Sweet Agony

by Paul Sykes

  'Now I've got some good news for you,' he greeted me cheerily. 'You'll be fighting Malpass on the next show!'

  'When's that Tom?' I asked, thinking how I'd have to plan my training.

  'First Monday of next month.' He sounded as though he'd won the pools.

  Less than a month. A week off, no, not a week. Five days and then build up.

  'How much money will I be on Tom?'

  He'd paid me £125 last night. Not enough to see me through without having to get some more. I'd have to have a week off to whiz round and keep in touch, renew old friendships never mind about Wendy and Cath. Money was important, that's why I was boxing.

  'Oh don't worry you'll be well looked after,' he said quickly. 'I'm not taking anything you know,' he added solemnly. 'I give you it all until you're on your feet.'

  Leaving the shop and walking up the road in search of a perfume shop I thought about what he'd said.

  Malpass needed a few quick wins to build him up again. Since knocking out Danny Mcalinden he'd been KO'd himself and lost on points to Tom Kiely from Brighton. A nice quick win last night and another next month and George Biddies had a meal ticket again. He'd lost Richard Dunne now, in fact Malpass had been his sparring partner and from what I'd read had been responsible for retiring him. Broke his sternum with a right-hander. Who was I? Some old feller

  having his second fight. Biddles and Malpass would jump at the chance of fighting me.

  Tommy knew I'd beat him. No doubt he'd have asked the lads I'd sparred with and the lads Malpass had sparred with. Only Dave Owens had sparred with us both, oh yes and Richard Dunne. Biddles would have asked Richard and Tommy would have asked Dave.

  Dave said it was positive, couldn't be avoided that I'd fight Malpass. 'Just watch out for the right and you'll have no trouble,' he'd said. A few weeks later I'd sparred with Dunne. I'd been very careful to give the wrong impression, labouring like an old man and very tentative. At the time I'd fancied we'd be matched and it was important not to show too much to the opposition or he wouldn't fight.

  Dave would have told Tommy, who in turn had mapped out the route well in advance. Tommy had just lost his meal ticket like Biddles with Peter retiring, and like Malpass I was Tommy's new hope.

  Television cameras, the tickets I'd sold. I wouldn't be on £125 now, not any more, and after I'd beaten Malpass I'd be able to claim some right money. For now, though, I'd forget about him and just concentrate on getting fit and finding a perfume shop for Wendy's Estee Lauder.

  She held the parcel on her lap all wrapped up in fancy paper with a wide, blue ribbon. She was running her hands over it and feeling the shapes.

  'Go on,' she implored 'Tell me what it is?'

  She ripped the corner of the wrapping paper, thoroughly exasperated at her not being able to find a way in and my silence. I'd told her it was Estee Lauder once. Let her find out.

  It was 6.30 and we were sitting in the car round the corner from her home. We'd had a drive to a little quiet pub that opened at 5.30 and now I'd brought her home early, bursting to see Cath. She'd had the parcel on her lap ten minutes pleading for me to tell her what it was. It was one of everything Ester Lauder sold and it cost £47. I had Christmas to make up for as well as her birthday.

  She ripped a corner, peered, ripped a bit more and then gasped. 'It is Estee Lauder.' She clapped her hands and leaned to kiss me on the cheek as a reward, quick and eager.

  She ripped a bit more and then cried with delight. 'Oh Paul, I've always wanted Estee Lauder soap.' She was too excited to breathe.

  She leaned over again and kissed my cheek, only this time with less haste.

  'What will your Mam say, Wendy, when she sees that lot?'

  'I'll keep it in my bedroom,' she announced.

  'Doesn't she come in your bedroom then?' I asked. 'Is it out of bounds?'

  'She doesn't go through the drawers. I'll put it in the very bottom one.'

  'But she'll smell it Wendy, or are you just going to wear it outdoors and have a wash before you go home? Mind you Wendy, that wouldn't be a bad idea. You're looking a bit mucky lately. Is the hot water off or something?'

  'You're a cheeky pig,' she snapped. 'I get washed every day at least twice. '

  'Yeah well,' I said languidly, 'I suppose that's all right if you get a shower at school every day or a bath at home, but you don't like P.E. do you, and you're always playing truant'!

  'I do like P.E. and I've only played truant with you.' she flared.

  'Anyway I'm not arguing,' she continued, 'I'm too excited to argue for wanting to get home and see what's in here,' she patted the box tenderly.

  'Yeah well,' I said, 'I hope you use it and I've not wasted my money.'

  'Ooh Paul,' she tutted, 'you cheeky pig.' She opened the door and stood in the road. 'I suppose you'll be going for HER now.' She slammed the door and walked home. Composing herself and thinking of an excuse for the parcel.

  'Mind your own business,' she'd say. 'I'm 16 now and got friends of my own.' Something like that. She might try to hide the parcel and say nothing. She might break down and confess, sobbing into her palms and crying, 'I love him, I love him' in anguish as though her heart was breaking. Just like the kid who'd been living with Pauline had, climbing over the back fence. No Wendy wouldn't do that. Wendy wasn't the crying kind, and she wasn't the type to confess either. I didn't think so but I didn't know for sure, not like little Cath.

  I knew little Cath inside out and yet she still had me baffled. She still made my mouth water too, I thought, starting the car to pick her up. Nobody in their house would bother to ask if she went home with

  a parcel, and if they did Cath would snap 'scent' and nip any other questions in the bud. Little Cath wouldn't stand prying from anybody, not even her mother. She'd fought all the way and let me have snippets of information like losing teeth when I'd questioned her, and she didn't even speak to her mother. Kay knew Cath's secrets but she wouldn't tell me anything, I'd had to find out myself. Before the abortion she wouldn't even tell me if she liked something, a colour or a taste, just sat there in silence. She did now though, very quickly and she had something to say about most things.

  'Is that him?' she looked at Malpass. 'He looks a reight cocky swine.'

  She was standing at the side of the car in the car park of Yorkshire Television watching Malpass go into the reception the Friday before we fought, both of us to be interviewed on a programme called 'Yorksport. '

  'He'll be a cocky swine on Monday Cath,' I said. 'He won't know what's hit him.'

  'He looks bigger than you.' She sounded in awe. Was there really somebody bigger than me?

  'He's taller Cath, but we're near enough the same weight and anyway I don't care how big he is.'

  We entered the studio reception and gave them my name. They knew it, they'd seen me on telly before, the night Malpass KO'd Peter.

  They'd phoned this afternoon and asked if I'd come and when I'd told Cath she'd wanted to come too, to see what it was like. Already Cath's dad had told me what I'd to do, I had to forget about the British title.

  'Bloody British,' he'd snorted. 'Forget that, go for the European.'

  We'd been in the concert room for the Old Time dancing at Alverthorpe club and he'd been letting everybody know he had influence with the local star.

  A two-minute showing 3 weeks ago and I'd had more shouts of encouragement and offers of advice than any other local star. There wasn't any other local star apart from Malpass and he wasn't local really, South Elmsall is 8 or 10 miles away. 'Give it that Malpass Paul,' Steve Riley had called from a manhole in the middle of the road one morning as I'd run past. The lads from the Manor had

  shouted when they'd seen me, old neighbours walking their dogs, all kinds of people. Mother hadn't said anything and neither had Kay, totally unaffected by the ripple of excitement I'd caused. Come to think of it Wendy hadn't commented either. She thought it was all a joke, some elaborate joke I was pulling on everybody. She'd know differently
soon, after Monday. We were taken to a little room without windows to wait.

  There were flasks of tea and coffee on a low table with copies of 'Punch' magazine. Facing us, sitting down was Malpass and his mate. He sneered in derision but didn't speak. He whispered to his mate. If you spoke in a normal voice everybody would hear, like a doctor's waiting room.

  Cath was quiet flicking through a magazine, so I laid back and closed my eyes, or tried to, and wondered if I was fit enough. Ten 3-minute rounds was a half-hour of non-stop graft providing I didn't knock him out. I'd knock him out. Tire him out, wobble him and he'd pack up, his corner would throw the towel in even if I didn't get a clean shot. I'd do the same to him as I'd done with the kid up at Middlesbrough last year. I'd body-punch him. I'd belt him in the ribs.

  He'd soon get sick of that and it wouldn't be hard with a tall kid like him. It would soon knock the cockiness out of him.

  'You've only got to see that last fight of his to know he's not fit,' Malpass pointed out.

  'Look how he had to step back to get his breath. He'll be no problem.'

  Fred Dinnage turned to me.

  'What have you to say to that Paul?'

  'He'll know how fit I am on Monday night, and so will all the people who've paid to watch.'

  The interview was over, 3 minutes at the most and Malpass was the cockiest bastard I'd met for a long time. He'd even said before the interview started he could knock me out sitting down and offered to show me how with his clenched right fist. I was too angry to think of any witty retorts after that but I'd said what was expected.

  'Nicked is it?' he called, looking at the car, a new Datsun Laurel Del had lent me. He was driving a 240Z. He slid into it leering arrogantly like a screw pressing the alarm bell when somebody has refused to sew mail-bags.

  I'd fucking kill him. I'd rip his fucking head off and smash all his ribs.

  'He's a cheeky bleeder,' Cath said with her little hands clenched and her plump little knuckles white. 'He's a reight cheeky bleeder him.'

  Wendy said he was dishy and she hoped he'd kill me but she didn't mean it. She might have done though, I wasn't sure yet. I didn't know her well enough to be sure. She'd left school now, had a cushy job in the typing pool at George Lees Mill. Her mother had gotten her the job. She liked it. Liked it! you'd think she was George Lee himself. She made Eddie, Cath's dad, into a dissident. She even went back early from her dinner break. Ten minutes sometimes. I reckoned she hadn't got into the hang of it yet and went back early to make up on the backlog. She passed the orders to the typists from the various departments. We'd made love once in the last three weeks but we'd had plenty of long talks. I was still gaining her confidence.

  The confrontation would really have made her brain work, all kinds of conflicting emotions hitting it for the first time. Cath's fury, the naked violence a breath away after being the best of pals since they were toddlers in the infants school. Me standing behind Cath and laughing. Double-crossing Cath blatantly and saying I loved her. I'd never said that to Wendy. She'd be tossing and turning wanting to fight back. Who could she fight, not little Cath surely? How could she fight Cath when Cath wasn't to blame? She could fight herself but she was already doing that. No, it was me she had to fight. But she couldn't because she was either spellbound or laughing. I smothered her in charm, like I'd smother Malpass in punches and didn't give her the chance to fight. When she'd said Malpass was dishy and she hoped I'd be killed it had been a half-hearted swipe, the one and only weapon she'd used. Her confidence was returning. After the fight I'd turn up the volume. She was already having a bath every day and some long walks round the common. Her skin now was magnolia-coloured and she was filling out. She was opening like a rosebud, a petal at a time and growing more fragrant every day. I kissed her without my mouth watering and she was the best kisser I'd kissed. We sucked tongues, top and bottom lips and bit each other, all the natural animal bits people do when they turn each other on. She rubbed my dick through my trousers and melted against me.

  The second I stopped, she did, and looked as if nothing had happened. I'd be almost splitting my trousers and aching to put my hand up her skirt to see she wasn't acting. Physical proof of her arousal like my dick. I didn't know Wendy yet, not properly but I would, I'd bet my life on that. There was one possibility I wouldn't because there was a letter waiting for me when I arrived home from YTV, a letter telling me on Monday, the day I fought Malpass, I had to stand trial for Mick's ear at Huddersfield Crown Court.

  * * * *

  'It's bloody evil Betty!' Kay said. 'It is, it's bloody evil.'

  'You know what they're like,' Mother said as if she was on about woodworm or germs.

  'Well I mean why not bloody Tuesday. Who does owt on a Tuesday, or a Wednesday or any day for that matter. Bloody evil it is.'

  The old feller nearly shit himself. He went pale and started to worry immediately. To put his mind at rest I told him I'd be all right. On the evidence Mick would give, no judge would send me to prison. I had a career now, hadn't I?'

  To make sure Mick hadn't developed the needle, I called into his new local that night, the 'Peacock Hotel', to see him. I'd not seen him since just before Christmas, since I'd started training. He'd sold the shop and the stock and moved into a council house. He was living on the dole and the odd car he sold. He didn't miss a night in the 'Peacock' though and always had a few quid. I'd given him a vibrator for Christmas and he'd offered to pay for it. He bought me a large Glenmorangie instead. I thought it was the perfect gift and he did too. He'd laughed like old King Cole outside the Funhouse as he'd watched it rattle up the counter, a normal ladies ' vibrator for internal massage.

  'Tha's a reight cunt thee,' he said loudly the instant he saw me. He was perched on a stool like Barny the Bashful Bullfrog sitting on a lily pad, perched on a buffet in the corner of the bar. The Pub looked to have been built round him. He'd not moved an inch in two months, the last time I'd seen him.

  'How do you mean Mick, what for now?'

  He snorted, leapt to his feet; 23 stone of suet dumpling with a face

  like a wet coalsack suddenly bursting into action was a sight I constantly

  enjoyed. Fat Mick had some real power in his legs. He was a powerful feller all over. He had forearms like hamshanks and could lift any car engine out in his arms. He'd grunt a bit with a 3.3-litre but he could juggle others. He'd always been strong and he'd always been idle. He'd copy off me at school in every lesson but art. He was the teacher's pet in art but in all the other classes all I'd hear was, 'what's number so and so?' 'tell us the answer to so and so.' Not every answer but plenty. He'd finished higher than me twice but the second time was the last.

  The next time I gave him all wrong answers and the teacher sussed he'd been cheating. He had to sit on his own afterwards and he'd called me a reight cunt then.

  'Gizza large Glenmorangie, Mary,' he shouted. She came from the other side while he turned.

  'Tha remember t' vibrator? Well our lass sleeps on her own now. She's bloody left me. Now then Mary, how much do I owe yer?'

  Laughing with delight I looked at his face. A basset hound or a cocker spaniel; one of those dogs with droopy ears and sagging eyeballs which look at the world and see nothing but misery.

  'Straight Mick. She sleeps on her own?'

  'Aye. Sometimes she gets in wi' kids. She wain't gerrin wi' me though.'

  'Well, you know how to change that Mick.'

  We seated ourselves. Mick lit a Park Drive, settled his bulk comfortably and then said if he didn't get pissed he couldn't sleep. He couldn't stop his brain from whirling with thoughts of responsibility, the kids, Janet, his mam and dad, making a few quid. He had to make a few quid to pay for his ale, at least £ 15 per night, to forget about the rest.

  'Reight then,' I said when he'd finished, 'what yer worrying for? You know where she is now don't you Mick, so what're you slagging me for? Fucking hell Mick be right. '

  'Aye I suppose you're reight.' He nuzz
led at a fresh pint.

  "As tha come to see me about Monday? Ah've telled yer tha' s no need to worry. Just worry about Malpass on t' Monday. Leave t' rest tome.'

  He bounced down the aisle like an Arab's tent. Where he'd found the suit I couldn't say unless it had fallen off the back of a lorry.

  Nobody would buy a suit with a humbug pattern. He took the oath and opened the evidence for the prosecution.

  An hour before, Dawson and the sergeant in charge of the case had been to see me to offer a deal. 'Plead guilty and I'd be given a suspended sentence, and would I ask the old feller to drop his complaint.' It had been said in the cell area below the court. I'd forgotten all about the old feller's complaint.

  'The police sergeant gave objection to bail by using perjury.'

  Mick had proved it was perjury when he'd asked for my bail in the Magistrates. Twice the sergeant told diabolical lies under oath and the old feller could prove it. They'd nicked me for the turkeys on the day I should have fought and told lies then to stop my bail. The old feller's complaint had made them bring Elaine to court in case the same happened again and it had. They'd put me on trial the day I was fighting again and they'd have done it the first fight if they'd known.

  'I'll never get promotion now.' The sergeant moaned, 'It’s on my record if he withdraws it or not.' He wanted sympathy, but acting like coppers do when they're wanting a statement. So phoney I wanted to strangle him. What an evil bastard, and a fucking coward too. His mate, Dawson, detective constable Dawson, tutted. 'It's a shame, poor lad, no promotion. Have you no sympathy?'

  Dawson, 6ft Sins, a face like a vicar's and built like a heron's neck. One with a fish half-way down it's throat. What a horrible bastard. He'd been about Wakefield so long they put inspectors with him, new ones who'd just started, inspectors and sergeants, Dawson trained them all. He had 5 kids and a big detached house, a police house. A half-acre garden and a separate garage all for freemans. He didn't want promotion, he was already running the show and had all he wanted. He told them what to do and if anybody complained somebody else carried the can.