by Irvine Welsh
Ronnie’s one ay that breed. Peyed oaf fae the dockyards in Rosyth years ago. The fight game’s his life now. Mibbe it eywis wis.
Me n Carl urnae taken for mugs though. But see wi the E’s: we do need tae cool it. We aw dae too much, mibbe no Terry, tae be fair tae him, which people seldom are. Aye, the world looks good whin yir E’d but mibbe the junky wi ehs smack or the jaikey wi ehs purple tin ay Tennent’s or ehs boatil ay cheap wine said the same thing at the start.
Silence is golden, eh Ronnie boy.
This is different fae maist ay Ronnie’s silences though. There’s something on ehs mind and ah ken what it is. Ah turn tae face um, ehs silver hair, ehs coupon; red, like a real drinker’s face. The laugh is that Ronnie’s a teetotaller, and it’s aw high blood pressure. Nae luck at aw. You’d never think it, cause Ronnie’s a man ay few words. It must aw be gaun oan inside. Maybe ah’ll go the same wey, they say we’re similar, often taken for faither n son, Ronnie says. I don’t like hearing that, eh’s no ma faither, n eh nivir will be. But think ay it though: runnin eight miles every day and Juice Terry’s gaunny huv a better complexion thin me in a few years’ time. Nae luck. But tae Falkirk wi aw that. Brutal.
N Ronnie speaks! Hud that front page right enough. — Ah wish ye’d reconsider aboot this holiday, Billy, eh sais. — We need tae make sacrifices, son.
That WE again.
— Booked up, eh, ah tell um.
— Ah mean, Ronnie continues, — we really need tae maintain our condition. Morgan’s nae mug. Eh’s goat stamina and eh’s got hert. Reminds me ay that Bobby Archer boy, he was game.
Bobby Archer from Coventry. My last fight. He was game, but I stopped him in three rounds. It’s good tae be game, but it helps if ye can box a wee bit n aw n yir jaw isnae like Edinburgh Crystal.
As soon as that right hook connected, ah turned away n wis headin for ma corner. Business finished.
— Booked up eh, ah repeat. — We’re only away for two weeks.
Ronnie takes a sharp corner as the car wobbles across the cobblestones towards the gym. The gym’s in an old Victorian building that looks like a shithouse from the outside. It can feel like a torture chamber on the inside, when Ronnie pits ye through yir paces.
Eh stoaps the car n makes nae move tae git oot. When I go tae move, eh grabs ma wrist. — We’ve got tae maintain our condition, Billy, n ah cannae see how we can dae that when you’re away at a beer festival in Germany for two weeks wi the crowd ay wasters you hing aboot wi.
This is nippin ma heid. — Ah’ll be fine, ah explain tae him once again. — Ah’ll keep the runnin gaun n hook up wi a gym ower thaire, ah tell him. This shite is aw we’ve talked aboot for the last week.
— What aboot that lassie ay yours? What does she huv tae say aboot it?
One thing aboot Ronnie, for a boy that says practically nowt, eh really kens how tae overstep the mark. What does Anthea say? The same as Ronnie. Very little. — That’s ma business. Tell ye what but, yir soundin like a wee lassie yirsel. Gie it a rest.
Ronnie frowns, then goes aw that wistful wey, lookin ahead oot the windscreen. Ah dinnae like talkin tae um like that, it disnae dae either ay us any good. Ye make yir ain decisions in life. People kin gie advice, aye, fair enough. But they should huv the sense tae ken that once yir mind’s made up, that’s it.
So just shut up.
— If ah hud ye two years earlier, ye’d’ve been European Champion by now, and ye’d’ve been up for a title shot at the big yin, Ronnie says.
— Aye, ah say quite coldly, cuttin him oaf. Ah’m no gittin intae this nonsense again. Tae me it’s disrespectin ma auld man n ma auld lady. Ma faither got me that apprenticeship and it meant a lot tae him. My Ma didnae want me tae box; ever, full stop. And turning pro, fighting for money: that was really crossing the line for her.
Ronnie kept at me tae turn pro though, we huv tae follay oor dreams, he said. The WE again. The thing that Ronnie’ll never really git ehs heid roond is that it was ma faither, no him, that wis the cause ay me gaun professional. When eh took ays doon tae London, tae QPR that Saturday night oan the eighth ay June 1985. Barry McGuigan versus Eusebio Pedroza.
We went wi ma Uncle Andy who steys doon thair at Staines. Ah mind ay the traffic oan that Uxbridge Road, us oan the 207 bus, crawlin along, worrying that we’d miss the fight. When we goat there thir wis twenty-six thousand Irishmen trying tae get in. Pedroza was the guy ah wanted tae see, cause eh wis the best. Nineteen successful title defences. Ah thought eh wis invincible. Ah liked McGuigan, thought eh wis a nice guy, but no wey wis eh gaunny beat The Man.
McGuigan even had the white peace flag, cause eh wisnae intae aw that tricolour or rid hand ay Ulster crap. Tae me though, it seemed like an act ay surrender before eh’d even flung a punch. Then this auld boy came intae the ring, later oan we found out it wis McGuigan’s faither, and eh started singing Danny Boy. The whole crowd joined in, aw they Belfast Catholics and Protestants thegither, and ah looked ower at ma faither n it wis the first and only time ah ever saw tears in ehs eyes. Ma Uncle Andy n aw. What a barry moment that wis. Then the bell went, and ah thought Pedroza would just spoil the party right away. But an amazing thing happened. McGuigan flew at him and swarmed all over the boy. Ah thoat eh’d jist punch ehsel oot, but by the second eh found ehs range and eh wis firing combinations aw ower the place. Ye kept waitin for the wee man tae run oot ay steam, but eh never did, eh just drove remorselessly intae the gadge, and eh wisnae silly either, eh wis usin the heid as well as the heart, still throwing the combinations but keepin the defences strong, pushing Pedroza back. McGuigan’s long airms, ehs awkward stance; tryin tae hit um must’ve been like tryin tae git the baw oaf Kenny Dalglish in the penalty boax. Pedroza had been a great champion, but ah watched him age like fuck that night at Loftus Road.
After the fight we sat wi a carry-oot my Uncle Andy had got fae a rammed pub which had stayed open all night. We just sat there, under some trees in Shepherd’s Bush Green, enjoying the atmosphere, talking about the fight, the incredible night we’d been a part of.
That was when ah thought, well, ah wouldnae mind a bit ay that. Ah’d been boxin fir years n gaun tae fights fir ages. It wis eywis the fitba first fir me though. Even when it wis obvious ah wis a better boxer. Fitba gave ays nowt though; one scabby trial for Dunfermline, a year in the East seniors wi Craigroyston.
It wis a waste ay time, well no really, cause ah enjoyed it, but ah wanted mair.
So now we’re certainly following Ronnie’s dreams. And aye, maybe ah did wait too long. The money’s been awright, but it’s the respect ye get that does it for me. Ah like it now when people call me Business. At first it wis brutal; it used tae embarrass ays, but now it’s starting tae fit.
It’s startin tae fit like a glove.
We get out the car and intae the club where ah shower and change. Coming out all fresh, ah’m watching wee Eddie Nicol in the ring, sparring with some monkey he’s pishing all over. I don’t know about Eddie though. Excellent ringcraft. Aye, when he’s good, he’s good, but you sense a tentativeness about him sometimes, it’s as if he knows that, really soon, somebody’s going to banjo him and that this latest boy in front of him might just be the one.
There’s a guy talking to Ronnie, in a cream summer suit of light but expensive cloth. He’s got a number-one shaved head and eh’s wearing light-reactive shades. As ah’m approachin him I’m thinking that the suit would look good oan a better man. — Business, he says extending his hand. It’s Gillfillan, and eh’s wide as they come. Eh’s Power’s man, who’s also a sponsor, as Ronnie keeps reminding me. He gives me the kind of hard grip that aulder radge types like tae gie you, as a daft wideo test. You pull them up about it and they go, ‘It’s just a handshake,’ as if tae say, we’re aw men thegither, n aw that shite. This wanker’s really digging in though. I point at it with ma free hand. — You goat an engagement ring in the other hand? What’s aw this aboot? ah ask.
Eh breks off ehs grip. — It’s jist a handshake, e
h laughs.
I let my hand fall. — Ma hands are for a job ay work. Thir no for somebody tae try n show how wide they are, ah say, looking straight at him.
— Settle doon, Billy, Ronnie says.
Gillfillan punches me lightly on the shoulder. — Dinnae settle um doon too much Ronnie, that’s what makes um Business Birrell, that’s what’s gaunny make um champ, eh Billy? Take no bullshit, eh smiles.
I’m still lookin at the tosser, right in ehs eye. The black bit. It expands, and his lips quiver a fraction. — Aye, ah’m glad wir agreed that’s what aw that wis, ah say. Eh disnae like that. Then eh smiles again n winks, n points at ays. — Ah hope you’ve been thinkin aboot ma proposition, Billy. The Business Bar. Like it or no, you’re a name now in the city. A celebrity. Your fights have captured the imagination.
— Ah’m away oan holiday next week. We’ll talk when ah git back, ah tell him.
Gillfillan nods slowly. — Naw, naw. Ah really think we should talk now, Billy. Ah’ve goat somebody whae wants tae meet ye. It’s no gaunny take long. Remember, we’re aw on the same side, eh smiles. Then eh turns tae Ronnie — Have a wee word here, eh Ronnie, eh sais.
Ronnie nods, and Gillfillan starts moving away, ower tae where Eddie Nicol and the other boy are sparring.
Whispering at ays in a low hiss, Ronnie says, — Ye dinnae want tae piss him off, Billy, thir’s nae need for it.
Ah shrug at that. — Mibbe thir is, mibbe thir isnae, ah tell um.
— Eh’s a sponsor, Billy. Eh hus been for a while. And eh’s as heavy as fuck. Ye dinnae bite the hand that feeds ye.
— Maybe we need new sponsors.
Ronnie’s face creases up intae its worry lines. This isnae easy for him. — Billy, you’ve never been a stupid laddie. Ah’ve never, ever had tae spell things oot for ye.
Ah say nowt. Ah dinnae ken what this is aboot, but ah ken it’s aboot something ah should ken aboot.
Ronnie huds oan for a bit; then, as eh sees Gillfillan lookin at ehs watch, realises eh’s no goat the time. — Wise up Billy, eh goes, pointin tae his jaw. — Ye see that scar, oan your chin?
Every fuckin day in the mirror. Course ah see it. — Aye, what aboot it?
— Ye hud bother wi some boy then. The heidbanger that gied ye that. Now he doesnae bother ye anymair. Ye ever asked yirsel why that is?
— Cause ah pit um oan ehs erse, ah tell Ronnie.
Ronnie smiles grimly and shakes ehs heid. — Ye really think eh’s feart ay ye, a nutter like that?
Doyle. Naw. Ye can pit him doon as often as ye like. Eh’ll keep comin, and eh’ll git lucky once.
— Ye think that Doyle’s feart ay ye? Ronnie repeats, this time namin the name.
— Nup.
Ah didnae think eh wis, and ah’d always wondered why thir’d been nae comebacks.
Ronnie smiles sadly, n grips ma airm. — Thir’s a reason that Doyle’s no been giein ye grief. That’s cause eh associates ye wi the likes ay Gillfillan and Power.
So it wis Gillfillan n Power that put the breaks oan Doyle. Makes sense. Ah thoat it was Rab’s mates in the cashies, Lexo n that. But they ken the likes ay Doyle, n Lexo’s even a blood relative ay Marty Gentleman’s, so they widnae necessarily take our part.
— All the man’s asking, Billy, is an hour ay yir time, tae discuss something that could make you some money. Something legitimate. It’s no unreasonable, is it? Ronnie nearly pleads.
This club’s a labour ay love for Ronnie. Now places like this need sponsors tae keep it gaun. Business sponsors.
— Awright, ah say, noddin ower tae Gillfillan.
What ah ken aboot the likes ay Gillfillan and Power, is thit thir just mair established versions ay Doyle. Wide cunts. And you never hit the wideos in the ring. The ones in the ropes are just the ones you can hit, and get away with it; tae make up for the frustration at no being able tae batter the ones ye want tae hit.
Gillfillan comes over. — Right Billy, we’ll no take up too much ay yir time. Ah jist want tae show ye something, and for ye tae meet some people. I’ll see you up in George Street in about fifteen minutes. Number one hundred and five. Okay?
— Right.
— See ye next Tuesday then, Ronnie, Gillfillan says turning and leaving.
Ronnie waves him away, aw palsy-walsy. It isnae Ronnie, and it’s embarrassing watchin him crawlin up this wanker’s hole. I think eh kens that ah’m no chuffed.
Ah go tae phone the flat, tae see if Anthea’s back fae her assignment in London. Her first real assignment, a pop video. It beats gaun roond bars handin oot free nips n promo T-shirts; gittin chatted up, pawed and leered at by drunks. The glamour ay modellin.
Nae answer.
Stallin for a bit, ah listen tae her voice oan the answer machine: ‘Neither Anthea nor Billy are available at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep and one of us will return your call.’
Ah tell the machine I’ll see her later, I’m away oot tae see my Ma. It’s funny, but ah always think ay ma mother’s hoose as home. That place that ah share wi Anthea, in that Lothian House complex wi the nice swimmin pool, it’s like her. It’s nice, easy tae look at, but it doesnae feel permanent.
Ah leave Ronnie and walk ootside. Ah hear this rumble and the black skies open n ah huv tae sprint tae the car tae avoid bein soaked.
Ah look at my scar in the car mirror, right at the front ay my chin, almost a cleft. If it hud been half an inch tae the right ah’d’ve been Kirk Douglas. I’d no that long gone pro at the time, and was training for a fight. I’d finished up doon the club, working late wi Ronnie. The thing was, that ah wis oan ma wey hame. It was only when ah saw Terry at the West End, comin oot fae the Slutland (as they call the Rutland) that ah decided tae get off the bus.
Thir wis a funny atmosphere in the toon that Setirday night, then ah realised why. Aberdeen were at Hibs, and they were the two biggest casual mobs in the country. They would be looking for each other, probably no aw at once, but in smaller groups tae outwit the polis. Ah sprinted and shouted eftir Terry. Eh wis gaun up tae meet ma brother Rab, n Wee Gally, in a pub in Lothian Road.
Baith Rab and Gally fancied themselves as cashies. Rab goat intae it through ehs mates, but eh loved the clathes, the labels n aw that. Gally wis jist a wee nutter. Things wi him and ehs wife, that Gail, they wir brutal. She’d been seein Polmont, of aw people.
Gally and Gail hud had that fight, and wee Jacqueline was badly hurt in the crossfire. At the time, the case was still pending in court, and Jacqueline was still in the hoaspital getting that reconstructive surgery oan her face. A wee lassie, aboot five. Beyond brutal. Gally hud gone intae the hoaspital tae see her, in defiance ay a court order. He glanced at her for a wee bit, couldnae face her, and walked oot.
When Terry and me goat up tae the pub, it was teaming wi Hibs boys. There were the casuals, trying to work oot where Aberdeen hud gone, and other, aulder boys fae the old scarfer days. The aulder boys were just hanging around drinkin. A lot of them would probably have got involved if Aberdeen had come through the door, but they came fae a different era, and wouldnae be intae the idea ay traipsin roond the streets, lookin for younger guys. They were jist beer monsterin oot, like Terry.
Rab, Gally and Gally’s mate Gareth were sittin drinkin Beck’s at the bar, wi a few other boys ah didnae ken. It was mobbed oot. Boys kept comin in saying Aberdeen were in William Street, or Haymarket, or Rose Street, or were on their way here. Thir wis a real buzz ay pent-up violence.
So it wis a volatile mix awready. Then ah saw them, sittin drinkin in a far corner ay the bar. Dozo Doyle, Marty Gentleman, Stevie Doyle, Rab Finnegan, and a couple ay aulder cunts. They were aw scheme gangsters, rather than proper Hibs boys. Ah’d always detected a bit ay jealousy fae boys ma age and aulder, taewards the cashies. While our age-groups had been battering each other in the toon and roond the schemes, the cashies had united their generation and taken the show on the road. Doyle n that were checkin them oot, n aulder boys like Finnegan, ye could tell they ji
st didnae get it. Now they were in the pub.
N Polmont wis wi thum.
Gally hudnae seen them, they’d no that long come in. Ah hoped eh widnae, nor they him. It was Saturday, and it wis absolutely choc-a-bloc. But then eh clocked them. For a bit eh jist sat thair, mumblin under ehs breath. Terry saw this first. — Dinnae start nowt in here, Gally, eh said.
Gally wis up for it, but eh heard what Terry was saying. Eh wis in enough bother cause ay the court case pending. We took him ower tae the furtherest corner ay the pub, the yin by the door, n sat doon wi him. When ah looked ower at thaim, ah could see Doyle eggin Polmont on. Ah thought that we should drink up, because if any cunt started here, the whole place would go up, n thir wis nae wey ay workin oot which way the cairds wid faw.
It wis too late. Polmont wis ower, n Dozo n Stevie Doyle wirnae far behind. Ah wis lookin beyond thaim but, tae the huge shape ay Gentleman, which wis slowly risin oot the chair.
Polmont stood a few feet fae where Gally sat. — Ah hope yir fuckin well satisfied, Galloway, eh sais. — A bairn, yir ain bairn, in hoaspital cause ay you! You go anywhere near Gail or Jackie again, n you die!
Gally’s knuckles went white oan the pint glass eh wis hudin. Eh stood up. — Me n you, ootside, eh said quietly.
Polmont took a step back. If any cunt was killin Gally, it wisnae gaunny be him. Eh wisnae even intae a square-go. Dozo Doyle came forward, looked at me, at Terry. — Youse wi this wee piece ay trash?
— This is thair business Dozo, it’s no ours n it’s no yours, Terry said.
— Whae fuckin sais? Eh? Dozo looked at Terry.
Ah wis up n oan ma feet. — Me, ah sais. Now git, n ah thumbed taewards the door.
Dozo didnae mess aboot, ah’ll gie um that, eh just came at me. A table went ower. Eh caught ays oan the chin wi one blow, but ah knew ah’d go through um and that was the only one eh goat in. Ah hit um wi a couple ay punches n eh fell back oan ehs erse, n ah follayed up wi the boot. Terry had smacked Polmont, who picked up a gless. One ay Rab’s mates, a boy called Johnny Watson, battered Polmont ower the heid wi a bottle ay Beck’s.
