Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) (11 page)

  This was seriously damaging my pride.

  Every time I walked in the door, it made me feel ashamed. The entire staff could see it in my face. “Don’t worry, Joe. Something will come up.”

  Yeah, right. Nothing ever comes up.

  There was only one way I could make cash.

Chapter 22

No Choices:

  Fighting was the only thing I knew, and I kept remembering the euphoria of knocking out Warsaw, standing over his paralyzed shell. The buzz, the adrenaline, the roar of the crowd. It was a big difference from doing laundry, pushing a Hoover around, babysitting and knowing I could make more money from fighting, and money’s what we needed.

  A month after the fight, in the Jobcentre claiming my stake again, sitting patiently for my turn, with the usual shame and embarrassment. My time came and I unwillingly looked the lady in the eye while she probed me on my job-hunting. Each question examining my life, this was my Groundhog Day. Walking out onto the street that day, I’d had enough and reached my breaking point, making a decision that would define who I would become.

  I made my choice.

  The first thing was to get to a payphone and call Tim,  nowhere near the right decision, but virtually having no choice. The house close to getting repossessed, bills everywhere, no funds to pay them, hiding the eviction threats from the May.

  She became so worried, turning into an angry person, losing her temper with the kids and me, on the verge of having a breakdown. She made a decision to return to nursing. She started proceedings to get her old job back in A&E.  Returning to any kind of nursing job would mean massive emotional trauma for her.

  “Hello?”

  “Aye, Tim. It’s Joe.”

  “Alright, what’s the crack, lad?”

  “The crack is, am broke. I need money. Can you get me another fight?” He felt my desperation down the line.

  “You sure, Joe? I can lend you some cash if you’re struggling.” I paused, seriously considering his offer, but that wasn’t my style. Bad enough probing the government for cash every two weeks, never mind my mates.

  I knew he wouldn’t mind, but the point was, I would. If I took his money, that meant I’d be deeper in debt and didn't want the extra pressure of paying it back.

  “No mate, don’t want that. I’ll never be able to pay you back.” Thinking about what that money could do for me and my family.

  “Well, the offer’s there. You’re welcome to it anytime. Joe, you still there?”

  “Aye, still here. Can you get me a fight, ’en?”  

  “I’ll speak to Mike, see what he says.”

  “There’s boxing the night, is there?”

  “Aye, you want a run?”

  “Please mate, if you could.”

  “No bother. I’ll pick you up, usual time.”

  “Alright, see you then.”

  May didn’t question why I never attended boxing the past month. Guess she was just happy that I wasn’t going, keeping quiet about it in case talking about it would lure me back. But, I’d have to tell her I’d be going tonight. Getting another scrap would mean I’d have to invent a similar story to the last one.

  After the phone call, I did the usual, picked the kids up from the school and walked them home. Jess seemed tired, Junior hyper as normal. He stayed in his room with his Xbox and Jess sat in the living room as I stuck on a movie to keep her quiet and send her to sleep on the sofa.

  May arrived home just after four, catching me going through a couple loads of washing. She looked happier today. “How was your day?”

  “Boring as usual, May. Same shit, different day.”

  “Yeah, I know how that goes. Got some reduced stuff from the shop. Beef-olives for supper.”

  “Nice one, haven’t had that in a while. I'm going boxing the night by the way, get rid of this boredom.” Scratching the back of my head, it was awkward mentioning the word boxing.

  “Really? I thought you stopped? You’ve not been in a few weeks.”

  “Aye, I know. But am going tonight. Tim’s picking me up.”

  “It’s your choice, I suppose.” She spoke under her breath with disappointment.  

  “Well, I better get started on supper. You won’t want to be dancing around with a full stomach.”

  I gathered my boxing gear from the upstairs cupboard.  The gloves Tim gave me still in the bag covered in dry patches of Warsaw’s blood. Throwing the bag at the bottom of the stairs, ready for a quick getaway.

  I helped May with the rest of the supper and set the table. We chatted, sitting across from each other. Strangely, the subject was the first time we met in 2002 at the Beach Ballroom, in Aberdeen.

  Fighting on the show, my Dad my corner-man. I was nineteen at the time, training like a man possessed.

  A spell in my childhood when Dad actually stuck around a lot.

  He warmed me up in the conference room being used for the home stable. Burning me out, before getting into the ring.

  The nerves terrifying that night and getting the better of me. The fear my Father sunk into my core as a child, had that effect. Waiting for the MC to call me into the ring, trembling, standing in my Dad’s shadow.

  I only wanted to get in the ring and hear the bell, because that meant three minutes not in his company, gaining my own sense of freedom for four, three minute rounds. Walking into the ring that night, I felt the shiver of a glare. Three hundred people in the ballroom, but I only felt one set of eyes.

  Entering the ring, Dad had his usual final word with me. “Right boy, don't let me down, straight into him.”

  He had a word with the ref while I turned to bury my face in the corner pad, taking a moment before the bell sounded. That's when I saw her.

  This petite girl, neck long, black hair curved into her cheek. Naturally dark, olive skin, looking absolutely stunning, wearing a tight, thigh-length black dress. The moment I saw her, I knew she was the one. Making my legs go weak at the knees, forgetting that I had to hurt someone, turning me to mush with only a look.

  Needless to say, the fight didn’t go to plan. The entire bout, I couldn’t get the better of my opponent. Overly nervous and trying too hard, getting a bit of a battering. Sitting on the stool after every round, Dad yelled at me, steam pouring from his ears. He didn't understand the more he yelled, the less effect it had on me, but that was Dad.

  “What the fuck are you doing in there, boy?! Waken up, for fuck sake! Where's yer fuckin’ head at?!”

  The truth was, I couldn’t concentrate. The only thing interesting me was the girl that caught my eye.

  The fight ended. I lost, which wasn’t a surprise, that tended to happen a lot the older I got. Dad did the usual, ignored me for the rest of the evening and stood at the bar.

  I got cleaned up then plucked up the courage to introduce myself to the girl. Standing in the middle with a bunch of her mates surrounding her, I was more nervous approaching her than walking into the ring.

  “Hi, there. How’s it going?”

  “Good. How’s you, after that fight?”

  “Aye, just fine, thanks.”

  I asked her about herself. Telling me she was nineteen, from Stonehaven, a town fifteen minutes south, moving to Aberdeen to finish her last year at university to become a nurse. She had a job lined up in Aberdeen Royal Infirmary.

  We hit it off as soon as we started chatting, and there's hardly been a day since that we haven’t talked. I couldn’t believe my luck. She should have been way out of my league. So beautiful, laid-back and naturally kind. She was so easy to get on with. She reminded me a lot of my Mom.  

  We chatted about it all while supper was cooking. I felt privileged to be surrounded by such a wonderful family, making the stab of guilt going through me deeper.

Chapter 23

Back To The Slog:

  A cold, miserable, dreech November night, Tim picked me up at the usual time of 18.30. Never minded picking me up, he got to visit his Gran, who he cared for dearly.

  “You just couldn’t stay away, eh?”

  “Don’t have a choice, mate. I need money, am sick of having none.”

  “You don’t want a loan?”

  “No, fuck that. I’ll just have to pay it back. I’d rather earn ma cash.”

  “It’s your choice. Gave Mike a call, told him you’re coming back and looking for another fight, think he’s maybe got one.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Fuck knows. Ask him the night.”

  “Good, hopefully it’s no’ far away, I need the cash.”

  Straight into the changing room, I changed from my winter clothes into shorts and t-shirt. Walking into the gym, only four guys there that night. Danny, Toby, Chris and Peter. Everyone took time to say hello. I wasn't a stranger any more.

  Mike pulled me aside before I had a chance to grab a rope “Hey, Joe. Come over here.” I strolled over to the front of the gym. Mike stood by the front mirrors with his usual slouch, hands in his front pockets and those baggy eyes.

  “Hear you’re looking for another fight?”

  “Aye. Need more cash this time.”

  “Making demands now, boy? I’ll decide how much you get paid.”

  “Well if I don’t get more, I won’t be fighting.”

  Considering I needed the cash more than he needed me, that was a bold demand, but fuck him, he wasn’t the guy risking his life. Looking me up and down, his left eye and cheek twitched, wondering what to say. “OK son, I hear you. I’ve got a fight for you, in a fortnight in Montrose, if you want it.”

  “How much?”

  “Two grand to the winner. Loser walks away with nothing.  Usual fix.”

  “Two grand! That’s more like it.”

  “Just a one-on-one. Last-man-standing. Your man will keep you right.”

  Mike was a horrible man to share a conversation with. Obnoxious, thought he could speak to you as he pleased, or maybe he held a grudge against me. Last-man-standing was old-school boxing rules. Once you’re knocked down, you have a minute to stand, or you lose.

  “Alright, cheers.” I gave him a nod of thanks, then started skipping.

  Two grand would end our money worries, pay the mortgage. Allow us to breathe without feeling trapped.

  Tim took his usual place at the front of the four men, five including me. Barking out instructions as usual. He took a casual approach, taking one on the pads, leaving the others to their own devices.

  He gave me a pair of punch-mitts the MMA fighter’s use. He wanted to speed up my hands and take the raw power out. Not arguing, he knew his trade. Pushing me hard, giving little breaks, making me earn this two grand.

  Finishing up on the pads, I felt keen for a spar with an overwhelming itch to hit somebody.

  “Sparring the night?”

  “No mate, no’ the night. Next week, wi’ Toby.”

  “Why Toby?”

  “He’s got a scrap in Watford in a few weeks, and for fuck sake, don't knock him out, you’ll mess up his confidence.”

  “Watford? Why you taking him all the way down there?”

  “It’s serious business, this game. Travel up and down the country. There’s a lot of cash floating around. Especially around London and Liverpool.”

  “Who the fuck’s he fighting?”

  “Some hooligan making a bit o’ a name for himself down south.”

  “How the fuck do you know people down there?”

  “I don’t, Mike does. Knows all the gangsters and lowlifes up and down the UK. There isn’t anybody worth talking about he doesn’t know.”

  “Who’s this geezer I’m fighting?”

  “You’ve seen him.”

   I knew it. The guy from the counterfeit deal.

  “It’s that guy from Montrose, is it?”

  “Aye, that’s the guy. They call him Skinner ‘cos o’ his skinhead, and the fact he’s one of those white-power fanatics. And Joe, he’s an evil fucker.”

  “Aye, I figured that by the look of him.”

  “It’ll just be a one-on-one, no gloves, but punch-mitts.”

  “Well, there’s nothing like getting thrown in the deep end.”

  “You’ll handle him. Think of the good the money will do.”

  “Easy for you to say, pal.”

  He leaned in closer and spoke under his breath. “One more thing. Skinner specifically asked for you. Think he's taken a shine.”

  Well, this would be interesting. A scrap with Skinner wouldn’t go as well as the one I had with Warsaw. Call it fighter’s intuition, but I could tell a lot about a man just by the look in his eye. I’d had my fair share of bare-knuckle scraps as a teenager around Aberdeen, in the Union Street graveyard, where private scraps were set up to end personal biffs, or down at Broad Hill, where I joined in with the Aberdeen soccer casuals meets with rivalling firms, just for the fun of it. When the fair came into town, that’s where the real fun happened. Boxing-booths where you earned a tenner if you could knock your opponent out with a single blow. But this was the real man’s world, not a teenagers’ gang fight that would end in a couple minutes, and followed by a team brawl.

Why did Skinner fight without gloves on?

  Maybe he couldn't fight with them on, maybe it would be too much of a disadvantage for him. I needn’t worry about the circumstances of the fight, only the two grand I desperately needed.