by China, Max
Chapter 23
Mid September 1975
Two months after the tragedy, the newly renamed Miller attended the inquest in a daze.
The following day, the local newspaper billboards carried the headline: Drownings at Devils pond: Coroner Records Accidental Death Verdict.
Kirk sat with a newspaper arranged in his lap, a cup of coffee in one hand, turning the pages with the other. He was searching for the article with the vested interest of someone who had been involved and wanted to read the reporter's perspective. Steamy tendrils rose on the thermals from the surface blackness of the hot liquid and drew his eye. He stared through the steam absently, reflecting on the proceedings of the day before.
A crowd of news reporters had crammed into the courtroom, easily dwarfing the group of relatives and friends. However, if the journalists expected new developments, they were disappointed.
Kirk recalled how Miller had taken the stand to give evidence. At the start, he'd appeared oddly detached, distracted even, leaving sentences to trail as his thoughts wandered. Several times, the coroner had to prompt him to continue. By the end, he'd broken down. As he made his way unsteadily to his seat, his father rushed to help him.
Next, an expert witness delivered a lengthy report on his findings. "High levels of exposure to hydrogen sulphide gas would have resulted in a rapid loss of consciousness. Actual deaths from breathing large amounts of this are quite well documented, but most of these have occurred in work settings…" Several people exchanged looks as the expert hit his stride, needlessly going into finite detail. "In places like sewers, animal processing plants, waste dumps, sludge plants, oil, and gas well drilling sites, as well as tanks, and cesspools—"
The coroner interrupted, "I think we get the gist."
Clearing his throat, the expert continued. "There's evidence the site was used earlier for mining operations. We picked up the highest readings I have ever encountered…"
When he'd finished, the coroner remarked, "It seems to me that this place known as 'Devil's pond' should be made inaccessible, or better still, filled in entirely."
The coroner read out the postmortem results, concluding that whilst high levels of hydrogen sulphide gas undoubtedly rendered all three boys unconscious, the actual cause of death was drowning.
In describing the case as a tragedy, the coroner also said it highlighted the dangers of swimming during hot weather, in unknown waters.
Back from his thoughts, Kirk continuing reading, and found that, with no fresh information to report, the rest of the article concentrated on the number of bodies recovered from the water, regurgitating earlier reports, re-quoting what various sources at the scene had said at the time. He scanned for anything he hadn't read before.
The first boy's body took two hours to recover. He knew that, he'd been there. He jumped two-thirds of the article and continued further down the page. The operation recovered thirty skeletons in all. Twenty-three were thought to be much older than the rest, possibly dating from the mine disaster a hundred and fifty years ago.
Murder squad detectives are concentrating their efforts on the bodies found wrapped identically in boiler suits and weighted with stones.
Forensic pathology identified five sets of female remains, and those of two men, one of whom was middle aged with a malformation of the upper jaw. Identified as in their late teens or early twenties, apart from the skeleton with the deformity, all had died up to thirty years earlier, assumed to have fallen prey to the same killer.
At the time of the report, the identities of six murder victims remain unknown. The seventh's name is being withheld until relatives are notified, is thought to be a young Chinese woman, who has not been seen since 1967.
The investigation continues.
Kirk knew all of that from other articles he'd read, but the footnote at the end of this particular article, contained something new.
Last week, local farmer Robert Scraggs, announced his intention to fill the pond saying, "I was fed up with the rumours of evil spirits and the Devil, and that. The pond's on my land. It's down to me. I'll fence it off and leave it to grow wild. It'll cost me a lot of money, but it's worth it for the peace of mind."
When asked about the many rags tied up in the trees, Scraggs replied, "Those clooties? They've been there as long as anyone can remember. A new one appeared last week, never seen any like that before; bright yellow silk . . . no one knows who puts them up. It's another of the many mysteries that surround these parts. They say the Devils Crake . . ."
Already aware of the local superstitions, he skipped the rest, but wondered who had written the article. The reporter's name was Henry Black.
Chapter 24
Amateur boxing coach, Mickey Taylor, first met Thomas Carney when his mother took a cleaning job at the gym, and took him there one night after school.
When the boy was twelve, his father was shot by a hit man in a case of mistaken identity and had died three months later. Although devastated by the tragic turn of events, Thomas reacted by lashing out at the world and getting into trouble at school. By the time he was fifteen-years old, his mother had sold up and moved south to get away. Already getting himself into fights all the time, the last thing she needed was to have him running with the gangs as he grew older.
Mrs Carney had asked Taylor if he could teach him to box, she knew his dad would have wanted that, and she hoped it might keep him out of trouble.
"How old is he?" Taylor said.
"Sixteen."
"Get him some kit; bring him back when you have, and we'll see what we can do."
Taylor admired her courage. It took balls, not only for an attractive woman to walk into a place like that, but to keep coming back. It was only natural to expect the men and boys to eye her lustily and speak in undertones about what they'd like to do to her, given the chance, but one of the men, speaking louder than usual, made a comment within earshot.
"I heard that! her high Manchurian accent cut through the gym and marching straight up to him, face blazing with anger, she said, "I'm not having that, you keep your filthy thoughts to yourself. You apologise and right now!"
The offender's name was Gerard, and he made the mistake of trying to laugh it off. A group of his cronies joined in. Thomas stepped in quietly, saying, "She said apologise." There was a firmness and quiet certainty in his voice. Terry, the club's assistant coach, intervened. Taylor stopped him. He wanted to see what panned out. Gerard looked at Thomas and laughed. "And if I don't?"
The whole gym had ceased activity; all eyes were on the growing confrontation. The boy was outwardly calm, but insistent. When he spoke, his voice seemed loud against the silence. "Apologise," he demanded. The word hung in the air. Gerard moved within striking distance; Thomas balled his fists. Taylor planted himself between them. "Sort it in the ring guys."
Terry prepared the gloves, and once they were ready, they entered the ring, where Taylor waited to referee. Nobody expected it to last more than a few seconds; after all, it was a contest between a fully-grown man, and a sixteen-year-old boy.
"Sort it out like men," Taylor told them, as he stood between the opponents, "now shake hands." Carney refused.
"Box," Taylor said, stepping out of the way.
Thomas came forward, unafraid. His opponent poked his tongue out, mocking him. The boy stung him with a jab to the mouth, bloodying his lips.
Gerard wiped blood from his mouth onto the back of his forearm and staring at it in disbelief; his face became a mask of rage.
Is this where the expression seeing red comes from? Taylor thought.
The man exploded, striking out in anger, catching the boy high on the shoulder, hard enough to spin him half way round. Another shot deflected by his glove; a further one, glanced off the top of Thomas's head, catching him as he bobbed under it. Thomas cut loose with a rapid, left, right, left combination. It lacked the power to trouble his opponent.
Gerard began to relish the prospect of teaching the kid a l
esson. He threw a few more energy sapping punches, but couldn't nail him with a clean shot. Then he did something dirty. In the instant that Taylor looked at the clock on the wall, he butted the boy full on the nose. Thomas dropped to one knee, holding his face.
Terry yelled, "Mickey - he's just fuckin' nutted him!"
It took two men to restrain Mrs Carney from getting into the ring. Gerard knew he'd gone too far, and he held his arms out away from his sides, exposing the palms of his gloves as he muttered a half-apology.
A few of the men watching started turning hostile, muttering threats. One mounted the apron, and tried to get into the ring, to get at Gerard.
Terry pulled him back, calming him. "Leave it, Roy, we'll not be having a free-for-all. See that look on Mickey's face? He's not going to let that lie."
Gerard's cronies, sensing perhaps that they could become targets for the other men's anger, began backing away, towards the exit.
With the situation on the verge of getting out of hand, Thomas made it to his feet and advanced unsteadily in Gerard's direction. Taylor stood blocking him. "You've had enough, son."
Carney wobbled; his eyes rolled, one arm hung by his side. Slowly, his legs buckled, and he dipped into a collapsing pirouette. As Taylor reached to catch him, he sprang back to life. Ducking under Taylor's arm, he kicked his assailant in the balls, and as Gerard doubled forward, the kid brought his head down sharply with both hands, to meet the force of his up-coming knee. Gerard, stunned for a second, stood bolt upright, out on his feet. Carney administered the coup de grâce: a footballer's head butt delivered - because he was so much shorter - from below, straight into his teeth, felling him. His mother led the cheers from the group of men around the ring.
At the hospital afterwards, when Thomas received stitches to the jagged wound in his forehead, a broken tooth fell out from his torn flesh onto the floor. The two-inch scar didn't bother him. He wore it with pride.
Miller's school days passed by in a blur, and he left without a clear idea of what to do with his life. He followed Kirk's advice almost to the letter, and it helped lead him out of the trough of guilt and self-loathing he'd slipped into. Still shy, but more outgoing than his other persona, he set about toughening himself up, taking to long, cross-country runs. The solitude and peace were good for him. Out there in the wilds, he tuned in to nature. He learned to anticipate the birds that flew up, disturbed by his approach. He taught himself to listen, as well as to see. Slewing along under cover unseen, a grass snake announced itself with a pungent discharge, reminding him of the importance of smells.
As he ran, he shadowboxed, snatching at flies in the air. The day I catch one, I'm joining the boxing club.
A couple of days later, he found himself opening the street door into the gym one of his friends had recommended. Oddly enough, the smell hit him first; the stale odour of toil, sweat and boot leather, which he'd later discover was partly the tang of well used gloves. No wonder they call it a stable of boxers, he thought.
Half way up the stairs, someone opened the upper door, and the sounds of the gym came alive. He could hear trainers coaxing more effort out of their fighters and the sound of skipping ropes, swishing through the air faster than the eye could see and the squeak of boots scuffing against wooden floors, grunts of effort, the pounding of heavy bags and the staccato drumming of a half-dozen speedballs. The atmosphere buzzed with vitality.
Once inside, he approached the nearest instructor, a pug-faced man with a flattened nose-bone. "Is Mickey here?" he asked.
Turning his head towards him, the man looked him over and then pointed to the ring in the far corner. "That's him, over there." Waving an arm in the air to attract the other man's attention, he called out, "Hey, Mickey, newbie to see you!"
Mickey glanced up and beckoned him over. With his hands on his hips and a grubby white towel draped around his neck, he looked like a cornerman from another era.
"What's your name, son?"
"It's Miller."
"What's your first name?" he said, looking at him intently.
"It's just Miller," he said, his face deadpan.
A glint of amusement flashed in the trainer's flinty eyes, and he wiped his hand on the leg of his grey tracksuit and offering it, introduced himself. "Mickey Taylor."
They shook hands.
"We're going to need your first name for the application," he said, taking a form from the clipboard on the chair next to him. "Fill that in, then we'll get started."
There was a time when he only allowed proper fighters to train in his gym, but he'd relaxed the rules in recent years because he couldn't afford to turn money away. Among the usual array were various non-combatants: nightclub doormen, friends of fighters, wayward kids and the occasional policeman.
The boy in the ring was a middleweight prospect. Even though he was only sixteen years old, Taylor was sure he could take an ABA title and turn pro in a few years. There were always two, or three, sparring partners lined up ready for him.
Miller watched from ringside with interest until Taylor said, "Don't stand there gawping, go and see Terry and he'll get you started."
The warm up routine was a basic lesson in stance, and a demonstration of bag work, followed by skipping. Twenty minutes later, he'd built up a sweat, and Terry started him on the pads. Miller bobbed around in front of him, picking off the moving targets with ease. Terry moved faster, becoming more and more nimble on his feet, boots squeaking as he shuffled and turned, switching direction, making the pads harder to hit. Miller stuck to him closer than a shadow, catching the padded targets at will, with either hand.
Taylor, delivering coaching points to his boy in the ring, found his attention drawn by the blur of movement and the thwack of leather against leather, as the newcomer's gloves repeatedly struck home. "Terry, send him over," he called out.
"You said on the form you hadn't boxed before, son," Taylor said.
"I haven't," he said.
Taylor gave him a sceptical look, "Are you sure . . . What do you reckon, Terry?"
"If he hasn't, then I am a Chinaman."
Taylor scratched the back of his head. He couldn't think why the boy would deny it, but then he didn't seem to want them to know his Christian name either. Taylor was puzzled. Let's see how you handle yourself in the ring, eh?
"Are you up for sparring, boy?"
"I'm ready," he said.
"Let's get you gloved-up. Do you have a gum shield with you?"
"No, we're only sparring. I won't need it."
Terry raised his eyebrows.
Taylor leaned forward and whispered to his protégé, "Don't take it easy on him."
Thomas, who stood watching with each of his gloved hands resting on the top rope, stuck out his gum shield, a bored expression on his face.
As he slipped through the ropes onto the canvas, Taylor said, "No shame in it, boy. If he hurts you just nod to me, and I'll stop it, all right?" Moving back, he clapped his hands, "Box."
Carney came straight at him, arms pumping out a variety of punches. Working behind a ramrod, stiff left jab, he hooked, crossed and attacked.
Switched off from all conscious thought as his grandfather had taught him, he bobbed and slipped everything Carney threw at him. Only movement mattered; he closely defended and countered. Pure instinct took over. The countdown buzzer kicked in; Carney finished strong, it was all he could do to stay out of trouble; he flicked his eyes up at the clock - two seconds to go. Carney connected with a body shot which staggered him. Although he made it to the corner, the punch caused a delayed reaction. A full half minute later, he stumbled as it folded him at the waist.
Taylor called out, "Next!" With a note of self-satisfaction in his voice, he said, "He's been perfecting that shot for weeks, killer isn't it?" Miller nodded with a pained smile.
He only had himself to blame for allowing his concentration to waver.
In the showers afterwards, Carney approached with Taylor, who asked him for his real name.
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A puzzled look crossed his face. "It's exactly as I wrote on the form."
"Why did you tell me you'd never boxed before? Thomas could barely lay a glove on you. You're not a ringer are you, son?" Taylor was priest-like, inviting confession.
"I used to spar with my grandfather when I was a kid about ten years ago. That doesn't count as boxing, does it?"
Taylor rubbed his eye. "He must have been some kind of trainer, your granddad. Why won't you say what your first name is son?" He held the application form out in front of him. Pointing to the entry by the first name, he said, "You don't expect me to believe your name is just … Miller, do you?"
"I told you when I first walked in that my name's Miller. I don't want to be called Mickey, or Tommy, or anything else. I just want to be called Miller, end of story."
Chapter 25
Two and a half years later, a few days after his nineteenth birthday, Miller was walking home in a vicious rainstorm in the early hours. In the future, he would remember this night many times. The memory, when it started, was monochrome.
The drab greyness of the rain and its incessant hiss deflated him, and he pinched his face against it, eyes reduced to slits and though the insides of his pockets were damp, he dug his hands further in, looking to warm them.
A car drew up alongside. The passenger door swung open. Leaning across with his face peering up at him was his old form master, Kirk. "Get in, I'll drop you off."
He was so close to home that a lift now made no difference to him; already soaked from walking in it for so long, he simply didn't feel the rain anymore. "I'm all wet, sir."
"Get in," he insisted. "We have quite a bit of catching up to do."
The drive took only a matter of minutes and when they arrived outside his house, their polite exchanges extended into deeper conversation and Kirk asked him about his life, and how he was getting on, adding, with a grin. "Are you still making your way through enemy lines?"
