by Kolton Lee
‘I thought you wanted to go to Janine’s party?’
‘That was earlier.’
‘So? What’s changed?’
Nina racked her brains to think of something that had changed. She could think of nothing. About to say anything and stall for time, Alan pre-empted her.
‘I tell you what Jimmy, why don’t you drive directly to my place.’
‘Right you are, Mr. Akers.’
And that was that. The Rolls pulled to the side of the road, did a three point turn and headed back the way it came.
6.
Wha Gwan watched as the slightly-built Indian girl entered the twenty-four-hour grocery store on the corner of the Uxbridge Road. The chill in the air reflected his mood. He hunched his powerful shoulders against the cold and sniffed loudly. His nose had been running since he had been sitting on the exposed bench in the middle of West London’s Shepherds Bush Green for some time. A line of snot trickled, untroubled, down on to his upper lip.
The bench was an oasis favoured by the neighbourhood drunks; three of them loitered nearby. If any of them felt brave enough to question the heavyset Wha Gwan about the temerity he had shown in usurping their position on the bench … they let it slide. The hurt on Wha Gwan’s face, the tension in those powerful shoulders, indeed the very set of his body as he eyed the three Indian people entering the grocery shop on the other side of the Green, told them that now was not the time to question his presence on the bench. Whatever was bothering the heavy-set young man in the full length, padded parka coat that loudly proclaimed its origins as New Jersey, it was a problem that he was best left alone to deal with. Full-time drunks tend to be more acquainted than most with the harsh realities of life and the glistening, brimming eyes with which the young man stared out at the world were no more than was to be expected. Were they not?
7.
With sweat running into his eyes and his arms beginning to feel like lead H took big, slow, methodical swings at the heavy bag. This wasn’t the way he usually worked. He usually used his time training with the heavy bag to work on his body movement, bobbing and weaving from the waist, aware of his footwork as he manoeuvred himself around the swinging bag. He usually gave it a jab, stepped to the left, the bag swung back, thwack! another jab, bend from the waist, to the left, to the right, thwack! two steps to the right, never crossing the legs, keeping his imaginary opponent off balance, never letting them predict your next move, thwack! thwack! a one-two combination, big step to the left, move your head, always presenting a moving target, thwack! big right hand. That was his usual routine. But not today. Today H took big, slow, methodical swings at the bag, pounding it, with all his strength, on every swing. Without his usual energy, without his usual bounce …
H had started the day with a row with Beverley. Days had been starting like this more and more often recently, but today’s row was different. Beverley had finally had enough of H’s gambling – that H had heard before – but this time she was saying she wanted out of their relationship. Beverley had threatened to move out and take Cyrus with her! H told her she was out of her mind. Despite the fact that they’d been together five and a half years, three years living together, she seemed not to be listening, she still didn’t seem to understand when he was serious and when he was jesting. He was certainly not jesting about Cyrus. If she wanted to move her black arse out of his council flat that was her choice. But take his son with her? She was out of her fucking mind!
The argument had escalated almost to the point of violence. Not quite, because although H was a cruiser weight and came in at a chunky 188 pounds, Beverley was a woman you didn’t want to go down that road with. They both understood that. If violence were ever to flare seriously between them one of them was sure to be very seriously hurt and neither of them knew who it would be. Beverley had nails like a big cat, she was as stubborn as a mule and she had a memory like an elephant; she could probably remember every day of her 28 years. H had once seen her leave a scratch on the face of a woman who had wronged her and the scratch looked as though it had been made by a mountain cougar. No, fighting was not for them. But certainly the argument this morning had been heated.
As usual, while H slept, it was Beverley who had risen and prepared Cyrus for school. As usual. She then took him into school. As usual. What wasn’t usual was that instead of going straight to work she had returned home. Just as H was rising from his bed, scratching his balls and ambling casually into the kitchen to see what was in the fridge. He was surprised to see her back at home and said as much. That’s when things became heated and nasty. It turned out that Beverley had come specifically to see him and talk.
At first H tried to laugh off the serious expression that Beverley wore, but once he could see that she meant business he felt his anger begin to rise. What really stirred him was that she didn’t immediately complain about his gambling, which is what he’d expected. They’d been over that course a thousand times before. At least this time H had five Gs, five big ones burning a hole in his pocket. No, this time Beverley came at him from a completely different angle. She attacked his boxing. She wanted to know how long he was going to put off doing real, honest work, to continue pursuing a dream in the boxing world that was long past its sell-by date.
Oh, shit!
His boxing was a taboo subject. It was accepted that this was his world, he knew what he was doing and Beverley should keep her opinions to herself. This morning that had all changed. Beverley attacked him about how his dream was ruining her dream, which was for the three of them to be happy; H’s dream was ruining their lives. She seemed to think that H’s gambling was somehow linked to his boxing and that if he gave up his boxing dream then his desire to gamble would fall away. H was stunned. As far as he was aware he had never, ever expressed anything about a ‘dream’ to her! So why did she assume that he had a ‘dream’ that needed fulfilling as a boxer? But that wasn’t even the worst. Her next blow was her rabbit punch. It blindsided H completely. Beverley didn’t go to yoga on Thursday nights. She went secretly to a Gamblers Anonymous meeting.
What?
H considered himself a conscious man and a cool customer but at that moment he could happily have torn out a clump of the hair Beverley was so proud of. Instead he offered to box her face. Beverley stood up and said if he was a man let him try. After the silence that followed she told him that he was an ignorant ox, he didn’t know what he had with her and Cyrus, and he was killing her love for him.
Beverley claimed to know him better than he knew himself. She said that she could see he was trying somehow to redeem himself through boxing, but if he didn’t hurry up and do it he was going to throw his life away trying! But she, Beverley Angela Hyacinth Fredricks was not going to let him throw her life away. And Hell would freeze over before she let him deprive their son of the rights and opportunities he deserved. It was tough enough out there already. Cyrus should not have to grow up with a punch-drunk gambling addict for a father who was never there and never had nothing to offer no how!
H stepped back, reeling, when he heard all of this. His heart raced as he sat himself down at the cheap kitchen table. Was she asking him to choose between his family and his boxing? She told him to read her lips. That was precisely what she was asking.
And so H was now in the run-down gymnasium in South London where he had trained for over ten years, pounding Hell out of a heavy leather bag that looked older than he did, thinking about life. Around him, the gym with its peeling paintwork, its dust and its grime, was abuzz with activity. Ten other boxers trained hard at various stations; on speed bags, shadow boxing, skipping, floor work. At one end of the gym there was an elevated boxing ring. Two boxers sparred with each other while Nick, the man from Belfast who set up the gym some twenty-four years earlier and who was now its gnarled trainer, watched from one corner. Six other boxers stood around the ropes.
The staccato, syncopated orchestration of the gym’s movement was held in place by the booming music system that
pumped out the music and words of the American rapper, the late Notorious B.I.G.
… SMELL THE INDONESIA, BEATS YOU TO A SEIZURE,
THEN FUCK YOUR MOMS, HIT THE SKINS TO AMNESIA …
The pounding, slapping, scuffling of leather throughout the gym mysteriously kept time to the music that dripped with the depraved violence of the deceased New York gangsta rapper.
… SUCKING ON THE TITS,
HAD THE HOOKER BEGGING FOR THE DICK,
AND YOUR MOMS AIN’T UGLY LOVE, MY DICK GOT ROCK QUICK …
H didn’t particularly like rap music, but the brutality of the lyrics and the beat somehow complimented his colleagues’ and his own pursuit of violence.
Matt, walked past H with a bundle of skipping ropes. Matt was Nick’s only son and at twenty-three was now training and managing fighters in his own right. He joined his father, standing outside the corner of the ring watching the two talented boxers, one in his early twenties, the other in his late teens. Both boxers were black – Sam and Blood – and both sparred stylishly with each other in their head guards. Blood, nineteen years old, was clearly the more talented; if he kept his rate of progress up, he would be destined for good things.
Nick watched the action with intense concentration, screaming his commands, He was old and grizzled now, wearing grey stubble and a sweat-stained T-shirt.
‘No punches to de head … I said no fuckin’ punches to de head! … Dat’s good, dat’s good … keep movin’, keep movin’ … slip dat jab, Sam, slip de fuckin’ jab! … for Chroist’s sake willya move your fuckin’ feet!..’
Nick looked over at the big clock on the wall with the red minute hand.
‘Roight, toime! Good work, Blood, you’re lookin’ good, son.’
Sam and Blood touched gloves. Sam climbed through the ropes and out of the ring, joining the others outside. Blood, meanwhile, prowled inside, staying loose. Nick looked around the gym.
‘So who’s next?’ Although he shouted this into the body of the gym his voice was drowned out by the gems delivered by the notorious one.
… AFTER SHE SUCKED THE DICK I STABBED HER BROTHER WITH THE ICE PICK …
‘Oiy!’ Nick gave a shrill, piercing whistle. ‘Which one of you useless, fuckin’ toime wasters is next?!’
You can take the man out Belfast’s south side but can you ever take Belfast out of the man? H didn’t think so.
… BECAUSE HE WANTED ME TO FUCK HIM FROM THE BACK …
‘Turn dat fuckin’ rap music shite off!’ Nick’s face went beet root red and flecks of spittle flew from his mouth.
Benjamin, a lanky, white fighter from New Cross stepped quickly over to the battered old stereo sitting on a shelf on the wall and pressed ‘stop’. There was a sudden silence in the gym.
‘T’ank fuckin’ Chroist for de sound a soilence! Now which one a you brain dead, prickless excuses for proize foighters hasn’t yet been up here?’ Nick looked around at the open faces of the boxers below. ‘Have you all been in?’ Silence. People now began to go back to their work out, most of them already having been in the ring with Blood.
‘What about H?’ It was Matt. Nick looked over at H standing by the heavy bag, hands on hips, blowing hard.
‘D’you fancy a turn in the ring, H?’ Nick said it scornfully. H ambled slowly over and climbed up to the outside of the apron.
‘I thought you’d forgotten I was alive.’
‘I had!’
‘Come on, H, I need a good punch bag. You know’t I mean?!’ That was Blood. He smiled as he slammed his boxing gloves together and chewed on his gum-shield like a skittish horse. In the boxing fraternity Blood had just thrown out a challenge that couldn’t be ignored. Although H had at least fourteen pounds on Blood, he was also thirteen years older.
H nodded and climbed into the ring. He beckoned Matt to take the gum-shield from the back pocket of his shorts and slip it into his mouth. Nick looked at the big wall clock and watched the minute hand approaching the sixty second mark.
‘Your t’ree minutes are starting now.’ Nick looked over to Blood. ‘And dis is your last round Blood, so go to work.’
‘Head shots?’
‘Yep. Unload de lot.’
Matt climbed quickly back through the ropes to grab a headguard for H. Nick stayed his hand.
‘Leave it.’
Matt gave his father a surprised look but Nick shrugged it off.
‘He’s a big man, he can take it.’
H and Blood began to box, H circling, testing, exploratory jabs, moving, looking for an opening. Blood flew at him, two handed, throwing ones, twos, snorting loudly with each thrown punch. Fitter and faster than H, at the peak of condition in readiness for an upcoming fight, Blood pushed forward, peppering H from every angle as he bobbed and moved, jabbed and drove. At first H was able to contain him; holding his own, moving, staying out of trouble. But as he tired, ninety seconds into the round, one hundred seconds, H’s arms drooped. More and more of Blood’s shots connected.
H took a big one flush on the chin – bang! He staggered; his technique crumbled. He tried desperately to fend off Blood’s blows. Matt looked at the wall clock and winced. One hundred and twenty seconds had passed, sixty to go.
‘Take it easy, Blood!’ muttered Matt.
‘Don’t you fuckin’ dare!’ Nick screamed at his protégé. ‘You’ve got another minute.’
Other boxers were paying attention now, wincing with concern as H took another heavy blow to the head. He dropped to one knee. Blood stopped, looking to Nick.
‘What are you lookin’ at me for! You’ve got another t’irty seconds!’
Humiliated, H stayed down. He took two deep breaths. He passed a glove over his forehead to wipe the sweat from his eyes then rose. Straight into another cluster of blows. Blood was making it look good now, better than it was, dancing and posing. Blood was beating on H from all angles and like a man wading through mud, H vainly tried to defend himself. He was again knocked to the canvas.
With a satisfied look on his face Nick turned to the clock.
‘T’ree … two … one … toime. Good job, Blood, good work out, son, you’re looking grand in dere.’ Blood helped a groggy H to his feet and then trotted over to Nick. Nick unstrapped his head guard. ‘You look as dough you’re about ready to me.’
***
In the changing room H slumped down on a bench, his back against the wall. Using his teeth, he took his time unlacing the gloves. Beverley. Blood. Jesus Christ, what a day.
H could hear his phone ringing from inside his locker. He didn’t care. As he sat, without making a move, the changing room door clattered open and Blood strode in carrying his T-shirt and gloves. H looked at his young body. It was ripped.
‘Hey, man, sorry about that out there. You know what Nick’s like, he gets carried away. He doesn’t mean anything.’
‘No problem.’ He said it but he didn’t mean it. It was a problem. Blood turned to one of the lockers and fiddled with the combination lock. H rose and slipped a small key from inside his sock and fitted it into the padlock on his own locker. His mobile was still ringing.
‘Who’re you fighting?’ asked H. Blood pulled out his wash bag. As he stripped off his shorts and trunks he turned to H with a grin.
‘Glen Patterson. Up in Sheffield, next Monday.’ He dropped to the bench to unlace his boots. Brand new Nikes. Glen Patterson was a seasoned pro fighting out of a gym in Wincobank, Sheffield, run by another displaced Irishman. His fighters were known for their defensive style and were notoriously difficult to beat.
‘Yeah, Patterson is ranked three in the division and he’s looking to get an easy win so he can make a charge for the top.’
As a young fighter, Blood had already made a name for himself as a useful contender. Unnecessarily flashy, but useful. The flashiness meant the fight would draw a crowd and the crowd would make some noise. Patterson was probably banking on his experience and durability to wear his younger, less experienced opponent down. He’
d earn a useful pay-day and grab some headlines that would add leverage to his request for a crack at the title.
‘What he doesn’t know is I’ve got something for his lilywhite arse.’ Blood stripped off his boots, rose and stalked naked as a jay-bird for the showers. ‘Dynamite in both hands. I’m the real deal, baby. Bam!’ Blood threw a punch to emphasise his point. His laughter echoed round the showers.
H shook his head. He couldn’t complain. Blood was H ten years ago. He opened up his locker. His mobile was still ringing. As he answered it he looked down at his own boxing boots. They were Nikes, but his were scuffed, the laces were frayed and the soles were worn as smooth as glass.
‘Hello?’
‘H?’
‘Blackie. What’s up?’
‘Me cool, man, me cool. Listen, dread, I wanted to t’ank you for de lickle trouble we ’ad de udder night, seen.’
‘No diggidy, no doubt. I just hope you managed to sort things out.’
‘Everyt’ing, cool man, me a sort it all out. I t’ink I gwan ’affu pay dem man de, still; but evert’ing else, me a work it out.’
***
Wearing trainers, jeans and a leather biking jacket H left the gym. He carried his gear in his old leather holdall. As he hit the street he saw a champagne-pink BMW, a convertible with tinted windows parked opposite. He eyed it as he walked by. You didn’t see many of those on the Old Kent Road, and H wondered who it belonged to. The next moment his idle curiosity was resolved.
‘We meet again.’
H turned. Facing him was the big, blonde guy who’d burst into Blackie’s the other night. Oh, shit.
