by Lee Cooper
“Stop, boy.” The first time I’d had ever seen a hint of weakness in his eye.
“Fuckin’ stop?!” I said.
Without one ounce of remorse, I drove my fist downward into his face, intending to finish him while he was weakened, while he was there for the taking.
Face cut open and badly beaten, I could have killed him. Psychotically blanking out, I couldn't see his two pals come to his aid, dragged me off, gripping a hold of me under my arms and pinning me to the ground. Using their weight keep me there. I wriggled and struggled, screaming at them to let me go before Dad stood, knowing he surely would.
Rolling onto his side he started to rise, first to his knee, taking a moment, gazing at the floor. Gradually lifting his head, discovering me pinned on the ground by his two pals. I stopped struggling. Paused, Dad looked at me. Cheek burst open and eyes badly bruised. He was contemplating my punishment, thinking about the pain he’d inflict.
“Let me go.” I softly told the two men to let me go. I had no other choice but to face my fate.
Dad cocked his head at both men, signaling to let go. They released their grip and I stood, petrified, holding his eye contact. The most intimidating sight I’d ever seen.
The man had hands the size of slabs of steaks, built like a lumberjack, dripping in blood, desperate to kill me. The Devil himself. This could be the end of me.
No words, no sounds, he stepped forward.
Frozen with fear, I could see it all happen in front of me, but helpless to stop it. The fear freezing me to the spot. Dad threw a couple punches, left-jab then right hand, standard. Both making contact, square in the face.
Losing consciousness, I hit the deck. His massive foot booting me in the ribs, taking my breath away. Laying there on The Fountain floor struggling for air, coughing and spluttering, spitting out blood, in terrible agony.
I had that feeling of helplessness Dad had embedded in me over the years with his violence. In that position, there’s nothing you can do but ride it out, senses gone, replaced with overcoming your pain, survival.
Dad mumbled something, standing tall over my body. Unable to hear what he was saying. His bear-hug, gripping my waist, lifting me from the floor. Screaming like a complete psycho, crashing me onto the slot-machine, shattering my back, glass falling to the floor. Releasing his grip, I hit the floor, landing on shards of glass. He continued his assault, belting my face.
“See? You’re still not man enough yet. Boy.” A cocky wink and a cheeky smile, proud of his achievement in thrashing his own son.
I tried over the years to stand up to him, but every time, I failed and failed again. “You don’t know what you’ve done, do you?” I spat out, lying on the ground.
“What the fuck you on about?”
“Mom, you fuck! She’s dead.” I’m dizzy, head spinning.
“Don’t talk shit, you lying, weak bastard.”
“Go home, you’ll see. She’s dead, she killed herself.”
Looking down, a long pause, then realisation. Fixated, looking straight into his reflection in a mirror. He knew that something like this might happen one day. You couldn’t treat somebody with such disrespect for so many years, and not have it affect them on an emotional level. He was far from a stupid man.
Turning his head round to meet the whole bar gawking at him, not in fear this time, but in disgust. His Goliath frame stood over me, then gazed down, this time with shame, and just like that, he turned and left.
I struggled to stand and go after him, but I could hardly move. The only place I was headed was into the back of an ambulance. I’d been badly battered. Little did I know, it would be the last time I would be in my Dad's company.
Chapter 27
Coffee:
Getting up that morning at 06.05, I needed a shower to wash off the sweat that poured during my nightmare. I suffered from delayed grief for my mother. Never coming to terms with it, the night-terrors were my coping mechanism. My way of dealing with all the regret trapped in my subconscious that forever haunted me, like a soldier with PTSD.
Dad still occupied my darkest thoughts, sometimes for weeks at a time, unable to escape them, like an unwanted plague.
The funeral was eight days later, leaving the mortician to conduct a post-mortem. He discovered her jaw and two ribs broken, and confirmed the cause of death was an overdose of sleeping pills, prescribed a week before by the local GP.
To me, she had planned it. Years of a dire life, she wanted to leave, needed to be at peace. I couldn't hold that against her. I understood her reasons, understood her need to end the agony in her heart and the demons in her head, and bed.
The next two and a half months were the lowest of my life. Hitting the bottom of the barrel almost every day. Living on self-destruct mode, suicide came to mind more often than not. Alcohol made it worse, easily disposing of a bottle a day, of whatever came into my hand. Lager for breakfast followed by whisky for brunch.
Running out of drink in the house, meant a journey to the local shop. 11.30 in the morning one day, in the gutter already. Stuttering my way to the shop, demanding two bottles of blended whisky from a sweet old lady behind the counter. Only to be refused.
Eyes widening with fury, blood-shot and not a care for anyone, I jumped over, ignoring the shopkeeper, filling my hands with 70cl bottles of spirits, then legging it.
Other days I went to The Fountain, arriving at 12am, stumbling out at closing time. Some nights not making it home, taking refuge in people’s gardens, up against walls, even in the middle of the road.
There were periods I couldn't handle the pain, grief, regret and bouts of complete rage. How I managed to come out the other side, a miracle. May was the one and only reason my heart kept beating. Didn't matter how badly I treated her, didn't matter the state I’d get in. She just cared for me through it. Having achieved her nursing degree, at that time, delaying starting her new position in A&E to help me.
Erupting in bursts of anger, throwing the plates of food she would make me onto the floor, ignoring her, vomiting on her. She was my rock, all she tried to do was turn me back onto the right track. Eventually it happened, and I’m eternally grateful for that. I owe her my life. Strange as it sounds, this brought us together, sealing a bond that should have lasted forever.
Grampian Police did their best to track Dad down and eventually gave up, no information on his whereabouts. The whole of Tillydrone attended the funeral, a flattering turnout, showing the community's love for my dear Mother and support for me. St George’s church pews filled, mobbed out the door, huddles of people gathering on the grass outside. The service planned entirely by May and Mom’s sister, Betty, living in Aberdeen.
Betty was a rare sight. She hissed at the mention of Dad’s name. Hated him to the core. She knew what went on behind our doors. Spending years trying to release Mam from Dad's grip. She gave up and through stubbornness, they stopped communicating. Betty too living with regret that she wasn't there for her sister.
Gradually as time passed, I calmed down, learning to live with the agony in my heart. Taking two months off work to recover.
Brian Stevenson, brother of Tommy, my coach of the once glorious Drones Gym, now Kilgours, was the reason I had a job in the Mill in the first place. Sharing the same shift, he drove me there every day.
A bit of a chore when he went on holiday, having to take two buses to the end of the long road that entered the Mill. Telling HR of my stressful time, they took pity, holding my job open. There were nice people in this world.
Chapter 28
Blood:
After the monotonous chores were over, I spent the rest of the morning in my shed. Blasting some Guns ‘N’ Roses from my iPhone speaker. I did the usual warm-up of ten minutes on the rope. Wrapped my hands good and tight with faded-out yellow wraps. Placing the gloves on, then turning the stereo up, ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ echoing out my shed.
Beginning my bag-work, memories of Mom still fresh in my head. The longer I shuffl
ed round the bag, the more the past started pouring out.
Working with the timer today, three minute rounds with a minute break. My bag work aggressive, engrossed in imagining Skinner lying on the ground, cock-eyed and fucked up.
After four or five rounds I ditched the gloves, hitting the bag with only wraps on, feeling the need to toughen the fists. I banged away for the next few rounds, tearing my knuckles apart with the rawness of the soft leather. My brain didn't register.
Three rounds later, my knuckles torn and bloodied. Pounding the bag like a man possessed. The bag soaked in red. My head went to that place where pain doesn’t exist, where passion and aggression take over.
My t-shirt removed, chin sunk into my chest, eyes fixated on the bag, my Father’s face glaring back at me.
Forty minutes gone since entering the shed, I switched the music off, sat down on my weight- bench, looking at the state of my hands. The skin on my knuckles worn, my faded yellow wraps now blood-stained and my skin left splattered on the bag.
The past taking over, and the money worries, my head was fucked-up. Mind you, it had been fucked-up for years. You couldn't have had a childhood like mine and come out normal.
I tried over the years to hide my demons from my children, but now and again, struggled. It was important to me that the kids have a good upbringing, not be brought up witnessing a life of violence and crime.
That was the sweating over for the day. Entering my kitchen, I rinsed my hands under the kitchen taps, washing the red gore into the drain. While the skin was tearing in the shed, I didn't feel the pain, I felt rinsing it under the tap. Stinging like a bitch, I knew I’d made a mistake.
Collecting a basin of soapy water, I scrubbed the blood from the bag and traces from the floor. Putting my clothes and wraps in the machine, I had to get them cleaned before May got home.
Coming back into the kitchen, I worried now what May would say about the mess of my hands as I poured vinegar over my knuckles “Holy fuck!” I belted out, making my neighbour look in from his kitchen window.
I waved and said I was OK. Treating my knuckles with some antiseptic cream and allowing it to soak into the bare skin, then relaxing in front of the TV.
Later on, picking the kids up, I left the house with a pair of woolly gloves on to hide my knuckles. Being November it was cold, good excuse to cover the hands.
Holding Jess’s hand while walking home was really painful, as she kept rolling her little icicle fingers over my knuckles. The wool from my gloves sticking to the open flesh. Getting them home, the kids settled into their after-school routine of homework first, then TV and Xbox.
“Hi!” May shouted, as she came in, closing the door behind her.
“I’m upstairs. I’ll be down in a sec.”
May was talking to Jess in the front room, asking about her day. Having my jumper on and stretching my sleeves out, holding it with my thumb against the inside of my hand. Acting shifty, she instantly caught on to me hiding something.
“Joe, why are you standing like that?”
“Like what?”
“Let me see your hands.”
“What you on about, woman?” Taking rushing steps forward, grabbing my forearm, pulling back my sleeve.
“Fucking hell! What the fuck…Joseph?” Swearing in front of the kids was frowned upon in this house, and there’s Joseph, again.
“I don’t know, May. It just…happened, OK.”
“Just happened?”
“AYE, just happened.”
“How can you do that to yourself? Is there something wrong with you?”
“Well, there fuckin’ must be.”
“Where you going?”
“Going for a fuckin’ walk, woman.”
I couldn't handle the aggravation. The guilt I had, scratching away on my insides. Yelling at May before storming out the house, taking a walk to cool down for a couple hours. It felt as if I was falling apart from the inside, on the edge of losing it. May sometimes forgot what I went through in my past. Having a normal upbringing, she didn't understand the heavy weight of childhood misery, the unfixable damage burning inside.
I was hanging on by my last thread, like there was only one piece of me gripping onto reality, it almost felt like I needed to be checked into a mental-home, before losing control.
Chapter 29
Wounded Knuckles:
The weekend went by, didn’t do any training because of the knuckle situation, plus I spent all weekend with the kids. May dumping them with me. She was upset, needed space and went to visit her parents by herself. Did she see the beginning of my own destruction?
During the weekend, I also didn't get the chance to think about Skinner. Jess and Junior kept me busy, as kids do. Junior having his debut football game Saturday morning. Absolutely Baltic cold, we stood pitch-side watching his every move. Jess enjoyed watching her brother running around the park having the time of his life, slipping, sliding and leaping into puddles of muddy grass. He played in central defence and owned it. Above average height for his age, I think that’s why he was positioned there. The team won, beating Formartine boys club 4-2, and Junior was buzzing with pride. Happy to see the boy so chuffed, it made me proud to be his Father.
On Sunday, we visited the park, leaving Junior to play with some of the neighbouring kids in the area. The park busy with other young kids, Jess in her element running about, joining in, burning herself out, and jumping on any play activity.
That weekend was great, spending all that time with Jess and Junior. More knackered after two days than a week’s training.
May came home Sunday night and organized them for bed. The conversation virtually non-existent, so I flaked out on the sofa, staying there all night.
It was the usual routine during the week at home, training in the shed during the day. Due to the state of my hands, there wasn't any striking of any kind.
It began to feel a relief being home in the quiet with nobody in the house. I just had too much shit running through my mind.
I walked into the gym on Tuesday, Tim by my side, holding my kit-bag around my shoulder. Mike standing just inside the entrance, outside the changing-room. My fists were the first thing he saw.
“What the fuck you done to your fucking hands?”
“I got a bit carried away on the bag.”
“Jesus, boy. I better not see you hit fucking anything. I’m putting the money down for this fight.” His arms flapped about like an unhappy child.
“Don’t worry, Mike.”
“Don’t, fucking worry?” He leaned off the wall. “WHO THE FUCK do you think you are? This isn’t a fucking playground!” His index finger jabbed into my pec, inching me back as I stayed cool.
“Your money's safe.” I sneered back at him, actually happy I was pissing him off, it amused me.
“Get out of my sight boy, before I hurt you!”
Majorly pissed off but happy I’d wound him up, I strolled into the changing-room. Finding out that Mike was putting up the grand for me, I wondered why? What was he making from the fight? If I won, Skinner’s grand and Mike’s grand would be mine, and if I lost, he’d be a grand down.
It all sounded a bit wrong to me but then, nothing in this game should have surprised me anymore.
I worked away on the skipping-rope, pull-up bar, stomach work, and shadow-boxing. It was so boring not being able to hit anything. I watched Toby spar with a few of the lighter guys at the gym. He was in good shape, picking his sparring-partners apart with his fast pace and quick combinations. Getting pushed hard from Bull, who was seeing to his corner, Tim helping Toby’s sparring partners.
Toby got the same treatment I got before the Warsaw fight. Doing three minute rounds with only a minute’s break in between. His sparring-partners had been brought in from local gyms, weight-coordinated. He pretty much beat them all to a pulp. Toby seemed a seasoned fighter, but I just couldn’t see him in illegal fights. He was way too much of a technician rather than a scrapper, yet he look
ed pumped and fired up that night and ready for Watford.
I discovered that Toby’s past was just as troubled as mine. Training as a boxer from a young age, professional at the age of twenty-one. Training during the day and working the doors at nights, he lived the life of the early professional until one night, getting in a scrap with a punter, resulting in him knocking the man to the ground. The back of the guy’s neck clattered onto the kerb, paralyzing him instantly from the neck down. Toby had to do time, but released on early parole due to good behaviour. He decided he had to move away from his home in Edinburgh, away from the gossip, bad name and trouble that followed him, making a fresh go of things up here in the Granite City.
His love for boxing never died, though. There would never be a hope in Hell of him being granted a boxing licence, so he turned to the cold underworld. Shame really, he had a lot of talent and was a really nice guy. Goes to show, everyone has a past they want to forget.
That evening, I only trained for forty minutes. There’s only so much you can do without hitting something.
I relaxed and watched the sparring, for a change having a pretty easy night. The state of my hands made Mike even moodier than normal. He didn’t take anyone on, especially me. He let Bull do all the talking, just leaning over the ropes, watching his man Toby spar.
It was hardly sparring at this gym, more like survival of the fittest. Sparring got harder the older you got, well except when Dad was around. He felt the need to knockout every cunt he was in the ring with, whatever his age.
The coach I had at the Tillydrone club as a teen, was Tommy Stevenson. An ex-pro featherweight fighter, a damn good one at that, knew everything about the game. Every angle, trick, or technique and most importantly how to get under your opponent's skin, beat them from the inside out. That was the most valuable lesson he passed on to me.
