Marina had never experienced anything like it.
The barn was huge, modern and functional. Metal sheets clad to a concrete skeleton. Concrete floor. It had been cleared of its day-to-day use with bales of hay pushed to the walls alongside farming machinery, but it couldn’t shake off the farm smell: animal waste, nitrates. Marina was sure it never would. That smell had permeated into the foundations. But it was about to be joined by other, more pungent smells. Sweat. Blood. Money.
She had returned to Sandro’s house and told him the news about Phil. Sandro hugged her, somewhat awkwardly. She knew that wasn’t the kind of thing he was comfortable with but was pleased he had done it. Because that gesture of affection made her, for the first time in her life, feel an abiding love for him. And she was sure he knew it.
And that in turn made her feel guilty about the phone call she had made to Franks. But she would deal with that later, as Sandro had to prepare for the fight and she had to ready herself too. She was going to get her daughter back. No matter what it took.
Sandro emerged from the bathroom, his gym bag over his shoulder, all tracked and hoodied up. She tried to talk to him but he barely responded. She checked his eyes. Her brother wasn’t there any more. In his place was another person. Harder, colder, angrier. A fighter. Marina had flinched. She had looked in her brother’s eyes and glimpsed their father.
They had taken Sandro’s near-dead and rusted-out Mondeo, as she didn’t want to be spotted in Anni’s car. They had driven in near silence. Next to each other but inhabiting different worlds. Both focused on what they had to do in the next few hours.
Turning off the main road and driving up to the farm, Marina had been amazed. They had had to join a long queue of cars to get in. She had expected them all to be like Sandro’s – junkers and clunkers, all tattered and falling apart. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Although there were a fair few cars like that, there were also plenty top-of-the-range numbers, BMWs, Mercs, some Lexus models, dotted about.
There was also security on the gate. Stringent, serious. Big guys who looked like they could double for the night’s entertainment took money and gave directions. Sandro didn’t pay. He was just given a nod of recognition, directed to a field that had been turned into a car park. There, as in the queue to get in, status symbols rubbed bumpers with working Land Rovers, pristine 4x4s, Transits and rust buckets. It was, Marina was amazed to discover, one of the most truly democratic gatherings she had ever been to. All united in their wish to watch two people beat each other up.
Marina followed Sandro to the barn. When they reached the entrance, he stopped, turned to her.
‘Time to part company for a bit, kid.’
Marina looked round. She didn’t welcome the idea of being left alone in this environment. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Got to get ready.’ He held up his fists. ‘Got to prepare.’
‘Right. Of course. Good luck.’ She kissed him on the cheek.
He smiled. ‘Jesus Christ, woman, you’ll be gettin’ me a reputation for being soft.’
She smiled in return, then quickly scanned the entering crowd.
‘They’ll be here. Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘And you know where I’ll be when you need me.’ He walked away. Turned. ‘I’m third on the card, remember.’
Marina watched as Sandro walked towards a group of men just inside the door. An older man stood in the centre of the gathering, the men around him bodyguards or acolytes. He was middle-aged, well dressed. His corpulent figure and red and pink features made him look like a huge boiled pig. Marina recognised him. Milton Picking, one of the biggest gangsters in the region.
Is that who Sandro owes money to? she wondered. Is that who he’s fighting for? Oh baby brother, what have you got yourself involved in?
Sandro was greeted by Picking, then taken away by his followers. Marina took a deep breath, another. Stepped inside.