Sweet Agony

by Paul Sykes

  'No, has it hell.' I laughed. 'He should have ducked.' Nobody could accuse him of taking a dive.

  'When I saw him in the corner before you came,' she put her hand on mine, 'I thought, "Bloody hell is our Paul fighting him?'"

  She was proud of her big brother and she'd been worried about me too. It gave me a lovely sense of nearness and belonging. Close and family. Christ Almighty 18 months ago I only knew her name and now I had a lovely little sister. She was a real little beauty too. My pride in her was enhanced because she was feeling sorry for my opponent.

  'You're wanted on the phone,' a girl called, pointing at me.

  On my way Del called across, 'Get this down your neck brother,' and waved a glass of champagne.

  'Let's see who this is on the blower Del. Won't be a minute.'

  It was Alex ringing from Pinderfields telling me to come quickly.

  'He's in a bad way lad. Come as quick as you can.'

  'OK Alex. Five minutes.' I hung up feeling angry at Wilson for being soft but pleased he'd given me the chance to see Alex. Apart from when I'd been in my corner I'd not seen him all night and thought he'd gone back to London.

  Wilson had been taken straight from the ambulance into the operating theatre and if it hadn't been for Mcgill he would probably have died from a brain haemorrhage.

  'How do you mean Alex? Why, what happened?'

  We were in a small, dark, lobby, Alex, his son Greg, and me, somewhere in the labyrinth of corridors. It was Greg who answered.

  'The Board of Control doctors were drunk or something.' He was angry, fuming really. 'They hadn't a clue.' He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips thinking of what he'd like to do with them. 'This feller, him in the white tuxedo who was with you, climbed in the ring while they were scratching their heads and pulled off his boot. He yelled at the others, 'Send for an ambulance,' and the next thing he's brought here.' 'It's touch and go,' Alex added quietly.

  Not in Pinderfields it wasn't. It was the best hospital in the world for brain and spinal injuries. Brains having priority. Anyway a haemorrhage wasn't much. A tiny artery bleeding a bit. Doctors and nurses getting all kinds of overtime poncing about. Wilson will come out with a wad of cotton wool in his ear and a prescription for aspirins and they were all pretending to be worried because it was the proper thing to do. I didn't care if Wilson was in one room and his head in another. He meant nothing to me, only a reason for spoiling a good night out.

  A nurse came into the lobby. I hated nurses, always had done. Looking to marry a doctor and hanky-panky on the night-shift with the coppers. They were phoney and the bedside manner was something they adopted, wore it like a cloak and it wasn't genuine at all. A variation of being a screw. 'Get off that bed,' 'No smoking,' 'Sit up straight.' Yeah, nurses couldn't kid me.

  'Come back tomorrow,' she ordered. 'He'll be in the theatre most of the night. '

  'How is he?' Alex asked.

  The standard, phoney sympathetic smile. 'It's too early to say yet.'

  'You get yourself off,' Alex said. 'Come in the morning. I'll see you here at ten o'clock.'

  Alex loved fighters, all fighters and now he was proving it.

  Wilson's manager had told him he couldn't stay as much as he'd

  like to because he had other boxers back in the States to look after, schedules to keep. Alex had volunteered to stay and he'd got his telephone number in New Jersey in case anything happened.

  Going back I wondered why Manny or Tommy hadn't been or even made any enquiries. If it was me they would be just the same, too busy counting the take, and what about Mcgill whipping the feller's boot off? He knew the game did old Mcgill, a tricky feller all round. No doubt he'd be on the firm soon. Northern Area Council resident doctor giving out tonics to the others. Bollocks to it, it had nothing to do with me. All I was to that lot was a pound note on legs like Wilson.

  They were leaving as I entered, all thinking I'd gone for good and unable to celebrate without me.

  'How is he love?' Kay asked. She was more worried now but I wasn't sure if it was for me or Wilson.

  'He's all right. They've everything under control.'

  The news didn't revive the spirit, it was as if Wilson's injury had knocked the life from them. Del and Ron had to get off, a long drive and all that. Burky had turned up in my absence and he too had to go, he had somebody to see in the morning. Kay, Diane and Cath were going although Cath would have liked to stay if she hadn't been pregnant she said with a grin, blaming me.

  It wasn't Wilson's injury I realised, driving home, but the excitement of the fight. It had knackered them completely.

  Cath had to be carried in from the car. She'd fallen asleep in the passenger seat like the night of Kay's gymkhana, the same dreamy curve on her lips. I kissed her forehead and thought of Wendy, wishing I'd never seen her and blaming Cath for introducing us. Her eyes stayed closed.

  Sleeping hadn't been difficult with the 5 little green pills and I awoke about my usual time, or near enough, about 6.20. No training today I thought, a nice relax and take things easy. See Ray about a path for the front garden, a shower for the bathroom, a proper one with doors like the one in 'Psycho' where Norman Bates stabs the bird, and then I might take Cath away for a couple of days. She deserves a break to put her mind at rest. But if I do I won't see Wendy and I must see her. Feeling guilty I went downstairs to make a pot of tea.

  Cath had her nose in the mug sitting up in bed. Her breasts were full, pointed and always in the way. Her back was round, stretching creamy white skin and her hair had fallen down the side of her face. The tip of her nose and the curve of her lips were all I could see. The crease in her elbow was as deep and as sexy as the one between her legs. I could feel the heat coming from her and her little warm foot was nestling against my knee. First thing on a morning Cath was the most fuckable girl on earth. Even better than Wendy.

  Terry Wogan was chirping away about a feller called Major Road-works wanting a record playing for the BBC virgins and I had a horn like a Belisha beacon.

  Cath placed the mug on the bedside locker then turned my way and snuggled under the blankets. She placed her little hand gently round my dick and rubbed her groin against my thigh. I cossetted one of her big firm buttocks and kissed her neck.

  'An American boxer is fighting for his life after being knocked out by the Wakefield heavyweight boxer Paul Sykes last night. Dave Wilson, from New Jersey, was rushed from the ring to Wakefield's Pinderfields Hospital after he collapsed a minute after the fight had been stopped in the third round.' That's me on the national news. Me, Paul Sykes from Wakefield. Fucking hell that will make a few people sit up.

  Christ Almighty I'd done it now, everybody would know me.

  Sell outs, bigger halls, a proper house with more rooms. No stopping me now.

  'That was me he mentioned then on the wireless wasn't it Cath?'

  She was sitting up again drinking her tea. She nodded and banged her nose on the mug. She was always doing it and saying 'ouch'. She made me laugh. It had to be her paddy mother I reckoned.

  'It was me then wasn't it?' '

  Yes.' She rubbed her nose with her palm, mad at herself for being clumsy.

  All thoughts of sex had vanished, including the horn as I got out of bed, remembering I had to see Alex.

  'He's in a bad way lad and it's still touch and go,' he said in the lobby where we'd been last night. He'd stayed throughout the night but Greg had gone. He was saddened and tired. He couldn't look worse if it was me and I'd been considering that on the way. In fact I'd been thinking lots of things connected with boxing.

  The way Wilson had been leaning on the ropes with his hands down and chin tilted had been a pure invitation to belt him. Had he been paid to lose or had he really been stunned? Was he such a rank amateur he hadn't developed the instinct to keep his chin down? No, he'd been out, definitely out but too fit to collapse. Leaning back with his head dangling. If the ropes hadn't been there he'd have been on his back. He wasn't in
my league though just the same, and what about not wanting me beaten, Manny and Co wanting to keep the golden goose alive?

  Wilson had been hand-picked with the knowledge he hadn't a chance like the Frenchman for Robbie Davies or Peter for Leon Spinks. Cannon-fodder that's all he was and I'd treated him as such. He'd got me on the national news and bags of publicity so his contribution hadn't been wasted and I'd fight somebody worthwhile next time. The public would demand it, and it wouldn't be long before I was earning real money. I'd Wilson to thank for that.

  'You can see him,' Alex suggested. 'He's in the ward across the corridor inside the door on the right.' I'd shake his hand, say I'm sorry and ask if he wanted anything. Play the game with him.

  Alex was wrong, the feller in the bed on the right was a little grey old man with white hair, but he'd been so sure.

  Stepping nearer for a closer look I saw it wasn't white hair but a

  wide crepe bandage and he wasn't grey but black, a pale black. It was

  Wilson lying so still he could be dead. He might have been 70 years

  old and dying of cancer. There'd been a mistake, this wasn't the same feller I'd fought last night. It might be his dad, but it wasn't him.

  'I'm afraid you can't visit now,' a tall, skinny nurse informed me as I stood at the bottom of his bed. An icy trickle of dread running down my leg, a head full of guilt and my heart beating like a gong.

  'Why not Miss?'

  'Because he's in a coma and it isn't visiting yet, not till tonight.'

  'Is it Wilson Miss?'

  'I'm sorry.' She smiled in sympathy, a genuine smile. She realised I was the feller who'd put him here. 'Yes it is but you're wasting your time love. He's in a coma.' It sunk in. He was in a coma. It had to be more than a tiny ruptured artery.

  'How long will that last?'

  'You can't tell love.' She walked right up to me like screws do when they want to lock up and then opened the ward door with a winning smile and backed me out.

  Normally I wouldn't have gone along but this wasn't normal. My brain was reeling with thoughts and emotions hitting it like I'd hit Wilson.

  The poor bastard, the poor lad, the poor, innocent lad. I'd killed him as I'd intended. Alex had me by the arm leading me back to the lobby. I didn't want to go, I didn't want to feel the impact of what I'd just seen. I'd killed the poor, innocent lad. Reduced a magnificent man to a withered, grey cadaver. Suddenly my stomach welled and I burst into uncontrollable sobbing. It wouldn't stop and I couldn't hold it back. Alex put his arm across my shoulders and led me to a corner in a tiny annex.

  'There lad,' he urged. 'Get it out. Go on, it'll do you good.' The poor lad had been set up. Set up by Manny and Co. for me to beat to increase the box office appeal and he hadn't a clue. They would have told him I was a pudding heavyweight having his sixth fight and I'd lost two already. Just a straight kid who was earning a living with his boxing skill and those despicable, mercenary bastards had fed him to me like bait to a shark. And now I'd killed him or near enough.

  I'd been so happy, so pleased, so fit and full of confidence I'd for-gotten all I'd learned and swallowed all I'd been told like a rank novice. And who did it benefit? Not me and not Wilson, that's for sure. Poor Wilson, thousands of miles from home and not a friend. The poor sod. The poor, poor lad.

  I knew it had been too good to last. I knew something had to happen. But why to him and not to me? I was the villain.

  Was I fuck a villain, not compared to Manny and Co. They were real evil, mercenary bastards. It was them I ought to have killed. I was under control now. Alex passed me his hankie. 'Here lad, blow your nose. He'll be all right now you just wait and see.'

  He came to the theatre club where I had to sort out some ticket money but when we arrived a bunch of television men were waiting. A microphone was thrust into my face and a feller asked how I was feeling. Alex led me away again and said to leave the tickets. I couldn't speak for fear of repeating the hospital scene.

  Fifteen days he lay in a coma and fifteen times I went to sit by his bed and then he recovered. It was just as if the spirit of life had climbed back into him. He seemed to grow and regain his colour. His face filled out and he was alive, alive and out of danger. It was as if I'd been pulled from a quicksand I was so relieved. He had visitors from all over the shop, all people who lived locally and knew of his fight for life. Kay and Diane went to see him, the old feller and Burky. He had more visitors than York Minster every day. A doctor called me into his office 5 days after he'd regained consciousness, a youngish, sporty looking type.

  'What must happen before I can send him home,' he told me over the desk, ' is to let him have a few weeks in civilian life and check him afterwards. If there're no ill effects we can let him go home.'

  Wilson moved into the spare bedroom and I set about trying to make it a time he wouldn't ever forget. He had no money for a start, not a red cent and his clothes had either been stolen or his manager had taken them back.

  'But I gave his purse money to his manager,' Manny explained over the phone. 'You know what boxers are like for borrowing money on the strength of a fight. '

  Wilson had to take things easy and not get upset. If it had been me I'd be dead now. I wanted to pull Manny apart like a fly. In the end he said whatever I spent he would make it up but I was almost skint myself. I had no debts but I had no money, or very little.

  For two weeks we were bombarded with invitations and one of the first was from Penistone WMC. It amazed me how many people wanted to send him home with happy memories.

  Watching him sign autographs and drawl in his Alabama dialect, he'd moved to New Jersey to further his boxing career, I felt like crying. He was such a gentle, quietly-spoken feller who'd only boxed to get out of the ghetto. He had no trade, no skills, only boxing, and I'd shattered his dream and was sending him home with his health in ruins.

  'Man ah don't blame you. 'Taint your fault. You jest did what yuh had to do,' he'd said when he'd been in the hospital. "Taint nuthin' to upset yourself about. '

  He was passed fit after a fortnight and on the eve of his departure we had a farewell party.

  Heppy, Margaret from the 'Malt' and a couple of others contributed the drinks and glasses and Burky laid on the chef again. It was more or less the same crowd as before with the exception of Del. He was in Kenya studying the horticulture but Michael came in his place. Davy Dunford turned up with a gang I'd never seen before with hair like multi-coloured hedgehogs and if it hadn't been for them the party would have been a wake. Punk rockers from Sheffield who didn't know or care about Wilson or anybody else. It wasn't the fact we all liked him and he was going home but the fact he was going home a cripple with his boxing career over.

  Tommy came for him bright and early to take him to the airport in Manchester, and brimming with bonhomie. It was the first time I'd seen him since the night it happened.

  We shook hands on the pavement and wished each other luck, both knowing the chances of meeting again were negligible. He had to blow his nose to hide his feelings before he got in the car and drove off.

  Cath didn't attempt to hide hers. She blew out her cheeks.

  'I'm glad he's gone,' she announced. 'It's bad enough with you clomping about the house without him an' all.' She had been in a state of perpetual wariness with two huge fellers in the house. I was glad to see the back of him for different reasons.

  Manny had already fixed me up with another fight and this time it was a genuinely noted fighter. One promising to reach the top unless somebody stopped him on the way. It was to be held in the Miami Beach Convention Hall over ten rounds and very probably televised live on State television. With Wilson in the house I'd kept the news to myself and repeated that two serious injuries were as likely as

  being struck twice by lightning. How many boxers have two near fatal injuries on their record?

  Plenty had one but none had two. Go home Wilson old pal. I've done my best and you'd have never reached the top anyway so maybe
I've done you a favour while you're still young enough to try something else. You've had a few birds, plenty of late nights, some good food and I've done my level best to make it right. Now fuck off and let me start training again. With all the late nights and booze I was beginning to feel sloppy and daft.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The feller Manny had said I was going to fight in Miami was called Tom Sharkey, a white heavyweight with a string of KOs behind him. The minute he'd told me I had the feeling I wouldn't. It had all sounded too pat, too straightforward and smooth. It was to keep me on my toes and not let what had happened to Wilson play on my mind. Not the injury, but the way he'd been conveniently forgotten afterwards. Then what my old pal Vinnie had said in the theatre club; during the time Kay had been laying down the law concerning Cat~ going to Heppy's, had to be taken into consideration. Vinnie knew Manny from way back, when Manny had started out life fly-pitching and then auctioning shoes from a pitch down south shore. Cheap shoes to the holiday-makers.

  Vinnie had kept me out of the nick back in '73 for a while longer and he'd marked my card about the Rhyl pension; every time I saw him he either showed or told me something to my benefit. From what he'd told me I gathered no more than what I already knew. Manny cared for nobody but himself and immediate family. And a pound note.

  Burky and his mate were going to Miami to watch me, with the two ticket sellers, and all the Yorkshire Executive Sporting club. Manny had sent my ticket with the instruction he would meet me at the airport and I'd have 10 days good sparring before the fight and would be staying in the Thunderbird hotel, some junta he organised between two hotels, to make an extra few quid and have a cheap holiday. Fitness wasn't a problem in the old chapel and it only took me a week to pull round but the gym had closed until the new season and I needed some sparring before I fought. With two weeks remaining he sent word the fight was cancelled, Sharkey had hurt his back during training, and to give the air ticket to Burky to bring over. Burky and his mate were still going.