The Ladykiller

by Martina Cole

  Patrick was ecstatic. He had George Markham! He was disappointed that he could not put the man away himself, but he accepted that. He was grateful that he had done something. It was the frustration of knowing the man was somewhere safe, laughing up his sleeve, that had really got to him.

  Now, though, he had him. Shaun O’Grady was going to see that he was no more. Just thinking about it gave Patrick a thrill.

  If Kate knew what he had arranged today . . . He closed his eyes. Kate was good. Kate was everything that was right and decent and he loved her for those very qualities. Until they intruded on his concerns, that is.

  He knew that if she had even an inkling that he knew the Grantley Ripper’s name and whereabouts, she would create havoc. She wanted to bring the man to justice. Her justice.

  Well, the man was getting Patrick’s kind of justice and it had a much sweeter taste to it so far as he was concerned.

  He clenched his fists. George Markham would soon be dead.

  Dead, dead, dead!

  He looked at Mandy’s photograph on the mantelpiece and his face sobered. What he wouldn’t give to have her back. Sometimes, late at night, when the house was quiet, he imagined he heard her voice.

  He awoke, covered in sweat, hearing her crying. Calling out for him in distress. He would put his hands over his ears to blot out the noise.

  It was then he imagined her terror.

  The acute fear that must have enveloped her as the man began to pound her face with his fists. The thought of her lying there, on that dirty floor, while the bastard raped her . . .

  He could still see her face, battered beyond recognition, as she lay in the hospital. He still heard the low buzz of the life support machine as it failed in its job. Saw her bruised body as it jerked with the electric shocks they’d used to try to resuscitate her heart.

  Oh, George Markham had a big payout coming to him.

  The telephone rang and he jumped.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Pat? It’s me, Jerry. The fight’s at the old hat factory near the Roman Road. I’ve faxed the directions through to you, OK? It’s a nine thirty start.’

  Patrick closed his eyes, he had forgotten about the fight.

  ‘Look, Jerry, I might not be able to make it. I’ve got a lot on here.’

  ‘Okey doke. It’s gonna be a good one though. If I see you, I see you then. Ta rah.’

  He replaced the receiver and sighed. He had been looking forward to the fight. He liked illegal boxing matches. It was like the old-style bare knuckle fighting of years ago. No one knew where the matches were to be held until a couple of hours in advance. That way the Old Bill, by the time they did find out where the venue was, were too late to do anything about it. The crowd and the fighters were long gone.

  Patrick poured himself another generous measure of whisky and glanced at his watch. He wished O’Grady would ring with the details so he could really relax. He took a large sip of his drink.

  A little while later the phone rang again and Kelly picked it up. He was gratified to hear the distant whirring and clicking of a long-distance call.

  ‘Hi, Pat. Can you hear me OK?’

  ‘I can hear you, clear as a bell.’

  ‘It’s arranged. Your man will be out of the way in the next three days. It’ll cost fifty thou - dollars that is. I have one of my best men working on it. He’s already setting it all up.’

  ‘I’ll have the money with you in twenty-four hours. Thanks, Shaun, I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.’

  ‘Hey, what are friends for? I’ll keep you posted, OK? You just try and get over your loss, Pat. I’ll sort out everything this end.’

  ‘Thanks, Shaun. ’Bye.’

  ‘No problem. Talk to you soon.’

  The line was dead.

  He had George’s address and now he knew when he was to die. Patrick smiled to himself. It wasn’t too late to go to the boxing match after all. Might take his mind off everything for a while.

  Willy pulled up outside the hat factory and Patrick helped Kate from the car. There were people everywhere. She was aware that their arrival had caused a stir and instinctively stayed close to Patrick. He pushed his way towards the entrance, greeting people here and there. Then they were inside. A haze of cigarette smoke hit them both full in the face and a little grizzled man ran towards them, a large grin splitting his face.

  ‘Pat! Pat! You made it. Hello, my dear.’

  ‘Jerry, this is Kate, a special friend of mine. Kate, Jerry. An old reprobate.’

  Kate smiled and took the tiny hand in hers.

  ‘How do you do?’

  Jerry sized her up expertly. Not the usual tit and bum that Kelly saddled himself with, but not bad for her age.

  ‘I do very well, my dear. Come, I’ve saved you some front row seats.’

  Patrick held on to her arm as they moved through the crowd. Loud soul music was coming from speakers and everyone was shouting to be heard above it. The place was filled to capacity already and Kate was amazed at the sights and sounds around her. Touts were openly taking bets and when the large boxing ring came into view she was even more puzzled. Surely he hadn’t brought her to an illegal boxing match?

  Jerry ushered them to their seats. Kate looked at Patrick sternly.

  ‘Is this what I think it is?’

  He laughed. ‘Yes. Quick, Kate, over there!’

  He pointed. Sitting on the opposite side of the ring was Chief Constable Frederick Flowers and what looked to Kate like half the Serious Crime Squad. She waved weakly as Flowers whistled and called over to them, obviously the worse for drink. Patrick was laughing his head off and Kate turned on him.

  ‘You brought me here deliberately, didn’t you?’ He saw the confusion in her eyes and was sorry he’d laughed.

  ‘I didn’t know they’d be here, Katie, I promise you. I was coming here on me own account and then I thought you’d enjoy it. I just wanted to be with you.’ He smiled and put his hand to his heart like a schoolboy. ‘Scout’s honour.’

  ‘Well . . . you said it would be an experience.’

  ‘It will. Now then, how much shall we bet?’

  Kate frowned. ‘How about a fiver?’

  ‘Listen, darlin’, if I bet a fiver here my reputation would go down quicker than free Bushmill’s at an Irish wake! I’m putting a ton on Rankin Rasta Dave, my love. He’ll piss it.’

  As he spoke, the 2001 Space Odyssey theme came over the speakers and a large Rastafarian walked from the make-shift dressing rooms. Kate gasped with surprise. The man was huge, with enormous arms and legs. His hair was tied back in a ponytail of big fat dreadlocks like sausages. He had a handsome, proud face. The crowd was cheering or jeering depending on whether they had a bet on him.

  Pat got up and said, ‘You keep looking at him with love in your eyes while I go and put the bets on, all right?’

  Kate grinned despite herself. She had never seen such a big man. He stood in the ring, jumping around, shadow boxing and flexing his oiled muscles. A woman nearby tapped Kate on the arm and shouted: ‘He could put his boots under my bed any day of the week.’

  Kate put her hand to her mouth with shock and then laughed outright. Then the music changed and she heard Dana singing ‘All Kinds of Everything’ and a mighty cheer went up.

  Another large man climbed into the ring. He held enormous arms above his head in an arrogant stance. He had a big, finely chiselled face surrounded by shaggy red hair. Little blue eyes like pieces of flint surveyed his opponent and, to the satisfaction of his supporters, obviously found him lacking. He held up a large gloved hand at the Rasta and spat on the floor aggressively.

  Patrick slipped back into his seat. His voice startled her. ‘That, Katie, is Big Bad Seamus. He’s come over from Dublin especially to fight the Londoner, Rasta Dave. There’s an awful lot of money riding here tonight.’

  Kate looked at him, her eyes troubled.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m here. I’ve never seen anything like
this in my life. They’re going to batter each other’s brains out, aren’t they?’

  Kelly grinned. ‘I bloody hope so, girl. If they don’t the crowd will tear them apart themselves.’

  A small man in a dinner suit climbed into the ring and began announcing the rules of the fight which to Kate seemed to mean only one thing: anything was allowed bar sawn-off shotguns or knives. Then both men sat in their corners while a half-naked young girl walked around the ring to whistling and cat calling, holding up a piece of cardboard with ‘Round 1’ on it. A bell went and the two men came at each other like bulls in the proverbial china shop.

  Kate watched, amazed, as they began to fight. The Rasta took the initiative from the first punch. He delivered pounding blows to the Irishman’s head again and again. Kate watched in morbid fascination. The Irishman was up now. He lunged at the Rastafarian, head butting him sickeningly just below his eye. She watched the swelling rise and put her hand to her mouth. She closed her eyes tightly. This was barbaric. Two grown men pummelling the life out of one another. The atmosphere in the warehouse was charged and Kate glanced around her. She saw women standing up screaming at the two men; now that the fight was getting really violent it was as if they had been waiting for the real beating to begin. Kate’s eyes were dragged towards Frederick Flowers, who had also leapt from his seat and was shouting advice into the ring.

  ‘Nut the bastard back! Don’t let the Irish ponce get away with that!’

  The black man in the ring seemed to heed the advice and was once more hammering the life out of the Irishman.

  Kate watched Flowers as if she had never seen him before. He had made press statements about illegal boxing matches, as he had on many subjects over the years. It was one of the things he was supposed to be stamping out. Out of uniform and with too much drink in him, he looked what he was, a cheap shyster. Gone was the aura of respectability, the wise demeanour he assumed all day as the Chief Constable. In its place was just another assumed persona. The ‘I’m one of the lads really’ character. There wasn’t much to separate him and Patrick.

  A dark-haired woman in her twenties brought Flowers a drink and he took it from her without acknowledging her presence. She sat in his vacated seat and pulled her skirt down ineffectively. She was definitely not Mrs Flowers. Kate had met Flowers’s wife on two separate occasions. She was a very refined woman, given to wearing sombre plaids and sensible shoes.

  Why had Patrick brought her here, anyway?

  Somewhere in her mind, Kate heard a bell. She looked at the ring and saw the two men swaggering back to their respective corners.

  ‘All right, girl?’ Patrick’s voice was concerned.

  Kate stared at him. Despite all the noise and confusion around them, he seemed to sense her feelings.

  ‘Katie?’ He raised his eyebrows a fraction and Kate looked away. Flowers now had his hand halfway up the bimbo’s skirt. Patrick followed her gaze. Kate saw him grin and felt a tightening around her heart. He looked at her again.

  ‘He’s a right old slag is Freddie. That’s not his bird as such, Kate. She charges about two ton a night. She’s on the bash.’

  His eyes went back to the ring. Another girl, black this time, was walking around the ring swinging her skinny hips, holding a piece of cardboard with ‘Round 2’ written on it. The Irishman grabbed her as she passed and put her over his shoulder, pretending to bite her buttocks. The girl squealed with delight, loving all the extra attention.

  Kate watched the Rasta put his whole head into a bucket of water and come up shaking his hair like a shaggy dog, sending droplets of water everywhere.

  Patrick lit two cigarettes and passed one to Kate. She took it gratefully.

  ‘Patrick . . .’

  She was going to tell him she wanted to leave but the bell had gone again and it was too late. His whole attention was on the ring.

  Kate watched, sickened, as the hammering and pounding started again, even harder this time. About two minutes into the round the atmosphere changed again, becoming charged with malice. The black man was different somehow. His punches were landing heavily on the Irishman’s face. Kate saw the lumps form around his eyes and mouth. Then the crowd surged forward in their seats. The Irishman was down on one knee. The black fighter saw his chance and took it. Swinging back his enormous arm he began pounding it into the other man’s face and head.

  The crowd were ecstatic. Women as well as men were screaming out advice to the two fighters. Kate watched terrified as the black man dragged the Irishman up from the floor and, holding him up, began to pummel his face and body. The Irishman was out on his feet and still the merciless hammering went on. Finally, after what seemed an age, the Rasta threw the man on to the canvas, delivering a swift kick to the groin as his last shot.

  The Irishman lay there as if crucified, his arms spread out on either side of him.

  The crowd were going wild. In the back small fights had broken out among rival fans. In the ring the Rasta was walking round, arms held up in the air like a conquering hero. His dreadlocks had freed themselves and now flew this way and that around his face as he moved. A tall, good-looking white woman of about thirty climbed into the ring and threw herself into his arms, landing a smacking kiss on his swollen and bruised lips.

  Patrick turned to face Kate. ‘That’s Veronica Campella, otherwise known as violent Veronica . . . She’s his manager. Veronica’s got one of the biggest stables in England and she knows her job all right. She got him a twenty grand purse for tonight. Not bad for two rounds, is it? She even takes her boys as far as China and the States for fights.’ Kelly’s voice was admiring.

  Kate was silent as she saw the Irishman being helped from the ring. The Rasta went to him and they embraced like old friends. The Irishman was obviously a good loser.

  ‘Can we go now, Pat, please?’

  ‘There’s another couple of fights on yet, Kate.’ He looked at her closely. ‘What’s the matter?’ His voice was genuinely puzzled.

  ‘I just want to get out of here. It’s horrible. All this,’ she spread her arms out, ‘makes me feel sick to my stomach.’

  For a fleeting second she saw a flicker of annoyance cross Patrick’s features. Then he seemed to remember who she was, because he smiled at her sadly.

  ‘Not a very good idea this, was it?’

  Kate picked up her bag from the floor and shook her head.

  ‘Not really. I don’t like legal boxing, Patrick. I can’t stand any form of violence.’

  ‘Then we’d better go, hadn’t we?’

  She knew that she had annoyed him for real this time. His voice was flat and he walked through the crowd ahead of her, nodding here and shaking hands as he went. As they left the heat and excitement of the hall and walked out into the cold air, Willy appeared as if by magic.

  ‘How did you fare, Pat?’

  ‘Not quite as well as I expected, Willy. You?’

  Kate heard the tone of voice and gritted her teeth.

  ‘Won meself a quick grand. I knew the soot could take him, Pat. I just knew it. That boy can fight!’

  Patrick smiled at him. ‘You stay and watch the rest of the action, Willy.’

  ‘What about you two?’

  Patrick sighed. ‘I’m quite capable of driving me own car, Willy.’

  Willy knew something was up. Kate looked like a wet weekend in Brighton and Patrick didn’t look much better. He handed over the keys.

  ‘Well . . . If you’re sure . . .’

  He didn’t like Pat driving the Roller, she was his baby. ‘Well, don’t gun her, right? She ain’t really used to you driving her. You have to know how to handle her . . .’

  ‘Willy!’ Patrick’s voice was clipped.

  ‘What?’

  Patrick pushed his face close to the other man’s and said, ‘Goodbye.’

  With that he opened the passenger door for Kate and walked round to the driving seat. Kate got into the car in dead silence. Willy watched them closely all the time, shaki
ng his head. Patrick started the engine and wheelspun the car out of the car park, sending stones showering everywhere. On the main road he settled down to sixty miles an hour and in the darkness Kate heard him laugh bitterly.

  ‘What’s the big joke?’ Her voice was flat.

  ‘That bloody Willy, sometimes I wonder why I’ve kept him on so long. He’s more like me mother than me minder.’

  ‘He’s a good friend to you, that’s why.’ Kelly’s criticism added to Kate’s annoyance.

  Patrick pulled the car into a layby and cut the engine.

  ‘Listen here, I don’t need this crap, Kate. From the moment you saw Freddie Flowers you’ve had the bleeding hump . . .’

  Kate interrupted him.

  ‘That’s not true! You had the audacity to take me to an illegal boxing match, Patrick. Just because my Chief Constable was there and having the time of his life doesn’t mean to say I had to. I thought it was barbaric, cruel and degrading, not just to the two men who fought, but to the people who paid money to see it.’

  ‘What this boils down to, Kate, is this. We come from different worlds. I ain’t apologising for taking you there, no matter what you say. I am what I am, Kate, you take me as you find me.’

  ‘And the same goes for me, Pat, I’m not apologising either.’

  They looked at each other in the dimness of the car, the atmosphere thick and pungent. Kate felt her heart hammering; she had to let him know what she was feeling. Suddenly, this wasn’t about boxing any more, it was about them, the two of them as people. The differences between them.

  Patrick lit them both another cigarette.

  ‘What do you want from me, Kate?’ It was a plea.

  Kate paused.

  ‘I want a bit of respect. I want to be cared for. But most of all, I want to feel that I am not compromising myself in any way by being with you. That . . . that . . . spectacle tonight made me feel physically ill. When they began to really pummel one another, it scared me.’

  Kate heard the whirr of the electric window being lowered.

  Patrick stared out on to the road. Cars whizzed by, their engines intruding now into their world. A cold breeze settled around them. Patrick sighed. It was the sigh of an old man.