‘Who’s that?’ Sigurdsson asked Wheeler.
‘That’s Mr Penman. He’s getting a hero’s welcome, isn’t he?’
‘No, I mean who’s that giant following him?’
The blond man had assumed a position outside the ring, standing with his arms folded and facing back down the entryway as if to deter any threats against the ring’s occupant, who was still milking the crowd, strutting around and smirking as the generic rock music built to a crescendo.
‘Tall Paul is Mr Penman’s bodyguard. Not in real life, of course – we’re not quite famous enough to need round-the-clock protection,’ Wheeler chuckled as he explained. ‘It’s just part of the show. He’s a bit of a specimen though isn’t he?’
Sigurdsson watched as Penman was handed a microphone by someone at ringside, and made a show of waiting for the crowd to die down before he spoke. When he did, his voice was a grating high-pitched squawk, with a West Country accent that he was clearly trying to suppress.
‘Wow, what a match that was, am I right?’ Cue another huge cheer from the crowd. ‘I know it doesn’t seem possible, but the action just keeps getting better! And remember, Amazing Andrew Wilshere and “The Maniac” Mick Morgan are signed exclusively to All Action Wrestling, where you can see them perform live every single week! Forget the rest, ‘cos we’re…’ The crowd completed the rhyming catchphrase with a deafening cry, while Sigurdsson found himself watching Mason’s bored reaction. He couldn’t help thinking that she was very pretty, beneath the cold exterior. But he was a professional, and they had a suspicious death to investigate, and she clearly resented his presence here. He turned to watch Penman’s continuing spiel.
‘And don’t forget, as always, my lovely associate Monica,’ here he gestured towards the merchandise stall, ‘will be happy to help you choose your favourite T-shirts and DVDs of tonight’s stars. And I think I’m right in saying we’ve even got exclusive limited edition Mick Morgan straitjackets??’
Monica held one aloft and the crowd applauded again. It seemed as though they would cheer anything that came out of his mouth.
‘Okay, that’s enough of me trying to persuade you to give me your hard-earned cash…’ Penman grinned. ‘Let’s get on with the show… because it’s time for the main event!!!’ The most raucous cry yet exploded from the crowd. ‘And have we got an incredible match lined up for you tonight. After Friday’s tragedy, when a true legend sadly passed away in this very ring…’ here he paused, his expression suddenly a picture of sombre gravitas, ‘… his old buddy Kevin Samson will be dedicating his match to the honour of Vic Valiant’s memory.’ The crowd didn’t seem quite sure whether they were supposed to whoop and cheer again or just nod respectfully, so Penman hurried on. ‘And of course, this is the last of the quarter-final matches of our Salvation Slam Tournament! So, without further ado, it’s time to introduce the combatants!’
Another cheer erupted. Mason shouted above the din.
‘Bit low that, isn’t it? Playing on a dead man’s memory to drum up excitement?’
Again, Wheeler shrugged. ‘It’s just how it’s always been in this industry, miss. I’m sure it’s what Vic would have wanted.’
Her lip curled upwards in distaste as she retorted, ‘I’m sure. And please call me Inspector.’
Wheeler held his hands up apologetically, and Sigurdsson couldn’t help warming to the man. He agreed with Mason though – Penman’s delivery had been straight out of a P.T. Barnum showreel.
Again, the promoter’s crowing voice boomed through the makeshift amphitheatre.
‘Introducing first… weighing in at two hundred and ten pounds… hailing from the depths of Hell itself… The Necromancer!!!’
The lights abruptly went out, the fans once again whipped into a frenzy. Sigurdsson thought about their primal behaviour, suddenly aware of the acrid tang of their sweat in the crowded space. He imagined being set upon by the baying mob, lynched and trussed up or literally torn into pieces to satisfy their bloodlust. Hot spears of panic lanced through him from inside, like something trying to escape from his chest. God, please don’t let him have an attack now, not here…
Mercifully, as eerie cello music began to resonate, the lights began to rise again. After a long, melancholic refrain, choral voices joined in the haunting melody, and a man in a brown smock emerged from the back, proceeding gracefully down the aisle like a druid on his way to perform a sacred rite. The fans became hushed, almost reverent; even Tall Paul looked unsettled as he stepped aside to allow the curious competitor to slide into the ring. The man rose with slow deliberation to his feet, reaching upwards to remove the hood from his face… expertly timed to coincide with the music morphing suddenly into another rock track, laden with drums and discordant piano sounds. Beneath the cowl he wore a grotesque and devilish smile, and the fans booed and hissed at him, although a large contingent seemed to be cheering wildly. His bald head was decorated with strange insignia that suited the character perfectly.
Once again, Wheeler offered a running commentary of what was taking place.
‘The Necromancer was probably our most popular act before we got Samson and…’ his voice trailed off as he remembered that they no longer ‘had’ Vic Valiant. ‘He’s quite a big name on the UK circuit, so we’re lucky to have him performing for us. He’s been with us for five months, a real pro, big into his character too… to be honest I don’t think I’ve ever had a proper conversation with him.’
‘How old is he?’ Sigurdsson asked. ‘He looks in great shape.’ The Necromancer had removed his robe to reveal a lean, muscular physique that seemed to have not an ounce of fat on it. He wore black trunks and boots, but no knee or elbow pads, a tattooed pair of knives clearly visible on his forearms.
‘Late forties, maybe even early fifties, I think. I’ve just realised I don’t even know his real name – we all just call him “Mance” for short.’
‘Don’t you think “The Necromancer” is in pretty poor taste, two days after someone died here?’ Mason interjected. Wheeler readied a response but she cut him off. ‘Don’t tell me – it’s just the way the industry works?’
Wheeler shrugged once again and flashed her another smile. Sigurdsson remembered that Wheeler, and even Penman, didn’t yet know that their former colleague had died of something other than natural causes.
Unless, he mused, one of them was his killer.
‘And now, introducing his opponent,’ Penman shrilled as the music faded, ‘battling for the number one contender’s spot for the AAW World Heavyweight Championship… we’re honoured to have him here… The Strongman himself… Kevin… SAMSON!!!’
The name meant nothing to Sigurdsson, but the crowd went utterly crazy. People surged forward against the flimsy barricade and for a second he was worried that they would stampede into the ring itself, but they seemed bound by the code of this strange charade, and didn’t cross the boundary. Instead they simply hollered and yelled as a huge black man strode out of the backstage area. A cocky smile was fixed in place amongst the tangle of his beard, dreadlocks tumbling around his shoulders to belie the middle age evidenced by his receding hairline and the slight paunch concealed within the blue singlet he wore. Like his opponent, he approached the ring slowly, stopping to stand face to face with Penman’s ‘bodyguard’ as the crowd roared even louder. His eyes burned with animosity and confidence