Devonshire Squires Chapter Fourteen
Three men came out of the door, their breath clouding in the cold night air. They lingered for just a moment under the cone of light cast from a single lamp over the entrance, their features caught for a moment before they stepped away into the darkness. The camaraderie and banter in their tone carried across the street to the car park to where a certain observer was watching. Two of the men peeled off, crossed the road and cut-through the few remaining parked vehicles, on their way to the stairs leading up to the Docklands Light Railway. The last trains to the east and west from the Blackwall station would depart in under thirty minutes. Safe in his shadowed vantage point, the observer measured their progress away from the premises of the London Shootfighter Gym.
Then the light went out, as the gym closed up shop right on the dot of half past midnight. Sherlock watched as the last of the men slung his kit bag onto his shoulder and made his way under the Poplar Flyover, heading south towards Trafalgar Way and Canary Wharf. Sherlock had come from that direction, having parked the Norton at the Ibis Hotel, which was surprisingly busy- mid-week business guests used it before morning meetings in the financial institutions that had invested Canary Wharf like fleas. A walk underneath the flyover had brought him to his hidden vantage point where he could keep an eye on the comings and goings at the gym.
He'd got there early so he could watch. But waiting was proving tedious. He felt the friction of his clothes against his skin, the scent of the cars passing overhead stung his nose. Sherlock knew he needed all of his wits about him, so he'd not turned to the morphine that had dulled the irritation of his senses for the past three nights. His fingers beat a twitchy rhythm of anxiety as he watched the last of the clients leave the gym.
The London Shootfighter premises were in a modern office block on the edge of the Poplar Business Park. Unlike the club's west end gyms, which were more in the old-fashioned spit and sawdust fighting venues, this was a modern facility. His texted invitation said he was to arrive at one a.m. but he couldn't wait any longer. Standing still was becoming impossible; his nerves were building up and he decided that waiting was a mug's game. He'd sneak in. If he got caught, so what? He was starting to itch for a fight. If he couldn't dull the pain, then he'd inflict some.
As Sherlock picked the lock of the front door, he realised that the actual exercise floor would be underground; only the now unmanned reception would be taking up valuable retail frontage on the surface. The reception was empty, dark and silent. No security cameras in operation. If there were alarms, they'd been turned off- probably because someone would be coming to open up for him in another half hour. He vaulted the barrier, ignoring the swipe card entry system that was used to track the comings and goings of the gym members. Then he walked past the lift, turning instead to the door marked 'Emergency Exit'. He pulled the small spray can out of the pocket of his hoodie, beneath the leather bike jacket.
Sherlock carefully sprayed the hinges and the lock area with WD40, to make sure that it opened silently. He went down two flights of dark stairs, using his pocket torch, then sprayed the push bar on the metal door at the bottom, as well as the hinges and lock. Once the can was back in his pocket, he very, very slowly opened the door a crack and peered in.
The exercise floor was indeed large- at least four times the floor-plate of the ground level. The lights had been switched off at his end, probably to save money. Was the club being used by the Fight Club promoter, or was he an owner of the gym, supplementing his legitimate income with a little bit of action on the side? The parsimony on lighting argued for the latter.
Through the narrow gap, Sherlock spotted doors on the wall opposite his position- probably the way into locker rooms, steam and sauna rooms, maybe a treatment room for sports massages. The wooden floor at his end of the gym was strewn with mattresses and exercise mats, taped marks on the floor showed him that this area was used mostly for training sessions.
At the far end of the room, in a pool of light, three men were working inside a traditional boxing ring. Sprung canvas over a wooden floor raised to a height of a meter, the ring was designed to ensure an audience would be able to see the footwork of the combatants. Two of the men in the ring were clearly fighters, the third was older and probably a coach. All of them were concentrating on the task at hand, so he slipped into the room and let the door close very quietly behind him. Then he moved to his left until he reached the set of bars on the wall. He knew that his dark clothing would blend in with them, and give him some cover from a casual glance in this direction.
The two fighters were wearing judogis, the traditional gear of eastern martial arts, and their feet were bare. Even at this distance, Sherlock could tell the difference between the two men. One was a little shorter and a bit lighter in weight. He also moved with less confidence. From their stance, Sherlock could tell that these fighters were proficient in jiu jitsu; the Brazilians had done much to popularise the traditional Japanese teaching structure of judo. They circled each other closely inside the twenty foot square, totally focused on trying to spot a weakness to exploit. Suddenly, the shorter one moved even closer in, his left arm feinting a grab at the taller fighter's elbow. Then, as the attempt at a joint lock was blocked, he tried to slip behind the man, and throw his right arm across the other fighter's chest and up to the back of his neck- what in wrestling would be called a half nelson. It made Sherlock smirk- MMA had led a lot of fighters to mix up techniques borrowed from wrestling.
The defending fighter just batted his attacker's arm away and then caught it in a firm grip, before spinning and leveraging the trapped joint downwards. Overbalanced, the slighter man went down on one knee, allowing himself to then be pushed onto the floor. In that moment the attacker now became the defender- and he tried to convert the move into a throw, to bring the older man down with him. But it didn't work, as his opponent put his forearm against the other's throat and leaned down with his full body weight. The shorter man slapped the canvass twice. The winner released his hold and stood up, laughing.
The coach moved back into the centre of the ring and started talking, his voice just carrying to where Sherlock was listening.
"Dammit, Jones, you'll have to do better than that if you expect to last more than a minute or two." His East End accent sounded like some cliché.
Jones stood up and shook his shoulders. "He got lucky. Let's try again." In sharp contrast, his accent was posh public school- very SW1. From his voice, Sherlock estimated him as being in his early thirties.
"I wouldn't bother; you won't win."
All three men in the ring turned as one at the sound of the baritone voice coming out of the darkness. The coach recovered first. "Who's there?"
Sherlock moved off the far wall and started walking toward the lit end of the gym. "Your one o'clock appointment."
"You're early."
Before Sherlock could reply, the coach followed up with another question. "How the fuck did you get in? The door was locked."
Now closer to the light, Sherlock's smirk was probably visible. "You might want to improve your locksmith and security; this place is far too easy to break into."
"The banker said you were an arrogant sod. Get up 'ere and let me take a look at you."
Sherlock slipped under the tensioned rope, and in one fluid motion was on his feet. The younger fighter was glaring at him; the older was more wary.
"What's yer name?" The coach was eyeing him speculatively.
He rolled his eyes. "Does that matter? None of yours are likely to be real."
The older fighter laughed. "You've got some attitude, mister." He sounded American- East Coast, but exactly where was harder to place.
Sherlock shrugged. "Call me Will. And I'll use the last name of Power."
The younger fighter spoke up for the first time. "What are you here for, Willy?"
Sherlock didn't even look at him, but walked up to the coach, who was still eyeing him. The man gestured at the biker's jacket- "take that off and the shoes. Let's take a look at you."
Sherlock obeyed, stripping off the hoodie, too. Underneath, he wore a simple black T shirt, over a pair of jogging pants. He toed off the trainers; he wasn't wearing any socks. He pushed the clothes off the platform.
"Weight?"
"Seventy two kilos, the last time I bothered to weigh myself."
The coach sniffed. "That was a while ago; you're lighter now." He looked at the other two fighters- "right between this pair."
He walked around Sherlock, who stood looking at the older fighter. The younger one seemed annoyed by that, and flexed his knees, then snapped out "This jerk is eating into my prep time. Get him out of the ring and let's carry on."
Sherlock shook his head, still watching the older fighter. "I don't think so."
The coach was ignoring their exchange. "Where do you fight at the moment?
"I've been back in the country less than a month. In any case, I'm not a joiner of any club."
The older fighter was sizing him up. "What discipline?"
Sherlock's smile was inscrutable. "None, and yet all."
The coach snorted. "Trying to sound like some Zen master?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Not unless you speak Japanese, Chinese or Tibetan, which I rather doubt."
"And you do?" The American asked mildly, flexing his muscles; the gym was cooling down- another money saving measure, no doubt.
The coach had seen enough. "Right- the Banker says you want a go this Friday. The only way that's going to happen is if you beat Jonesy here. And, after him, then you'll have to last ten minutes with the Dervish.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'd rather just cut to the chase. Forget the novice. There's no chance he's going to win."
Jones bristled. "I've been preparing for this Friday for months, boyo" When he was cross, the posh accent slipped back into a Welsh undercurrent. Sherlock recognised him as a scholarship boy, probably at a second tier public school and redbrick university. A chip on his shoulder to match.
As if he could hear Sherlock's thinking, Jones growled, "And no one is going to stop me, least of all you." He was pissed off and angry, and he glowered at the coach. "You promised I would get my chance; I've paid you enough for this."
The older man just laughed. "You'll get your money back if you get beaten. Think of it as a consolation prize." The Dervish slipped through the ropes and then dropped onto the floor.
Sherlock pushed his slicked down hair back off his forehead- no need to tempt someone to pull it to gain an advantage. The effect made his face even more angular, his eyes hooded, like a raptor. "Rules?"
The coach replied, "No gouging, no fists to the head or the groin. No strikes to the windpipe; blood choke holds only. Shootfighting bouts are ten minutes long. If at any point, you're knocked out for a count of ten, it's over. Five take-downs to win. If you're down and can grab a rope, it counts as a third of a submission. Last the ten minutes without a victory and it's a draw, no matter who's ahead on points."
Sherlock smirked, "How very…civilised."
Jones was now bouncing, trying to warm up the muscles that had been cooling down while they are talking. He tightened the belt around his white jacket and set his face to glower. As the coach clambered off the ring, he started to circle Sherlock, who had yet to assume a martial arts stance. The taller man stood, utterly relaxed, in sharp contrast to the tight muscled fighter circling. A gentle smile played on his lips, and he did not turn as the younger man moved behind him.
When Jones charged forward to grab him from behind, Sherlock seemed to move faster than his opponent had calculated, who was left grasping at thin air. As his momentum took him past the spot where his opponent no longer stood, Jones's weight was for a second all on his right foot- the one which Sherlock swept out from under him, with a well-placed kick to the ankle.
As Jones ploughed down onto the canvass, Sherlock's smile broadened. He didn't follow up with a ground manoeuvre. It was more humiliating to allow the Welshman to regain his feet. Jones' face showed his rage. Once again, he circled- this time keeping a little more distance between him and his opponent. He threw two quick kicks, text-book taekwando. Trouble was, Sherlock had simply moved himself out of the place where Jones had aimed. He kept smiling, relaxed and calm.
The contrast with Jones was stark. The more he tried to grapple, the more Sherlock avoided him. And it made the Welshman angrier at each failed manoeuvre. He clearly wanted to get into a clinch, and to get Sherlock onto the ground. But every attempt was blocked or simply avoided. At each attempt at a strike, the taller man meted out a punishment- a blow on one of the pressure points on the younger man's wrists, ankles, shoulders. By three minutes in, Sherlock was grinning, and Jones' face was bright red- anger and embarrassment combined.
Jones' attacks became more and more extravagant. The coach finally spoke up- "For God's sake- put him out of his misery!" The American sniggered.
The next time the Welshman came near, Sherlock's left hand flicked at his cheek- and was rewarded by the man taking his eye off of his taller opponent. An open right hand became a fist at the last moment, in a move that was blindingly fast, and delivered as Sherlock twisted his body and shifted his weight onto the right foot. From what looked to be an impossible angle, his fist connected with the younger man's solar plexus, and there was an audible gasp as the force drove the air out of his lungs and paralysed his diaphragm muscle. He staggered back three steps, and then collapsed onto his knees in a heap of gasps. He raised his hands, and was still gasping as Sherlock walked over to the side of the ring where the two men were watching. He leaned on the ropes and said to the American, "your turn." He was still smiling.
The coach came onto the ring with the other fighter. He gave a hand to Jones, helping him up. "Just try to keep your head down; it's going to be hard to breath for a couple of hours."
The American shed his judogi jacket, and in that gesture, made it clear that he was prepared to do more than the standard throw and joint lock strategy. This was a different kind of opponent, and Sherlock gave him more respect. This time, he moved in a circle, keeping his distance, waiting for a move. The two men were more evenly matched, at least in terms of height. The Dervish was a semi-professional- obviously spent hours working out in a gym, and he probably weighed at least twenty pounds more than Sherlock. His fists were kept locked in the position used in karate and Muay Thai.
Sherlock used the adrenaline from the first fight to push his senses into a state of hyper-awareness, grateful again that he had avoided the morphine. He could see muscles tensing, pupils dilating well in advance of the American starting to unleash a rapid fire series of kicks and punches. At each point of potential contact, Sherlock was able to block the first set of moves, deflecting and transferring the energy of the other man's attack away from him. But then the American managed to grapple and take advantage of his weight told, managing to land a series of body blows to his lower back that unbalanced Sherlock. In the next moment, he'd managed to slip an arm around Sherlock's neck and was starting to execute a carotid choke hold: a classic Hadaka-jime of Kodokan Judo in the Shime-waza list. As black spots began to dance in front of his eyes, Sherlock brought his hands together, elbows parallel to the floor and then brought them to his own forehead, snapping his head back violently into his attacker's face. It broke the hold and he moved off. The American kept his balance and moved off, nodding to himself. He was assessing Sherlock's abilities, just as he was being tested.
Because his opponent was experienced, none of the tactics he'd used against Jones were likely to work, so Sherlock dropped his centre of gravity and moved into a stance that was unusual.
Down on the floor level, Jones had recovered enough to turn to the coach. "What the fuck? This guy thinks he's Bruce Lee?"
To help cement the impression, Sherlock began to move his hands in swirling gestures that were unpredictable. The coach supplied the recognition that he wanted- "That's Wing Chun. Watch it, Dervish."
Thank you. Sherlock let his face go neutral, knowing that the American would now make a series of assumptions about who he was fighting and how best to defend himself. "The art of offense is to fool the opponent" was how the abbot had explained it. Sherlock had learned a lot about fighting while he was away.
His visual acuity caught the tensing of the American's thigh muscles, preparing for a kick. Time seemed to slow as he watched the man's weight shift onto his back foot, and the leg start to lift. He felt like he had all the time in the world to calculate that specific moment when the fighter would be too committed to the kick to be able to react to what was about to happen. Sherlock knew something that the American did not, that it was not possible to process simultaneously an opponent's movements in three separate planes.
As the man's leg lifted for another kick, Sherlock darted his left hand to the side, drawing his opponent's eye for the briefest of moments. It was enough to allow him to step inside the kick and then deliver the first of three elliptical open hand blows. He struck the femoral artery pressure point on the leg that was carrying the American's weight. As his leg lost sensation and blood flow, the resulting wobble allowed Sherlock to come within striking distance of the arm that was now trying to block and defend. A rapid blow on the bicep muscle to stun it was followed by a grab at the man's wrist. In a split second he had rotated it into an impossible position, whilst taking the back of the fighter's neck in his other hand. He then shifted his own centre of gravity, pulled and turned, using the American's own forward momentum to bring his abdomen into Sherlock's own sharply uplifted knee, while his right hand shifted from the wrist to the man's jaw, wrenching it hard to the left, leaving the man unable to see. He shoved down and the fighter started to crumple, as Sherlock spun him and lifted his knee again, catching him hard across the ribs as he fell. He then continued the rotation over the fallen figure, only pulling his kick at the last minute away from the back of the American's head.
As he walked away toward where the coach and Jones were watching in stunned silence, Sherlock said calmly, "If this was a real fight, he'd now be dead."
The American groaned. "Jee, thanks." He sat up and then gasped in pain.
"That is a grade three rectus abdominus muscle tear, caused by the rotation of your body as I hit it. You'll be out of action for a couple of weeks." Sherlock faced the ashen faced coach. "I'll take his place this Friday."
"What the hell was that, and where did you learn it?" the coach spluttered.
As Sherlock came off the elevated ring, he replied, "It's called Sytema Spetsnaz, based on something developed by the Cossacks in the 10th century. And I learned it because I've rarely had the luxury of fighting against a single opponent." He smiled, "it's not the only trick up my sleeve. Now that the odds are so much more in my favour, something tells me I am going to enjoy my Friday nights."
He stepped back into his trainers, picked up the hoody and the leather jacket. That had felt better than drugs, almost as good as solving a case. And he hadn't thought once about John Watson during the fight.
"Text me the location and time." Sherlock then walked back into the darkness.