Chapter Nineteen The Blood
The block of flats held an eerie, haunted quality.
It stood in the gap between streetlights, and its dark shape jutted out angularly against the muddy, city night’s sky.
The windows of the buildings on either side were illuminated cheerfully, the silhouettes of residents moving to and fro giving them life and the safety of numbers.
By contrast, Michael’s block of flats stood desolate, uninhabited.
The ghost of flat blocks past. Rahul steeled himself, letting the quiet, simmering rage fuel him, warm him against the chill of fear.
Hugging his coat around himself, he approached the front door.
It was unlocked. This bit of good fortune ought to have given him solace, told him that his mission was just, that even Lady Fate was ensuring his success.
Instead, it served only to soak the cold deeper into his bones. He pushed inside.
The door of the second story flat was ajar, the flat dark and foreboding beyond it.
This sight did nothing but churn Rahul’s gut.
It had been nearly a full day already. If there were any proof he needed that Julian had actually killed Michael in his act of self-defence, it was this.
But he had to be sure. For Julian’s sake and his own.
Because if he were dead, he needed to help keep Julian out of any inquiry that may proceed.
And if he were still alive, well… then he was going to kill the ruddy bastard.
Using his elbow, he nudged the door open and stepped within on cat’s paws, his footsteps light as snowfall.
As soon as he was inside he was immediately alerted to a faint, warm light.
Tiptoeing just as carefully, he stalked through the entrance hall into the living room and found the source of the light emanating from the kitchen, visible thanks to the open floor plan.
Every cell in Rahul’s body recoiled as he lay eyes on the backlit form of Michael, sat at the kitchen island.
The hob’s weak light caught on the empty bottle of whiskey by his elbow and on the lip of the half-empty glass that Michael brought to and from his mouth, an echoing clink resounding every time he set the thing down on the polished granite of the kitchen island.
His other hand held a bloated bag of ice to his temple, little drops of condensation trailing down his wrist.
Just the black shape of him sent the rage in Rahul’s veins boiling.
This man -- this thing -- that had tried to steal Julian from him.
He hadn’t been content to take Julian’s heart but wanted his life as well.
If Julian hadn’t been as strong as he was, he might’ve succeeded.
Lucky he hadn’t counted on Julian being full to bursting with piss and vinegar.
But Julian was good, too. Too good for this cunt, and too good for Rahul even.
He was good enough to worry about having hurt this fuck after the bastard had tried to murder him.
And lucky for Michael, he was too good to have killed him.
But that’s where Michael’s luck ran out, because Rahul wasn’t as good as Julian.
Never had been. And he wasn’t too good to bash in the head of the cunt who’d hurt the love of his life.
Rahul strode forward, heedless now of remaining silent.
His heavy foot creaked a protesting plank and Michael’s head swung sluggishly round before Rahul could reach him.
As soon as Michael took him in, a hulking man with a face full of murder, he scrambled backwards, toppling the stool he’d been perched on, and put his hands out defensively.
“It -- it was an accident!” he stammered. “Whatever he’s said, it was a lie. I never --”
Rahul’s fist conveyed his disgust. It landed square in the middle of the man’s face with a spine-tingling crunch of bone and a hot, wet spray of blood. Michael’s hands flew up to cradle his face, the blood pouring through the crevices of his fingers appearing black in the darkness of the flat.
“It was an accident how you choked him and bashed his head in, was it?” Rahul had meant to retort, but instead his knee plunged into Michael’s gut.
It would have been more satisfying had said gut not been protected by a firm layer of muscle, but it still drove the man to double over, coughing and wheezing.
That was satisfying enough. Rahul’s large hands closed around the front of Michael’s shirt and he shook him violently, hoping his skull rattled with the same pain this bastard had sent through Julian’s.
All Rahul wanted -- all he needed -- was to make this scum of the earth feel one tenth what he’d put Julian through.
Then he might feel a modicum of peace, an iota of justice.
How could he sleep at night, by Julian’s side, knowing this man was free and hale and beyond consequence?
He’d give him consequences, so help him God.
He’d be karma incarnate if it meant he could go back to Julian and know that his suffering had been avenged.
Blinded as he was by self-righteous fury, he didn’t see Michael raise his fist, reel back, and catch him under the chin.
His bottom jaw impacted his top jaw like the clangers of a bell, sending his whole skull ringing.
He staggered back, teeth aching, and gave Michael the opportunity to wind up and deliver a powerful haymaker to the side of his head, followed up by a left-handed jab to the mouth that saw his lip split open and spill blood into his mouth and down his shirtfront.
Tasting iron was what brought him back from his daze and he was able to lift his arms in time to block Michael’s next attack.
His head was full of the preternatural pugilistic clarity one might see in the ring.
All pain and panic were pushed aside by the logical mind that saw only strategy.
Michael might be fast and strong, but Rahul had several inches on him and greater reach, as well as more powerful motivation.
Not to mention the longest giraffe legs this side of the Thames.
Rahul kicked out without warning and the tip of his trainer caught the cap of Michael’s left knee.
The latter’s leg crumpled and Rahul used the opening to regain his hold on Michael’s shirt and spin him around, releasing him with force to send him flying.
Michael stumbled, arms windmilling for a moment, before he fell backwards onto the coffee table.
There was a split second before the deafening crash resounded and the tension of the table dissipated, sending Michael falling through with a cascade of broken glass, the fragile aluminium struts of the coffee table’s legs crumpling beneath his considerable weight.
He lay dazed in the rubble, wind knocked from his chest. Rahul allowed him no respite and was on him in an instant.
Like a buzzard, Rahul thought madly. Like a beam, like a ray.
And he pummelled him mercilessly, one fist after another, losing count of the number of times his fist impacted flesh, knuckles bruising and splitting.
He was thrown back by powerful legs and felt the fury of fists on his own face, bruising his eye, fracturing his cheekbone.
The pain and wet slapping of flesh on flesh became a blur of red and movement and rage.
He felt glass dig into his hands, he felt his eye swell shut and blind him.
He fought and fought and fought until his lungs ached from exertion and the pain began to finally creep up on him, stinging at first and then aching unbearably.
The two found themselves exchanging weaker and weaker punches until at last they fell back, chests heaving, mouths full of blood, neither able to continue the onslaught which had just moments ago been a matter of life and death.
Rahul sat in the pool of glass, head resting against the cushions of the sofa, once white, now indecently smeared in red.
Beside him, Michael propped himself up into a similar posture.
His face looked as bad as Rahul’s felt, nose split and blood beneath it already caking, one eye swollen shut, lip bloodied.
He brought a cigarette to that lip and lit it with a shaking, bloodied hand.
Rahul held out his own hand until Michael huffed a laugh that turned into a painful cough before passing over a cigarette and lighting it for him.
Breathing in was agony. He might have a bruised rib.
Maybe even a broken one. But it was worth it for the smoke that filled his lungs like an old friend and made him feel a little more human.
A little less like a rabid dog that had just been on the rampage.
He wondered now where the anger had gone.
He’d had enough anger inside of him that it hadn’t all fit, that it had needed to spend itself on something or consume him entirely.
He’d had enough rage he’d thought surely it would have been enough to kill Michael.
And yet it hadn’t been enough after all. Had he wanted it to be?
“I was gonna kill you, you know,” Rahul mumbled around his cigarette. It hurt to talk. He wondered what particular muscle needed to be injured in order for talking to hurt. “For what you did.”
“I didn’t mean to --”
“Save it,” he cut him off, feeling rather heroic. And also rather gratified when Michael did, in fact, save it.
They smoked in silence for several seconds, not companionably necessarily but with a certain measure of begrudging respect that can only be earned through combat.
Neither one had managed to kill the other, despite ample opportunity and desire.
Each had thwarted the other. That had to be worth something, somewhere, in some primal place that yet resided within their minds.
They’d also both loved the same man, to varying degrees of lethality.