gestured for me to sit opposite. I stayed standing.

  “I really think you should sit down, Ms Jones.”

  I relented and sat in the chair.

  “My name is Doctor Khan. I’m in charge of your brother’s care.”

  I continued to stare. I was close to breaking, to letting my heart shatter, but I had to keep it in. I had to be strong for Oliver.