Page 21 of Claim

That wasn’t a good thing for either of us.

Chapter five

Tristan

I parked in what I decided must count as a space, though it felt more like a gap someone had given up on. Cars weren’t so much parked here as abandoned. Nosed up on kerbs at odd angles, tyres half-sunk, doors scarred and mismatched. Tatty Fords. Old Peugeots. A transit with one wing mirror taped on and rust blooming along the sill like a rash.

My deep-blue Mercedes didn’t belong among them.

It sat too clean. Too shiny. As if it were waiting to be noticed. Father’s gift, delivered with the same unspoken expectation that had accompanied every milestone in our family. I hadn’t asked for it. But Hale-Fitzroy children were rewarded, regardless. Lavishly. Pointlessly. Marcus had received a Range Rover for his wedding despite already owning his Porsche. Amelia had been given a pony, as if she didn’t already have a stable full of horses. So I should have expected it when I’d completed my pupillage, though I knew I didn’t deserve it.

Still, it was useful. Especially now.

I cut the engine and stepped out, closing the door with an obscenely expensive click. I locked it, then buttoned my woollen coat, conscious of the clean lines of it, the expense of the fabric, the way it didn’t belong here either. And when my polished brogues met uneven ground, water slicking across cracked concrete, that realisation became even more prominent.

The building ahead was low and stubborn, brickwork darkened by rain and age. A hand-painted sign hung above the door, letters faded and uneven, the name of the youth boxing club barely legible beneath peeling paint. Someone had tried to patch the frame with a different colour of wood. It hadn’t worked. The place looked tired. Still standing, but only just.

My nerves tightened then. Not fear, exactly. Closer to awareness.

I didn’t belong here. Every instinct I had told me that. My voice, my clothes, my assumptions. Everything about me would read wrong the second I opened my mouth. This wasn’t a courtroom where polish passed for authority. This was somewhere men earned space by existing correctly within it.

But I had to be here.

For a second opinion. One that didn’t come wrapped in precedent or politics.

So I drew in a breath, cold and damp, let it settle in my chest, and crossed the short distance to the door. The wood was scarred where fists had struck it over the years, the grain worn smooth in places by hands that didn’t hesitate.

I pushed it open.

Heat rolled out to meet me. Sweat. Rubber. Old canvas. The air was thick with it. Warm, damp, alive. Undercut by the sharp, percussive thud of gloves striking bags in a steady rhythm.

I stepped inside, and out of everything I knew.

A girl sat behind what passed for a reception desk, which was more a folding table cluttered with pamphlets and a chipped mug. She wore an oversized hoodie, hair scraped back into a knot that had given up trying to be neat, chewing absently on her thumbnail as she scrolled on her phone.

“Hi.” I stepped closer, waited until she noticed me. “Is it alright if I go through?”

I gestured past her, towards the gym beyond.

She glanced up over the edge of her phone, gave me the faintest shrug, completely uninterested. As if I were an inconvenience that would sort itself out, eventually. I wasn’t quite sure what her purpose was at the front desk other than maybe to offer a pamphlet on youth teams and support services in the local community.

I nodded anyway, offered a smile that felt useless, then moved past her.

The corridor narrowed into changing areas smelling of damp towels and disinfectant before opening into the gym proper. A boxing gym. Equipment lined the walls. Ropes, bags, benches, things I couldn’t name. A handful of boys were dotted about, absorbed in their own efforts, muscles tight with concentration.

And in the centre, the ring.

Lennon stood inside it, pads strapped to his hands, braced as a kid swung at him with determined, clumsy force.

“That’s it. Good. Another. Hook…good.” He then glanced up, noticed me and promptly took a solid hit to the pads he hadn’t quite raised in time. “Oi!” He stepped back from the kid. “Hold up.” Then he looked at me again, properly this time, as if checking his eyes hadn’t lied to him. “Si,” he called out behind him, ripping off the pads. “Take over. Spar with Billy.”

The boy abandoned his weights, bounced up eagerly, pulling on headgear as he took the pads from Lennon. And with Lennon’s gaze still locked on mine, he ducked through the ropes and dropped to the floor. Up close, he smelt of sweat and effort, skin dark and slick beneath the harsh gym lights, face flushed, energy barely contained. He was so like Razor it hurt. Not in features or colouring, but in the way he occupied space. In sheer presence.

“You look like you’ve come to evict us.” He raked his gaze down me. “Or you want in on some promotion.”

I glanced down at myself. The suit. The shoes. The wool coat. Hair styled. “Yeah, I suppose I do.” I nodded back towards the ring, watching the boys move, recognising one of them. “Is that Billy Amos?”

Lennon sniffed, wiped sweat from beneath his nose, and glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah. He got an order to join.” He turned back to me. “You here for him? Make sure he’s doing what your courts told him to?”