Everyone in the watching crowd hated Hyde. They booed and hissed him, screaming obscenities, men and women alike. Just the sight of Hyde seemed to infuriate and unhinge them. I could understand why. It wasn’t just that Hyde was ugly, though he was. Brutish, short, and powerfully muscled, hunched over by the sheer mass of musculature in his back. His square bony head thrust forward, dark feral eyes glaring from under a protruding brow. Long black hair fell down around a face marked with every sin that man is heir to. Just to look at him was to hate him, because he was everything inside us that we hate about ourselves. Only he gloried in it. He loved being what he was. Free of all inhibitions and restraint. I wanted to draw my gun and shoot him dead, just for the sin of being what he was. Just for existing.
Robert Louis Stephenson put it best. He said Edward Hyde had the mark of Cain on him.
Fresh blood dripped from Hyde’s hands and arms. He’d fought other men before this in the Pit. I could see bits and pieces of them scattered across the packed earth floor. And great dark splashes of blood all over the earth walls.
The bloodlust in the watching crowd filled the air; hot and vicious and overwhelming. They wanted to see a death. Preferably Hyde, but deep down they weren’t fussy. They’d reached the point where anyone would do. The Frenchman hit Hyde again and again, terrible blows that slammed into him with devastating force and speed and accuracy. Just the sound of the impacts was enough to make me wince. But no matter how hard the Frenchman hit Hyde, or how often . . . he couldn’t hurt him. Hyde took every blow without flinching, not trying to evade any of them. He didn’t react at all, taking no pain or damage that anyone could see. He just smiled at his opponent—a cold, crafty, infuriating smile. Waiting for his moment.
And eventually, inevitably, the Frenchman tired and slowed, and one great gnarled hand shot out and fastened on to the Frenchman’s ankle, stopping a blow in mid-kick. The Frenchman looked at Hyde with wide, startled eyes; caught in mid-move with one leg fully extended. And then Hyde just ripped the leg right off. Casually, as though it was the easiest thing in the world. The leg came away with a terrible tearing sound, and blood spurted thickly on the air from the awful open wound at the Frenchman’s hip. He crashed to the ground, and lay there, shaking and shuddering, too shocked even to scream as his life’s blood ran away to sink into the earth floor. The crowd were utterly still, and silent, watching with avid eyes as the Frenchman died. No one was interested in helping him. By the time I realised that, and started forward, the man was dead.
Hyde leaned against the earth wall, and ate big chunks of meat from the leg he was holding. This was too much, even for a Casino Infernale crowd, and they screamed and shouted abuse at him. Those at the front surged forward, as though they would jump down into the Pit and attack Hyde, overwhelm him by sheer force of numbers. But the Casino Security people got there first, and forced the crowd back. Because no one could be allowed to interfere with the games.
Hyde threw what was left of the leg away, wiping his bloody mouth clean with the back of his huge hand. He smiled arrogantly up at the crowd. Soaking up their rage and hate like approbation. And then, quite casually, he turned back into Jacqueline. There was no great transformation of the flesh; she just seemed to rise out of him, as though her presence had been implicit in him all the while. And, perhaps because I was watching so closely, in the moment when they changed . . . I saw Jacqueline and Hyde touch fingertips tenderly, just for a moment.
Jacqueline Hyde looked round the blood-soaked Pit, holding the tatters of her dress to her. If what she saw bothered her, it didn’t show in her face. The crowd watched silently. Looking on in awe at this small slender woman, who held a monster inside her. Jaqueline moved slowly over to the single iron-runged ladder that was the only way in and out of the Pit, and climbed out. When she reached the top, no one offered her a helping hand, or tried to push her back in. They just fell silently away, to give her space. Out of something like respect. A uniformed flunky came forward to offer her a robe. At arm’s length. Jacqueline accepted the robe, without saying anything, and wrapped it around her. She walked away, and everyone let her.
In case Hyde might come back.
More uniformed flunkies filed down into the Pit to recover the dead body and gather up the body parts scattered across the earth floor. It took them a while to manhandle everything back up the ladder.
The barker in charge of the Pit came forward—a large cheerful fellow in a chequered suit. He grinned around him, as though he knew us all, and knew what we were there for.
“Hello, hello, boys and girls! Come on in, you know you want it! Welcome to the Pit, where the killing’s easy and the dying is hard, and you get to enjoy every last bit of it! So step right up; who’s going to be our next volunteers? For the winner: prestige, and money, and the sheer joy of being alive! Let me tell you, you never feel more alive than when you stare death in the face and head-butt him!”
I looked at Frankie. “That’s it? Just the prestige, and happy to be alive? No prize money?”
“Not here,” said Frankie. “People play this kind of game for the fun of it, to show courage and gain instant respect. If you win. There is a lot of money to be made in the side bets, but this is really all about courage and skill and being completely fucking insane.”
“And this is your idea of what we should do next?” said Molly.
“It’s risky, yes, but a good win here would be more than enough to guarantee you access to the next level. Whilst also ensuring that everyone you meet there would be seriously scared of you.”
I nodded, and strode forward. Before I could get a rush of good sense to the head and change my mind. I made myself known to the barker, and he flashed me a wide and knowing smile, clapped me on the shoulder, and roared out my name to the waiting crowd. They managed a few good-natured cheers as I climbed down the iron-runged ladder into the Pit. There were a few taunts and insults, but I ignored them. I wasn’t here for the crowd. I walked slowly round the Pit, getting the feel of the place. It was surprisingly cold, and the air stank of blood and spilled guts, of sweat and testosterone. It felt like a bad place to die.
And then my opponent came swarming down the ladder, jumping the last few rungs in his eagerness. He spun round to face me, smiling coldly, and my heart sank. I knew him. And not in a good way.
The Dancing Fool strutted round the Pit, bouncing on his feet to test the resilience of the packed earth floor. The fastest fighting man in the world. He could hit you so fast you wouldn’t even know you’d been hit till you woke up in hospital. He liked to claim his particular brand of martial arts was based on old Scottish sword dances, which was bullshit, but it didn’t stop him from always wearing a kilt. In a tartan I knew for a fact he wasn’t entitled to. His edge came from his very own special gift: to know what you were going to do, before you did it.
Déjà fu.
He was big and broad, and moved like the professional he was. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and a darker heart. And he knew Shaman Bond was really a Drood, because we’d worked together before.
It hadn’t ended well.
Lots of people in the crowd recognised the Dancing Fool, and roared his name approvingly. Just by being here, he guaranteed a show—blood and death in the grand manner. He smiled and waved at all the hot watching eyes, and I just knew the odds against me were going through the roof. Hopefully Molly and Frankie were keeping on top of it. The Dancing Fool finally strode forward to face me, and I sighed, and nodded to him.