by Lee Cooper
Sipping water, I cocked my head at McGregor. Standing by his trainer, taking in water and advice. Here he had the beating of me. Had I lost the heart for this? Maybe I had, right at this moment.
“Time, gentlemen.”
Lacking confidence, I crept out, trying a little bounce in my toes.
Nervously I went in for an assault. Throwing a jab, he swiftly dipped his sculpted frame to the right, countering with a right-hook, then back-handed his forearm, chopping it through my throat.
Grasping my throat with both hands, slumping in panic, my trachea blocked. Trying to breath, taking deep gasps, but I couldn’t inhale. Sounding like an asthmatic having an attack, slobbering down my chin. I took my time, I had until the end of the round to stand.
He stood smugly, glowering at my state. Close to surrendering, I could stay down and this could end now. The look on MacGregor’s face was one of satisfaction, counting on an early night, I seen he wanted me to stay down.
“Joe, get up. Come on!” Micky’s words did nothing to inspire me. What did, was the thought of my Father. I didn’t want him to know I gave up like this, gave up knowing I could stand. Pulling myself off the ground, less than a minute to go in the round, still fighting for a proper breath.
The look of satisfaction was wiped from McGregor’s face and his smile turned to a frown. I was no mug, he had to learn that. The crowd cheered as I stood. Coming straight at me again, filled with annoyance, a left-jab then a right hand, slipping them by swaying my waist from side to side, a left fist impacted into my ribs. Not yet recovered from the throat punch, the blow took my breath away again. His fists were too fast, his bare-knuckle thrown upward into my rib with a bouldering blow. Usually pain wasn’t a problem, but in this this scrap, I lacked adrenaline. I wasn’t up for it.
“Time.”
“Jesus man, hold your hands up, take deep breaths.” Tim shouted. Looking and feeling like a wimp, I lifted my arms above my head, inhaling deep breaths.
“Can you not hear me out there?”
“No, I can’t hear fuck all!” On the ground in panic, I could hear nothing. My brain cared for nothing more but to breathe. Letting my lungs fill with air was a relief.
“Only been two rounds. You better switch on here, Joe.” Tim took it upon himself to pour the entire bottle of water over my head.
“Fuck! What the fuck you doing man?!” It had the desired effect.
“Just get out there and wake the fuck up.” Drying me off with my t-shirt, it was time again.
I heard whispers from the crowd. “Joe's done here, he’ll be gone in this next round.”
“Time, gentlemen.”
I came out for the next round with a fast stride, deciding to give this fuck a fight. Anticipating his evasiveness this time. Throwing caution out the window, wasting no time, taking him by surprise, I thundered in with a right hand, left-hook combo landing both. He felt the pain, replying rapidly with two successive left-hooks, a right uppercut, and then a straight right.
Now able to absorb the pain, letting go of my fear, I planted my feet and tried to rally. He wouldn't stand still, bobbed around on his toes, his sharp jab in my face making me look stupid, but I wouldn’t stop till I got close. Leaping into him was the only way I could close the gap.
Standing toe-to-toe, clinching for the advantage, interlocking elbows in a wrestle, a sickening uppercut sent my head pinging to the roof as I went into a haze. I was in trouble again. Not stopping, he kept the pressure on, my legs weakened, and the next thing I knew, I was lying flat down in a parking space.
He sniggered arrogantly, looking down his nose at me.
That changed things. I decided to play a game of my own. Taking my time again, coming round, and pretending I was suffering more than he thought.
I crouched onto one knee, then slowly rose to my two feet, slouching over my waist, hands on my knees, appearing done in. He seen his opportunity to finish me, the audience rose with anticipation.
The emerging Joe Marks, son of the great Davie Rhodes, about to fall.
I looked at McGregor. Appearing broken, only wanting him to fall into my trap, come into my range and seal his fate. I could see his face tighten, in his eye a glint of victory. He stepped closer, then a little closer, he pulled his leg behind his body, ready to volley my head all the way to Pittodrie.
There he was, right in front of me. His foot travelled in the direction of my skull. Clenching my fist tight, opening my body, I pivoted with a right uppercut from the floor, thundering the punch straight through the base of his chin, lifting him from his feet and sending him onto his back. He tried to pull his upper body up, but his hands were useless, like elastic.
In the struggle to rise, he rolled over, his tongue hanging out, licking the tarred surface.
There was still time to stand before the round ended. The crowd didn’t want to see that, neither did I. Time still not up, he flapped about like a fish out of water, his arms almost paralyzed from the shoulder down, his brain only knowing he had to rise, but couldn’t relate that message to his body. Determined, he tried again and failed, crashing back down onto the tarmac.
“Time.”
After the shout, Matt McGregor’s crew ran to his aid. As soon as they did, it confirmed it was over. Gratified, I ambled cock-sure over to Mike, who stood with his arms crossed. Holding my palm out, he knew what I craved. His eyes dropped, annoyed at me once more. Slipping his hand into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, prodding around for too long, he was reluctant to hand it over.
Swiping the envelope from his greedy paw, I picked up my wet t-shirt from the ground, throwing it over my shoulder and swaggered out the door. Five grand richer.
Chapter 53
Date With Destiny:
Early November, my date with destiny was set in stone. Becoming a reformed character after Matt McGregor took me apart mentally. I didn’t drink, stayed off the coke, worked in the bar, trained, and treated Katie with the respect she deserved, falling deeper in love with her. May was now a memory. Beginning to see the end to this journey of destruction, I hoped for a non-violent future, with peace and happiness. Not finished yet though, the path still had to be cleared before I could settle.
Plans were in motion.
The rules of the fight were simple, last-man- standing. Once you hit the deck, you've got a minute to stand, if not, you lose. Winner taking home serious money: twenty grand. Taking place down in the dock-yards of Glasgow.
Any name worth mentioning in the criminal world intended on making an appearance. Important illegal activities would take place that night. The Eidolon would be conducting a massive arms-deal with a dangerous list of clients.
The Eidolon was a phantom, appearing and disappearing at will. Some say he was Irish, some say English. The main arms-dealer pulling in crates of weapons supplied from the active IRA, into the country, by plane or boat, changing his route from deal to deal. Every corner of Britain, every outfit worth their name, from Aberdeen to London, got distribution from The Eidolon. He could get you any weapon you wanted, from a Second World War standard, USA issue M1 Garand rifle, to the most powerful hand-gun in the world, the fifty calibre Magnum 500. Smoke-bombs to poison-darts, you name it, he’d get it. Scotland Yard, MI5 and the G2, the Southern Ireland Intelligence Agency, were constantly pursuing him. Their search useless, they had leads on The Eidolon, but find him, they wouldn’t. Being top of the wish-list on every authority’s desk around Britain, it would be a huge achievement for any member of law enforcement to catch him.
A boss of his crew, his loyal four, The Stable.
Bred from the streets of Belfast, experts in guerrilla-warfare, they could conduct deals for their boss with enviable skills. They would be unknown. Their appearance hidden. All of them furiously dedicated to The Eidolon, they stayed off-grid, no fingerprints and no medical records. Men who lived in the darkness. An effortless relationship built on their fear and unquestionable respect for their boss. Anyone that crossed this five,
were dealt with in a calculated, inhumane manner. They had no compassion for life. The scar on Mr Dean’s face, the result of a miscommunication between him and two of The Stable. He himself was fearful of them, and that from a man of ruthless reputation.
The Govan Gang and The West London’s Ghetto Gang were stocking their supply of automatic weapons, Mr Dean himself taking a handful of Glock pistols. Skinner’s four million pound counterfeit deal, going down with Glasgow’s independent gangster Bobby Munroe. A vile man who grew up with death, though not initially in a murderous way. His father was a mortician with a succcessful business. Bobby gained a fascination for the dead, killing innocent people for fun, then hacked them up for his own pleasure. He went from being a serial-killer to a hitman and now he was assisting the Govan gang in moving upmarket. He was rotten, greedy and idolised being Glasgow’s new Godfather. It wasn’t the cash, it was the opportunity to dabble in even more criminal activity. The men he had working for him back in the city were brainless, but brave to mix with such a man. A small disagreement would land them in his private morgue. All the deals going down that night were just an excuse to witness what would be a violent, bloody affair between two warriors fighting for different reasons. Or, so I kept telling myself. The real truth is, it became part of who I am, I just had to separate it from who I would become. I trained like a professional bare-knuckle fucking demon for this. Rising in the mornings, injecting a hit of juice followed by a four-mile jog. Trained every afternoon. Hit bags with bare hands, toughening my knuckles and I sparred twice a week.
Boxing at the gym, I told my training partners to leave their gloves off. I wanted to feel the impact of raw knuckles. I wore mine, so when I fought The Reaper without them, there’d be no weight, my hands faster, looking for any advantage over him. Matt McGregor was too quick for me and too smart, a valuable lesson learned from him.
Underestimating my talents for this game was an error, one I won’t make again, especially up against this Barbaric man. He was famous in his own right. Bitter, angry and no care for his wellbeing, he would come at you blind with broken bones or lost limbs. He didn’t drink, didn’t take drugs, didn’t socialise and had no friends. His sole purpose in life was to inflict pain. Jacked up on daily injections of steroids made him even more dangerous.
When I become victorious, my name will always be remembered, mentioned in the same sentence as the infamous Davie Rhodes. He wasn’t proud of me as a youth, but I’m sure he'd be appreciative of me now. Ironic that. It humbled me inside, knowing he would be honoured to be my Father. A son will always look for his Father’s praise. Maybe that’s why I did this, maybe deep down inside, all I wanted was for him to love me and accept me. And when I turn over The Reaper, I can say ‘Look Dad, look at your boy now.’
Chapter 54
Pumped Up:
Mid-September. Before heading down Kilgours for a night’s sparring, I joined Margaret behind the bar. Micky MacDonald, now my good pal, had come in for a few jars.
“Did you get your stew, love? I left it in the kitchen for you.”
“Aye, cheers Mags.” I gave her a peck on the cheek to say thanks. “It was great, by the way.” She was a gem, old Margaret. She had seen my soft side, just as she had seen Micky's. Gentle and stubborn, with a cheeky sense of humour, the perfect landlady. I became increasingly worried about her though, on nights I wasn’t here, in case anything happened in this bar.
“You’re spoiled here, Joe. Think I’ll start nipping round for supper every night.” Micky was acting odd that night, one minute quiet, in a trance and next cracking jokes as normal.
“You’re welcome any night, Micky. You know that.” Her mothering instinct was always there. She would bend an ear to any man’s problems at the bar.
“No chance you’re coming for supper, that’ll make my portion smaller. Besides, you don’t look like you’ve had a meal in your life.” He was a skinny radge, Micky.
Margaret walked away to serve a punter. I leaned over the bar and spoke quietly. “You seem off the night, Micky?”
“Aye, I’m off the gear. Canny handle it any more. I’m too old for it now.”
“Away and fuck, mate. How old are you?”
“Forty one. I’ve been taking panic attacks all week. Just need to chill out for a while”.
“Fuck, I know how that feels, just calm down for a while, you’ll be fine”.
“Aye, I’ll just play it cool for a few weeks.” He took a little bow closer to me and spoke from the side of his mouth. “That fuckin’ Harry Duncan’s on the loose. He’s out.”
“How long’s he been out for?”
“Twenty days apparently, and I’ve no idea where the cunt is.” His fingernails took a chewing that night. Probably the reason he’s off the coke.
“You’ve maybe dodged a bullet here. If he was that keen to find you, he would’ve caught up wi’ you by now.” I tried to reassure him, but I didn’t know what else to say.
“Anyway, how many days you been off the ching?”
He looked down at his pint, head tilting side to side, mouth mumbling numbers. “Eh… twenty hours now.”
I burst out laughing, complete joker this cunt. “What a fud! Twenty hours! You’ve not even reached a day yet, you bam!”
“Aye, you’re right. No point making it twenty-four. I’m away for a line. Catch you later.”
That was Micky down to a T. Complete lunatic and just on the planet to have a good time. Micky sent me out the door in a good mood, but that didn’t last long
Walking into Kilgours around that time, my mood would automatically transform, sending my mind to a cold place, a dark place I had to go to. I needed to sink into the same mental state as The Reaper.
I spoke little to anyone except Tim, but lately, he just left me to my own devices. He could see the task on my hands. That night, the bags got a pounding as usual, cuts from knuckles were constantly opening from scrapping the leather. I moved rapidly through the circuit, chin sunk into my chest, getting on with it. Still sitting at ninety-two kilos, I was ripped and confident. Every sit-up, every pull-up, every punch was all about becoming the victor. Sweating like Hell, my furious pace leaving the rest of the gym behind.
My pure dedication to this was frightening. Tim told me to slow down at times, I just kept on, didn’t care for life, didn't want to stop and think.
Every day I thought of the kids, May and what I had done to her. Once The Reaper was done, I had to make amends to see my kids again. There was no hope with May, I knew that, I could see my future with Katie and her kids, if she’d have me.
This must have been my best night’s training to date. I sparred with all four guys in there, one after another, three minutes a time. Gloves on to save hurting them, but I preferred them to wear wraps only, get my reflexes up, get used to feel of hard knuckle on my flesh. Twelve rounds in the ring I completed that night, not at full pace, but hard enough. Well aware The Reaper done no sparring. No one was stupid enough to step in between the ropes with him, unless they were paid a decent amount, even then they would fall to save the pain. Any advantage I could gain, would be badly needed.
Seven weeks to go, I was solidly psyched and longed for the notoriety of being the hardest man in the country.
Chapter 55
Micky:
Waking the following morning at 6.45, cuddled into Katie’s luscious body, I struggled to pull myself out of bed. Sleepily making it to the kitchen for some tea and on for a seat in front of the telly. Turning on the local news. ‘A man was found dead on the streets of Torry, in the early hours of the morning, thought to be murdered. No further information can be disclosed at this time.’
Thinking nothing of it, I continued to channel-hop, wondering what to have for breakfast. Then, I jumped up and ran to grab my phone from my jeans pocket. In a panic, I dialed Micky’s number. ‘Welcome to the Orange answer phone…’ I had a bad feeling, that squirrel in your belly when you know something's not right. Anxious to find out what was goin
g on, I called Tim.
“Tim, you heard about the body found in Torry?”
“What? Jesus Joe, it's seven in the morning, lad.” Half asleep he wasn’t cracking on to what I was saying.
“There’s been a body found in Torry. Is it Micky?”
“What you on about? Can’t be, surely.”
“HARRY DUNCAN, TIM!” Yelling down the phone to him, I needed him to wake the fuck up.
“I’ll phone you back. I know who to get a hold of.” Straight off the phone, I dressed then legged it out the flat door, sprinting to Bucksburn Police Station, hoping I could find out the information I needed.
The panic continued on the way. Almost certain it was him, knowing in my gut it was him, I wasn’t ready for the reality. Storming through the door, straight to the reception-desk where a young female constable worked.
“The murder last night. Who was it?” Alarm in my voice, preparing myself for the news.
“Calm down, sir. We can’t release that information.” She had that arrogant charm any copper had, and didn’t like my hostility.
“WHO IS IT?!” Shouting, she flinched, petrified at my tone.
“Look sir, calm down. Take a seat.” This bitch was pushing it. Close to jumping over the counter, Mr Magill’s ogre-like body strolled past, holding his polystyrene cup of coffee by his chest, looking weary like he had no sleep. I knew he had the answer I needed.
“MAGILL!” Yelling in his direction to get his attention. “Was it Micky last night?”
“I’m sorry Joe…it was Micky.” My heart missed a couple of beats, then took five or six thumps to catch up with absorbing the shock, instantly forgetting about my own worries.
Taking four steps backwards, falling onto the waiting area seats, my insides felt empty. Staring into space, I didn’t know how to take this, even though I’d experienced it before, you're never ready.
