I stand up stiffly. Now that the red mist has receded, I feel every one of the hits that bald-headed bastard got in on my ribs. I was sloppy tonight.
The Underworld is styled as an MMA-style fight club, though everyone knows the crowds are not against a more gladiator-style ‘to the death’ match if the opportunity presents itself. The club’s name is not particularly clever, since itislocated underground in a disused branch off the Glasgow Central Station that leads to the catacombs.
There’s a pattern of underground tunnels crisscrossing beneath the city of Glasgow, most of the residents have no idea what’s happening directly under them as they go about their business. My cousins and I spent countless hours in these tunnels, fancying ourselves as ‘urban explorers’ when we were young. We do enjoy pointing out to the elder MacTavishes that many of our most useful storage sites came from our discoveries.
“Well, ye look like shite, lad. What’s it to be tonight?”
Morag is a heavy-set lass in her forties who can pack a hell of a punch when she’s in a mood. She runs a bar not far from the fight club, and she’s used to battered patrons showing up,looking for a drink and an ice pack. We take a booth in the corner.
“You’re a ray of sunshine, darling,” I say. “A glass of Macallan, please.”
“Two,” Michael adds before he settles against the cracked vinyl seat. “Feeling better, then?”
“Of course,” I lie, taking an ungentlemanly gulp of my scotch.
“Awa - yer havering,” he snorts. We sit in silence for a moment, listening to the low hum of the street traffic above us. “Have ye talked to your wife?”
“The woman who betrayed us to her shit stain of a father? No.”
He spreads his arms over the back of the seat, watching me. “From what ye told me, her reason was understandable, though it’s a shame she dinnae trust ye enough to ask for help.”
“It is a shame.” I hold up my finger for another drink.
“This is your second fight in a week,” he continues. “I know ye got a lot of rage to let out, but I dinnae think ye can solve this by knocking the seven bells out of yet another poor sod. Why not talk to Afton? Ye tell me it’s not affecting ye, sending her away, and I know you’re full of shite. I’m tired of holding off the girls, they’re bugging the hell out of me about her. ‘Where is she?’” He pitches his voice annoyingly high. “‘Why won’t Mason tell us what’s going on? Okay, now we’re really worried, Michael, do something!’”
“The drones are still out there,” I say. “Until we find them there’s nothing to discuss. I’m just doing a couple of bouts to loosen up so I can keep my focus.”
“Ye could do it like the rest of us, getting blootered and jerking your dick like it owes ye money,” he says crossly.
Michael knows better. I’ve been this way since I was a kid. Dad recognized it and taught me how to box; he tried to find avenues to channel my rage. It horrified me back then. I may care about my father, but I wanted to be nothing like him. I’m able to stay cold, composed Mason MacTavish if I can let off some steam every now and then.
When I moved here to Glasgow, Michael followed me one night and once he understood why I was fighting, he kept my secret. He’d come with me and make sure my rage was dialed back down after the fight and that I didn’t kill anyone.
“Are ye concerned that if ye see Afton, ye won’t be able to control yourself?”
“I would never hurt her,” I snarl. “Is that what you think of me?”
“No, I was thinking more of ye falling to your knees and telling her that ye love her and bringing her home.”
“Are you really trying your amateur psychoanalysis on me, cousin? We have an actual psychologist in the family and even Kenna can’t figure me out.” I scoff, finishing my second drink, enjoying the burn of the scotch down my throat. “I have to go. I have an early morning meeting and I need to clean up so I look slightly less like a serial killer.”
Michael throws a wad of cash on the table and rises, groaning. “I hear that. These late nights and fecking searches for those drones are wearing me down.”
“You don’t have to keep coming with me to the fights, you know that.” I feel a rare stab of guilt. Michael looks as exhausted as I feel.
“As long as ye fight, I’ll be there,” he says. “But please. For me. For your sanity. For the good of all mankind. Talk to your wife.”
***
Awa - yer havering - Scottish slang for "You're talking shit."
Blootered - Scottish slang for getting ridiculously drunk.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In which Lachlan, the most Extra of the MacTavishes, offers fatherly advice. Extra crispy style.
Mason…
