by Kolton Lee
His turn now, he wriggled higher up the bed. Flushed and glowing, Nina knelt between his legs. She cupped him with one hand, held his girth with the other and made him wish time would stand still.
Some time later they were sprawled across the bed, the bedclothes a tangled mess on the floor. As H dozed he watched the evening light dying through the bedroom window. Darkness crept through the room and all was still.
The moment was shattered by the shrill ring of H’s mobile. H opened his eyes and saw Nina’s sleeping face. The ringing continued, jangling, loud and insistent. He sat up and looked around, disorientated. He tried to indentify the source of the ringing. His sweatshirt. He leant over Nina to pick it up from the floor. He plucked his mobile from one of the pockets.
‘Hel …’ he coughed, his voice still thick with sleep. ‘Hello?’ He couldn’t hear anything but crying at the other end of the line. ‘Hello? Who is this?’
‘It’s me.’
‘What’s the matter?’ His voice was suddenly full of concern. He scooted his legs round and sat on the edge of the bed.
‘It’s Cyrus. He’s gone missing.’
‘He’s what?!’ He was wide awake now. ‘He’s what did you say?!’
‘He’s gone missing.’
‘What do you mean?! Where is he?’ There was a pause at the other end of the line. Beverley was almost incoherent, but through her sobs, she explained what she had been told by the police.
‘What?’ H’s breathing shallowed and he could barely speak. ‘Just like that?’
Beverley’s response was a sob and a sniff.
‘Jesus fucking Christ, so what’s happening now?’
Nina was sitting up, trying to glean as much as she could from his side of the conversation.
‘The police …’
H interrupted her. ‘Where are you?’
‘At my mother’s.’
‘Stay there! I’m coming over.’ He hung up and twisted round on the bed. Nina’s eyes were full of concern.
‘That was Beverley. My son Cyrus has gone missing.’
‘Missing?’
‘Someone took him from his school. This morning.’ Grim-faced, H began to dress. Nina sat and watched him. She pulled on some clothes and sat hugging her knees to her chest.
H sat next to her as he laced his trainers. He glanced over at her.
‘I think it might be Alan that’s got your boy.’ She spoke as though in a daze.
H stopped as though he’d been slapped. ‘What?’
‘I think it might be Alan.’
‘Why would you think that?!’
‘Earlier today Gavin mentioned something about Cyrus. He said something about telling you that Alan wanted to see you and Cyrus would pass the message.’ H stared at her dumbfounded. ‘Christ, I’m sorry, Hilary, it just … we were … I had no idea. I think it must be about this.’
‘What the fuck is going on, Nina?’
‘I know what you want to do, Hilary, but …’
‘But what?!’
‘Hilary, you’ll get hurt …’
‘Hurt! I’ll fucking hurt somebody! Alan’s..!’
‘Alan’s not around!’
‘Where is he?’
‘Out of town. On business …’
‘Don’t fucking lie to me!’
‘Even if he was here, what good would that do?’
‘If he’s touched one hair on Cyrus’s … I’m going to crush his windpipe! I’m going to break his fucking back!’
‘Think! Just think about it! If it is Alan that’s taken Cyrus – and let’s hope that it isn’t – but if it is him, he knows you’re going to be going crazy! He’s taken Cyrus for a reason! He’s not going to let you just walk in there and take him back.’
‘Call him!’
‘Call who?’
‘Alan! Call him now. Or Gavin. Find out what the fuck’s going on! In fact, give me the number, let me call him.’ As Nina left the room, H finished dressing and sat back down on the edge of the bed, thinking. He made himself take slow, deep breaths.
Nina returned and handed him a piece of paper. As she gave it to him she slid an arm over his shoulders. He shook it off and stood up.
‘Can I borrow your car?’
‘Of course.’ She said the words but she knew, they both knew, that their relationship had changed. The honeymoon was over. She knew why he wanted her car and they looked at each other in silence
‘How’s Beverley?’
‘How do you think?’ Nina didn’t say anything. H picked up his mobile and tapped in Gavin’s number.
***
H and Beverley strolled across the grass at the back of her mother’s house. It was a large parkland area where the local kids played football, but as the darkness of the evening drew in, the place was quiet.
‘I’m sorry … I just, I just can’t …’
‘It’s all right, Bev.’ He squeezed her hand. They had been walking along in silence for some time, Beverley crying, allowing the sobs to come unchecked. He recognised that Beverley rarely showed her vulnerability. Despite his own grief, it was H who was being strong, it was H who was taking charge. He put his arm around her and she tried to compose herself.
‘How are you, anyway?’ she managed to squeeze out. H shrugged, sighing heavily.
‘I don’t know. Away from all this … same shit, different day.’
‘I read …’ she sniffed heavily. ‘… In the paper. You’ve got this fight coming up soon. Mancini.’
‘That’s right.’
‘They don’t give you much chance, do they?’
‘No.’ They walked on in silence for a while.
‘One of the last conversations I had with Cyrus was about this fight. We read about it in the papers together. He just looked up at me and said ‘I want daddy to win, win, win!’ This set Beverley off crying again and H had to swallow hard. He stopped and turned to face her, drawing her to him. They stood like this for a moment, H feeling the wet of her tears soaking through to his skin.
‘Look, Beverley … I know I’ve been an arsehole … but I’m serious now. This is going to be my last fight. Ever. And … once I do that, I think I can kick the gambling as well. I’m going to get Cyrus back, trust me. Then, is there any chance for us to start again?’ He pulled her away from his chest and looked into her red, swollen eyes.
‘I think … maybe … it’s too late for us now, H. Best just be friends, eh?’
Again, H had to swallow hard.
***
The next day H strode quickly into Roxy’s. He’d called Gavin the previous evening and the arrangement had been to come in at 12 o’clock, midday. Gavin had been vague on the telephone but had implied that if H spoke to White Alan today all would be revealed. Without anything more specific H had thought it wise not to mention any of this to Beverley.
That night H had managed very little sleep and today his head felt thick. He’d spent the night disturbed by thoughts of Cyrus, alone and frightened. These were quickly followed by thoughts of what he, Hilary, would do to Akers when he saw him. It was anger that drove him now. As he bowled through the main entrance of the club, H spotted Gavin reading a newspaper at the bar. The club was empty but for three cleaners, two of them working behind the bar, the third gliding round the dance floor with an electrical floor polisher.
Gavin looked up from his paper. ‘Hello, Hil …’
‘Let’s cut the shit. Where’s Akers?’ Gavin folded his paper. A lack of pleasantries was fine by him.
‘Are you carrying?’
‘No.’
‘You won’t mind if I check then.’
Gavin walked over to him. H raised him arms and Gavin patted him down.
‘Right this way.’
They walked through the dark hallway and up the stairs in silence. On the landing H stood behind him as Gavin knocked. Without waiting for an answer Gavin opened the door and leant his head in.
‘Hilary James here to see you,’ said Gavin. ‘He’s ou
tside.’
H could just see Akers locking a safe in the wall behind his desk.
‘Good. Bring him in.’ Akers replaced the mirror that disguised the safe and checked his reflection. Only once he was back in his seat did Gavin usher H into the office. H stood in front of Akers’ desk, while Gavin sat in a wooden chair behind him. H could scarcely contain his rage. His words burst out of him.
‘Where’s my boy? Was it you?! Did you do it?!’
Alan Akers looked back at H with the inscrutability of a cat. Today he wore a white cashmere jumper and a pair of baggy white woollen slacks.
‘You know what I want.’ Akers spoke in a soft, confident voice. ‘I want insurance that you’re going down in the first round. I repeat … in the first round.’
H thought his head was going to explode but he made his voice flat, devoid of emotion. ‘You’ve got it. What about Cyrus?’
‘He’s fine …’
‘If you’ve …’
‘He’s fine!’ Akers spat out his assurance as though H’s concerns were a waste of his valuable time. ‘As soon as the fight’s over, and you’ve done what you’re supposed to do, he’ll be dropped off with the lovely Bever …’
That was it. H lunged over the desk for Akers’ throat. He grabbed him by his polo-neck, dragged him out of his seat and back over the desk. The next instant Gavin had a choke hold round H’s neck and pulled him backwards, across the office. Gagging, H was forced to release his grip on Akers’ throat.
Akers rolled off the desk and straightened his clothes. The bruise to his dignity had him so angry he could only bark ‘Out! Get him out of here!’
Gavin shuffled H round so that he was facing the door and then slowly released his hold. He seemed ready to re-apply the pressure if H showed signs of losing it again. But H headed quietly for the door without struggling. Just before he left he stopped and turned back.
‘How did you know about Cyrus and Beverley?’
Akers glared back at him. But then he suddenly gave a grim smile. ‘Nina, of course. Didn’t she tell you?’
H let his face betray no emotion. He dipped into the top pocket of his jacket and pulled out Nina’s car keys. He weighed them in his hand for a moment, then tossed them at Akers. ‘I guess these belong to you.’
H turned and left. Back out on the street he took some deep breaths of fresh, clean, air. He was in shock. Nina had told Akers about Cyrus? He wandered, dazed, up to Oxford Street. He didn’t know what to do but he didn’t want to go home just yet. He needed time to think.
***
H stopped in a Starbucks and ordered a coffee. When it arrived he stirred it, endlessly, thinking, thinking. Did Nina tell White Alan about Cyrus? Deliberately tell him? No, she couldn’t have. It must have come out accidentally. But she’d given up badgering him about Akers’ money or killing him. Why? H couldn’t figure it out. And then other questions crowded their way into his mind: Akers was forcing him to throw the fight. What could he do about that? Akers was forcing him to throw the fight! Akers had Cyrus, H knew he would have to take the dive. But could he live with that?
H laid his head next to his coffee on the counter in front of him. He closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep.
‘Are you all right?’
He looked up. The young French waitress was looking down at him with concern.
‘Is there anything I can do? Would you like me to call the manager or something?’
‘No, you’re all right. I don’t think the manager can help me on this one.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘You want another cup? This one is cold.’
H looked at his coffee. A thin layer of skin had formed over the top.
‘Can I?’
‘Of course you can!’ She scooped up his mug and returned a moment later with a fresh one. ‘Don’t tell anyone; it’s on the house.’ She winked conspiratorially, then gave him a broad smile and walked away. H’s eyes followed her as she weaved her way between other customers. Something about this brief, momentary encounter inspired H - this small act of kindness seemed to make the world a better place.
H sat and tried to imagine what he would do if this were a boxing match. What would he do if a 210-pound gorilla was facing him across the ring? How would he deal with it? Would he deal with his opponent head on? Or would he box clever? Dodge, feint, weave? Or would he use his opponent’s strength against him?
***
At 5.15 that afternoon, as the late afternoon sunshine faded around him, H found himself on the Gascoyne housing estate in Homerton, Hackney. H didn’t know exactly what he was looking for but a chance remark by Nina had given him an idea. It was a crazy, loony idea, but maybe, just maybe, it might work. If H had learnt anything in the ring over the last fifteen years, it was that the most important muscle to flex was the one between his ears. Any 210-pound gorilla could be beaten if you used your boxing brain effectively. Failure to recognise this was why he’d lost to Mancini the first time.
H wandered. Unlike his own small 1960s estate, this one was huge, and ranged from two-storey family homes with neat front gardens to white-painted ten-storey blocks of flats and older red-brick blocks from the 1930s. H estimated that the whole estate must have been spread over almost a square mile.
Gascoyne was one of the new generation of inner-city housing estates. The greying concrete monoliths that had won awards in the 1960s had long since fallen out of fashion and were being replaced. The lessons – of communal walkways, stairs, lifts, places where nobody took responsibility and were therefore permanently vandalised – had apparently sunk in.
H finally headed for a basketball court that bordered Hartlake Road, one of the main arteries running through the estate. He was attracted by a drawling bass-line beat and the urgent clatter of treble.
The basketball court was bordered by an elevated grass verge. Lounging on the court next to a Hackney ‘handbag’ were a group of kids in their early to late teens. The ‘handbag’ warbled a track by Tupac so badly distorted that it might have been anybody. The teenagers eyed H warily as he approached.
‘Hey, guys, all right?’ H ventured. A skinny white boy – about fifteen, with long, stringy hair that hung in his eyes and dribbled over the collar of a dirty T-shirt – was sucking hard on the smallest roach H had ever seen, clasped in a pair of metal crocodile clips.
‘Wha’ ’appen, sah?’
H did a double-take. The skinny white boy spoke in a broad Jamaican patois! Bemused, H watched him pass the crocodile clips to the black boy sitting next to him.
‘I’m looking for Joseph Adeyshian. Do you know which flat he lives in?’
‘Wha’ you say?’
‘Do any of you guys know Joseph Adeyshian?’
‘Is Babylon you a deal wid?’
This was starting to do H’s head in.
‘No, I’m not a policeman, I’m a friend of his.’ H immediately realised how weak this sounded. The kids must have thought so too - they eyed him suspiciously. The end of the spliff, no bigger than a memory, was passed to one of the white girls. She puckered her lips in a pout as she tried to suck the last of the smoke from it.
‘Who arrrereuandwyhsssshoieouldhetyelleuianthing?’ One of the other black boys was leaning up against the basket now. H looked at him blankly. His puzzled look was clearly expected because the other kids started laughing.
‘He said ‘Who are you and why should he tell you anything?” That was one of the white girls. She had short blonde hair, wore stonewashed denim head to toe, and small red pimples covered her pasty, pale face. H turned back to the boy.
‘I’m just a guy who needs a favour from him.’
‘Yoeulkliookedebbieyst!’
H looked blank and again there was much merriment. He was starting to feel irritable. Whatever happened to respect for one’s elders?
‘He said you look like the beast!’ The white girl again translated and H forced himself to laugh with a mirth he didn’t fe
el.
‘I just told you,’ H snapped ‘I’m not a policeman! Do you know him? Does he live on this estate?’
There was a pause while the youths decided whether they would answer H’s question or not. As they looked him up and down all H could think about was Cyrus and what he might be going through at that exact moment.
‘Wydeaouwianthm?’ H didn’t even bother looking at the boy, he just looked at his improbable translator.
‘’Why do you want him’?’
‘I’m a friend of Nina McGuire’s. I’ve got a job for Ade and she told me that I could buck up with him and a guy called Dunstan on this estate.’
At the mention of Nina and Dunstan the guy and the girl both seemed to relax. The guy actually smiled.
‘OkushioodheaoveminshoondNnaerylr. AdeleeivsuovvaernVyinHwos. Nymbatwennynine, sweet.’
‘You should have mentioned Nina earlier. Ade lives over in Vaine House, number twenty-nine.’ The young white girl pointed the way.
‘Cheers.’ H turned to leave.
‘Oiymeiytdaouafvegitteotanwyfiaegs?’ H turned back to see the black boy with the speech impediment looking at him expectantly. He turned to the girl.
‘What?’
‘He wants to know if you’ve got any fags?’
***
H rapped loudly on the door of number twenty-nine and took a step back. He could hear the television blaring from the other side so he knew someone was in. Nobody came; he knocked again. He heard what sounded like the unlocking of the national bank; three chains, two bolts and a dead-lock.
Standing before H was a lean, sinewy, young black man, twentyish, a little bit taller than H. His skin was dark, his head was almost shaved and he stared at H through bright, clear eyes. The young man stood topless, wearing just a pair of huge Evisu jeans, hanging on his hips below a pair of star-spangled Tommy Hilfiger pants. Round his neck he wore a thick, gold rope chain, with a gold ‘Lion of Judah’ hanging in the middle of his hairless chest.
‘Ade?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m a friend of Nina McGuire’s. Can I come in?’
A woman’s voice shouted from inside the flat. ‘Who dat, Ade?!’ The noise from the television suddenly stopped.
