by Paul Sykes
A little feller wearing a black uniform let Ron and me in the back door of the Tower. Ron was carrying my kit and leading the way.
'How did you know about this way Ron, I didn't know there was a back door?'
He had been the boyfriend of the daughter of the resident clown and had once had an affair with a trapeze artiste. It was the smell that brought me back from thoughts of the positions I could fuck a trapeze artist, it was a million year-old pisspots all half full.
'It's the lions,' Ron explained. 'They stink fucking rotten.'
There was a lot of activity around the entrance to the arena.
The ring was in place; it looked miles high, and people were rapidly filling the seating.
'Come this way Paul,' a feller in a white pullover said. 'you've got your own dressing room.'
Ron disappeared and I followed the feller round a corner and there in front was the room complete with a red tinsel star fastened to the door with a drawing pin. He left me alone in the filthy, stinking, silent little room. It was worse than a punishment cell. No window and the heat was full on.
Changing into my kit slowly, taking my time, telling myself over and over again this was a serious business and trying to wind myself up, I knew it was a joke. I was really and truly a Blackpool side-show now. I stood to warm up and practice slipping inside. Bend the left knee, half a step to the left. Right hand over the top. Left hook, right
in the ribs, another left. It wasn't there. I tried for half an hour, bending stretching, throwing combinations but all the time I was thinking bollocks to it all. I'll take it as it comes. I couldn't for the life of me get in the mood.
Nobody came to see me and I couldn't hear a sound. Time dragged like a sack of potatoes. I was beginning to think it was all over and I'd been forgotten when little Kenny arrived with a chirpy smile to bandage my hands. Kenny liked me. I didn't give him any problems at all. He'd no need to bolster my confidence, worry about my fitness and he didn't have to teach me how to fight. I was a trainer's dream and he knew it.
We were standing in the entrance waiting for the ring to clear when the feeling I'd been trying to achieve swept through me. It was such a marvellous relief. I wanted to fight, my body was screaming for action and it was the sight of the giant African standing with his second about ten feet away that brought it on. He looked arrogantly my way and licked his lips, hunched his enormous shoulders and rolled his big head. He was about as mobile as an oil tanker. I'd sink him him with whacks in the belly, double him up and then belt him on the chin. A lump like him wouldn't be a problem at all. The crowd had come exclusively to see me from the cheers I received walking round the ring to my corner. The faces were too far away to recognise.
He didn't throw a single punch until the fourth and then he threw two which hit me on the nose and didn't hurt a bit. Every time I tried to get near him he put his hand on my head, locked his arm and I couldn't get any closer. I feinted one way and then another and tried every trick I knew but when I slipped his glove he leaned on the back of my neck like Ali did Frazier in their second fight. I couldn't hit him. My neck and back were aching when I came back to my corner at the end of the fifth.
'I'm bored,' I said to Kenny, sitting on the stool. 'Don't say that,' he panicked.
'Don't say that. Just keep doing what you're doing now but keep your guard up.'
I'd been dropping my hands hoping the feller would open up and
leave a few gaps but he wouldn't even take advantage of an open target. No wonder he'd never been off his feet. Half-way through the
sixth he pushed me onto the ropes as I tried to trap him into a corner.
I bounced off and caught him with a long sweeping left on the temple. It stunned him and his knees sagged. I leapt in and battered him with two right-handers before the ref bustled between us and raised my arm. The giant African slipped down the ropes into a sitting position and then lost consciousness.
His second nipped through the ropes and rushed to his side with a towel and a small bottle of smelling salts.
It was Wilson again, another prize dumpling for me to batter and I had. My insides turned icy and spread until I was numb and freezing cold all over. Please God, I prayed, let him be all right. Don't let me have hurt him. I didn't mean to hurt him only enough to win, that's all. Please God bring him round.
My heart was in my mouth watching the tiny second fussing over his man and sure enough he started to get results.
Slowly, like a man who ached in every joint, the African pulled on the ropes until he was upright. Then he walked round the ring holding the top and trying to find his bearings. The following night I saw myself on YTV clapping like a demented seal in my gloves. I couldn't remember clapping, just the overwhelming flood of relief at his recovery.
Lots of people came to the dressing room, all full of praise and stinking of booze. They were vultures gloating over a fat dead body and revelling in the fact their mate could cripple people with his fists. Breezy had champagne bubbling over the floor and others were looking at me as though they'd witnessed a miracle. There were others, faces everywhere.
Unlacing my boots slowly, making it last, not wanting to look at
them I went over what had happened.
He'd got up, a bit wobbly but he'd seemed all right. No, I'm getting paranoid thinking I've crippled him like Wilson. I didn't hit him at all like I did him. I deliberately aimed at his nose and he was on his way down when the second punch landed. He'd been below shoulder height so I couldn't hit him full belt even if I'd tried. No he's OK, and these aren't vultures either. They're pals, fellers I've known years.
'What did you say?' I asked, sitting up with my laces slack.
'Come on, there's a party at the Double O' It was Breezy, grinning
like a Cheshire cat. 'We'll all be there. Cath, your Kay, her mate.
You know, everybody.'
Until Manny paid me I hadn't got a carrot and even then I'd only £400 to draw if I was on the usual grand. I'd subbed the rest in eighty pound cheques.
'Get yourselves off and I'll be along as soon as I'm ready.'
No more than ten seconds after the dressing room cleared, half a dozen birds, the kind of birds I'd seen before, beer ponces, came steaming in as though they owned the place.
'Go on, piss off,' I growled, and slammed the door.
The last fight was over and the seating empty. Manny was standing at the side of the ring patting his pockets.
'I'm sorry Paul, I did think you said you wanted eighty pounds every week and I haven't a penny on me.'
'I'd have been on a grand tonight wouldn't I?'
His nose kicked into gear as he nodded. 'Yes, that's right.'
'Well I've kept a list of the dates of the cheques you've sent me Manny and you owe me £400 and I need it, I'm skint.'
'Oh don't worry Paul.' He laughed, a genuine laugh. I leaned towards him to catch the smell of booze but he was sober.
'You're on your way now. I can see the lights. You'll have the cheque tomorrow, don't worry.'
'And you'll still send the one for eighty every week?'
'If that's what you want, certainly.'
Cath, and the rest were downstairs in the '001', in the disco part. There were no chairs to sit and give my aching back and neck a rest and the music was deafening. It was dingy and the air stale and used but for all that I didn't feel too bad. Manny had saved me a nice few quid by not paying me. I'd have knocked a huge lump out of my purse if he had.
'Get yourself a drink,' a voice whispered and something was slipped into my hand. It was ten tenners and the feller had gone before I could say anything. He was one of Larry's pals. Larry, who had been one of my best pals in Hull gaol and was now standing in a corner grinning.
'What's his game Larry?'
'Oh, he's got his own business in West Germany,' he said nonchalantly. 'He's been a pal of mine for years. I mentioned you were potless. '
Larry and his pal had been two of the people I'
d thought of as vultures in my dressing room. I was riddled with guilt until Cath joined us wearing the scruffy brown dress she wore about the house.
'Why are you wearing that dress Cath? Hinting you want some new clothes?'
She grinned merrily. 'Am I hell you silly bugger. I can't get owt else round me.' She pulled the dress tight to outline her belly. She had about six weeks to go and it looked as though she was carrying an elephant.
Suddenly the enormous responsibility of her condition hit me. She was 16 and giving birth to my baby. The floor above caved in and I was clawing my way through heavy lumps of concrete on my way to the bar.
'Don't you remember me then?' asked a girl sitting on a bar stool at my side as I waited to be served.
'No I'm sorry, should I?'
It was exactly 5 years since I'd last seen her. She had been 19 and one of the Golden Mile pin-up girls. She had the needle to me in those days because I hadn't tried to get her in bed but I'd been living with Pauline and she was too partial to boozing for my liking. I could see her beauty would only last a year or two and she would go fat and sloppy and end the shape she was now.
'Of course you remember me. You used to work for my Uncle Peter. '
'Sorry, you must have the wrong feller.' I walked away feeling much happier until I saw Cath sipping from a balloon glass of vodka and orange at the bottom end. Before I could get to her, Breezy was sparkling at my side.
'You've done it again then? '
'Done what again Brian?' I hated using his nickname.
'They've had to rush the feller you fought to hospital. He collapsed in his dressing room like the other feller did. '
It was the same drape curtain that fell before my eyes as the one when Cath told me she was pregnant outside the Mecca. I was engulfed under it's mantle. Time had no meaning and then I very slowly came to my senses. I analysed the punches I'd thrown again. He couldn't be hurt like Wilson. I hadn't hit him the same.
'No, no, Mr Sykes,' a nurse said hurriedly. 'No, he's all right. He's had X-rays but they were all normal. The doctor put it down to delayed action so don't worry, he'll be perfectly all right. He'll be kept in overnight for observation but his plane doesn't leave until ten in the morning. Yes, his trainer or somebody is with him. No, I'm sorry you won't be allowed to visit.' She hung up.
The whisky I'd bought tasted rotten. The disco stank and I wanted to leave. I wanted to lie on the floor and die. Cath was still sipping from the balloon glass.
'Home for you girl, ' I ordered. 'You need plenty of rest.'
She didn't argue or sulk but said merrily, 'I'm ready when you are,' and grinned.
Two young lads who played for the Manor and missed the bus drove my car while I sat in the back with Cath snuggled into my side, fast asleep. I had my arm round her warm little body all the way home, thinking how much I loved her.
* * * *
The following dinner time I'm sitting in the 'Smith's with Wendy when the landlord leaned across the bar and asked when I was fighting again. We were his only two customers in the public bar. Wendy had just folded the 'Gazette' with my photo and the African on the front page and put it on the seat between us.
'I'm not sure,' I said vaguely. 'It depends on the promoter.'
He lifted a glass and began polishing it with a towel as though it was a crystal ball and once he had it clean it would tell him the answer.
Wendy was bursting to tell him I'd fought last night and show him the size of the feller on the front page and brag a little bit. She pouted her lips and scowled.
'It's a while now,' the landlord continued, holding the glass to the light, 'since you fought the Yank at the theatre club.'
'Yeah, I know. Eight or nine weeks ago.'
He put the glass on the shelf and leaned across the bar to see me better.
'You must have been well paid then not to be having another.'
'Not bad. Eighteen grand after tax.' I hated nosey people who
knew nothing. The narrow-minded ones without brains.
His jaw dropped, lifted, dropped again and then he said, 'It's nice for some. I don't make that much in two years.'
His voice ached with resentment. 'How long did it last before you put him in hospital. Two rounds?' he asked sarcastically.
'Three. Well two and a half.'
He shook his head at the injustice of somebody like me earning more than him and then went into the other bar.
'Why didn't you tell him?' Wendy could pick me up and shake me sometimes. 'You should have shown him the picture.' She slapped the paper instead of me. 'He'd have felt a right fool then.'
'Because I didn't want to talk to him that's why, and besides he'll know he's a dummy when he sees the news tonight.'
'Yes, but .. .'
'Never mind yes but. His job is polishing glasses and emptying ash trays not questioning me and taking the piss. If I had my way he'd earn two bob an hour. Anyway I want to talk to you not him.' She was pleased with that.
It had been my practice to have a week of gallivanting after a fight and then start building my training up steadily to the next but now I didn't know when my next fight would be and I didn't care either. After the Wilson fight Manny had said to take a break and then I had to look after the lad but I had no excuses now. It was the beginning of a new season. I was the biggest draw in the country, the number one contender and I wanted to pack the job in. The landlord was only one of thousands who wanted to know my business, all thinking they had a vested interest like I was public property. I started gallivanting with a vengeance. Pubs on a dinner time, pubs of a night and then nightclubs. Newcastle, Sheffield, Liverpool, anywhere I had pals from the nick, but every dinner-time without fail I'd be outside the mill gates waiting for Wendy.
Since we'd been caught the second time I'd parked the car out of sight and waited across the road, hidden by the telephone box outside the dole office. Wendy had been given the benefit of the doubt but her mother was aching fit to bust to catch us again.
She came through the mill gates wearing a sheepskin coat and tweed skirt when I saw to my amusement Elaine, dressed in her 'phantom' clothes, walking my way on the same side of the road. If they didn't deviate they would both reach me at the same time. The
prospect of them meeting didn't bother me at all. It would be pleasant to compare them and congratulate myself on the improvement.
Wendy knew all about my relationship with Elaine, in fact both Cath and her referred to Elaine by the name Grotty. It was the name Elaine had had for years about the town. It was the first time I'd seen her since she'd given evidence in the turkey trial.
They both stopped when they reached me and smiled at each other. Wendy in innocent bewilderment, thinking I'd arranged it most likely, and Elaine malevolently.
I took them both into the best room of 'The Swan With Two Necks', a quite clean pub with excellent beer, and ordered a plate of sandwiches and three glasses of bitter. There wasn't anybody else in the room but us, horse brasses, oil paintings and old-fashioned tables with cast-iron legs. It was warm, dim, cosy, and very intimate.
Wendy was on edge, intimidated by Elaine's age and the topic of conversation. The Ripper had been at it again and she was revelling in the details. Making them up as she went along to show Wendy how tough she was. After 10 minutes she instructed me to keep an eye on her drink and left the room. The dinner-hour passed in giggles and kisses and only the glass standing on the table like a tombstone reminded us she had been.
She returned after I'd seen Wendy back to work, wearing a brightly-coloured dress with flowers printed on it and a beige-coloured jacket. Her lipstick was cockeyed and two daubs of rouge had been applied with a whitewash brush. Her eyebrows were different colours. She hadn't altered one iota. She was followed into the best room by two fellers who took the seats opposite. They were Welshmen talking about cooking. It didn't need Einstein to work out they were two kitchen screws from Cardiff or Swansea on a catering course across the road in Wakefield nick.
Wakefield nick teaches the tricks of the trade to all the prison service. The aggro over the years I'd had with kitchen screws made Elaine into an angel. Each and everyone determined to feed me the same amount the others got, fellers half my size who did nothing but lay on their bunk with a mucky book. The fundamental reason why I'd been on 43 in Durham was due to the meagre food allowance and ' being half starved. The old feller said I looked like something from Belsen when I'd first come home.
One was a massive feller, built like fat Mick Sellers but much taller, while his mate was average height but fat. Both probably sampled the rations far too often.
'What do you reckon to this part of the world then?' I asked, nice and friendly.
They liked it, thought it wonderful and the beer not bad either. They were working at the place across the road, nudge nudge, say no more and were going back at the end of the week. In my back pocket I just happened to have some excellent Nigerian bush which I'd acquired to help me forget about the pressure I was under. I didn't smoke at all but since the African I'd started doing lots of things I'd not done before. Skinning up, I asked if they'd would like some. The elephant spluttered and couldn't form his words for shock but his little fat mate said, 'I don't mind if I do' , as nice as you please.
The elephant gasped. 'Do you know what he said?'
Sure I do boyo. He said "Do you want a reefer?" Well I do an' if you had any brains you'd have one.' He looked at me then with a nice smile and asked if it was good stuff.
'Here you are mate. You tell me.'
I offered the elephant one but he shook his head so hard the dewlaps swinging under his chins blew the match out.
Elaine was staring at the lace curtains over the window and hadn't said a word for ages.
