Stone Fist

by J. D. Weston

  “Oh,” she replied, “okay, dear. I don’t want to stop you doing what you want to do.” Her tone had dropped. The cheerful demeanour had all but gone.

  “Why don’t we do something special this weekend, Mum? If you’re feeling up to it?”

  “Yeah. Why not, love?” she replied with a smile as she turned the gas off. “Maybe I’ll cook a roast dinner. You’ll need to go shopping though.”

  Tyler picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, then stepped into the kitchen to kiss his mum goodbye. But as he did, the saucepan she was using to pour soup slipped in her hand. The hot broth splashed onto the counter, causing his mum to step back in alarm. Her foot kicked a chair, but before she fell, Tyler reached in, pulled the pan from her hands, put his arm around his mum to steady her, and then set the pan down on the stove.

  He switched off the gas and wiped the mess.

  “It’s alright,” he said. “You only spilt a bit of it. There’s loads left.”

  “I’m sorry, Tyler, I-”

  “Hey,” he said, rubbing her arm, “go in the living room and sit down. I’ll bring this in for you.”

  He poured the soup into a bowl and fetched a spoon from the drawer, marvelling at the fact that they didn’t have a nice TV, the curtains needed replacing and the carpets needed burning, but they had soup spoons in the cutlery drawer like a fancy restaurant.

  Tyler glanced out of the window to the street below. There were no tell-tale signs of exhaust smoke in the cold night air. No interior lights were on in any of the parked cars. But he couldn't shake the feeling that it wouldn't be the last he saw of the two men.

  His mum was sat at a little four-seater table by the window in the living room. Tyler set down the bowl and flicked on the TV. He placed the remote beside his mum and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Leave all this here when you’re done,” he said. “I’ll clean up when I get back.”

  “I’m sorry, Tyler,” she said.

  “What’re you sorry for?”

  “I’m getting more useless by the day.”

  The statement saddened Tyler but he couldn’t let his mum see. He coughed to clear his throat and then stepped across the room to put his arm around her.

  “Your job is to love me, right?” he said. “And my job is to look after you.” He looked around the room. It wasn’t much but it was clean and tidy. “I think we’re doing alright, Mum.”

  He kissed the top of her head and returned to the front door, giving her a wave as he pulled it closed behind him. Then he took the single flight of stairs to the ground floor two at a time.

  A biting wind found his neck and ears as soon as he left the building. He pulled on his beanie hat and wrapped his hooded sweatshirt closer around his neck, then found his pace and got into the rhythm, working through combinations in his head as he walked.

  A group of teenagers huddled together outside a block of flats. The smell of weed was thick even in the strong, cool wind. They quietened as he approached. All four heads turned to watch him. Tyler didn’t turn away. He kept looking ahead with his fists clenched inside the pockets of his hoodie.

  No abuse or taunts came his way, so Tyler kept moving. He’d done well to get through school and avoid much of the trouble. His grades hadn’t been great, and aside from one close call with the police, his record was clean. Many kids his age left school on the back foot with records for stealing or abuse or some kind of drugs possession. But Tyler had steered clear, finding solace in the various gyms he frequented. Even the single infraction he’d had with the law had been instigated by others seeing how far they could push him until he snapped.

  It was because of his size; he knew it was. But they were soon sorry.

  They wouldn’t be pushing anybody else around in a hurry. But Tyler would do whatever it took to avoid any more trouble. The policewoman who had spoken to him had been nice. It was as if she’d understood and saw that Tyler was a nice guy deep down. He remembered how she’d sat on the blue plastic mattress in his cell, while Tyler buried his face in his hands. His mind often recalled the memory. Someone on TV had once said that certain events were turning points in life, and that by recognising them, no matter how painful it is, the stronger the lesson will be. At the time, Tyler hadn’t even realised how hard he’d hit the boy. He hadn’t known the damage he’d caused. It was a blur. But when the officer who sat beside Tyler told him the boy was no longer in critical condition, it was as if something inside Tyler snapped. The very thing that held him upright and gave strength to his bones was gone.

  He’d crumpled to a heap on the sticky, blue, plastic mattress and the tears had flowed.

  The smell hit him as soon as he opened the door to the gym, causing memories of the police officer and the blue mattress to fade away. It was a close second to smelling his mum’s roast dinner from outside the flat. Nothing would ever beat that smell.

  “Alright, Lloyd?” said Tyler, as he dumped his bag on a bench to change his shoes.

  “All good,” said Lloyd. His baritone voice lay beneath the dull thumps of punch bags and muffled voices from outside the changing room. He waited for Tyler to change his shoes so he could wrap his hands. “Do you work outside?”

  “Yeah, labouring for a brickie. We’re on a job in Limehouse at the minute. It’s not too far. What about you? Do you do anything else?”

  “Anything other than getting this lot gloved up?” said Lloyd. “No. I’m too old for much else now.”

  “As long as you’re happy, I guess,” said Tyler, holding out his right hand.

  “The old man’s in a good mood today. Do what he says when he says.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Tyler. “Do you think he’ll put me up for a fight soon?”

  Lloyd pulled the wrap tight and held Tyler’s glove open for him to slide his hand inside.

  “Be patient.”

  Tyler nodded.

  Once Lloyd had wrapped and gloved his left hand, Tyler emerged from the changing room in the gym. Two punch bags swung back and forth as two young boys practised jabs and staying on their toes.

  “That’s good, boys,” said Lloyd. “Look light on your feet, Billy. Don’t settle.”

  “I remember all that,” said Tyler. “I used to look up to the kids like me thinking they must know it all.”

  “Nothing changes, Tyler. I’ve been in this game for forty years and nothing changes but the names and faces. You know that smell you like?”

  “The smell of hard work?” said Tyler.

  “It smelled the same back then too, just a different name and a different face. Get warmed up on the bags, Tyler. The old man will be with you soon.”

  Tyler moved his body from side to side as he walked through the centre of the gym, running through combinations in the air. He rolled his neck, waiting for the click of his joints, then threw a few light jabs at the bag.

  A breath of fresh, cold air licked at his bare legs, enough for him to turn to see who had opened the door.

  Two men, both huge, walked in and let the door close behind them. The first man wore a long, dark, double-breasted jacket, as if he was a city worker, but with smart jeans, a casual shirt and brown leather boots. The second man wore a short bomber jacket, light blue jeans and smart shoes.

  The pair looked comfortable in the gym, not intimidated as some people look when they walk in for the first time. They eyed the boys on the bags, and then the teenager that the old man was training in the ring. Then they found Tyler at the far end of the room. Tyler nodded then continued with his jabs, feeling the stretch of his muscles with each punch.

  The two men both sat on the small bench beside the door. The smartest of the pair played with his phone. The other watched the old man. But every now and then, Tyler would glance across to find one of them staring at him. Just like they had the night before.

  “Tyler, you’re up,” called the old man.

  Lloyd held the ropes for the teenager in the ring to climb out. The boy’s arms hung by his
sides like lead weights. Tyler smiled. He knew the feeling all too well. It was a feeling that didn’t go away the more training he did; it just took longer to tire.

  “Let’s go,” said the old man.

  Then he eyed the two men on the bench. They made eye contact but neither spoke.

  “You remember what we did yesterday?” asked the old man, slipping back into the pads as Tyler ducked beneath ropes.

  “Jab, jab, hook?” said Tyler, punching the air with the combination.

  “Not the moves, Tyler,” said the old man. “The eyes and the feet. Look at my eyes, watch for my feet, and roll with the punches. Let’s go. Right, left, right.”

  Tyler threw the first punch before the old man had finished, but he was ready with the pad.

  “Good, Tyler.” The old man sidestepped as Tyler threw the hook, which missed. “Come on. Dance with me. Get me on the ropes, Tyler.”

  The old man moved around faster than he looked capable of moving. The two men stared up at Tyler as he jabbed at the pads. But Tyler’s punches were weak, his feet were flat, and the old man moved before he’d finished one combo.

  “Tyler, look at me. Let’s go. You think I’m dancing for my health?”

  Tyler bounced into action, and let three punches go in quick succession.

  “That’s better. Again. Watch my feet. Watch my feet.”

  The old man’s footwork changed. His leading arm switched to his left, so Tyler adjusted the combo to left, right, left, and powered them into the pads.

  “On your toes, Tyler.”

  No matter how hard he tried, Tyler couldn’t shake the stares of the two men at the door. He threw one punch and the old man shifted the pad to the right then returned the blow to Tyler’s head.

  “Wake up, Tyler. Let’s go.” He offered the pads again but caught Tyler’s glance at the men by the door.

  “Right. Stop,” said the old man. He shook the pads from his hands, turned, and leaned on the ropes.

  “Can I help you, boys?” he asked. His authority in the gym quietened the thuds of gloves on bags and skip ropes until all eyes were on him. “I said, can I help you, boys?”

  The larger of the two men stood up, followed by his counterpart. Lloyd walked over to them, bridging the gap. He spoke in a quiet voice so as not to antagonise the men. But his deep grumble could be heard by all.

  “Are you waiting for anyone?” asked Lloyd.

  The bigger of the two men looked as though he was about to say something, but then closed his mouth.

  “Can I politely ask you both to leave?” said Lloyd. “We don't want trouble, but the boys need to train.”

  The lead man shook his head, gestured for his friend to follow, and they left the building.

  “Right, the show is over,” said the old man to the room. “Let me hear those bags going.”

  The old man turned back to Tyler.

  “Friends of yours?” he asked.

  “Never seen them before.”

  Tyler threw two jabs and a hook at the old man, who blocked them with the pads and returned to his dance around the ring.

  4

  Don’t Let Me Down

  The Golden Ring Pub was a Victorian building with heavy brickwork and large windows. It was split into two bars. The first was a saloon with a long bar across the back wall and booths around the edges. There was a small stage area at the front where the landlord hosted a jam night every Thursday evening. A well-reputed local band would play a few hits from the sixties or seventies, mainly classic rock, and then other people could join them. Guitarists, singers, drummers and bass players, mostly bedroom musicians, took the opportunity to get in front of a crowd to perform. It was one thing to play a song note for note in the confines of your own home, but to perform it in front of a crowd was a different game.

  The jam night brought in customers from all over the East End. The host band, Double Trouble, was comprised of middle-aged men who had each mastered their instruments but never made the big time. That didn’t stop them rocking the Golden Ring for one night a week and showing the wannabes how it was done.

  They opened with a Gary Moore number, Still Got The Blues For You, a steady beat to warm up to with enough of a solo for the guitarist to stretch his fingers. The crowd loved it, and the noise from the saloon raised a notch.

  It was for this reason that John Cooper chose to sit in the other half of the pub on Thursdays, the family side. It was decorated with exactly the same red-patterned carpet and textured wallpaper as the saloon, with the same oak bar, but without the screaming Marshall amps and Les Paul guitars or an eight-piece Ludwig drum kit being thrashed by a six-foot pipe-fitter.

  John had a wing-back seat beside the large fireplace. It was where he sat every Thursday night. From there, he could see the rest of the pub, whoever entered through the doors, and he had the benefit of having his back to the window.

  The family side wasn’t busy. Most of the clientele were watching the band perform, so John enjoyed having the place to himself. Two youngsters were playing pool, but they were local boys, probably just turned eighteen, and they knew to keep the noise down. Keeping a few local boys on his side was something he’d always done, and he found the practice worked well. He’d explained his thought process to Mick once when they’d both been sat in that very spot.

  “Society works in layers, Mick. Although you might think you’ve got your ear to the ground, you only know what’s going on in the layer in which you reside.”

  “What, like a sandwich, John? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “If that’s the analogy that works for you, then yeah, Mick. Like a sandwich. A triple-decker club sandwich. The top layer is where the mayo and lettuce is. That’s where the politicians are, the top cops, and all the stuffy businessmen who go home to their vanilla wives every night, pleased with their day’s work but absolutely ignorant to the rest of society. You see, those in the top layer still have two more layers beneath them, even three sometimes. They might have an inkling of what happens in the layer below, but the next layer? No. They don't have a clue, Mick. Blind to it, they are.”

  “I get you. So who’s in the bottom layer?”

  “The bottom layer, Mick, is the one that gets crushed by the weight of the layers above. That’s where the tomatoes go. We’re talking street gangs, drug dealers, thieves and the lowest rung of society. In the same way that the top brass doesn’t have a clue what goes on in the bottom layer of the sandwich, the bottom layer has no clue what goes on in the top of the sandwich. That’s why there’s so much disconnect in society. The local government makes changes that they think is going to solve a problem and all it does is create new problems, different ones, in the bottom layer. And the cycle starts over.”

  “So where are we then?” asked Mick.

  “We, Mick, are the meat. Crispy bacon and turkey stuffing. We reside in the middle layer. We are neither blind to the tomatoes nor blind to the mayo and salad on top. The trouble is, Mick, in most restaurants, you don't get much meat in a club sandwich. They stuff it with tomatoes and mayo and lettuce when all we really want is meat. The good stuff. In fact, without the crispy bacon and turkey, the lettuce and mayo would be nothing. And likewise for the tomatoes. Nobody needs a tomato on its own, Mick, do they?”

  “No, John.”

  “So we sit strategically in the middle. Of course, we know some lettuces and we use them to understand what’s happening above because that's how we don't get caught doing what we do. Right?”

  “Right, John.”

  “And we know a few tomatoes too because that’s how we know what's going on below.”

  “I understand.”

  “But we need to have some tomatoes on our side, Mick. And we need to have some lettuce watching our backs too. There's far too many tomatoes in this sandwich that need to be controlled. Just as the mayo has far too much power; it needs to be culled every now and then. That’s why we have local elections.”

  Mick looked a little lo
st.

  “See those two boys playing pool?” asked John.

  Mick nodded.

  “I could quite easily turf them out for being underage. But what’s that going to do?”

  “I don’t know, John.”

  “Well, they’ll come back tonight, when we’re all at home, and they’ll smash the bleeding windows, won’t they? They might even start a little fire that gets out of control. You remember being a kid, right?”

  “Right,” said Mick.

  “So by having a few tomatoes on our side, by keeping them keen, then firstly, we don't get our windows broke or the place burned down, and secondly, we send them in like little soldier tomatoes and pay them a bit of pocket money for any information they feed back to us. It keeps them sweet.”

  “The same way we pay off the top brass?”

  “Exactly, Mick. You see? Being in the middle layer is a great place to be.”

  “Right,” said Mick, and sat back in his chair.

  John could see the analogy had blown his mind.

  John’s phone buzzed on the table and snapped him from his memory.

  “Mick,” he said, dismissing the greeting, “give me some good news.”

  “We’ve got someone for you to talk to. Where shall we bring him?”

  “You said you had two options. Is this option one or option two?”

  “This is option one, John.”

  “I’m in the boozer, Mick. Bring him here.”

  The lights of London lit the horizon like a distant, hazy, orange dome as Melody and Harvey made their way along the M2 from Dover. During one of the fuel stops, they had pulled the roof back up on the little sports car. As they’d made their way through France, the heater had been turned on, and less than one hundred miles from Reg’s house in South London, the temperature was raised another notch. Harvey had removed his jacket and relished the cool breeze that found a gap in the old car’s soft top. Melody had kept her jacket on and warmed her hands in the heated air that was pumped through the dashboard vent.

  After a fifteen-and-a-half-hour journey, with three stops for fuel, bathroom and food, Melody parked the car in a bay reserved for visitors outside Reg and Jess’ flat in Clapham. The engine shuddered to a stop beside a new Volkswagen camper van and Melody sat back in her seat.