Stone Cold

by Taylor, Peter

  ‘You’re looking in good condition,’ he opened, his affable tone at odds with the sly look that crept his eyes. ‘We heard you used the gym in the — rest home.’

  Henry was taken by surprise. His father and brother hadn’t bothered to make any contact yet knew he’d kept training. He figured there must be an ulterior motive lurking because they’d not been concerned about his welfare. Then he remembered what Tom Daly had told him. Could it be his brother’s purpose here was to size him up for a return to the fight circuit? That would fit with the Frank he remembered. Well, if that was what was lurking behind those sly eyes, he was going to be disappointed.

  ‘Body and mind, Frank! Body and mind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fit in body and mind, Frank. That’s me. Used the gym like you say, but got myself some education too. Bet you didn’t know that. A fit mind in a fit body? That’s the thing — like the Greeks said. You have to have the balance right, Frank. You should try it. Make a man of you.’

  Frank frowned. He was annoyed at his brother’s baiting but he didn’t bite, just changed the subject.

  ‘You haven’t asked about the old man.’

  Henry picked up his beer, took a swig, as though he needed time to ponder the statement, swirled the glass in his hand until a froth formed.

  ‘Let me think,’ he said eventually, with affected puzzlement. ‘Old Man, you say? Do I have one? Seem to remember I did once, but the mind plays tricks, especially when you’re in a — rest home, you called it.’

  Drumming his fingers on the table in irritation at Henry’s deliberate obtuseness, Frank carried on regardless.

  ‘He’s not a well man. Not the man you remember.’

  Henry sighed. ‘You’re dancing me around the ring, Frank. I’m tired and bored. Get to the point. This is five years on. I’m not a gullible kid anymore.’

  ‘He’s made a big mistake, your father.’

  ‘Don’t we all. Not looking for sympathy, is he?’ Henry jabbed his own chest. ‘Not from this direction, surely?’

  Frank held up his hands. ‘OK! I’ll get to the point. He put out big money arranging a fight with the latest Jackson to make a name for himself. Daniel, Jet and Terry approached him when he was on the booze, hurt his pride saying things about you. They took advantage of his state of mind. I had to stand by and watch it happen.’

  Henry grunted. So Tom Daly had been right. This conversation was going to end up where he’d expected it to. Frank was just taking the country route.

  ‘There’s no fool, like an old fool. Why should I care?’

  Frank stared at a spot on the table. He looked more worried in that moment than Henry had ever seen him.

  ‘The Jacksons put up forty grand and he matched it.’

  Henry didn’t let his surprise show. His brother was laying his cards on the table one at a time, like a gambler slowly revealing his hand. Henry had an idea which card was coming next, decided to pre-empt him.

  ‘Let me guess,’ he said, stroking his chin as though it was a matter that deserved great thought. ‘All this must have taken place at Appleby Horse Fair.’

  Frank smiled a bitter smile, shook his head. ‘So you know? In that case you’ll also know who the old man was backing.’

  ‘I got it from a gypsy in gaol who ended up hanging himself because the Jacksons got him hooked on drugs. They get around those Jacksons, don’t they, Frank?’

  Frank’s chin dropped. The slyness had gone out of his eyes but it had been replaced by an equally unattractive desperation. It came pouring out of him.

  ‘You’ve got to fight. The old man’s life savings will be gone if you don’t. The caravan would be all he had left. He’s not a well man.’

  It was the nearest to pleading he’d ever heard from his brother. But Henry could only feel resentment towards him. He’d vowed that he would never be involved in an illegal fight again. Frank, who with his father had fixed that last, fatal, fight, was showing no respect at all for his feelings. It was as though the past five years had never existed and he could walk back into Henry’s life expecting his younger brother to revert back to his old self at the drop of a hat. It felt so unreal perhaps any moment now he’d awake, find he was back in his cell dreaming it. His first night out with Mary had certainly been ruined by his dear brother.

  ‘I won’t fight for you, for my father, or anyone else,’ he growled.

  Frank’s eyes sent sparks across the table. ‘You’d let the old man down in his hour of need?’

  For Henry, the irony, to which his brother seemed totally oblivious, was salt rubbed in old wounds.

  ‘All these years neither of you have given me a thought,’ he fired back. ‘Beats me how you’ve got the nerve to sit there and ask me to do anything for the old man or you. And I thought prison porridge was thick stuff, Frank.’

  Frank glared at him and Henry recognized the ruthlessness in him. He was certain he’d be sifting through all the options now until he found the one that would carry maximum effect. He’d always found it hard to take no for an answer, his lovely brother.

  He leaned forward until he was so close Henry could see the furrows on his brow and the small scar on his nose which he had given him in a childhood fight.

  ‘There’s too much riding on this. I can’t take no for an answer. You will fight, Henry. I’d prefer you did it the easy way but — there’s other means of persuasion.’

  Henry was boiling but tried to retain his cool.

  ‘That’s more like my brother,’ he said. ‘Good job I didn’t expect a family party.’

  Frank shrugged, pushed his chair back and stood up. He put his hand in his pocket and placed a piece of paper on the table.

  ‘My number. Ring me. I’ll give you a week or two’s grace. If you’re not on side by then it’ll get hotter and hotter — until you melt.’

  Henry sat very still looking up at his brother. The threat had been delivered in tones so cold and distant it was as though he’d been announcing train times over a tannoy. He’d always had a streak of stubborn selfishness and ruthlessness, but there was a new quality to him in that moment that touched on evil. Or had it just taken time away from him for Henry to see more clearly what had always lurked?

  ‘Go to the Devil, Frank. He’ll recognize his own.’

  Frank shrugged his indifference. ‘Start training, Henry. Do it for your father’s sake. If that doesn’t float your boat, think about your share of the money.’

  With that, Frank turned on his heel and wove his way through the tables, heading for the door. On the way he knocked someone’s drink over, but carried on without an apology, ignoring the protests that followed him. Henry watched it happen and it seemed a fitting finale to their meeting — Frank, in character, brushing all considerations aside to get where he wanted to be.

  A range of emotions, mainly outrage, assailed Henry. His own brother had threatened him and he had no doubt it wasn’t an idle threat. He suspected there must be more to the business than he was being told. Frank had been present when his father had been set up, hadn’t he? It wasn’t in his nature, surely, to sit and quietly watch as they fleeced the old man. Those thoughts were interrupted when Mary returned.

  ‘Was it that bad?’ she said, wrinkling her nose. ‘You look like you’ve just lost a pound and found a penny.’

  He mustered a half smile. ‘You’re not too far off the mark.’

  ‘He offered you money?’

  His half-smile turned cynical. He decided she might as well know the gist of it.

  ‘He’s got a fight arranged for me, my dear brother. The prize money is eighty thousand — winner take all.’

  Mary’s hand rose to cover her mouth. Her eyes widened in dismay, and then concern came into them.

  ‘You’re not —?’

  ‘Of course I’m not. I told him to get lost. Can you believe the brass neck on him though?’

  As though she’d received a physical blow, needed a second to recover from the shock, Mary
closed her eyes. When she opened them, she reached out to him, rested her hand lightly on his arm in a supportive gesture.

  ‘I’m proud of you, Henry.’

  ‘What for? There was no choice.’

  ‘But there was. You resisted the money. Many wouldn’t have.’

  ‘The money didn’t come into it. I learned my lesson the hard way. Bare knuckle is primitive. My only excuse is that I was ignorant back in the day.’

  They bought a fresh drink and sat there another hour. Henry considered telling her about the money his father had gambled and his brother’s parting threat, but he decided not to. It would make a bad night worse. Instead, he tried to lighten the conversation, salvage some joy from their first evening out. Hard as he tried, though, he couldn’t shake off the memory of that malicious look on his brother’s face.

  Mary drove him home and parked outside the house. They arranged to see each other the next night and, since it would be Friday and she wouldn’t have to go to work on Saturday, she managed to cajole him into agreeing to stay over at her place. He kissed her goodnight but hesitated before getting out of the car.

  ‘You know someone from your work is going to see us together eventually and it’ll get back. The Bluebell wasn’t exactly secluded.’

  ‘You’re more worried than me,’ she told him. ‘There are other libraries who’d take me on. I’ve made enquiries already.’

  ‘Don’t think it’s not hard for me,’ he said. ‘But I’ve told you my reasons.’

  He watched her drive off, then went inside and straight up to bed. All that had happened in the last few days replayed in his mind as he tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep. More than an average share of trouble had come his way and he had to concede Mary had a point when she’d suggested that coming back to South Bank wasn’t the brightest of ideas. One thing he couldn’t have anticipated, though, was that his own brother would cause him grief. Though he was determined he wasn’t going into an illegal fight, what kept nagging at him was that his brother liked his own way and, for sure, didn’t issue idle threats.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Next day, early afternoon found Henry standing outside the community centre remembering his boyhood and the part Michael Lane had played in his life. Inside this building he had received his first lessons in how to box according to the amateur rules. Micky had seen his potential, shaved the raw edges off his unsophisticated style, curbed his tendency to advance at all costs, his frequent loss of temper. The building was an old church that had seen much better days, but Henry knew it had a heart. What went on inside was what really counted, made a difference. Whenever his gypsy family had spent time in South Bank, Micky had been like a father to him, attempting to instil values that would keep him out of trouble. It had taken time and distance for him to realize how hard Micky had tried with him. It wasn’t that he hadn’t listened, more that contact with the trainer had been intermittent, broken by long spells on the road where it had been easy for a young boy to forget and drift off the path.

  When he opened the door it was like stepping back in time. The boxing ring was the centrepiece, surrounded on all sides by training equipment where the young boxers were at work. Familiar sounds drifted to his ears; fists beating out a tattoo on the punch bags, the sharp sound of breath inhaled and exhaled like steam trains gathering speed, the clink and rattle of weights as they vibrated on contact with the hard floor. Had he really been away so long, he wondered? He spotted Mick at the back of the hall, near a door to another part of the building where Henry remembered more cerebral pursuits were on offer.

  He walked down the hall, past the ring and stood a yard behind Micky who was in the process of reading the riot act to a shamefaced looking youth who had obviously transgressed. He smiled to himself as he waited, recalled times when he’d been on the end of one of Micky’s tongue lashings. When the youth was dismissed, he spoke out.

  ‘Never turn your back on an opponent. Always be aware. It only takes a second.’

  The old trainer didn’t turn around and Henry thought he’d taken him by surprise. But he was disabused of that notion when he spoke in that familiar gruff voice of his.

  ‘Blue sweatshirt, jeans, a stone heavier.’

  Henry laughed. It was exactly how he was dressed and he held up his hands in defeat as Micky turned to face him. Only an extra wrinkle or two around the old boy’s eyes told of the passage of time. His seventy-year-old body was slim, not an extra ounce on it. If it hadn’t been for the shock of white hair, he could have passed for a man ten years younger.

  Micky pulled Henry into a bear hug, that show of affection taking him by surprise. He felt his eyes begin to moisten, hoped it didn’t show when they broke apart.

  ‘Saw you the moment you stepped in the door,’ Micky said. ‘What’s been keeping you, son? Father Andrew told me you were getting out two days ago.’

  ‘Just coming back down to earth,’ Henry told him.

  Wise eyes assessed him. ‘And you couldn’t find a better place to do that than Slaggy Island, eh?’

  Slaggy Island was another name for South Bank. It was used more by the old-timers and referred to the nearby slag heaps created by the steelworks. Henry avoided the question, grinned as he glanced around at the young lads who were exercising hard.

  ‘I hear you might be prepared to let me loose on your latest proteges.’

  ‘Could do with help,’ Micky said. ‘You know boxing. You know what I stand for. What this place is about.’

  Remembering his illegal fights, Henry went red. Micky saw and understood why. He grimaced, swiped the air with his hand in a dismissive gesture.

  ‘Look, son, the past has gone. I tried to warn you about bare knuckle but you were just a kid. There was good in you, you know, otherwise I wouldn’t have let you through those doors, then or today.’

  Henry looked down, shuffled his feet. ‘You know how much I regret — how grateful —’

  Mick gripped his arm, stopped him right there. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen, have a brew. I can keep an eye on things through the hatch and we can have a chin wag.’

  As soon as they were settled in the kitchen, Henry poured his heart out to the old trainer, in a way that he had only done to Father Andrew in the recent past. He told him about the fatal fight, his disappointment with his own family and his determination to live a good life. Mick listened without interrupting, his eyes leaving Henry only occasionally to check everything was OK in the hall.

  ‘So it was an unlucky blow that killed him,’ he mused, when Henry finished. ‘And a delayed reaction because he didn’t go down immediately?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Henry confirmed. ‘We heard the police coming and everybody ran for it. There was chaos and he staggered off on his own. They found him dead in a field fifty yards away.’ Henry glanced down at his hands. ‘A blow to the temple killed him and my blood was all over him.’

  ‘But it was an accident, wasn’t it?’ Mick said, his voice gentle.

  Henry shook his head. It was no good Mick trying to make him feel better. He knew that he’d struck a blow that had killed a man, intentionally or not, in an illegal fight for big money.

  ‘It was manslaughter, Micky. If I’d been wearing gloves, it would never have happened. You warned me enough times about illegal fighting but I listened to my father and brother instead.’

  Henry placed his mug on the table, put his hands together, intertwined his fingers as though he was about to say a prayer of contrition.

  ‘The worst of it,’ he murmured, in a voice made forlorn by regret, ‘is that I totally lost it. He hurt me and everything you told me about always keeping cool, boxing scientifically, went out of my mind.’ Henry lowered his head. ‘The animal came out and pure hate surged through me, the desire to destroy him at all costs.’

  Henry met Micky’s eyes. The old trainer’s face didn’t show anything and he didn’t move a muscle.

  Henry continued, ‘To know that I have that in me, what it can do, is a terrible thi
ng.’

  ‘We all have that in us, son,’ Micky said, staring at the wall behind Henry, as though in his mind he was looking back at his own life. ‘That night you just looked further into the abyss than most ever do.’

  Henry clasped and unclasped his hands, finally came out with it. ‘Isn’t it hypocritical to teach boys control in the ring when I lost it like that? Not exactly a good example of how to control yourself, am I?’

  Mick answered him in measured tones. ‘Just the opposite. You’ve been there and so many of these lads are just a step away from it. You know why discipline is vital. Boxing can give them that discipline and it channels all that wild energy that they’d use on the streets otherwise.’

  Henry nodded. ‘I know what you’re saying. If you think —’

  ‘I do think! Just come in when you can and lend a hand.’

  Henry smiled. ‘Fine, just fine.’

  ‘Good, that’s settled then. Now tell me what else has been happening to you.’

  They chatted for another twenty minutes and by the time they’d finished Mick knew everything that had happened to him since his release.

  ‘It bothers me, Micky, how trouble seems to be around when it’s the last thing I want or need.’ He sighed, dolefully. ‘I’m frightened I’ll lose it again. Yet I still charge in.’

  ‘It’ll be different when you’ve settled,’ Mick told him, ‘and to help you do that I think I can get you a job that’s right up your street.’

  ‘I certainly need to be employed. What exactly is it you have in mind?’

  ‘An ex-South Bank lad made a lot of money,’ Mick explained, ‘and he makes regular contributions to help keep this place going. Right now, he’s starting a sanctuary for mistreated horses. I’ve had a word and he’d start you working with the horses three days a week on a trial basis, employ you full time if everything works out.’

  Henry felt a surge of gratitude towards his old trainer. Perhaps the cards were falling his way at last. Horses were a great love of his. Mick had remembered that.