by Paul Sykes
His hobbies were breeding pigeons and doing up old cars. He came from Normanton, a mining town where everybody had pigeons and old cars. He'd tried to coerce the kid, whose cheek I'd bitten in Heppy's the night I slapped Elaine, into making a statement. Fannied him, threatened him but the kid had told him to fuck off, he'd sort it out himself.
Dawson had been present every time I'd been arrested, and I'd been arrested 25 or 30 times. Not just fly-pitching, the turkeys, the
ear, armed robberies, house-breaking, burglary, handling. I'd complained to Waiter Harrison the MP who said it was a clear case of police harassment but there wasn't anything he could do.
One night just before Christmas I'd nipped in to Heppy's about 11 o'clock. I wasn't tired after dropping Cath off and I didn't fancy watching the telly or going to bed.
He was standing at the bar next to me supposedly looking for the Ripper, or so it was generally thought, and he hadn't seen me. The bile rose in my gorge and I remembered the last time I'd seen him in here when he'd accused me of barging into him and spilling beer on his sleeve. How I wanted to clip him, just once, right in the belly.
'Hello Mr Dawson, how are you?' I said pleasantly.
He turned and nodded over his glass, his face nicely shocked registering surprise.
The barmaid took my order and had given me the change and he still hadn't answered.
'I can't understand why you keep harassing me you know, Mr Dawson. You know I'm behaving myself.'
'If you are, then how come you've got that?' He meant money. My trousers were that tight and my hands so big I could only manage to get my thumb and finger into my pockets. I'd pulled out a few tenners in a wad to pay for the drink and was shoving them back.
Didn't he know I'd been nicked for fly-pitching I'd thought, didn't he know anything? Or was it a crime now to have a few quid? No, the prick was jealous because I had a few quid in mid-week. All the pubs were empty in mid-week, never mind night-clubs in Normanton. There wasn't a night-club in Normanton anyway. All too knackered after a shift down the pit. I didn't work down the pit or anywhere else so I had to be a crook. What a fucking dummy!
'I'll tell you what I'll do Mr Dawson. I'll pick you up in the morning and take you with me. You'll know then where it comes from and
you'll be able to tell them to leave me alone.'
'You know I can't do that.' He looked down his nose.
'Why, aren't you working tomorrow?' I asked innocently.
'Yes I'm on duty but not allowed to come with you and you know
it.'
Putting my face into his I said with sarcasm, 'well follow me then.
You'll get permission for that.'
I'd walked off before I lost my temper. He was a bad man, an evil, narrow-minded bastard, and he was wanting me to get the old feller's complaint dropped. The old feller had told them to get fucked and he didn't swear normally. I could persuade him to drop the complaint even if they couldn't, but should I?
They were threatening me, drop the thing and you won't go to prison. There was always the chance regardless of the evidence on a guilty plea, and I couldn't plead anything else. Mick had lost a lump of ear and I'd been the cause.
I couldn't say it was an accident, although it was, and hope to prove it, or blame somebody else. I agreed to see the old feller and tell him to drop the complaint.
The minute I knew who the judge was I wished I hadn't. It was the barrister who'd defended me for robbing the bookie with Ron, in Hartlepool. Alex had been his star witness. He knew all about my thwarted boxing career and he would know it was now under way. He couldn't possibly send me to the nick after hearing Mick and Tommy. They were my only witnesses, but no, there was another one. Mr Manny Goodall. Manny Goodall, the promoter. Now what's he want? I thought curiously as he went down the aisle, wearing a brown suit, to the witness box.
He didn't want his promotions to be lost tonight. I was on the verge of a career, and although I was comparatively old I had the potential to reach the top. It was his show, for members of the Yorkshire Executive Sporting Club. The old Blackpool side-show was back on the road and I was potentially the greatest attraction they'd ever had. I was precious, their key to big money. He didn't want the judge to lock me up, he wanted him to give me a chance.
He gave me one, 12 months imprisonment, suspended for 2 years, after he'd frightened me to death reading out his reasons.
1. You are a violent and dangerous man.
2. You have served long years in prison already to prove it.
3. You don't seem to have learned from them.
4. You deserve to go to prison again.
5. You caused a very serious injury once more.
6. You caused injury to a life-long friend. A very good friend, I might add.
7. He spoke up for you. He said it was his fault.
8. You have at last a promising career where you can channel that violence within the laws.
9. I have no alternative but to pass a sentence of imprisonment but,
10. I will suspend it for 2 years. You will go to prison for twelve months suspended for 2 years.
The Yorkshire Post took pictures of Mick with his arm round me, wishing me the best of luck for tonight against Malpass, and saying he'd be there to cheer me on. He was coming with all the lads to give me vocal support he said. He hoped I'd win but he didn't think I would. I was an old man like him and Malpass would be too fit.
* * * *
Wendy came up the road with her mate, Janice Purnell. She wore her tatty jeans and bomber jacket. I was putting my bag in the boot and just setting off for 'The Norfolk Garden' in Bradford. She looked lovely. The wind was blowing her short, black hair back from her face and her cheeks were pink. She had to turn her head to focus her eyes and shield them with a hand to see me. It was a warm wind, a spring wind. It was flattening the jeans against her legs. They were so tight she was nude.
'Have you come to wish me luck Wendy?'
'Have I hell, you big ugly pig. I hope he bashes you.' She walked on.
'Oh thanks Wend. I knew you wanted me to do well,' I called. She laughed. I heard it on the wind. It sounded like a chorus of angels it was so happy. I'll give her a real seeing-to tomorrow I decided setting off with the old feller. The place was heaving, a penguin-colony of fellers in evening dress. Stepping round them on my way to the dressing room I couldn't see any familiar faces. The dressing room was heaving too, white pullovers and tuxedos all over the place. I threw my bag on the carpet to claim the space just like a nick changing room. There, 1 thought with relief, I can see what's happening now.
The place was besieged with friends old and new, but mainly old friends. There was Vinnie and all the lads I'd worked with in Blackpool nearly 5 years ago. Ronnie had brought all his neighbours, Del a bunch of lads I'd known in the nick years ago. John Spencley, his brother Tony, and Stan his mate. The same three who'd been with me in the Rolls outside Durham gaol. Burky had brought a few of his
wealthy mates and Norman had brought half his village. All the Manor lads had turned up and Alex had brought his entourage.
He had the needle, I knew the instant I saw him. Face set, shoulders back, wanting to cry because he was so upset but man enough to hold it back. He was followed by five of his friends. Now what had I done to upset him?
'You should have let me know Paul,' he said quietly. 'I'd have been at your first fight. '
'But Alex, it was 8 o'clock Sunday night. Even if you were in, it was too short notice to ring. I might have been nicked again in the morning. No Alex, I couldn't let you know until I was under way and I did that.'
'You should have let me know Paul.'
'I'm sorry Alex, but it can't happen again, can it?'
'No lad it can't happen again.' He stooped and patted my shoulder; I was sitting on the carpet with my back to the wall. 'Good luck tonight lad,' he said, and then left.
He had the needle with somebody and it wasn't me. When he had the needle with me he didn't
call me lad. Somebody had upset him. I'd find out who in time I thought, plenty of time. There wasn't half, it was almost midnight before the fight started and I still hadn't found out. Two doctors, both slightly intoxicated with something more like the sudden influx of my pals rather than booze, had examined me. Some official had taken me to the hotel kitchen to be weighed, 15st 21b, and the rest of the time I sat in the dressing room trying to think.
Kenny, the trainer and second, had been with me for the last half hour complaining for being kept waiting.
'Who wants to listen to drunks giving speeches,' he'd said. 'The useless cunts. These lads have come to watch the fight not listen to them.'
He was amazed how many had turned up. Over a hundred extra places had been found to fit them in. I was bandaged and stamped, the top of the bill. Kenny had told me always glove-up in the ring. After I'd been bandaged the official who'd been watching stamped them both to prevent tampering, and I was ready, had been ready for hours.
'Come on Paul. Right Kenny,' Tommy ordered from the door. Malpass was waiting in the foyer. I was the challenger and as such I had to be first into the ring. He was standing to the side with his
second dressed in his boxing kit and leering like he'd done climbing into his car.
'I'll fucking kill you in here,' I said passing him. 'You cunt, I'll fucking rip your head off.'
'That told him,' said Kenny dead chuffed. 'He was there to scare you. You frightened him to fucking death.' He laughed. He had a trier this time for a change.
In all the fights I'd had in a boxing ring I'd never felt like this but I'd not fought anybody who didn't show respect. A bit of a kid, no amateur career, nothing but a big right-hand sneering at me. A feller whose been around years with all the best. He'd show me some respect after tonight.
The crowd cheered like mad as I was announced. They were only supposed to politely clap not take the roof off. Odd shouts greeted Malpass from the business executives and a smattering of light applause.
He grabbed, he mauled, he back-pedalled, he threw his right hand four times and pawed with his left like a big tart. He hadn't a clue. A whooshing left hook that wouldn't knock the top off a pint and a big right-hand. He winched it back to the side of his ear like a castle drawbridge. Snick, it settled in cocked and ready. He'd launch it when he saw the target. The first time I'd shown him my chin then ducked when it set off. My knees were bent and my eyes on it. It skimmed across my skull like a howitzer shell. I saw a sheet of fire from the friction. It was a 22 inch gun of a punch. After 6 rounds he hadn't the strength to even winch the drawbridge never mind fire the gun. He was that knackered he was floundering, very close to sheer panic. He reminded me of a kid I'd rescued when I'd been a lifeguard. A feller had been clinging to an upright under the south pier on a rising tide and the sea choppy. I'd grabbed his collar as I'd been swept past. He'd stuck to me like burning rubber. Malpass, 16 stone of professional boxer, grabbed me the same. I'd chased and harried, thrown punches non-stop from all angles, called him all the yellow bastards I could think of, stuck my thumb in his throat and spat on him. I'd given him one real dig in the ribs with a short right. His knees had buckled and if he hadn't been clutching me he'd have gone down. His arms were too long and I couldn't get inside with straight punches and when I did he grabbed me, grabbed me in grim death. I
still wanted to hurt him, I still wanted to knock him out and break something and unless he opened up I'd never get the chance. The next round was the 7th so I'd not much time.
'Just carry on and you've won this,' Tommy said, as though it was all fixed. He was standing at the side of the ring in his powder blue suit.
'You've won this Paul lad,' Kenny concurred happily. 'Just keep it up and stay out of trouble. He's knackered, looking for somewhere to drop.'
Malpass wasn't knackered. His strength was still there and his breathing wasn't heavy. He was just permanently defending, surviving, trying not to get hurt, to fight back.
'Seconds out,' the ref called.
He grabbed me round the chest in the first 5 seconds.
'Let go and fight you fucking coward,' I said and butted him.
He dropped like a stone to spread in a star on his back.
The ref started counting. At two he leapt to his feet and then dropped onto one knee obeying George Biddles's screams to get down, get back down. Get down, get down, get back down! 'Gerr up you fucking coward,' Del shouted, while others jeered as they watched Malpass win on a disqualification. Winning on a technicality but I'd won morally. I didn't give a toss about the decision. I'd shown him who was boss, and the ratings in the 'Boxing News' proved it the following Friday. I didn't get the decision but I'd won. Malpass was now 15th but I was 13th, rated two places higher, and I'd be fighting the first Monday of next month against Tom Kiely, from Brighton, rated 5th.
Two fights and I was top of the bill already in my own name. Paul Sykes from Wakefield had arrived on the boxing scene. Yorkshire Television thought so. They wanted another interview between me and Malpass, to give our explanations for the controversy. Apart from Malpass arriving too late because his car had broken down on the way and being alone it wasn't any different from the week before. Same little window-less room, same flasks and Punch magazines on the same little table. Cath sitting by my side.
What reason could I give for butting him? He wouldn't fight and I butted him hoping he'd lose his temper. I didn't want to hurt him any more than necessary. Just enough to provoke him. Nobody was more
surprised, when he went down, than me. He'd been out yes, but he was up at two ready to fight. He'd looked mad enough to do so until he'd heard George Biddles screaming. Too long and complicated for a television interview and besides everybody knows what happened, all those that matter anyway. He'd been glad to get back down Del had said and he'd sneered while he was counted out.
He apologised for his behaviour last week but he'd genuinely believed he'd beat me easily. He'd been genuine in his derision if he thought that, a bully 's mentality. He was only a lad really, a great big feller but only a lad.
He'd been cock of the walk years in South Elmsall, knocking kids sparko in night-clubs and boozers since he left school. It was this ability that got him into boxing. He'd knocked them over just the same in the ring until he fought Austin Okoy and he knocked Malpass out for the count of 10. A defeat like that should have given him some respect and then Tom Kiely beat him on points. If he were a bully he'd be thinking about packing in, but no, he'd flattened Peter, and genuinely thought he'd flatten me. Maybe he was thinking there couldn't possibly be another feller who could fight better living so near, like I did, but I was the best in Yorkshire and always had been. He knew it now. No sneers, leers, snide remarks, just a big nice lad in the company of elders and betters. Oh yes, I'd shown him who was the gaffer. I'd shown him how to fight in the ring, clubs and boozers. We were sitting in the same places before Fred Dinnage.
Malpass finished by saying, ' but I got the decision and that's what counts.'
'What have you to say to that Paul?' Fred asked, swivelling to me.
'My corner said I was so far in front all I had to do was use my
head and I'd win, so I did and I lost. '
A couple of cameramen laughed at the big dummy getting it wrong and the interview was over. I was pleased I'd made an impression, said something original and got a laugh. I'd stick in people's minds then. It would make selling tickets easier. Once they'd seen me they'd come again but I had to get them to come first.
* * * *
Wendy was gorgeous, absolutely. She was almost in full bloom now she'd left school. She'd caught up with her work and the novelty
had worn off and she no longer went back early. She was the oldest l6-year-old in the world. On the cover of 'Vogue' she ought to be, I'd often think, watching her walk through the mill gates. She was a model for tweed skirts and sheepskin coats advertising the girl about town in winter. She was all legs and teeth and elegance. She didn't have a s
ingle feature which wasn't perfection. Her nipples were two pink football studs and the rest was creamy skin. No fried eggs and pink tramlines anywhere, stretch marks or sagging skin. At the top of her legs she had a rich tangle of black hair and she had fine black hairs down the front of her shins. She wanted to shave them off but I told her not to.
'Why can't I?' she snapped one dinnertime in the 'Smiths Arms' .
'Because I like it that's why,' I explained.
'But women don't have hair on their legs like fellers you know,' she argued fiercely.
'Now that's just where you're wrong,' I smiled 'You've got hairs on yours'
She had a drink while she thought of an answer.
‘But they're unsightly. Walking about with hairy legs,' she complained.
'Not to me they're not. They show the natural side you're always trying to hide. What everybody tries to hide. Women shave under their arms but you don't. '
'Ah bloody would if you'd let me!' she exploded.
'OK, but if you shaved under your arms I wouldn't be able to smell you. You'd lather up with roll-on and then smother yourself in scent and all I'd get is chemicals up my nose. I like to smell you. You smell better than coal or oil from some poor old whale's liver. Anyway who knows best, him that gave you the hair or the ones telling you to shave it off?'
She couldn’t answer.
She had hair on her shins, under her arms, at the top of her legs and on her head, hair just like coal from the Kent seam. Black and shiny, and when it caught fire it lit the room.
