*This is a preview of Chapter One, Thieves of St Andrews. The following content has not been professionally edited, nor is it guaranteed to be in the final version.

Chapter One: Beauty is Pain

It is entirely irrational to desire tragedy in order to produce creativity. Yet, three weeks back at university, I’ve committed myself to testing the theory. The experiment, if you can call it that, begins somewhere between here and the warehouse we’re driving to. Yegor, my roommate, sits silently beside me in the taxi. I’ve asked him at least five times if he’ll be the one I’m fighting tonight. Even though his answer is always no, it’s still reassuring to see him dressed in a suit instead of the boxing shorts issued to me by the organisation hosting tonight’s event. I didn’t know Yegor owned a suit. It’s not a rental either; his initials are embroidered on the left cuff. At least it won’t be a 6’4 Russian smashing my teeth in tonight. Small mercies.

The cold of the taxi window bites my skin as I sink against it. The sky is faintly lit by cloud-covered, setting sun rays. As we drive down North Street, glimpses of the sea flicker between old stone houses. They aren’t homes anymore, but university department buildings with rooms divided into offices and seminar spaces. St. Andrews sits on the coast of Scotland, an hour north of Edinburgh, and holds only three main streets. The campus is intertwined with the town and was founded earlier than my home country of Canada. It is unlike the bustling city of London, but not quite a countryside village. Tonight, it feels extra quiet.

Yegor hits me in the chest, jolting me upright. It stings for a moment. He’s a rather muscular man. Russian. Taller than our fridge. His round face is dusted by a patchy beard that’s the same ashy blonde-brown colour as his buzz cut.

“Голову выше,” he says.  

Head up.

“Do you…” I clear my throat. “Do you know anything about him?”

“No.” He pulls a leather-wrapped flask from his suit jacket. After taking a short drink, he passes it to me without looking. “He didn’t come to the training sessions. Not one. Bad sign.”

“You couldn’t get a name? There wasn’t a list or anything?”

“NDA. They treat me like a gossip.” He screws the cap back onto the flask.

I nod slowly. It’s quite an odd feeling knowing you are about to willingly get the shit beat out of you. I have absolutely zero fighting experience. Not once was I beaten up in school, nor have I drunkenly punched someone at a bar. Sometimes I go to the gym with Yegor, but I don’t have muscle retention. This afternoon, I watched a YouTube tutorial on how to throw a punch. So, at least I’m unlikely to break my fingers. The point of this isn’t for me to win, but a doomed part of me has this idea that my body will instinctively know what to do—that I will have some heroic moment and win the fight. It’d be nice if those ideas would just die already.

We fall into silence for the duration of our drive down winding cobblestone that morphs into a dirt road. In a few short minutes, we’re outside of town, and the sun has set. The taxi stops outside a grey warehouse. New and made from steel, the warehouse stands isolated in the countryside. My feet drag along the muddy road. Although humid, the air is expectedly cold. I don’t have a jacket on, just these slightly oversized board shorts and a T-shirt. What am I doing?

A charter bus, the kind rented for student events, pulls away, leaving behind scattered remains of partying. Paper wristbands, wet shoe marks, and cigarette butts litter the ground. Everything smells of damp grass, and persisting in the background is the rhythm of songs I’ve heard a dozen times at parties. There is an ease to this place I do not belong, and it upsets me. Nothing is as it should be, yet everything is terribly familiar.

By the frantic way Yegor is walking, we must be late. Still, he stops before we reach the side door and abruptly turns. “Last chance to back out.”

It’s the first time he checks my face for an answer. He means those words, is maybe even suggesting them. I can walk away from this completely intact, without repercussions. The thing is, I have no desire to do that. I want this. I need this. 

“Let’s go inside,” I say, nodding in the direction of the door.

Yegor opens the warehouse’s side entrance. A small room with a singular, sad-looking couch hosts university students wearing suits. One man shakes my hand. I do not process our short conversation. They let me sit down on the couch while I wait.

It wasn’t supposed to get to this point. If you had told me three weeks ago that it would, I would have called your bluff. But, back then, I had just begun sketching the topic of my art history dissertation: Is tragedy the best catalyst for the creativity that secures a painter’s place in history?

It is simply a philosophical ask on the surface. Yet, in practice, it is a question one cannot begin to answer without having felt its edges. Though there are more than enough detailed stories of tortured artists, I do not have a complete grasp on their existence. I have never experienced tragedy. Perhaps small ones: the passing of my beloved dog, the occasional hit from my father in childhood, a peer overdosing on fentanyl. Even so, these are minor pains, bumps in the road, if you will. I live in a position of privileged distance, yet I yearn to travel—to narrow the fortunate space between me and the horrors of many people’s reality. The disconnect is an impediment, and my desire to find an answer eventually morphed into something parasitic. To me, tragedy is something you cannot think your way out of. It is something that changes you in ways you cannot undo. I’m not sure if being beaten qualifies, but it’s the closest thing I can reach on short notice.

However, tragedy is admittedly only a part of what I want to understand. I want to know what makes certain works ineffaceable, why some endure while others disappear. I have never believed the answer to be luck, or pure genius, or the hand of God. Luck is what people call a formula not yet found. I believe there is one—identifiable and replicable. Tragedy, you see, is merely the first variable I’ve chosen to isolate. 

Yegor stands in front of me, unwinding a length of cotton wrap. He doesn’t speak, just lifts one of my hands and begins wrapping it methodically. His brows draw together each time he tucks the fabric under. When he finishes, he taps my wrist twice and reaches for my other hand. The heat of alcohol hits my face from each of his deep breaths. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but my jaw clenches. Yegor is being gentle. He is a man who usually ties knots as if he’s in a fistfight with gravity. Seeing him move with care is its own kind of horror. It means something. The only explanation I can scrape together is that perhaps he feels guilty.

We had been drinking yesterday, lots. On our walk home from the pub, we stumbled, laughed, and enjoyed the freedom to bask in the spoils of our lives. I was caught up in the liberty alcohol affords and senselessly confessed my desire to experience something painful enough to change me. Because truly, I believe that those who have not suffered are not as capable, or perhaps willing, to produce art that consoles the disturbed and wounded. Yegor said it was a silly thing to want. Then he mentioned that someone had just dropped out of a fight at an underground club he’s on the committee for. It was meant as a tease. I don’t believe he thought I would do it. But it’s either I wait and continue dwelling on the possibility of tragedy never striking, or I just get it out of my system.

If it had come from anyone but Yegor, the offer to willingly get beaten would have sent me running. I’ve come to realise that Yegor is the person I’m closest to here. The three friends who got me through my first few years at university have graduated. This is not to say Yegor has taken their place, nor that we are the best of friends. We are roommate soulmates, if such a thing exists. And sometime in that unspoken relation, I must have learned to trust him.

Once Yegor is done with the wraps, I remove my shirt and shoes and discard them on the couch as instructed. Until last night, when Yegor told me, I didn’t know St. Andrews had an underground fight club. The vast majority of students are unaware of its existence. It happens once a semester and is kept incredibly on the down low. What kind of person attends such an event? One where you pay a few hundred pounds to eat a four-course meal, drink, socialise, and watch people beat each other on a cement slab? Fight participants sign up in exchange for experience. In return for signing an NDA and participating in one fight, they get three months of free boxing training. Apparently, I’m just filling in for someone who dropped out at the last second. Since I didn’t get any of the training, the event organisers are going to pay me in cash instead. Which is nice, considering my parents have more or less cut me off since I changed my major to art history.

The door rattles once, then opens. The music’s bass vibrates through the concrete and the bones I’m about to jeopardise. Heat rolls in damp with sweat and perfume. A corridor of people shifts to make space, and a man with a clipboard steps inside.

“You’re up,” he says flatly, as if calling for the next patient at a dentist’s office.

Yegor leans in close as I stand. “Keep your chin tucked,” he murmurs. “And don’t stop moving.”

I walk into the main section of the warehouse, following a path carved by the man with a clipboard. With each step, my bare feet stick slightly to the lacquered ground. Someone whistles. Someone else shouts a name that might be mine; the vowels distort in the air before I can catch them. I keep my eyes forward and tell myself that I’m walking with purpose, though it feels more like I’m being ushered along like livestock.

Has there ever been an artist in my position—wishing for pain to elevate their creativity? Did they ever go looking for it in the way I seem to be doing? Probably not. I suppose they had it shoved down their throat.

I stand alone in the middle of the warehouse, on a cement floor. The crowd gathers around me in a wide circle, bodies stacked behind bodies until the faces blur into a singular dark wall. Its perimeter begins just far enough back that I won’t reach it when I fall. The harsh overhead light drowns out any discernible facial features of the crowd; that may be intentional. The only things I can make out are colourful ties contrasting against black suits and some sparkly heels. I wonder if any of them know me. How they must love what’s about to happen. I’m judging, but I probably would have bought a ticket if I had known about the event. It’s far easier to revel like Romans, throwing back wine like the men behind me, than to be the untrained gladiator in the arena.

I wish I had my shirt on. Standing half-naked under the light feels more exposing than sex. The warehouse is cold, and there is nothing to hide my goosebumps. My head runs light from adrenaline. I try to spot Yegor, or at least his shoes, in the crowd, to no avail. Suddenly, a man stands before me and his fist slams into my face. Nothing prepared me for the raw, burning sensation that spreads across my body and smothers my vision. I didn’t see the man coming. It was the shoes. I was too focused on finding Yegor’s to notice the fight starting. The room comes back to me in an uncontrolled rush. 

My nose—fuck. 

Instinctively, my fingers crawl to my face. Blood stains the once-white wraps around my hands. I shove every thought aside but hate. I have to. If I don’t turn this man into an enemy, I won’t last another second. Light on his feet, he moves calculatedly. I have never seen someone look so focused and somehow move so effortlessly. I register him in fragments. Blonde hair. Red shorts. He strikes me again. Knuckles surge into my chest. A chorus of posh rumbling reverberates through the warehouse. He smites me again. There is every intention of causing great damage. I plant a foot behind me and fire my fist forward.

I strike my opponent in the shoulder. He is taller, stronger, and more reactive than I am. When he rounds his hand back, his stance is rough and determined. It’s experienced. Too much force comes with the man for me to counter before he gets in another blow. On the move. On the run. I try to defend myself. Blood spills out of my mouth. I swear the light is getting brighter. Collapsing is tempting. His body weight carries through each swing. Against my jaw. In the chest. My knees lock. The punches do not cease. I am sure to pass out. The circle breaks and reforms, funnelling me towards the wall. He pins me there with relentless jabs. I hear a crack in my nose. Nowhere to go. No way to hit back. A bell sounds. He strikes again. Again, and again, and again. 

Someone grabs onto his shoulder, ripping him away. My sight blurs. The world dissolves beyond me. Still, sensation floods in, raw and relentless. I go out of the light and into the darkness, the anonymous crowd. The horde parts, as if I have the plague. It would be criminal if my blood got on their suits. Absolutely criminal.

I pass through the now-empty holding room. Nobody follows after me into the freezing outside. The sun has long set. Soft droplets of rain echo against the steel roof of the warehouse. The wall stings as I slide down it. Landing on the ground, taking the weight off my feet, makes the pain almost feel rewarding. The small ledge of the roof keeps most of the water off me, but not all of it. Red rain runs down my arms. I sit here long enough for the cold to settle into my bones.

The door opens, and the man who just beat me bloody approaches. He has already thrown on a plain black shirt and a leather jacket. Now that I can properly look at him, he’s rather built. It’s no wonder his punches landed so strongly. Edges of his blonde hair, which reach messily to his ears, are stained crimson, no doubt from my blood, not his. 

“Get up,” he yells.

My breath spews out like laughter. I have nothing left to give or lose. His footsteps speed up as he repeats, “Come on. Get up.” 

I stop looking at him. Too easily, he becomes a shadow in my plane of existence. It matters little who he is. His feet, covered in short-cut black boots under blue jeans, walk into my eyesight. I am forced to see him in close, clear detail. His wayward brown eyes are coated with fury. Soft blonde locks wave over his head. Even without the tension in his jaw, the sharp angles of his cheekbones would have definition. From looks, he has to be a third year too, if not a year younger.

“You’ve had your fun.” My mandible burns, but it’s not broken. Each time I swallow, there’s a taste of metal.

His hand surges down. I have no fabric on my upper half for him to grab onto. Instead, he seizes my neck, dragging me to my feet by it. A loud bang rattles through the metal as my head crashes against the steel wall. Somehow, I find my footing. I suck in a spiteful breath, but barely any air reaches my lungs. 

“You think this is over?” His grip tightens, stifling me. “After all you’ve been up to?”

I thrash the little I can. Desperately, my fingers clutch his wrist, fighting ferociously against this hand holding me hostage. With a small surge of air, I choke out, “What?” His fingers loosen the slightest. “I don’t even know you!”

He lets go. I fall to the ground, knees scraping gravel. A ruthless cough takes over. He asks, “Who are you?” 

I tell him. Drops of rain fall from my hair. He turns his back on me and walks. Once he’s out of sight, I sink further into the ground. Everything hurts. I love air. It feels so good to have it back. I promise to never take it for granted again. The frigidness of the night draws over my skin. I am unsure if it’s the burning of my knees, or the piercing in my face, or the unbearable chill in the air, or the relentless rain, but every single thing seems to be against me. A horrific pounding keeps constant through my cranium.

Three weeks into being an art history major—after two years stuck in economics—and this is what I have to show for it: a broken nose and not a single thing learned. I need to get warm. It’s best to find my phone and call a taxi home. Or I could wait for Yegor. Maybe I just stay here. The rain continues. My body trembles inconsistently. Yegor will wake me if I fall asleep. If he doesn’t, when the drunken crowd leaves the warehouse, their noise will probably be enough. The gravel is not soft, but it might do. I pull my legs to my chest and lock my arms around my knees. One of the streetlights flickers consistently. I put my face down but can’t rest it on my knees because my nose hurts so damn much. My eyes close. They’ve never felt so heavy.

Abruptly, I am awakened back into reality by two things being chucked at me: a flannel and an envelope. The man has returned, but I am too tired care. He stands a few metres away.

“I thought you were someone else,” he says strenuously. He looks at me, then quickly away, as if he can’t stand the sight of what he’s done.

When I open my mouth, it’s so sore that I’m scared I might be unable to speak. My throat aches from his hands. To my thanks, he continues talking, “This guy, Carter—I haven’t met him. But I was told he’d be fighting in this. Told he was you. He ran the Kate Kennedy Society’s initiation this term. A guy I know ended up unconscious for three hours. Hypoxic episode. They weren’t sure he’d wake.” He gestures to the warehouse, rocking once on the heels of his boots. “This isn’t my type of thing. I only signed up to try and balance things out.”

As he approaches, his gait carries a rhythm caught somewhere between Southern Gothic blues and rock. He sits beside me with a dry mouth and lights a cigarette. “Your cut is in there.” He nods to the envelope. “I told them to give you my cut too for the mix-up.” 

An accent hides in his words. I need him to talk more to find it, but he isn’t from the United Kingdom. An intense ringing fills my ears. My fingers cramp as I rummage through the money. The additional money stretches things further than my pride wants to admit. I shove the cash into my shorts pocket. It’s safe to assume he didn’t get any training either if he was paid. Nevertheless, it sure seemed like he knew what he was doing.

Although the red flannel is slightly damp, I throw it over myself. This must be his. Yegor wouldn’t be caught dead in a flannel. As much as I want to be angry at the man, I’m not. His words appear genuine. He offers me a cigarette. I decline. My throat won’t be able to take it. 

“You broke my nose,” I say. It burns like hell. I sit up, hoping my posture will help me breathe normally. It doesn’t.

“Not like it wasn’t crooked before.” A weak but apologetic smile tugs at his mouth. As the flames take to his lips, he mumbles, “It will heal on its own in a few weeks. Won’t need any fixin’.” 

I catch it; there in the word fixin’, I find a sliver of his origin. “Are you from Texas?”  

“I’d be ashamed if I wasn’t.”

“How’d you get here?” 

“I could ask you the same thing.” Plenty of people do. I don’t have an accent anywhere near British, but I don’t sound entirely Canadian. I carry my mother’s French pronunciation in some words. It often helps me slip past the common judgement of being American. It is not a rarity to find someone from abroad, especially from the States, studying full-time at St. Andrews. When it came to applying to university, I didn’t think I had options in what to study. I simply stepped where the path pointed and declared economics as my major. But, beneath the sensible choice, there was an instinct that sensed it was also the right time to leave Canada, at least for a few years. If I were already leaving my parents’ home and starting fresh, I reasoned, I might as well go all the way and study in Europe.

A hand covered in blood—my blood—politely extends towards me. “I’m Atticus.” His accent comes out strongly on his name; he probably can’t help it. I’m sure he says it the way his mother does.

The warehouse door crashes open, cleaving the night with a blade of light. A silhouette breaks from the glow and resolves into Yegor. He half-yells, “There you are!”

The pavement tilts under me as I force myself onto my feet. Yegor reaches me in three strides. He catches me by the jaw, fingers gripping hard as he angles my face towards the streetlight to inspect. Pain flares where his thumb digs, sharp enough to pull a hiss from my teeth. “They say you left. I think maybe you die out here.”

 “Well, I’m still standing,” I mutter.

“I am glad. If you die, I have to call your mother. I refuse. She scares me.” Yegor lets go of my face and steps back for a full assessment. But his attention cuts sharply past me. Over my shoulder, he says, “You do not swing after bell sound.”

Atticus stands a few yards off. Rain speckles the leather of his jacket. Smoke curls lazily from the half-finished cigarette in his hand. “I thought he was someone else.”

“Is that an excuse?” Yegor snaps. “It changes nothing. Bell is bell. A fight is done after.”

Atticus shrugs one shoulder. “He didn’t look done.”

“He was not defending, and you swing. That is not a fight. You want to beat a man, you do it outside the ring.” 

“If he had been the guy I came for, I would have needed those extra punches.”

“You like fighting dirty?” Yegor steps forward, shoulders squared. “I fight dirty better. Try me.”

Atticus doesn’t retreat. He doesn’t even straighten. “I would,” he says, looking down at the blood drying across his knuckles. “But I don’t feel like embarrassing you too.”

The shit-eating grin isn’t even gone from Atticus’s face when Yegor hits him. A sharp, clean punch to the face, fast enough that it almost looks like nothing. Atticus’s head snaps to the side. Yegor lunges again. I step into his path, my shoulder slamming into his ribs. Pain flares and a thin, involuntary gasp breaks from my lips. My hand locks on his arm. Yegor freezes.

“Let it go,” I plead. “I got what I wanted. It was exactly what I came for.”

From behind me, a low, breathless laugh slips out. Atticus straightens slowly, jaw shifting as if testing it. He drags a thumb across his mouth, smearing what’s left of the blood, then looks at Yegor like he isn’t worth reacting to. There’s a pause, a brief hanging silence.

“What did you come for?” Atticus asks, his attention settling on me.

Yegor’s eyes cut down to mine, his shoulders still tense. They wait for an answer that I am unwilling to say out loud. There is no room for conversation now. I need the night to end here.

“I’d like to go home,” I say quietly.

Atticus flicks his cigarette to the wet pavement. The ember hisses out. “Rest up,” he says, his accent trailing softly. Yegor shifts, turning slightly as Atticus passes. “Hope your nose heals soon.”

He walks away without escalating things any further, a ghost of leather and smoke, disappearing into the warehouse. Once the door shuts, Yegor scrubs a hand down his face, smearing the rain and worry into one tired gesture. His other hand opens and closes at his side, working the stiffness out of his knuckles. He pulls out his phone and calls a taxi. We wait under the awning. I pull the flannel tighter around me. I’ve remembered too late that it’s Atticus’s. Blood for flannel. I got the short end of that trade.