Harry's Justice

by Andy Wiseman

  Sal moved around the gym, straightening the floor mats, putting away the free weights that had been carelessly left out from the previous day, checking the punch bags were securely fixed, and then vacuumed the floor of the full sized boxing ring that stood at the far end of the room: Sal’s end of the room.

  A few of the kids were drifting in - anyone under fifty was a kid to Sal. He saw the Windsor kid going through some stretching routines with one of the kick-boxing coaches, who he sub-let part of his gym to. It wasn’t, in his opinion, proper boxing, but it helped pay the rent, and sometimes he would spot a genuine talent who he would then lure away from what he called “girly boxing” to teach them real boxing. Harry Windsor had been a genuine talent, but sadly had lacked the discipline. He’d been more interested in fast cars, fast women, and making a fast buck, as the Americans would say.

  Sal stood and watched for a while, as the kick-boxing coach took Harry through some stances, getting him to sharpen up his movement. Front kick; side kick; roundhouse kick: kick, kick, kick.

  Sal shook his head, mumbling, ‘Girly boxing!’ He had to give Harry his due, though: he was fast. Very fast. ‘Hey, kid?’ said Sal, calling over to Harry in his cockney-Italian accent. ‘When you finished playing footsie with Jackie-fuckin’-Chan, maybe you come over here and let an old man show you how to fight proper, eh?’

  Harry briefly glanced over, before turning back to the kick-boxing coach, who was busy giving Sal, the finger.

  Half an hour later, Harry went over to Sal. ‘Okay, old man. Show me what you’ve got.’

  ‘We’ll do some bag-work, first,’ replied Sal. ‘Using your hands, eh? Proper boxing. Get you loosened up. Give you a fighting chance before I beat the crap out of you.’

  Harry put his bag gloves on, then adopted the boxer’s stance: one foot slightly behind the other, shoulders hunched, elbows tucked in, gloves up, and with Sal using his bodyweight to brace the punch bag from behind while giving direction, he then proceeded to pound the bag.

  ‘Left jab. Left jab,’ instructed Sal. ‘Right hook. And again.’ Sal put Harry through his paces, pushing him harder and harder. ‘Keep your elbows in, you flapping like a fuckin’ bloody chicken!’ said Sal, making loud clucking noises.

  Harry could feel himself getting angry, but directed the anger towards the punch bag. Sweat was pouring from his body. He blinked rapidly as it ran into his eyes, making them sting, and difficult to focus on the bag. ‘Hey, kid,’ said Sal, ‘you’re sweating like a pig, and you smell of cheap fuckin’ whisky.’

  ‘It... wasn’t... fucking... cheap,’ replied Harry, in between punches, each striking the bag harder than the last, and forcing Sal to hang on to keep his balance.

  ‘I thought you’d put all that behind you, eh?’

  ‘Fuck off, Sal. You’re not my mother,’ replied Harry, as he landed a hard left jab. Then, dipping his shoulder to put maximum body weight behind the punch, he slammed a right upper cut into the bag, catching Sal by surprise, and putting him onto his backside.

  Harry stepped back, breathing hard.

  ‘No, kid,’ said Sal, looking up from where he’d landed, ‘I’m not your mother... She was a fine lady.’

  They looked at each other for a moment, before Harry stepped forward to stretch out a gloved hand, and haul Sal to his feet.

  ‘Get some water,’ said Sal. ‘Take a break.’

  Harry pulled off his gloves, stripped off his tee-shirt, and then grabbed a towel and a bottle of water from his bag. He took a long pull on the refreshingly chilled water, then towelled the sweat from his face and upper body.

  ‘Haven’t seen you in a while,’ said Sal. ‘Where you been?’

  ‘Still working on the flats,’ replied Harry.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘It’s going - just. Money’s a bit tight.’

  ‘Hey kid. I know how hard you worked on that house. No one knows more than me. If I had the money, it’d be yours, you know that, but I’m barely covering my overheads, as it is,’ said Sal, waving his arms around, indicating the gym. ‘And the fuckin’ rent’s going up again next fuckin’ month!’

  Harry commiserated with Sal, before then telling him about Patrick’s offer to find his daughter.

  ‘Five fuckin’ grand?’ said Sal. ‘You gotta be fuckin’ joking me. You said yes, No?’

  Harry merely shrugged. ‘The girl’s a tearaway. Doesn’t get on with her father. Probably disappeared just to piss him off. It’s a wild goose chase.’

  ‘Are you fuckin’ crazy? It’s five grand for a few days work, for fuck’s sake!’

  ‘It’s a family affair, Sal. None of my business.’

  ‘I’ll do it then,’ said Sal. ‘Just like that other great Italian.’ When Harry frowned, ‘Columbo, the detective,’ Sal then added.

  ‘I always thought of you as a Clouseau, type of character,’ replied Harry, grinning.

  ‘You cheeky fuck,’ said Sal, throwing a headguard in Harry’s direction. ‘Put that on and get in the ring, so I can kick your shit.’

  With both men now in the boxing ring and wearing protective headgear, they danced around the canvas, sparring with each other, blocking and trading punches, using enough force for the other man to feel the blow, but not enough to do any serious damage. While Harry had the advantage of height and reach, Sal - despite his age - had experience on his side. He would avoid a jab, or a hook, by coming-in under his opponent’s swing, to then deliver a punch to the ribs, stomach, or an uppercut to the chin.

  ‘Who is this Patrick?’ asked Sal, as he caught Harry with a left. ‘One of your ‘old friends’?’

  ‘No, he’s not one of my “old friends”, as you like to call them.’

  ‘So why did he come to you, eh, Mr Clever Shit?’ So Harry told Sal about the newspaper article and Isobelle Harker. ‘Is she pretty?’ asked Sal, grinning broadly as Harry threw a left hook, and which he avoided by dipping his head, followed by his shoulder, and then delivering two quick jabs to Harry’s ribs. Sal heard and felt Harry’s breath blow past his ear. He could see Harry thinking about the question as if for the first time. ‘Bloody hell, kid. If you gotta think about it, she must be a fuckin’ dog,’ he said, as he skipped backwards out of Harry’s reach.

  As Harry moved around the ring, he found himself thinking about his first meeting with Isobelle, in the greasy spoon cafe. He’d looked her over; of course he had, as any red bloodied male would have done. Yes, she was pretty and attractive, but he hadn’t really taken any notice, had he? His second meeting with Isobelle had been at her flat. Why had he gone to her flat? His reasoning had been to give her a bollocking for putting his name in the local newspaper, yet, as she’d quite rightly pointed out - and of which he had been aware before setting out for her flat - she hadn’t printed his surname. Some of his “old friends”, knowing he lived in the area, might have given some thought to the possibility of a connection - as might some of the older coppers who still worked the area - but hardly conclusive. Then he remembered he’d taken a bottle of wine as a gift - not the action of someone who’d gone to deliver a bollocking.

  ‘Hey, kid,’ said Sal, interrupting Harry’s thoughts, ‘you’re not turning into a gay-boy, eh?’ Then, just to wind Harry up further, ‘What you need is a good woman with child bearing hips. You gonna have to get fuckin’ married sometime, kid. This Isobelle, does she have child bearing hips?’ he said, laughing, as he bobbed and weaved away from Harry’s punches.

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ replied Harry. ‘How many times you been married? Seven? Eight?’

  ‘Hey, you cheeky fuck,’ said Sal. ‘Six. Six times only.’

  ‘Tell me, old man, what is it they see in you?’ Harry asked, grinning. ‘It can’t be your good looks, because you’re one of the ugliest fuckers I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Hey,’ replied Sal, trying to look offended. ‘They love my cooking. I am Italian. I love women and food. Beautiful women. Beautiful food. My meatballs are to die for.’


  As Izzy made her way up to the first-floor, via a rickety metal fire escape, she wondered two things: whether she’d got the right place, because the building looked derelict - though the guy at the mini-cab company on the ground-floor assured her she had - and whether it was safe, because it sure as hell didn’t look it; there were weeds growing out of the brickwork for Christ’s sake!

  Inside the gym, she pulled her coat tightly around herself; it didn’t seem any warmer inside than it was out. She looked around the large room. There were about a dozen men of varying ages, from their teens to their forties, all working-out in one form or another. The few who’d noticed her entrance seemed to double their efforts - boxing harder, quicker, and with more ferocity, lifting weights higher and faster, their torsos rippled in muscle and gleaming in beaded sweat.

  Izzy’s thoughts strayed to Jonathan. Since he’d injured his knee playing rugby, he’d put on quite a bit of weight, though not so much from lack of exercise, but from the amount of lager he consumed when meeting up with his rugby mates in the pub.

  At the far end of the room, Izzy saw the boxing ring, in which were two men who appeared to be sparring - at least that was what Izzy thought it was called, but couldn’t be totally sure. The taller, younger man, had his back to Izzy, and was in the crouched stance that boxers take. Izzy felt sure it was Harry.

  Harry and Sal were still trading hard hitting blows, along with equally hard hitting insults. Harry’s height, reach, and youth helped him to hold his own against the experience of the shorter and older man, and Harry was starting to get his second wind, the alcohol from the previous day and night’s drinking now almost purged from his body, leaving his dulled reflexes sharper, his eye more focused. But Sal was aware of this and keeping his distance, bobbing and weaving, striking only when the opportunity presented itself.

  Harry, seeing Sal’s gaze flick briefly away and to the left of him, went for a quick jab, but Sal saw it coming, too nimble, too wily. Harry’s glove slipped harmlessly over Sal’s shoulder.

  ‘Hey, kid,’ said Sal, ‘that little bambino, the reporter...’

  ‘Isobelle.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Isobelle. I bet she’s a cute blonde with great cheek bones and freckles. Hey, kid?’

  Harry was so surprised at the accuracy of Sal’s description, he dropped his guard slightly. Seeing an opening, Sal moved in. But Harry was quick to raise his gloves, deflecting the punch.

  ‘Something like that,’ replied Harry. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Heh, heh,’ chuckled Sal, as he bobbed and weaved.

  Again, Harry saw Sal’s gaze flick to the left. This time he whipped in a right hook to Sal’s temple, catching him off guard, and once again putting him on his backside. Harry skipped backwards, towards the ropes, grinning broadly.

  Izzy approached the ring, fascinated, almost mesmerised. She’d never been a fan of boxing, never seen a fight other than a maybe few minutes on television. She thought it brutish, vulgar and violent. Izzy’s sporting interests only stretched as far as lacrosse, which she hadn’t done since school - and shopping. To Izzy, shopping for clothes wasn’t a necessity or even an idle pleasure; it was a sport - an ‘extreme sport’ and sometimes a blood sport if anyone got in her way during the sales.

  She watched Harry and the older man move around the ring with surprising grace, intermingled with bursts of raw power. She realised she actually found it quite appealing, alluring, even... sexually exciting.

  She saw the older man go down. She saw Harry backpedal, arms loose at his sides, clearly enjoying his opponent’s discomfort. She gazed up at Harry’s half naked torso, took in the width of his muscled shoulders. Then, in surprised shock, she let out a gasp at what appeared to be scars across Harry’s back, dozens of long thin red welts.

  Harry quickly turned at the sound, to see Isobelle standing there and looking slightly self conscious. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, a little more abruptly than he’d intended.

  Izzy, who was now feeling very self conscious, and a little annoyed at Harry’s tone, shrugged her shoulders and replied, ‘I was just... passing.’

  A wry smile tugged at the corner of Harry’s mouth as he removed his gloves and head-guard. He quickly towelled his upper body and then pulled on his tee-shirt. ‘How did you know I was here?’ he asked, his tone a little softer.

  ‘The old man who lives in your house... I think he said he was a colonel? Anyway, he said you would probably be here.’

  ‘Corporal,’ said Harry, leaning on the ropes to look down at Izzy.

  ‘Sorry?’ she replied.

  ‘Mr Jackson was a corporal. He spins some great yarns.’

  Izzy made a silent ‘Oh,’ with her mouth.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ continued Harry, ‘there’s probably a lot of truth in them. How long were you there for? Half an hour? An hour?’

  Izzy shifted from one foot to the other as she said, ‘Two hours, actually.’

  Harry raised an eyebrow.

  ‘He’s a very interesting man,’ she said. ‘A mature man has so many more life experiences than a younger man,’ she added, to which then followed the sound of a polite cough coming from behind Harry.

  Half turning, Harry said, ‘Talking of old... I’d like to introduce you to Francisco Salvatori. Sal to the few friends he’s got, and owner of this fine establishment. Sal, this is Isobelle Harker. Isobelle, this is Sal.’

  Sal went down on one knee, to then reach through the ropes for Izzy’s hand. She reached up to shake his, only to have a kiss gallantly placed on the back of hers.

  ‘Izzy,’ said Izzy to Sal, blushing. ‘Izzy to my friends.’

  ‘You are a very pretty lady,’ said Sal. ‘You bring a ray of sunshine to an old man’s heart.’

  Harry groaned, loudly. ‘Haven’t you got anything to do, old man?’ he asked, prodding Sal’s backside with the toe of his training shoe. Sal stood, giving Izzy a big smile and a wink of the eye, Harry, he merely ignored, as he wandered over to the other side of the ring on the pretence of looking busy.

  Sal’s right, thought Harry, she is pretty and does have great cheek bones. ‘So, why are you here, Isobelle?’ he asked.

  Izzy held his gaze for a few moments before answering, ‘Izzy,’ she said. Then, ‘How’s your search going for the girl? Mollie?’

  ‘It’s not,’ Harry replied. She looked at him, waiting. He continued, ‘It’s a waste of time. A dead-end. It’s going nowhere.’

  ‘No clues? No leads?’ asked Izzy.

  ‘No,’ replied Harry. ‘No “clues”, no “leads”,’ he said, raising his hands and then patronizingly wiggling his fingers in the air.

  ‘Who have you seen? What have you done so far?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘I’ve searched her flat, I’ve spoken to her friends, and I’ve talked to local shopkeepers. It’s a dead-end. A waste of time.’

  ‘So you’re just going to give up?’

  ‘What I do know, is that she’s struggling with her college course work, and she’s fallen out with her father. She doesn’t want to be found. She’s probably shacked up with her boyfriend somewhere.’

  ‘But you don’t know that for certain,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not the first time she’s disappeared,’ responded Harry, exasperation creeping into his voice.

  ‘Oh,’ replied Izzy, looking deflated. Then, ‘But what if something really has happened to her, and she’s in trouble? It’s been what, almost two weeks since she disappeared?’

  ‘Then it’s up to her parents to report it to the police.’

  ‘But they won’t. Or seem reluctant to. You said so yourself, Harry. Even if they do have a poor relationship, what self respecting parent would not have their daughter’s best interests at heart?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Harry. ‘Though there’s something about the father that doesn’t quite add up.’

  Harry looked at Izzy, who said nothing, just gazed back at him, waiting. After a moment, he
said, ‘Ok, I’ll search her flat again. Maybe I missed something,’ he conceded. ‘Maybe there are some “clues” or “leads”, as you put it.’

  ‘Do you want any help?’ she offered, eagerly.

  ‘I’ll manage,’ he replied, straightening up from the ropes.

  A disgruntled Izzy realised the conversation was over, as Harry scooped up his gloves and head-guard from the canvas.

  ‘Hey,’ she said to Harry, ‘would you like to have Sunday lunch this coming weekend?’

  ‘Sunday lunch...’ replied Harry. ‘Who with?’

  ‘With me, dopey. Who else.’

  Sunday lunch, thought Harry. Why the hell does she want to have Sunday lunch? Is she asking me out on a date? Do people have dates over Sunday lunch?

  A thought occurred to Izzy. Oh-me-God, he probably thinks I’m asking him out on a date! ‘You’ll be able to tell me if you find anything in the girl’s flat,’ she quickly added. Then, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say, and because Harry was staring dumbly back at her, she said, ‘Do you like kebab?’

  ‘Kebab?’ repeated Harry, looking more dumbfounded. Christ, this girl‘s weird! ‘No.’

  ‘Oh,’ replied Izzy.

  Harry thought she sounded disappointed. ‘Not for Sunday lunch,’ he said. ‘Maybe after a few beers.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, brightening slightly.

  ‘Ah, the great British Sunday roast,’ said Sal, who had quietly wandered back over to where Harry was standing. ‘Roast beef, crispy roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding. The family around the table. The grandchildren, the great-grandchildren... ah, bellisimo. Wonderful.’