by Lee Cooper
“Two grand! That’s more like it.”
“Just a one-on-one. Last-man-standing. Your man will keep you right.”
Mike was a horrible man to share a conversation with. Obnoxious, thought he could speak to you as he pleased, or maybe he held a grudge against me. Last-man-standing was old-school boxing rules. Once you’re knocked down, you have a minute to stand, or you lose.
“Alright, cheers.” I gave him a nod of thanks, then started skipping.
Two grand would end our money worries, pay the mortgage. Allow us to breathe without feeling trapped.
Tim took his usual place at the front of the four men, five including me. Barking out instructions as usual. He took a casual approach, taking one on the pads, leaving the others to their own devices.
He gave me a pair of punch-mitts the MMA fighter’s use. He wanted to speed up my hands and take the raw power out. Not arguing, he knew his trade. Pushing me hard, giving little breaks, making me earn this two grand.
Finishing up on the pads, I felt keen for a spar with an overwhelming itch to hit somebody.
“Sparring the night?”
“No mate, no’ the night. Next week, wi’ Toby.”
“Why Toby?”
“He’s got a scrap in Watford in a few weeks, and for fuck sake, don't knock him out, you’ll mess up his confidence.”
“Watford? Why you taking him all the way down there?”
“It’s serious business, this game. Travel up and down the country. There’s a lot of cash floating around. Especially around London and Liverpool.”
“Who the fuck’s he fighting?”
“Some hooligan making a bit o’ a name for himself down south.”
“How the fuck do you know people down there?”
“I don’t, Mike does. Knows all the gangsters and lowlifes up and down the UK. There isn’t anybody worth talking about he doesn’t know.”
“Who’s this geezer I’m fighting?”
“You’ve seen him.”
I knew it. The guy from the counterfeit deal.
“It’s that guy from Montrose, is it?”
“Aye, that’s the guy. They call him Skinner ‘cos o’ his skinhead, and the fact he’s one of those white-power fanatics. And Joe, he’s an evil fucker.”
“Aye, I figured that by the look of him.”
“It’ll just be a one-on-one, no gloves, but punch-mitts.”
“Well, there’s nothing like getting thrown in the deep end.”
“You’ll handle him. Think of the good the money will do.”
“Easy for you to say, pal.”
He leaned in closer and spoke under his breath. “One more thing. Skinner specifically asked for you. Think he's taken a shine.”
Well, this would be interesting. A scrap with Skinner wouldn’t go as well as the one I had with Warsaw. Call it fighter’s intuition, but I could tell a lot about a man just by the look in his eye. I’d had my fair share of bare-knuckle scraps as a teenager around Aberdeen, in the Union Street graveyard, where private scraps were set up to end personal biffs, or down at Broad Hill, where I joined in with the Aberdeen soccer casuals meets with rivalling firms, just for the fun of it. When the fair came into town, that’s where the real fun happened. Boxing-booths where you earned a tenner if you could knock your opponent out with a single blow. But this was the real man’s world, not a teenagers’ gang fight that would end in a couple minutes, and followed by a team brawl.
Why did Skinner fight without gloves on?
Maybe he couldn't fight with them on, maybe it would be too much of a disadvantage for him. I needn’t worry about the circumstances of the fight, only the two grand I desperately needed.
Chapter 24
More Lies:
We locked up for the night and I headed home to tell more lies to May. I would use the same ‘fairy-tale’ security story. Couldn't say I was going to Montrose though, a bit close to home. Couldn’t say I was going to get two grand either. Who gets paid two grand for working security? If that was the case, I’d have been working as a security-guard full-time.
Tim must have been sick of couriering me every Tuesday and Thursday, but it was in his interests. It was like his job and in a way, I was his employee.
Saying adios, I walked up the drive towards the door. Just before I turned the handle, I paused, taking a deep breath, wrecked with guilt that I’d be lying again, but it had to be done, or maybe I told myself that to justify it.
“Hi, am home!” I shouted.
“Hi, I’m in the living room.”
She was working her way through a massive stack of ironing, standing in her Chinese-style black and red robe, her luscious legs inviting.
“I’ve got good news for you. I’ve got another weekend’s work with that security firm.”
“Really?! That’s great. Where? When?”
“Up in Inverness this time.”
“Nice, least you’re getting around, then. What is it this time?”
“What you mean?”
“What kind of event is it?”
“Ooh…it’s eh…a music thing.” I stuttered a little, and eventually got the lie out.
“Same pay as last time?”
“Aye, same pay, £400. Well, presume so.”
“That’s great, that’s the mortgage paid this month, then.”
“Aye, that’s what I was thinking. I’ll leave you to that pile of ironing. I need a wash.”
Upstairs, in a refreshing hot shower, letting the water pour over my head, I felt reassured that the story was sorted.
What was I going to do with the spare sixteen hundred? Presuming all went well against Skinner, I’d have a chunk of cash that I couldn’t tell May about.
I’d forgotten about Skinner for a while. Recalling the evil in his eye, this wasn’t going to be like fighting your everyday Johnny Boxer. Some men are born with a certain amount of good and bad, and he didn’t hold much good.
And another thing, why was he desperate to fight me? What was his interest? I got the feeling that the money wasn’t what he was after.
Time to get rid of the thoughts and keep the head fixed on the cash. The harsh reality that I wouldn’t be arriving home without some scars, would have to be accepted.
I didn’t bother going back downstairs after my shower. Didn’t want to speak to May, I’d told enough lies for the night. Coming out the shower, I jumped onto my bed, towel still wrapped around me, and drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 25
Bad Memories, 2003:
I woke during the night, tossing and turning, drenched in sweat and full of terror, springing up, disoriented in the darkness, unsure of my surroundings for a few seconds.
Turning on the bedside lamp, and saw it was too early. Looked round, saw May sound asleep and felt instant relief I was here and not stuck in the past, where my dream was set.
I dreamt of Mom, who committed suicide and the reason she did it…my Dad.
A savage man who was never happy with himself, or me, and didn’t have a single moral, or a bit of goodness in his heart.
From as far back as I could remember, he was always drunk and raging, and terribly cruel to both of us. His heart as dormant as his brain, it only worked when he needed to fathom out a way to earn cash.
His sense of humour also non-existent, but that's how he was, that's how he was raised, I suppose. Mean, callous and dry.
Davie Rhodes was hardened by his upbringing in the brutal streets of the Gorbals, in Glasgow. His father, a Navy man, had his arm blown off in World War Two and had moved to Glasgow to help design and build ships. He married a local girl ten years younger, and raised a family of six. Four boys and two girls.
Davie, the outcast of his family, uncontrollable as a young teen, upset too many men in Glasgow including The Godfather, forcing him to go on the run.
Davie was a Titan of a man, all six foot four of him. His face, hard-skinned from a life of self-abuse, hard living and scraping. He kept his thick,
light-grey hair slicked back, always carrying a comb in his back-pocket to keep it in check. Dressing loose and ragged during the week and visited his local pub at any hour he chose.
On a Saturday night, his appearance transformed, dressing smart with pinstripe trousers and plain shirt, top buttons open to show his St. Christopher gold medallion. Hair heavily gelled and clean shaven. Wads of cash at his disposal and not shy in showing his stack.
He had that ‘old gentleman’ look about him when he scrubbed up like this, but there was nothing gentle about him. He was forever coming home steaming, regularly beating the fuck out of Mom, and me too.
At a young age, I would hide in my room, sitting in a crouched position, putting my arms round my knees, rocking back and forth like a coward, scared shitless, crying, or in bed with a pillow over my ears to block out the screams, every now and then removing it, to listen. Had it stopped?
Fearing for my own life, would he come looking for me? Would I be able to get out of my room after it had stopped, and would I be able to face Mom, knowing I did nothing to help, knowing I could do nothing to help, except for putting my arms around her? But only when the coast was clear.
That’s how life was, growing up, listening to Mom getting helplessly banged around, hoping she would make it through the beating.
Mom was a wonderful, very simple woman. Jessica, adorable and soft-hearted, with beautiful, cherry-coloured hair and misty eyes. Her manner equally as lovely, patient, calm, kind, gentle and so loving and helpful to me. She had that old-fashioned Aberdonian gift of making you feel you’d known her all your life after a single conversation, and was much loved by the community.
She treated me as a Mom should treat a son, always looking after my needs before hers. As a young kid, I would sit beside her, trying in some way to console her after Dad finished his handiwork. She wouldn’t leave the flat for days after a beating. Hiding the shame that she carried around on her face.
A year or so before she killed herself, the wear and tear of Dad’s work became all so clear on her face, wrinkles appearing prematurely. This went on for years growing up in our top-floor, two bedroomed flat in Alexandra Terrace, in the heart of Tillydrone. A street that used to bear the name of Kilgour Avenue, was a hot-bed for violent crime. The authorities thought changing the name to Alexander Terrace would end its reputation, but it had no effect.
An area in Aberdeen that was notorious for trouble, if you weren’t local, you’d find out soon enough. Dating right back to post-war times, crime became a way of life. It wasn’t any different in the late eighties and throughout the nineties. It contained the majority of the city’s drug dealers, vandals, thieves and the odd murderer. Seaton Park, in the neighbouring region of Tilly, was a magnet for sexual assaults and junkies. If you weren’t thick-skinned growing up here, you’d get torn apart.
The most dangerous clientele lived there, and my old man fitted in like butter on toast. When he disappeared from time to time, sometimes months at a time, it became a scarier place to be. Dad is a lot of things, but he was hard as nails and feared throughout the Granite City. Nobody bothered us when he was around.
People often arrived at the door asking him to sort out their personal biffs and worries. Remembering one time, I was around twelve years old, a couple of eighteen year-olds from the block of flats across the road came round asking Dad to find some geezer, give him a doing, and they'd pay him 500 quid.
I was hiding outside in the lobby listening in. If caught, that was the kind of thing that would earn me the back of his hand, or a thrashing from his belt. I could count on both hands the amount of times he beat me, but I recall every time as if it happened yesterday. Imprinted in my memory, it would stay there until I had my revenge.
Dad disappeared after Mom committed suicide, when I was twenty. Having enough of the beatings, pain and her reflection in the mirror, she just couldn’t take it anymore.
I’ll never forget that day. I got home from boxing on a summer's night, finding her sat in his seat, an empty bottle of vodka in one hand, and a near empty packet of 7mg Zopiclone sleeping pills on the side-table.
I can’t explain the feeling of hopelessness that flooded me after opening the living-room door. My whole body paralysed, my heart cold, stopping momentarily, waiting for my head to register. I stood dormant on the spot, staring at her motionless body, petrified at what I was seeing was true. I didn’t bother checking if she was alive. It was obvious, she was gone, so far gone.
Coming round to what I saw, I tip-toed toward her, trying to tell myself it wasn't true, this can’t be happening. Lifting her stone-cold head up from the base of her chin, slumped onto her chest like a dead weight, I saw Dad's handiwork. Her left eyelid glued shut with the swelling the battering caused. Her right eye misty, open wide, her cheekbones caved in. Dad had done a proper job this time. Then, I noticed an envelope down the side of the seat, with my name on it.
Dearest Joe
My lovely son. I want you to know I love you with everything I have. You are the one reason that has kept me breathing over the years of abuse inside this flat, and I’m eternally grateful for that.
I will forever miss your blessed face, humble way and love you showed me through the pain I’ve suffered. You are the most beautiful, caring son I could have ever hoped for. I’m proud of the man you’ve become and know in my heart that you will be an amazing father one day. Don’t be long in making May an honest woman. Girls like her are rare, never let her go, Joe.
Sometimes life makes no sense and reading this will make no sense to, you but I can’t stay in this life any longer. The pain has to end for me, I’m empty inside, I have nothing left. I want to move on, I don’t want to see his face any more. I don’t want to wake up any more.
I feel awful for abandoning you like this, but you are your own man now and a special one at that. I don’t want you to blame yourself because I know you will. Don’t, it’s my decision and I hope you can understand my reasons for this.
I know we will see each other again, that I’m sure of, but just now, I have to go. This is my time and I will forever love you with all my heart.
Love Mom xxx
I burst into tears, and didn’t stop for hours.
Mortified and ravaged with guilt ever since that day, I constantly punished myself, asking why I hadn’t done something about the abuse before this happened. I should have found the balls, there was no doubt about that. And why wasn’t I at home? Ironic really, because my Dad was the reason I was out of the house at boxing in the first place.
It felt like someone had smashed into my ribcage, ripped out my heart, then sliced it in half. The sight of Mom's mangled face, slumped down in Dad’s seat, will forever haunt me. That really confused the fuck out of me. Why was she in his seat? The only person allowed to sit there was him. I didn’t dare sit there. Almost as if she was saying ‘You did this to me, Davie. Now, you will live with it.’
This was one of the times Dad had turned up, back from his never-ending disappearances. Hadn’t been seen for three weeks, word on the street he was down in Liverpool again.
Not knowing where he was, I didn't care.
My Dad taught me a lot about boxing. Trained me regularly when he was around, that was the only bond shared. Never speaking about anything else, never asked how my day at school or work was, and I didn't repay the favour. Forcing me to start boxing when I was fourteen, I just kept going throughout the years. It was something to focus on and don’t get me wrong, it’s something I loved doing, being blessed with great skills, so people kept telling me.
That day, he came home full of even more hate than usual, beat the fuck out of Mom for whatever selfish reason, then buggered off down to his local, The Fountain Bar.
Chapter 26
The Fountain:
My heart pounded like a beating drum, full of guilt and hatred. A violent rage flowed through me. Picking up plates from the sink, smashing them to the floor, punching holes in the walls, howling like a woun
ded animal. Launching the side-table, crashing it through the living-room window over the top of Mom’s corpse, plummeting it to the ground from the top floor flat.
I had to find him. Knowing he would be hovering around his second home, The Fountain, guilt-free, supping from his nip glass full of whisky, tin of export beer by his side. I legged it out the door, sprinting the distance to the local.
Usually a fifteen-minute walk, it only took me two minutes to get there. Boiling with fury, picturing decapitating my Father, drove me there in a hurry. I wanted to grip my hands around his throat and squeeze until he begged, squeeze until life left him.
I burst through the double doors. A half dozen men sitting and standing around the bar with a couple playing pool. The jukebox blasting out Bob Segar, ‘Old Time Rock and Roll.’
Each breathe one of rage, saliva spluttering out, eyes spread wide, staring at my soon to be dead Father. Standing at the bar with his back to me, in between two men seated on stools either side of him.
Barging past the pool player in mid-shot. He swore at me, shouted at me, he was ignored. By the time I got arm's length with Dad, he turned, his huge frame fight-ready, drunk and oblivious to what he’d done.
“Aye, can I help you, boy?”
Unwilling to answer with words. I clenched my fingers together as tight as possible. Visualising him dead on the ground in a sea of red gore. My jaw compressed, body tightening. I threw the most violent right-hook with enough force to flatten a rhino. Landing perfectly across his left jaw, his head flinching to the side, followed by his body weight. It didn't have the desired effect.
As his head turned slowly round, he locked eyes on mine with a murderous look. “You’ve fucking done it now, boy.”
Lifting his right hand, spreading his fingers wide, grasping my throat, his trademark, but my hatred for him consumed me. Swiping his hand away, snarling, unleashing another right-hook, knocking over his two pals, while Dad staggered to his left. Left, right, left-hook, kicking him behind his knee, him falling to the beer-stained floor. Leaping on top of him, losing all control. He begged for mercy.
