For Everything a Reason Read online

  FOR EVERYTHING A REASON

  PAUL CAVE

  2QT LIMITED (PUBLISHING)

  Also by Paul Cave

  Cold Light of Day

  Dead Until Dawn

  Something of the Night

  The Keep

  www.paulcavebooks.com

  Copyright © 2009 Paul Cave

  The right of Paul Cave to be identified as the author

  of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that no part of this book is to be reproduced, in any shape or form. Or by way of trade, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser, without prior permission of the copyright holder.

  Cover design Hilary Pitt

  Images sourced by Shutterstock.com

  For Ellie.

  'Seeing you smile is like being hit by lightning.'

  Love Dad.

  Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter One

  Madison Square Garden was packed to the rafters with thousands of spectators baying for blood. Some were standing out of their seats, tossing abuse or empty soda cups towards the centre of the arena. Others remained seated, though their wish to see pain and suffering was just as burning. A small contingent sat near the centre of the arena, with shoulders hunched and nervous eyes watching as the large crowd headed towards lunacy. The whole stadium felt as if it was about to ignite, hatred and hostility fashioning themselves into real chemical components, the combination of the two forming a deadly explosive cocktail. A dozen or so stewards watched on anxiously, positioning themselves among the frenzied mob, praying the aggression would end soon.

  Joseph Ruebins stood in the heart of the maelstrom, sweat dripping from his brow, lungs filling themselves to capacity. Across the boxing ring another tower of a man ambled his way over to a corner, and then sat heavily on an undersized stool. Instantly he was swamped by three of his corner-men: a trainer, a cut-man, and an unfortunate soul there to catch mouthfuls of spit in a small bucket.

  “What are you waiting for, Kid? A written invitation?” a grizzled voice snarled.

  Joseph Ruebins turned towards the speaker. His coach, Eugene Profit, a small old ex-pro, shoved all of Joseph’s 200 pounds down onto his stool with surprising ease.

  “What the hell are you doing out there? Sleeping?” Profit asked.

  “Huh?” Joseph gasped, barely able to draw breath. His mouth was full of stringy spittle and thick plastic. Profit reached up and ripped the plastic gumshield free, almost taking the top row of Joseph’s teeth with it.

  “Water!” Profit demanded.

  A spray bottle appeared between them. Profit took it and began to pump. Now both sweat and water covered Joseph’s face, turning his features into a spotted mask of ebony. He dropped his head to allow the water to cascade over his head. A peppering of black and greying hair dotted his shaven scalp. He leaned back against the padded corner and reigned in his breathing.

  “The guy’s got a slab of granite for a chin,” Joseph said. For such an imposing size his voice was barely above a whisper.

  Profit snapped: “You’re fighting like a goddamn amateur.”

  Joseph shook his head defensively. “No. He’s really tough.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Hey, there are four rounds left. Why don’t you give it a try?” He held out his gloved hands and pushed them into the old coach’s chest, leaving two red smears of his opponent’s blood. Joseph himself was untouched – not a single bruise or cut, nor even the slightest graze, marked his dark skin.

  Profit snarled out a rosary of expletives and pushed Joseph’s gloves away. “Listen, Kid. I ain’t a fool. Something’s happening here that you ain’t telling me.”

  Joseph opened his mouth to tell him all was fine, but closed it again without saying a single word. What could he say? That he was done fighting? At thirty-eight he was well past his best. His waistline had lost some its shape, degenerating from an impressive six-pack of muscle into a soft roll of flesh. The flamboyant shorts he wore, with the embroidered words: Joe ‘The Jaw-Breaker’ Ruebins, were three inches too high, and almost touched his nipples when he sat down. He was still a formidable size, but the once youthful body of lean muscle had been replaced by a tired middle-aged physique that had seen better years. His biceps were the only remnants of his earlier days, two solid lumps of steel, which endowed him with the strength of a crazed bull.

  In truth he could have ended this fight within the first two rounds. But for what reason? A shot at the title? To become World Champion!

  Joseph Ruebins had already decided that tonight he would retire. This was his last fight. His swan song. He’d been fighting since he was eighteen – six years as an amateur, fourteen as a pro. Twenty long years of pain and sacrifice were more than enough for any one man to suffer through. Now, the only thing that drove Joseph on was the thought of his family. His wife Marianna and their son Jake sat at the ringside, enduring it with him.

  Joseph chanced a look over at the boy, tipped forwards on his chair, focused totally on his father. One of his small hands clasped his mother’s, as much for her sake as for his, the other clenched into a tight fist. The tirade of foul language seemed to wash off him, unable to stick, so close to the protection of his father. Jake grinned as he caught his father’s gaze: A huge toothy grin. He was small for his age, barely over four feet and already seven years old. He was handsome to be sure; his smile, a brilliant burst of sunshine, which never failed to warm Joseph’s heart – even now, when it seemed the entire world was baying for his blood.

  Jake’s grin widened. He shook his fist and then jabbed it upwards above his head. “Man of Steel,” he mouthe
d.

  Joseph nodded.

  Four weeks earlier, he and Jake had been shooting hoops at the side of the house. Jake was beside himself, already three baskets up on his father, and more to come. It was the middle of winter and they’d first had to shovel all the snow away. They were dressed in hats, scarves and thick overcoats. Joseph was lunging and sliding about like a demented fool, giving Jake all the advantage.

  Halfway through the game, Marianna returned home, parking their modest Sedan in front of the garage. She beeped the horn and offered them a wave. Joseph paused to wave back, while his son scooted around him to score yet another basket. Five-One. Marianna laughed, and Joseph made a huge show of disappointment. Activating the garage door, Marianna found the winter tools piled untidily at the entrance. She climbed out of the car, asking Joseph to park it in the garage and reminding them both to clean up.

  “Okay, sweetheart,” Joseph said.

  They returned to their game, working up large appetites and enjoying the afternoon sun. Just before Jake scored the winning basket, the ball slipped from his small fingers and bounced over by the car. Joseph dashed after it, swinging his arms about like a crazed bear. Then, unexpectedly, his foot slipped on a patch of ice. The swinging of his arms was now for real as he windmilled towards the hood of the Sedan. What stopped him was the edge of the open garage door. He clattered into it head-on, shaking the whole structure down to its foundations.

  “Dad! Dad!” Jake called, finding his father stunned.

  “I’m okay,” Joseph reassured him, his head spinning.

  Seeing that his father was okay, Jake then burst into a fit of laughter. “Silly Dad!”

  Joseph prodded the egg that had begun to grow from his forehead. Just a heck of a swelling, nothing too serious.

  “Stupid! Stupid!” Jake teased.

  Joseph laughed, too, relieved it was only bump, embarrassed by the fall, yet amused by his son’s enjoyment.

  Jake fell quiet. His gaze turned upwards. The garage door had not only taken the full impact of his father’s head, but it had also bent right down the middle. A distinctive crease ran from front to back. The door had come off second best. Jake looked at his father through astounded eyes. Then he tore off, yelling, “Mom! Mom! Dad’s really Superman!”

  Now, remembering the battered door, Joseph and Jake stared at each other, the unfriendly world around them instantly gone. Once again, Jake punched his fist upwards, as if the gesture could launch him up to the roof of the Garden.

  “Man of Steel,” Jake mouthed again.

  “Listen, kid, if you don’t do something soon, then we’ll both have us a new ass to crap out of,” Profit warned, bringing Joseph back to the moment and the crowd reaching fever-pitch, just as the ninth round readied to begin. “They’ll tear us a new one for sure.”

  Joseph nodded. If only for the sake of his wife and Jake, he couldn’t allow this to go on much longer. He opened his mouth and allowed a long spray of water to quench his thirst.

  “Okay,” Joseph said, “what do you suggest?”

  Profit grinned maliciously. “Knock his block off!”

  Joseph shook his head in slight amusement. Profit would be getting twenty-five percent of his purse. Not a bad payday for someone of such limited instruction.

  “Guess I’ll do just that,” he said, climbing off his stool.

  The timekeeper bellowed, “Corners, ten seconds!”

  Profit stepped through the ropes. He snatched the gumshield from one of the other corner-men and jammed it in Joseph’s mouth. “Remember the plan. Knock his block off!”

  Joseph began to shake the stiffness from his legs, kicking them out, readying himself for the next three minutes. At the opposite side of the ring, his opponent stood on unsteady legs. His face was bloodied and swollen, a result of Joseph’s sticking left jab. A deep cut had opened up just above the right eyebrow. Now that his corner-men had applied adrenaline, the wound had stopped bleeding, leaving instead an open, raw tear.

  Eddie Wolfe – The Warrior from Queens – looked as if someone had beaten him with a baseball bat. The curly, once-auburn hair on his chest was now a deep shade of crimson. His previously white shorts had turned pink, blood and sweat mixing to form a blossoming stain. His arms looked too heavy to carry, as if the padding in his gloves had been replaced by iron or lead. And now, such an advantage as horseshoe-lined gloves would be the only realistic way of Eddie Wolfe dispatching his opponent. The last thing keeping him upright, Joseph figured, was the baying of the crowd and the fear of failure. In all, he looked like a man who’d just collided with a Mack truck.

  “Seconds out. Round nine!” called the timekeeper.

  Joseph moved away from his corner, raising his arms high in a defensive position. Eddie Wolfe reluctantly stepped forward, looking like a man heading towards the gallows. They met in the centre of the ring, two mythological Titans doomed to do battle.

  Joseph circled to his left. Even though his opponent had offered little to worry about, Joseph was still wary of the Warrior’s left hook – a single punch that had served Eddie Wolfe throughout his long career, but had had little effect so far tonight. A shrewd and seasoned fighter, Joseph was the master craftsman, able to dictate the natural flow of the fight to his advantage. Like a lumbering giant, Eddie Wolfe followed Joseph around the ring.

  Joseph threw a left jab. The punch knocked the Warrior’s head back and a gout of fresh blood burst from his flattened nose. A collective gasp rolled in from the back of the stands to the front. Joseph leaned in, jabbing his opponent in the stomach. In an almost comical display, Eddie Wolfe folded in on himself, his arms shooting out together and the air exploding from his lungs with an audible whoosh. Sensing that his opponent had weakened, Joseph stepped forward, intent on delivering a crushing right cross to the chin. However, as he moved in for the kill, the unthinkable happened.

  Joseph blinked and the huge arena went dark. He paused, his arm pulled back, waiting to be released. Then his gloved right hand began to drop. His right leg went instantly numb, as if it had been cut off just below the hip. He staggered, still in darkness, and then fell to his knees.

  Eddie Wolfe looked up, drawing air into his lungs, as a deep and sickening ache spread across his bruised solar plexus. He shook his head in an attempt to clear the fog. Through his swollen eyes, he looked upon his opponent’s fist, about to land the killer punch. In a sudden shifting of fates, Joe ‘The Jaw-breaker’ Ruebins stopped. The right side of his face collapsed, turning his mouth into a macabre slash. Then, as if an invisible punch had landed against the left side of his head, he fell sideways, tottered for a second and collapsed to his knees. Seizing the moment, The Warrior from Queens sent a crashing hook to the side of Joseph’s head.

  Eddie watched, as in a twitching helpless heap, Joseph fell to the canvas. And, in the next second, the crowd around him launched itself into a savage frenzy.

  Chapter Two

  Silence engulfed Joseph Ruebins. He lay motionless, arms draped across his chest, in a funeral pose. The right side of his face hung slack, a symptom of the debilitating stroke he’d suffered. In contrast to his right side, his left cheek had swelled into a dark ball of agony, and the eye was almost sealed shut, now just a tight slit. A white shaft of sunlight cut through the room, dousing Joseph’s misshapen face in a harsh glow.

  “You should get some rest,” a grizzled old voice advised.

  Marianna looked up, her face tired and drawn. “I’ll stay,” she said. Her attention returned to Joseph. Her dark fingers continued to run across the smooth skin of his brow.

  Eugene Profit shuffled uneasily. “What about the boy?”

  Marianna’s gaze shifted to the small boy, curled up alongside the still form of her husband. Jake snored softly. The events of the previous evening had worn him out, and now he slept peacefully in the close comfort of his father.

  “We should let him sleep,” she said.

  Profit glanced from the boy to the face of the silent gian
t and sighed. What the hell had happened last night?

  The promise of victory had quickly turned to defeat. Profit had been on his feet, both hands gripped tightly onto the ropes of the boxing ring, when Joseph collapsed.

  “Knock his block off!” he cried.

  Joseph pulled his arm back, ready to deliver the finishing blow. Then he paused, blinking uncontrollably, before falling onto one knee. The Warrior from Queens had seized his chance, landing a vicious hook on his opponent’s head. And, as Joseph slammed to the canvas in a twitching heap, the crowd had launched itself into a triumphant rage. Two minutes later, however, they’d been stunned into silence.

  “Hurry!” Profit called, as the ringside doctor finally made his way into the ring.

  Marianna was kneeling beside the old coach, Joseph’s head cradled gently in her lap. Jake stayed just inside the ring, one of the other trainers holding the boy back.

  It had taken almost twenty agonising minutes for the paramedics to arrive and a further ten to securely tether Joseph to a stretcher. The once-hostile crowd had now become a mass of concerned faces, but offered nothing but hindrance as they gathered in front of the small group, who were eager to rush Joseph to the nearest hospital. With a single bark of annoyance, Marianna had sent them scattering for the four exits, clearing a path for the gurney.

  Now Marianna continued to caress her husband’s face, the nightmare of last night a jumbled mess of confused thoughts.

  “Maybe I should see what’s keeping that doctor,” Profit said.

  She nodded. “Okay.” In truth, she wasn’t too sure if she wanted to hear what the neurosurgeon had to say. Uncertainty had begun to gnaw away at hope, little by little, leaving only fear and frustration. The old coach backed quietly out of the room in search of the doctor.

  Marianna’s attention returned to her husband’s face. His eyes twitched slightly under their lids, and she felt her hope swell, restored by this tiny indication of life. If his thoughts still ran, even in darkness, then at least that in itself was an indication of brain activity. She’d had many nightmares over the years involving Joseph receiving a cerebral injury, and now that fear was real.