Page 1 of Shai

Elijah

I T WAS the cold that gradually filtered through my semi-conscious state, one side of my face more reminiscent of something that had been left in an ice box for too long. Time ticked by slowly until it bothered me enough to attempt moving. As soon as I did, my body protested, every nerve and sinew screaming out in pain. Ah, yes, that was it. This was no lazy afternoon nap. I was all too familiar with the sort of stupor that came after a savage beating. I’d had weeks of practice at it.

At some point during the barrage of fists and booted feet searching out

all the places on my body that didn’t already bear bruises from the last beating, I’d slipped into the blessed peace of oblivion. Levering myself up onto one elbow, I forced my eyes open enough to take stock of my surroundings. The beating had been carried out in what McIntyre liked to call “the great hall,” in an egotistical way the crime lord pulled off as easily as breathing.

I was now in the basement. No surprise, there. The only light in the

room came from a tiny window high up on the wall at street level. Even though it was the middle of the day, it left the basement bathed in a thick gloom. Was it still the middle of the day, though? It had been when I’d been summoned for an audience with McIntyre. But how long ago had that been? Minutes? Hours? For all I knew twenty-four hours could have passed, Thursday giving way to Friday. It was normal procedure to drag me down here and dump me once I’d lost consciousness, the stairs leading down to the basement no doubt adding extra bruises.

Using the rough stone wall for support, I clawed my way up to a seated position, my body issuing constant demands to know why I would do that to it. Once upright, I fought against a wave of dizziness, sucking in lungful after lungful of air in an effort not to throw up. It didn’t really help, not when the air in the basement erred on the wrong side of fetid, the room not having seen anything close to fresh air for years. I tried to focus on something else instead, determined on two counts not to give up the contents of my stomach. Firstly, my abdomen was so sore I knew it would hurt like fuck, and then there was the fact that given my jailors’ lack of generosity when it came to food, it was always wise to hang on to whatever I did get.

I lifted my hand to my face, a distinct tremble in my fingers as I tried to gauge how much damage had been dealt this time. One cheek, the one that hadn’t just been pressed to the stone floor, was hot to the touch, even a gentle probing triggering a spark of pain that ricocheted through my entire body and ramped up the nausea once more. At least the rest of my face seemed to have escaped the worst of the blows.

For the next few minutes, I carried out a thorough inventory of the rest of my body, few spots having escaped unscathed. Although, it was almost impossible to tell which bruises and scrapes were new, and which had been there before I’d been used as the afternoon’s entertainment.

Leaning back against the wall, I concentrated on breathing and staying conscious. The thin T-shirt I wore did nothing to alleviate the cold seeping from the wall, the basement as damp as always. I wrapped my arms around myself in an attempt to hug some warmth into my frozen limbs.

At least I should get a few hours’ respite, a few hours alone to think and to wallow in regret. It was funny the things you could take as a positive when your life was one big, steaming pile of shit.

Just to prove how wrong I was, a key turned in the lock, the door creaking open and footsteps coming down the stairs until two men I knew only too well stood at the bottom. The habit in the compound was for everybody of any importance—which counted me out—to be addressed by surnames only. At least I’d always assumed they were surnames rather than nicknames. It was hard to tell when the only language anyone ever communicated to me was that of violence, threats, and mockery.

Jones and Harris wore matching smirks as they crossed the room toward

me, muscles bulging beneath their equally tight T-shirts. In fact, nearly everything about them was identical, from their shaved heads to their gorilla-like postures. They were like some strange parody of Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

Any urge to laugh at the ridiculous thought was quashed as Harris

crouched in front of me, the familiar stench of his body odor aggravating the need to be sick. Nobody worried much about personal hygiene in this place, not McIntyre, and certainly not his gang of henchmen. That had been all too clear from the first day of being here, however many weeks ago that had been. I’d lost track. It was hard to keep an accurate count when life consisted of a never-ending cycle of bouts of unconsciousness.

I’d become the compound toy. I was the source of entertainment when

the men were bored, as well as a punching bag they could vent their frustration on when something—usually McIntyre—had pissed them off. There were no ramifications for their actions, McIntyre only too happy to have me play that role.

I mustered all the hatred I could as I glared at Harris. They might break

my body at regular intervals, but I liked to think my spirit remained very much intact. They could pummel me as much and for as long as they liked, but they wouldn’t take that from me. If my hatred bothered him, Harris didn’t let it show. He reached out, smiling, as his thick fingers probed the cheek I’d explored earlier. A burst of pain sharp enough to make me want to curl up shot through me. I refused to give in to it, remaining sitting upright and keeping my gaze locked on his as his smile grew broader. “I did that one!”

There was triumph in his voice, as if inflicting a wound was something

to be proud of, something he could tell his mum when she asked how his week had been. I stayed silent. After a long pause, Harris’s smile faded, replaced by a distinct look of disappointment. He’d wanted an excuse to have another go at me. In the end, it was Jones who broke the strange stand-off. “Boss wants to see you.”

My heart sank. It was a meeting with McIntyre that had triggered the

earlier beating. It was how most meetings with him ended. It was usually restricted to once a day, though. Being summoned by him twice in one day, assuming it was still the same day, which I still wasn’t sure about, didn’t bode well at all. I wasn’t sure I could survive another beating on top of the one I’d already received. But then the end—my end—had been written in the cards for the last few weeks. All it would take was a blow just that side of too hard, the one that would break a rib and puncture my lung, or give me irreparable brain damage. The only surprise was that it hadn’t happened already. “What does he want?”

Neither man deigned to answer, more intent on grabbing an arm to drag me to my feet. I couldn’t help the half-moan, half-sob that burst from my lips as my stiff and bruised body was forced into movements it didn’t feel capable of making. They didn’t react to it, but then I hadn’t expected them to. They’d probably inflicted most of the damage, and they were no doubt looking forward to inflicting more. The men who inhabited this compound were nothing short of animals. They brawled. They fucked. They gambled. They drank. And they did McIntyre’s bidding. If they did anything else, I hadn’t seen much evidence of it.

Our progress up the steps and along the twisting maze of corridors was slow, my feet refusing to cooperate or bear much of my weight. Harris and Jones didn’t care. They were only too happy to drag me. It gave me plenty of time to consider the life choices that had brought me to this point. I came from a long line of petty crooks and drug dealers. It was in my blood. Or at least that was my excuse for never having explored other avenues. In the town I came from, there were too many petty crooks—all of us picking over the same scraps and barely able to make enough to pay the rent, never mind allowing any money for luxuries.

Deadwood was different. Its streets were rife with crime, and the police were paid handsomely to turn a blind eye. It had always been McIntyre’s city, and as such he’d driven out anyone who wasn’t prepared to work for him, and line his pockets with a hefty percentage. But then Shai had happened. Shai, who’d breezed into town and systematically begun to strip McIntyre of what was his, employing an equal mixture of force and guile. He’d driven McIntyre out of the northern part of the city, forcing him to retreat to the south, the river becoming an unofficial boundary between the two halves.

Shai’s reputation was no less fearsome than McIntyre’s was. He’d greased the right palms and issued the right threats, making it impossible for McIntyre to regain ground in the north. However, Shai hadn’t been able advance any farther. And that’s where the two men had been ever since. Stuck in a stalemate with each crime lord running all the business from drugs to guns in their half of the city, but unable to take over the entire city while the other man stood in their way.

Neither had given up. And within that overwhelming need to destroy

each other, cracks had opened up in Deadwood, cracks which allowed men like myself to sneak a piece of the pie for themselves.