by Lee Cooper
The same horrific pain when I saw Mom, stone dead, on Dad’s seat. That same gut-wrenching horror of someone taken from you, knowing you could have done something to stop it. Instant feelings of regret.
“Joe, you OK?” No, I fucking wasn’t, fucking idiot.
“How was he murdered?” Knowing it was Harry Duncan, I wanted to know how he did it.
“We found him on the street, close to his Aunt’s, a kitchen-knife in his back, must have been jumped, probably full of a night’s coke and alcohol. Do you know anything?” Wrenching my head round to Magill as he gave me that evil stare of suspicion. He needn’t bother asking.
“Not a clue.” He knew I was speaking shit, but he entertained me.
“OK, Joe, OK.” He was more compassionate than I expected.
Leaving the police station, I walked back to The Fountain to break the news to Margaret. Dreading telling her, to be the one to broke the terrible news.
I called Tim, he couldn’t take it in. He would need time.
Eight o'clock, Margaret wouldn’t appear until 10.30am to ready the bar. I would sit in the pub and wait. I couldn’t tell her over the phone.
Soon as I entered the bar, I headed straight for a bottle from the storeroom, grabbing a glass on the way back, propping up the bar on the last stool Micky sat on. Dull and silent like a morgue, left with only my thoughts, only the pool-table light shining, casting dark shadows across the room. I opened the bottle and watched the golden liquid fall willingly right to the brim of my glass. Picking it up holding it above my head, I toasted. “Here’s to you, Micky.”
The back door burst open at 10.00am, Tim walked in, anxiety plastered all over his face. A bottle of whisky now lay in my stomach. I couldn’t take it, didn’t know how to take the pain. All I wanted was for someone to take it away.
With no nourishment in my guts, the liquor flowed straight to my head. I couldn’t see straight, couldn’t stand or barely talk.
“What the fuck, Joe? I can’t believe it.” He still struggled to process the truth.
“Better believe it, mate. Micky’s gone.” Completely plastered, I slurred my words.
“Look at the state of you!” Tim sounded concerned as I swayed my head back and forth, stretching my hand out, trying to find one of the three glasses in my blurred vision. Downing the rest of the alcohol.
Tim collected his own glass, filling it to the brim with Grouse from the optic, taking a pew with me at the bar. As I tried to stand to head to the bog for a piss, I fell over in a heap.
“Fuck me, Joe get up.” I couldn’t stand on my own, Tim helped me back onto the seat, slumping my head over my arms at the bar, my head spinning around, I passed out.
Tim shook me vigorously, as piss soaked my jeans.
So drunk I didn’t care, and didn’t move.
Right then, Margaret walked through the front door, finding me slumped on the bar-stool. As she discovered the pool of piss by our feet, she looked into my half-shut, bladdered eyes. The first tears of grief rolled down my cheek.
“JOE? What’s wrong?” The tears started flowing helplessly, I couldn’t hold them back. Telling her would make it a reality. “What’s happened? Tim?”
“I don’t know how to say this, Margaret.” I managed to stutter but couldn’t continue as my body started sobbing uncontrollably. I could no longer talk, it was up to Tim. My hands covered my eyes, my chin sank to my chest.
“Tell me what? You’re scaring me now.” Margaret lifted her trembling palm to her mouth. She could tell the news she was about to hear would to be devastating. Tim was awkwardly silent, only prolonging what he had to say. It was out of my hands. I didn’t have it in me.
“Fuckin’ tell me, Tim!”
“It’s Micky, he was…found murdered in Torry this morning.” Margaret stared, trying hard to take it in. “What?”
“It’s true. I’m so sorry, Margaret.”
Her knees buckled, using the bar to hold her up. Tim helped her to sit.
“He was here last night, sat where Joe is. It can’t be right.”
We were all in complete shock and denial. I wasn’t able to stand, couldn’t console her as she fell apart. Tim put an arm round her shoulder. Fuck knows how he stayed so calm, but he was good at that, nothing in life fazed him.
“Joe, get upstairs lad, clean yourself up.”
“Aye, help me.” Picking me up, still weeping, trousers stinking and soaked in piss, Tim carried me up to my bed-sit, sitting me on my bed. I wrestled with taking my trousers off, bumped my way into the toilet, my head fell into the pan and I spewed out the contents of my whisky-filled guts.
Chapter 56
Grief:
The next few weeks sent me deep into grief. It seemed people I cared about, left me. A lone soul, only accompanied by my demons, I couldn’t cope with people, and drank myself into destruction. Lost in depression, thinking there was no way out. Hounded with regret I wasn’t there for my pal. I could’ve done something about Harry Duncan, I could’ve found him and dealt with him before he got to Micky. I kept asking myself why I didn’t? Harry Duncan had disappeared from the radar.
That week, I relived the time I’d spent with Micky, but that wouldn’t bring him back, nothing would.
Alcohol and an abundance of coke became my coping mechanism, again. It became a hundred pound a day habit, Micky's dealer Kenny Mackie dropping off gear at the pub whenever needed. Margaret’s store frequently raided, even when she changed the padlock, I found a way to break in. When the whisky ran out, I drank vodka, when there was no vodka, I would drink anything. Smells of stale booze, stinking feet and smoking twenty a day filled my bed-sit. I didn’t wash or clean my teeth, wore the same clothes, only changing after vomiting.
Tim took it upon himself to visit daily, trying to pull me out of the hole. Worrying more than anyone, aware of my imminent date with The Reaper. That man didn’t have a soft side, didn’t care for life nor anyone’s well-being. His job, simple. Turn up, take his foe’s head off, collect his money, and go home.
Katie made attempts to help me in the first week, shouting at her in bouts of rage every time she got close. It’s possible I hit her a few times as well, I can’t honestly remember. Margaret dealt with her grief in her own way, by just getting on with things. She helped Micky's Auntie prepare for the funeral arrangements, once his body was released by the police. Making an effort to look after me, she would bring up plates of food, leaving them on my bedside-table. Sometimes I ate them, most times I didn’t. Opening my door each morning, picking up empty bottles and wraps of cocaine. Also to check I was still alive. Attempting to speak to me about the situation, I wouldn’t take her on, knowing we all have our way of coping with grief. Locked up in my room for three weeks, built up a level of aggravated tension I’d never felt before. Holding it in, trapping it, to be used another day.
The day before the funeral, in the first week of October, Margaret held a gathering in the pub in remembrance of Micky MacDonald.
It was the first day I left my room, showered and stopped drinking. The Fountain bar mobbed out the door. Jukebox kept to a low volume, echoing stories admiring the main man. Tim, Katie, Bull, Mike and all locals of Woodside and Tilly turned up. The grief in the air could be felt, friends and relatives breaking down in tears.
Margaret was particularly pleased I surfaced from the bed-sit. Probably thinking I was beyond help. Not sure what changed that day, maybe I just got through the first stage of grief. Probably the thought that one day, my life might end like poor Micky’s.
“Joe! You’ve showered! You OK?” Hearing the relief in her voice, beckoning to me, an instant smile on her sad face. Leaning in, giving me a tight hug. “So glad you’re up, love.” Affectionately rubbing my shoulder up and down.
“Thought I better get on with it.” Reassuring her I was OK, but I wouldn’t be until my path was cleared. Having a few matters to deal with, before I could leave this life behind.
“So nice to see you up. You want
a drink?” Standing behind the bar, the lure of alcohol not taking my fancy now. My head needed screwing on, starting…now.
“No, I’ll give you a hand, it’s busy the night.” Needing to keep occupied, I helped her behind the bar.
Locked in a room, minced for three weeks, made socialising difficult. Hot flushes making me sweat uncontrollably, with a constant panicky feeling stuck in my gut. Struggling to function behind the bar, my attention span at a minimum and hands shaking, uncontrollably making pouring drink and operating the till frustrating. Trying to count change in my head especially difficult. I had to disappear into the kitchen often to have a moment, before I needed a paper bag to breathe into. The background noise from the punters ran through my head like a rebounding echo. My body had been violently abused, turning me into a desperate case.
My mind wanted to explode. That’s when I knew, attending the wake the next day was out of question. I might regret it, but I’d done my grieving, needed to re-tune and get the fuck on with what I had to do.
“Joe…you're white as a ghost.” Katie came for a word with me, seen me struggling to function. I was glad to see her, once again it seemed like she had forgiven me.
“Aye, I’m OK. Honest, I’m fine.” Obviously I wasn’t. Ready to pass out at any time, sticking it out to help Margaret.
“You don’t look it, Joe. You want to go to the service with me tomorrow?” She had a lot of affection for me, I had no idea why, treating her like shit all the time. Guess she needed loved, too.
“I’m not going, Katie. Can’t face it.”
“That’s not right, you have to.”
“Look, I don’t want to argue about it. Micky will understand my reasons.”
“Ooh Joe, you’ll regret it. What if I come see you after the service? It’s not good sitting on your own at a time like this. I’ll get a babysitter for the kids.” For the first time in weeks, I could handle company, especially hers.
“Aye, that’ll be good. Give me a text before you come round.”
Tim was in constant conversation with me all night. I told him I needed his presence at the gym every day. He handled the whole situation better than I ever could. Dealing with my Mother’s death will always have a knock on effect. Never getting over it, it spilled out after Micky’s murder.
Chapter 57
In The zone:
Alarm struck at 7am, time to get up, time to run. Every morning I rose, there was a procedure. Take a shot of ‘Deca’, eat two bananas, drink water, wrap up warm and pound the Aberdeen streets.
Four miles every morning, no matter how painful, boring or cold it was.
The distance left me time to ponder my date with destiny, my life and how it’s spiraled out of my control. Feeling like I was on a journey that had already been laid out in stone. It drove me to complete this massive task on my hands. Sending all emotional baggage to hate, the only way I’d get through this.
I didn’t talk to anyone, except Tim or Margaret. Releasing Katie from my grip, I didn’t want her in my life for this, too addictive, too much of a distraction. I loved her too much to bring my life of destruction down her road any more. Causing her too much pain already, she deserved better. Maybe after this is all over, there might be a future for us, maybe?
Margaret was well aware of what was taking place on November 7th. She lived in a man’s world, knew my reasons for throwing myself into this. Taking it upon herself to look after me even more after Micky passed, I felt the duty to repay her a favour. Seemed like she was recovering from the ordeal quite well. Telling her my story of why I had to do this stunned her, leaving her worrying that I too might be murdered. Reassuring her I wouldn’t, was a lie, there was every possibility that could be the outcome.
Two weeks to go. Tim sent me through Hell every training session. Two hours every day, including the weekends, at 11am.
“Come on, get on wi’ it! Fifty more push-ups!” The morning warm-up consisted of two hundred reps of every exercise. Sit-ups, squat-thrusts, pull-ups and press-ups. Fifty each at a time, repeating the process four times. After that was done, fifteen minutes skipping, then shadow-boxing for five rounds with 4kg weights to speed up my hands, then onto the bag for ten rounds of torture, then pad-work.
Three days a week, the bag being punished without gloves. The skin on my knuckles now never broke. Hardened by the grueling training. The hard bag so solid when hit, it hardly swung unless I released, let go. It was frightening, able to turn instantly into a boiling beast, leaving a dent when done.
A heavy weight-training program was introduced. Tim brought in an Olympic Bar, a stand and stacks of heavy weights. Using the bar every day became religious. Squatting 240kg, dead-lifting 280kg, bench-pressing 180kg, turning my body stronger than ever before. Combined with the flow of rage from the steroids, my boxing ability, years of pain and motivation, I was a formidable force. He pushed me further past my point of retiring, every session. It was welcomed, I needed it more than ever.
Tim saw the fury in my eyes erupt on a daily basis. Blanking out from time to time. The ‘Deca’ taking effect, adding to my deep well of anger. Words were few in that time. In a deep mental trance, I cared for nobody and nothing, fixated on the end of the journey, end to the burning torment.
“Thirty seconds left! Come on, let’s get it out!”
“Agggh! Agggh! Aghhh! Aaaaahhgg!” With every punch, I howled and hissed. I breathed like a possessed vampire at the sight of blood, inhaling and exhaling heavily unable to calm, feeling the terrifying urge to disembowel The Reaper, rip him apart, end him.
The terror in Tim’s eyes. What had he got me into, he asked himself. Too late for that Tim, here and in the moment.
The ‘roids helped send me the furthest along the road of destruction I had ever been on. Pumping the blood to my muscles, feeling like some days I could go on and on. It added to my level of aggression, but I learned to hold it in for when it counts.
Thirty minutes of pad-work continued with little breaks exhausting me, then the ‘roids would kick in, give me more energy. Gave me so much, it took two hours each day to drain the tank.
There was no sparring leading up to the bout, Tim instructing that it was too dangerous, I was too dangerous and didn’t need it. Holding my temper was difficult, another reason I cut Katie loose. The damage I could inflict on her, I didn’t want to think about.
“Right, outside and flip the tyre.” Bringing in a used tractor-tyre weighing a hundred and forty kilos, spending a few rounds at the end of every session flipping it up and down the small parking area in any weather, rain or shine. Doing this exercise at the end of each session, was designed to physically and mentally break me. Four, three minute rounds of flipping the tyre drove me to breaking point each day, exhausting me, running out of kick from the steroids.
The training made me ravenous, I ate constantly, cooked my own food during the day and Margaret made me supper every night. I helped in the bar only when required, normally I would offer help for the room, but I didn’t care for company, I wanted the solitude of my bedsit. Didn’t want to make small-talk, or laugh at bad jokes.
Only wanted The Reaper’s reign to end.
Chapter 58
Mags:
The morning of the fight was a cold one, the first of this year’s frost layered on top of the cars. Margaret came round early to cook me up some breakfast and send me a farewell. Sitting in one of the bar-booths, we ate and enjoyed a lovely feed. Full Scottish breakfast with plenty of extras. I grew so close to her over the past six months. She was worried I wouldn’t return. And, so was I.
“This breakfast is brilliant, Mags. Thanks.” Nobody called her by that except me, but it felt like I should be saying Mom.
“Joe, you don’t have to say thanks, it’s my pleasure, honey.” With no idea where I was headed after today, there was a chance I’d never see Mags again, so I needed her to know I was grateful.
“I just want to say something.” Her face was blank, thinking she knew
I was saying a last goodbye in case I never returned. “I want to say thanks for everything. I didn’t deserve any help and you gave me a roof when I had nowhere to go.”
“You can thank me when you’re back. I want to see you come back, honey.” Her jaw fluttered, holding in a tear. She wasn’t willing to accept there was a chance I wouldn’t be able to walk into The Fountain Bar again.
Accept it, I had to. But, I had to say thanks to her, give her some closure, just in case.
“Joe, do you have to do this? It’s madness!” Placing her hand over mine at the table.
“Mags, I’ve told you, this has to be finished so I can move on with life.” I explained this a few times, the only person I could open up to, because I trusted her.
“Joe, this is crazy.” Her eyes teared up.
“This will be all over by tomorrow morning, then it’ll be forgotten.” No words from her would change my decision. This path had been set out for me since the day I was born, and ends tonight.
While waiting for Tim to pick me up, we chatted about Micky, reminiscing about his crazy personality and the mischief he got up to in The Fountain. Right there, that morning, I felt a profound happiness sharing time with Mags, content this part of my life would end tonight, even if I had to walk through the gates of Hell to get there.
Tim turned up at 10.50 and it was time to say goodbye.
“Joe, take care down there.” Mags giving me a hug, squeezing the life from me, passing tears, I feared it would kill her if I didn’t come back. “You make sure and text me. OK, Joe?”
Cupping her cheeks with my hands, I reassured her. “Of course I’ll text you. See you later, OK?” I kissed her on the forehead, hugged her, and then left with Tim.
“Well. Ready?”
“Aye, I’ll be ready when the time comes. After this, I’m out.”
