by Kolton Lee
‘He’s on his guard against you now.’ What was she saying? Why, why? Where was this going? She turned the car into her road and pulled up outside her house.
‘Do you know what happened tonight?’
‘Not exactly.’
As she locked the car and the two of them entered the house he told her what had happened. She could feel the two small, vertical lines appear in her forehead, just above her eyebrows. When he’d finished talking she took his arm and, without a word, guided him to one of the sofas in her living room. She sat him down and went to make each of them a drink.
When she returned she gave him his and sat down next to him. He drank. He looked better.
‘Was it bad?’ she asked in a soft voice. He didn’t say anything, he just looked at her. She reached out a hand and stroked the back of her fingers against his cheek. It felt rough, scratchy. He didn’t move, just looked at her. And suddenly she felt the two small, vertical lines in her forehead, just above her eyebrows … disappear. They faded away. Nina moved the back of her fingers along Hilary’s cheek to his lips, feeling them. She turned her hand over so the tips of her fingers could feel his lips. She suddenly realised she had wanted to do that for almost as long as she had known him.
Slowly, she took her hand away, leant into him and gently kissed him on the mouth. He kissed her back. She then sat back, took his drink from his hand, put it down on the floor. She did the same with hers. The two of them simultaneously scooted closer together on the sofa and kissed again, this time deeper, Nina folding her arms around Hilary and feeling him do the same. God his lips felt good! As soft, as billowy as she had imagined! His arms felt strong and powerful as they wrapped her to him, his hands caressing her back. The front of her body felt alive, tingling, pressed against him. Nina hadn’t felt this good about kissing a man in a long, long time.
Hilary moved his hands beneath her jacket, easing her out of it. Once it was off, Hilary’s hands danced precariously over the jumper and were soon probing her skin beneath it, moving smoothly up and down her back and sides as though they were slowly searching for something. Each time they moved over her, Nina felt the tingling sensation spread. And the spread was making its way to her groin. Soon, she couldn’t stand it. She pulled away from him, flushed, breathless.
‘Let’s go upstairs.’ She rose, took his hand and led him from the room.
The two of them lay down on the bed. Hilary propped himself up on one elbow and Nina rolled into him. They continued where they’d left off on the sofa, Hilary using his free hand to pull Nina’s body into his. Again, he played it up and down her spine and, like a cat, Nina arched her body into his with pleasure. Her hands now slipped under the T-shirt he was wearing and made their way over the smooth contours of his skin. Unbelievably smooth. She moved her hands down his back into the dip of his spine and down below the belt around his trousers. As far as she could go. His buttocks felt hard but smooth. She wanted to go down further. She eased her body away from him, moved her hand round and began to unbuckle the belt around his jeans. His kissing became more urgent, insistent. Nina pulled away from him and now used both hands to unbuckle his belt. But before she could finish, he eased back, turned over and sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her.
‘I can’t.’
Nina dragged herself across the bed and stroked his back.
‘What’s the matter? We can take our time, there’s no rush.’
‘It’s not that. I’ve still got Bev in my mind.’
Nina stopped stroking his back. She slipped round to sit next to him. Already the heat of the moment was draining away.
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Babymother.’
Nina left the bedroom and came back a moment later with two lit cigarettes and an ashtray. She gave one of the cigarettes to Hilary.
‘I thought you gave up?’
‘I did.’
‘Where’d you get these from?’
‘They’re yours.’ They both smiled. He leant over and kissed her on the lips. To Nina, it wasn’t a sexy kiss, it was a ‘you’re actually all right’ kiss. She liked it almost as much as the other kind. They sat and smoked.
‘I just can’t do it.’
‘What?’
‘Take the fall.’
Nina thought about that for a moment. ‘Why not? It would make life a lot easier for all of us.’ She laughed without mirth. ‘If you were ever going to go for Alan, after what happened tonight, the best time to do it would be straight after the fight. When he’s least expecting it.’ She looked at him to gauge his reaction to her words. There wasn’t one.
‘Everything’s a mess. The only thing that has any meaning, that isn’t shit, is the boxing. It’s … pure.’
Nina didn’t get it. ‘So? Who really cares about that, who cares if it’s pure?’
‘I do!’ He swivelled round on the bed to face her. ‘Listen. Some days are good, some days are bad, some days are shit; that’s life. But when you box, when you box … it’s different. It’s about two athletes, going at each other: all that training, all that energy, against what the other guy can do. It’s down to you. There’s no place to hide in a boxing ring, there’s no one else to blame, it’s all down to you. You show people what you’re made of.’ As Nina looked searchingly into his eyes he seemed to be willing her to understand. ‘Fucking hell, it’s about control, Nina! Taking control. If I haven’t got control over boxing …’ He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
‘You’re just a romantic …’ she began.
‘I’m a human being, for fuck sake!’ The strength of his feeling surprised her. She took the ashtray from him and stubbed out her own cigarette. She then guided him back down on to the bed, the two of them lying next to each other. And then Nina found herself talking about things that she hadn’t spoken about to anyone for a long, long time.
‘I used to think I had control. Before Alan. For a woman, being thought of as good looking is the best possible gift you can have. Men are so stupid they’ll do anything for a pretty face. So I was going to be a singer. I didn’t know anybody who’d ever done any kind of performing but I just put myself out there and started meeting people. I don’t have a fantastic voice, I know that, but it’s not bad. And I know I look okay.’ Hilary gave a hint of a smile. ‘So soon people were asking me to do PA spots in clubs. It wasn’t long before owners would take one look at me and bingo! I was in, I was making money. What I didn’t know was that Alan Akers was charging protection money from most of the clubs in the area …’
‘Where’s he from? Where’s his accent from?’
‘Doncaster. Up north. He and his brother Paul, came down to London about fifteen years ago. No money and no contacts. Now look at them.’ Nina explained to Hilary how they had made London work for them, bent it to their will. ‘They’re into drug-running, fraud and extorting protection money from clubs. All over North London and the West End. That’s how I met him. He took over one of the clubs I used to sing in. The Three Pines, in Stoke Newington. When he opened up Roxy’s in Soho he wanted me to be a part of his move. Stupidly, I was flattered.’
‘So why isn’t it working out for you?’
‘Because Alan’s losing his grip. He’s moved into the West End with Roxy’s and he’s left Paul in charge of their operations back in North-east London, but he refuses to deal with the fact that Paul is a full-time coke head. Paul’s not up to running things and the whole operation is beginning to unravel. North London now isn’t the North London he moved into fifteen years ago. Things are changing there. The young black kids there are growing up and taking over. They’re not interested in listening to old-skool crap about ‘ways of doing business’ from dinosaurs like Alan and Paul Akers. They’re listening to all this stuff from America about ‘the ghetto’ and ‘OGs’ and ‘gangsta rappers’ and they want their guns; they’re all hip-hop, they want a piece of what’s out there and they want it now. I’ve got a Nigerian girl friend over in Homerton in Hackney. Maxine. Her
baby brother, Ade, he lives on the Gascoyne estate, works for a kid called Dunstan. Those kids are still in their nappies, I mean, they are so young but between them, they’re taking over Hackney, Stoke Newington, Dalston, Bethnal Green. Those kids are dangerous. And Alan’s feeling the heat.’
‘And you won’t just leave him because of the money?’
Nina turned to look at him. The scorn in his voice was unambiguous.
‘And live like you?’ she snapped. She didn’t mean it to come out as harshly as it did.
‘What do you do for the money?’ He asked her straight and her reply was equally straight.
‘I sing.’ That’s what she said but what she thought was ‘Fuck you!’ Who was he to judge her? What was so great about his life? The next second he leant into her and kissed her deeply. Nina felt more grateful for that kiss than she would have dared admit.
‘Whatever we had, it’s over. As I’m sure you can tell.’
‘I believe you.’ The two lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling.
‘Maybe … maybe you’re right,’ she almost whispered.
‘What?’
‘If boxing means that much to you, why don’t you take the fight with Mancini … and beat him!’
He turned to look at her.
‘Win the fight.’
‘Me? Beat Mancini!’ H’s voice was incredulous.
‘Hey. Isn’t your game all about self-belief and confidence?’ Nina now turned towards him. ‘Alan’s already got me; don’t let him get you.’ H stared back at her and as Nina stared back, she felt something stirring but she wasn’t sure what. She knew she was playing with fire here. She liked Hilary, there was no doubt about that. She just didn’t know how much she liked him.
‘I’ve got six weeks; I’ll need to get pretty damn fit if I’m going to beat Mancini.’
‘So get fit.’ Nina ran her hand through H’s dreadlocks. She ran her fingertips lightly over the stubble on his cheeks. She passed a finger over the softness of his lips.
And for the next six weeks, H worked his arse off. He got fit.
31.
The gym was busy with boxers and while Matt watched from the ringside, H worked the pads in the ring with Nick. The soundtrack to H’s fighter’s dance was again the obligatory American rap. The musical mayhem was masterminded by the Bronx’s Tim Dogg regaling the gym with ‘Low Down Nigga’.
YEAH, HA HA! STRAIGHT OUT OF THE MOTHERFUCKIN’ BRONX, LETTIN’ EVERYBODY KNOW THAT TIM DOGG AIN’T TAKIN’ NO MOTHERFUCKIN’ SHORTS!
AND I STOLE YOUR MOTHERFUCKIN’ BEAT AND MADE IT BETTER! TO SHOW THE WHOLE WORLD THAT YOU AIN’T NOTHIN’ BUT A BUNCH A PUSSIES …
H threw combination punches at the pads on Nick’s hands. The pads were large, black, padded squares. In the centre of each square was a small white circle and it was this that H aimed for when he threw his punches. He danced in front of Nick, bobbing, weaving, moving his feet. Nick took two steps back, one to the side, the pads held up, one by his ear, the other by his chest. H followed him. Bap! Bap! Bap! He threw another combination, a left-right-left, working his body, moving, keeping busy. Nick moved again, one step back, two to the side. He moved his pads to keep H honest, both at the level of his chest this time. Ba-bap! Ba-bap! A left-right, left-right! Different combination, same lethal effect. H was looking good.
Since that night at Nina’s H had indeed made the time, and the effort, to ease his body on to a level of fitness it hadn’t approached for at least five years. The going had been rough but the hard work had paid off. As he one- and two-stepped around the ring, working the pads on Nick’s gnarled and battered hands, H could feel a snap and bounce. His knees bent and snapped back with a youthful vigour that felt good. Really good. Every evening H had spent up to two hours stretching. Stretching! Easing his body into unnatural positions, working his joints, lengthening his muscles. Six weeks was not nearly enough time to really become fit but it was enough time to make a difference and that’s what H wanted to do. Because he knew that whatever shape his body was in by the time of the fight, his mental condition had to be better. He had to be feeling it and the only way to be feeling it then was to work his body now. H was going to be in the ring, alone, with Henry ‘Bugle Boy’ Mancini, a man with dynamite in both hands. He was as hard and as rugged a professional as there was. And as H well knew, the ring can be the smallest, loneliest place in the world if you aren’t ready for the challenge. Deep down, H was under no illusion that he could beat Mancini over twelve rounds. Not really. But … you never know.
***
The lives of H and Mancini had taken dramatically different paths since that summer night in 1998 when H had the world at his feet. Why? How had that happened? In the last six weeks, while pounding the roads of Battersea building his stamina, while skipping series of twelve three-minute rounds, while performing his crunches and his push-ups, his chin-ups, twists, bends, squats … H had had time to think. And what he thought was that the person to blame for the different paths taken by himself and Mancini – the only person he could possibly blame – was himself.
It was a painful realisation.
Looking back, H could see that on any objective assessment he had been a vastly more talented boxer than Mancini. He’d had almost everything. He had hand speed, foot speed, he was blessed with an athlete’s body, his hand-eye co-ordination was way above average, he could take a punch and he had a boxer’s brain. He could think on his feet, he could change his strategy in the middle of a fight. The one thing he didn’t have was a huge, knockout punch, but nobody has everything. And yet despite this formidable arsenal of talent, his career had slipped while Mancini’s career had gone from strength to strength. Why? All Mancini had going for him was a big punch and a chin like granite.
But, though H, who was the bravest, who wanted it the most? In a match-up of equal talents, who was going to be the last man standing? H had been thinking about this question a lot recently. He was afraid of the answer. It was one that had been keeping him awake at night.
It was this knowledge – which he had always had! – that was the root of his gambling. He knew that now. And once H had confronted this realisation, he knew this fight with Mancini was going to be his last …
***
A buzzer sounded for the end of another three-minute round. H stopped throwing punches at the pads on Nick’s hands and walked round the ring, blowing hard. Nick looked pleased and winked at Matt. He shook the pads off his hands and threw them to his son.
‘Can you manage a couple a rounds sparring before you finish, H?’
‘Whatever you say, Coach.’
Despite the scowl that was an almost permanent fixture on Nick’s face, H could tell that he was beaming inside. Over the last weeks of intense training H had thought about what might have been. How things might have been different if the kind of intensity he had brought to his work recently had been the same over the last few years. But he wiped that quickly from his mind. He had to forget what might have been and think about now. Nick’s face was as lined as an unmade bed and some of those lines had no doubt been put there by H and his attitude to training over the years. But what was the point of dwelling on what couldn’t be changed? H had one chance to redeem himself and he was taking it the best way he knew how.
‘Roight, you lot! Listen up! I need a couple a loive bodies up here now!’ Tim Dogg continued to display a loud and questionable dexterity with words and lyrics. Nick’s voice was drowned out and, as usual, he had to bellow and scream to make himself heard. Heads immediately snapped round as the music was turned off. The boxers waited for another of Nick’s regular outbursts to blow over.
… HI, MY NAME IS SHIELA FROM HOUSTON.
I WAS IN A HOTEL WITH EASY-E, HE GOT A LITTLE ASS DICK …
‘Dere’s a fuckin’ tyranny of rap music in dis fuckin’ country and it’ll be de fuckin’ deatha me and de fuckin’ ruination of all roight-moinded people in dis fuckin’ country!’ Nick glared round the now silent room through
narrow eyes. ‘Why de fuckin’ hell can’t you listen to de fuckin’ bagpoipes or sumten?! Sumten wid a fuckin’ tune or sumeten?! Jaysus fuckin Chroist!’ He continued to glare. ‘T’ank fuckin’ Chroist for de sound a silence! I need two people up here. Now! You and you!’
He pointed to Blood and one other. The rest of the gym slowly went back to life.
‘In you get Blood. And no punches to the head. You’ve got t’ree minutes.’ Nick climbed out of the ring while Blood, who already had his gloves on his hands and a sheen of perspiration from working the speed bag, climbed in. Nick called over to Matt. ‘Got the clock?’ Matt reset the clock and nodded to his father.
‘Roight,’ Nick looked between H and Blood. ‘Off you go.’
H and Blood circled each other warily, tossing exploratory jabs. Blood danced, keeping loose, looking good. H stalked. He manoeuvered Blood into a corner and delivered a flurry of combination punches, Blood danced away but no longer looked as casual as he had.
‘We’ve obviously been doing sumetun roight.’ Nick said to Matt. He turned back to H and Blood. Blood now snapped his jabs with more intent, no longer just tossing them. It made no difference to H. He ducked, moved, stepped, tucked; probing, covering up, jabbing. Looking surprisingly smooth, surprisingly fluid. Blood was spurred to greater effort, dancing with more purpose. This wasn’t the casual workout he’d expected. He feinted with his left, threw the right, bang! caught H in the face. Nick screamed at Blood, his face going beetroot red.
‘Keep ’em down! Keep ’em down!’ H shook the blow off, came back, aimed at Blood’s head, missed! Blood countered and H shuffled, sliding out of range.
‘Fuckin’ ’ell!’ The words burst out of Nick as though chased by a rottweiler. ‘Fuckin’ ’ell! When’s de last toime you saw dat?!’ It was a question that needed no answer and Matt didn’t have one because the last time H had shuffled was too long ago for either Matt or Nick to remember.
