‘Aye, there’s a few small places still, just gyms really. Nothing on the Shankhill that I know of – sorry.’
Smith was turning away but the coach wasn’t quite ready to lose the chance of a mention in print.
‘You should talk to our Paddy. If anyone’ll remember, he will. He’s around somewhere this morning. Hang on here. I’ll find him for you.’
Two young men climbed into the ring, their hands now bandaged and gloved, their heads protected by the helmets that Smith himself had never encountered in his own time. They began shadow-boxing in opposite corners, demonstrating the full range of their punches and bouncing up on their toes, never looking at Smith but aware that there was an unfamiliar spectator this morning. He allowed himself a little smile at the sight – the male animal in full display, the attempts to subdue the opposition before a punch is thrown. Outside the ring, a somewhat older man of thirty five or so was giving them instructions; just a warm up for a couple of rounds, nothing full on, a competition next week.
Good luck with that, thought Smith – if there isn’t a bit of history between these two lads, there soon will be. The man outside rang an unseen bell and there was an immediate flurry of punches. Though they were at about Smith’s own fighting weight, there was a noticeable height difference – at least three inches – and the taller one seemed the more powerful as well. But looks are deceiving, and within thirty seconds Smith had judged that the speed and the accuracy of the smaller boy would win him the points in a properly scored match. When the bigger man swung a huge right cross that missed, his opponent leaned away from it and then stepped in with a short right counter to the ribs that brought a temporary end to the proceedings. Smith must have flinched as he watched, feeling either the delivery or the impact of such a good punch, and then a voice at his side spoke.
‘You’ve been in there yourself, then.’
It was a heavy Irish accent and the speech was a little slurred.
‘A very long time ago, as you can probably guess.’
‘Never leaves you, though.’
The coach had returned to the group on the far side, adding his voice of complaint to that of the bell-ringer – how were they going to win competitions if they were beating each other up in training? Smith turned to Paddy – this could be no-one else. Every club has one. He had a faceful of clichés – a flattened nose skewed to one side, a permanently puffed lower lip, one ear half as large again as its companion.
‘That’s true.’
‘What were you? Welterweight?’
‘Yes.’
Paddy eyed him up speculatively and a little lopsidedly.
‘We sometimes get the older blokes in here, trying to get it back. You know the sort of thing. They never do. A few weeks and they’re gone.’
Paddy himself might be pushing seventy but in his present condition it was hard to be certain. Smith shook his head.
‘No, I’m definitely not trying to get back into that ring. Your coach said you might be able to tell me what happened to some of the old Belfast boxers.’
Paddy was not to be put off. He took the stance in front of Smith and raised his fists. On the other side of the ring, a couple of the men were watching and grinning.
Paddy said, ‘I think you still fancy yourself. Show me what you got there.’
A left jab – not even close to his jaw but Smith swayed away from it, keeping his own fists by his sides. Another jab, a little sharper with the same result.
‘What are ye? One of these Ali sorts? Are you going t’do the shuffle any moment now?’
Two more jabs and then an attempt at a right. The old man had no speed but if these landed they would bruise or draw blood. Smith tried to get a look at Paddy’s eyes and assess what was happening but they were squinting, half-closed as if Smith had already landed blows on them. Was this just a foolish old punch-drunk or had he, Smith, been made somehow? From the other side of the ring came the sound of laughter – they were all watching now, and they had seen this before.
There was the sound of a stick clattering to the floor and when the next jab came, its target had disappeared. With an open left hand, Smith tapped Paddy’s right cheek twice. The Irishman grunted in annoyance and lunged in with another right but it found only air – then two more taps a little more firmly, one on his left and another on the right. Now Smith had his hands up, and despite himself he was up on his toes, too, ready for the next assault.
‘OK, then,’ Paddy said. ‘Just making sure y’are not one o’these bullshitters. I can see you’ve done a round or two in your time.’
The old man stared across the ring and the young ones looked away and got on with their own business. Paddy began to walk towards the gym as he spoke.
‘C’mon, I’ll show you around. What was it you wanted to know?’
Wally Fitzgerald had boxed out of a gym owned by a man called Mullens, but Wally Fitzgerald had been dead for years. Mullens had become a promoter on the strength of his one excellent fighter but when the title bout was lost on a cut eye, nothing much more was heard of Mullens, and it didn’t matter because he was dead as well. Paddy’s conversational skills had taken a few hits over the years, as well as his physiognomy, but they got there in the end. The gym was still in business but now it was run by a fellow called Harmer, and to be honest said Paddy, with a look that could even have been construed as a warning, he didn’t think they actually did a lot of boxing there now. Smith had thanked him and said he might give it a try anyway – they might be able to put him in touch with some of Fitzgerald’s family. There had been a son, hadn’t there?
Paddy had said nothing then.
Smith continued, ‘A Jack Fitzgerald? Or Jackie?’
‘Oh no. I don’t know anything about him. I never knew the family personally, y’understand?’
Paddy wanted that to be understood, and as he walked away from the Academy, Smith reflected on the odd wording of that final answer – “I don’t know anything about him”. There had been a weighting on “him”. Paddy might have claimed that he did not know anything about Wally Fitzgerald’s family, about whether or not there had been children, but his answer had said otherwise. More than that, Paddy knew something about Jackie Fitzgerald that made him want to say he knew nothing. It also suggested that the said Fitzgerald was still around and could still be found.
At the bus stop, Smith worked out his route. He would need to go back into the central terminus and take another service out into the north of the city. Then there would be a walk to Mr Harmer’s establishment, where he would be able to continue his research into the history of semi-professional light heavy weight boxing in Northern Ireland. That little bit of sparring with Paddy had left him in a rather good mood. There is a decent club in Kings Lake – he could join it, get himself toned up and show some youngsters a move or two. Why not? He took out the morning’s first cigarette to celebrate, and decided not to inhale too deeply, just in case.
In comparison to his reception at the fitness establishment owned by Mr Harmer – whom Smith could never be certain that he had actually met – his welcome at the City Academy, where he had only had to do some sparring to save his honour, had been positively tropical. Beyond the two worryingly overdeveloped men that barred his way after half a dozen paces in, he could indeed see a couple of punchbags suspended from the low ceiling, and a few pairs of boxing gloves on a shelf but there was no ring. What there was, was a great number of weights and bars – weights of all sizes and bars of all shapes on which to thread them in order to torment the human body into ever more painful exaggerations. The two men in front of him had plainly been in such torment for many years – that must explain their rectangular form, their unsmiling demeanour and possibly their rather low-slung foreheads, too.
‘Members only.’
At least communication had been established.
Smith said, ‘Very good – just the sort of exclusive place I’m looking for. Where can I get an application form?’
&nbs
p; ‘You can’t.’
‘Have you run out? I expect demand is high, isn’t it? Do you have a waiting list?’
His mistake had been in asking three questions in quick succession – these had been enough to crash the software of the nearest specimen of homo musculans. On reflection, he thought, not a mistake; I wonder how many of these I can take down with well-directed inquisition. The second man stepped forward as if his accomplice had been assaulted by the visitor.
‘S’a private club. No new members. Eff off.’
‘Thank you. Perhaps we’ve got our wires crossed. I’ll talk slowly so that you can understand me. I do not want to join your club because I do not want to end up looking like you. I do not want to enter your club any further than this point here in case I breathe in any more of the hormone supplement-soaked atmosphere. At my time of life, that could be quite embarrassing. All I want to do is talk to someone for a couple of minutes.’
‘Who?’
‘Good question. Shall we say, someone intelligent?’
The stocky man with a moustache and a shaven head had been watching and listening from the far side of the gym since Smith had entered. Tweedledum had turned his head in that direction now, plainly awaiting instructions or rescue, and the bald head nodded once. Then Smith was escorted over to him. He had no illusions about why he had received such an unfriendly welcome – the moment he had opened his mouth, the moment they had heard his accent, he was persona non grata.
‘Who are you?’
The man was cleaning one of the machines, a bench with two arms that develops the pectoral muscles into dinner plates. He too was Irish, but several rungs up on the evolutionary ladder from his two companions, who had wandered off to a respectful distance.
‘Stuart Reilly.’
‘What do you want, Mr Reilly?’
‘I’m looking up some of the old boxers from the city, trying to track some of them down.’
The bald man folded the cloth he was using meticulously so that a fresh piece was available, and then he carried on rubbing. He had yet to look Smith in the eye.
‘And why in the name of all that’s effing holy would anyone be doing that?’
‘It’s a personal interest. I might write something about it.’
This chap did not seem half as excited by that prospect as the head coach at the Academy.
‘So why here? Anyone in particular?’
‘Yes. Wally Fitzgerald.’
Laughter then but the eyes which met Smith’s for the first time were very pale and cold.
‘You’re going back some there! Walter Fitzgerald did train in this place but you’ll not get much reminiscing out of him.’
Smith had become aware that more men were watching and listening as they talked; another two or three in addition to the welcoming party. There must be other rooms that he hadn’t noticed, and someone had given them the heads up. He had broken one of his own rules – this was not a public space.
‘Yes, I know he’s passed away. I wondered whether there was anyone left here who knew him, or whether I might be able to get in touch with his family.’
Something changed in the way the man was using the cloth. The rubbing became slower and more thoughtful, if such a thing is possible.
‘None of us knew Wally. Family, you say?’
‘Yes. I think Wally had at least one son. Jack Fitzgerald? Or Jackie?’
The cleaning had come to an end. The pale eyes were fully onto Smith’s for the first time, and the bald man was thinking before he spoke.
‘Not a member here, pal.’
‘OK, got that. Any idea where I might find him? Still in the area?’
If this was going to work, it had to be persistent to the point of being blatant.
‘You must really be into your history. First you give my two friends there some lip, and now you’re getting in my face. You know either of those two could pound you into minced beef with one hand and sell you to the local Itie restaurant for meatballs?’
‘I don’t doubt it for a moment. We’d never get it past the food hygiene regulations, though, not with my athlete’s foot.’
The bald man looked again, deep into the level stare, and if there was fear, he could not see it. He seemed to come to a decision, and the decision brought a brief smile to his face; Smith guessed that the man had decided to give this annoying little sod with his English accent and his walking stick what he wanted because he would soon realise that he didn’t want it – that is, if he was in a fit state to realise anything at all after he had found it.
‘I believe that the family still resides in the area, and I believe that some members of it frequent a pub called The Star Of The County Down on Clifton Street. Mr Reilly, you said?’
‘That’s right. Thanks for your help.’
‘No problem!’
The wintry smile took in one or two of the other faces as it turned to the next machine. Smith nodded to the rest and headed for the door. The purpose of that name-check was clear enough; by the time he reached The Star Of The County Down, there would be another welcoming committee. That should save some time.
But when he arrived, there was no sign of one – perhaps the bus service was just too quick and efficient. It was only the early lunchtime, of course, and though the weather was fine and the doors of the pub were wide in anticipation, the weekend drinkers had yet to arrive in any numbers. Smith counted only four as he made for the bar, and two of those were ladies of uncertain profession. The Star was not as ancient as Old Timothy’s but there were definite similarities; the same smoke, beer and politics had soaked deep into its fabric.
He asked for a small, cold lager – this was not a day on which he wanted to risk dulling his senses too soon. There was a distinct shortage of warm welcomes, and although he had got away with it so far, all his instincts told him that the man he was now ostensibly searching for - and who knows, he might actually get to meet him - was more dangerous than McCain and O’Dell. Jackie Fitzgerald… Smith could not remember him as an individual but there had always been a group of youngsters hanging around on the edge of the cell, admirers of Lorcan Quinn, anxious to gain his respect. Fitzgerald would have been one of those. Most of them had been in their teens, and so this Fitzgerald was probably in his late forties now – a different generation to the two old men he had already encountered, young enough to still be active in whatever sad remnant of republicanism still held sway in this corner of the city.
The solitary barman was not even half the likely age of Jackie Fitzgerald. No, he hadn’t heard the name but he was new here – and no, he wasn’t expecting much of a crowd now because there had been a big do last night. But if the gentleman cared to come back this evening, it was likely that someone would be able to point him in the right direction. Then he went back to polishing the glasses, and Smith felt oddly grateful that someone had been polite to him, even though he was English. As ever, hope must lie with the young and the innocent. Sometimes it seems that only those with little past can have much of a future.
He waited for fifteen minutes but only one more person came into the pub – a third woman who joined the others. She sat down, said a word or two to them and then looked up at the solitary gent at the bar. Smith anticipated being asked if he would like to buy a lady a drink, upended his own and was heading for the door before she could get back on her feet.
The wall across Alexandra Park was built in 1994, long after his own time, commencing on the day of the first official IRA ceasefire. Smith read that through twice to make certain that he had not misunderstood. No, he had not – in fact, this was one of a number of such constructions known as ‘peace walls’. Inevitably he found himself taking the idea apart and then he stopped. It seemed blindingly obvious to him that if you have to build a wall to keep the peace, you’re not actually keeping the peace – you are simply keeping the warring sides apart - but here, in Belfast, such contradictions become, have become over too many centuries, some upside-down version of norma
l. So he began to walk instead, admiring the artwork on the green corrugated surfaces, some of which was excellent. A large, purple cartoon duck had been particularly well executed. The path took him then to a gate in the wall where he was able to inform himself of later developments in the peace process. Seventeen years on, someone had decided that the two halves of the park – strikingly similar in most respects in that they both had trees and grass – might be rejoined on an experimental basis. The gates would be opened for limited periods. Catholics would be able to go south into the park, and Protestants would be able to go north…into the park. Quite what happened if one was on the wrong side when the ranger closed it at three o’clock each afternoon was unclear.
There was a small lake. Smith sat on one of the benches in the shade of a beech tree and looked at this lake and its half a dozen assorted ducks, and its little wooden landing stage for sailing model boats. No-one was doing so, but at the far end was a playground where some small children, young mothers watching, were running and climbing, far enough away to be more seen than heard. Soon he would allow himself to sit and stare, to play the game of this is what it would be like to be retired, but first he made himself go over the case. Somehow it had become a case, after all.
At the very least, Lorcan Quinn should be watching and listening, taking notice. If it came to his attention that Stuart Reilly or David Smith was making a serious effort to find Jackie Fitzgerald, Quinn was likely to do more than watch and listen. If Fitzgerald knew what had happened to Brann O’Neill, and knew too the extent of Lorcan’s involvement in that, then a nuisance had become a threat – and that was what Smith was relying upon. Quinn would need to take some sort of action. He might call again or he might send others to do the calling for him in person, but one way or another he would have to break cover; once he does so, Smith concluded, I have a chance of a shot.
And then there is the other business – his brother, Aidan.
Smith closed his eyes, hoping that he would not see it this time, hoping to hear only the sound of the ducks quietly gabbling to each other on the sunlit water and the distant shouts of children playing in the park. There was no need for their mothers to hurry them away. The opening hours of the gates had been extended for a trial period.
In This Bright Future Page 19
