Authors: Emily Bullock
The bell for the fifth round sounded. Frank took a step and Rich was there. Arm out, red-gloved fist hurtling for Frank’s head. And Frank ran straight on to it. The crunch of bone as his cheek caved couldn’t have been any better if they had planned that bit too. Frank stood tall like a tree balanced in place by a single splinter. His boots were wrapped together at
the ankles, just as Jack had showed him, and he fell forward as Rich jumped back: a deafening thud like a side of beef hitting the butcher’s slab. The referee got down on one knee beside him; the crowd cheering. The countdown began. Two. Fluid rushed to fill the void, Frank’s eye swallowed up by the swelling, a pulsing life of its own. Head on the floor. Four. Gloves lifeless. Six. Spit and blood pooling on the white canvas. Eight. The twitching legs were still. Nine. Knock Out. Frank played his part to perfection.
The referee grabbed Rich’s arm and held it up in the air, high enough to touch the ceiling. So what if none of the cheers was for Jack; so what if those fools didn’t know both those fighters in the ring were his? He had to shove past the row of backs that crowded Rich’s corner. Frank lay still, alone on the canvas, one bloodshot eye swelling shut; rolled on to his back, knees up. Bert reached him at the same time as Jack. They dragged him to standing, and it wasn’t for show. Frank’s legs were shaking; his neck hung limp.
‘I didn’t… expect it’d feel… this bad.’
Bert shook his head. ‘Always hurts worse when you can’t fight back. And the extra sting, that’ll be pride biting you in the arse.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Frank. Money softens all blows.’
Frank’s feet shuffled on the spot and Jack remembered the day he had bought him those boots. The smiles, the promises; it’d all seemed so easy then. Rich jumped on to the pub floor; arms were slapping his back and hands trying to shake the big red gloves. No one was looking at the ring.
Bert dropped the kit bag beside Frank’s feet.
‘I’m leaving you to it. I’ll be by the gym to pick up my share on Monday. Good luck with everything, Frank.’ He patted Frank on the shoulder. ‘You’re good in the ring, but out there…’ he pointed into the room ‘… you got to learn to be a fighter.’
Jack held out his hand. Bert turned away, hauled himself out between the ropes and bumped his way through the
crowd. Frank stood and watched. Jack picked up the bag. ‘We don’t need him no more. Let him go.’
‘Spider’s gone too, Jack. He was up by Vincent.’
Frank bowed over the ropes, spat blood out of the ring; it mingled with the broken glass on the floor.
‘What’s Spider up to? No, don’t tell me, I wouldn’t want to know.’
Jack climbed out first, helped Frank down the steps. They made their way through the press of people. A few kicks were aimed at the back of Frank’s legs. They stuck to the edge of the room. The celebration was going on in the main bar; the door swung open and Rich was magnified behind raised glasses, gloves hanging around his neck. Jack’s spine stiffened at the sight of it.
There’s no such thing as second place in boxing
was what his dad had said after his first loss. Jack opened the door to the stairs.
‘They… hate me.’
‘Everyone hates losing. Small change is all they parted with.’
‘I feel… like I… lost something.’
‘No, you didn’t lose nothing. You gave it away.’ Jack gave Frank a little push to get his legs moving. The lightbulb swung above them. Frank’s arms trailed by his thighs, heat rising off the horsehair and leather gloves. The door was still open to the pub, and laughter followed them along the underground corridor. Frank sat on the chair, back slumped, legs kicked out in front. His swollen eyes flickered over Jack’s face then dropped back to the gloves.
‘Give them here, Frank. Just don’t touch the trousers.’
Jack unlaced and eased off the gloves. The smell of salty skin and hot leather was like sitting next to a racehorse. So familiar he could pinpoint it in a packed changing room. He pushed the hands away.
‘All done. Just remember, when the pain really kicks in tomorrow, why you done this. For you and Pearl.’
Frank nodded. ‘For Pearl.’
The trail of greying bandages spiralled from his wrists down to the black floor. Rat-prints crisscrossed the dusty barrels, the wood slick with their sickly-sweet spit; a scratching came from the corridor. Jack crossed his ankles to deter any strays from making a bolt up his legs. But it was the Thin Suit who stepped out of the tunnel, his shadow straight as a blade.
‘Thought Vincent said we were meeting up at the club tomorrow.’ Jack moved out of the corner; a length of grey bandage unravelled on the floor between them.
The Thin Suit batted brick dust off his sleeve. ‘I’m here to collect your fighter. We want a word.’
‘This ain’t about what happened at the beginning of the fight? A bit of show, getting the measure of his opponent, that’s all.’
‘Vincent wants to make sure your boy knows what’s expected of him now.’ The Thin Suit swung an arm down to pick up Frank’s bag, threw the trousers and jumper straight at him.
‘I didn’t mean… nothing, I just got –’
‘Keep quiet, Frank.’
‘It’s nothing for you to worry about, Jack. This is between the boy and us. You understand how it works.’ The Thin Suit kicked the gloves towards Frank. He eased his bruised body into the clothes; held on to the barrels to inch his hand down towards the gloves.
Jack slung his coat over his shoulder. ‘I’ll bring Frank by with me tomorrow.’
The Thin Suit shook his head.
‘It’s… all right, Jack. I’ll sort… it out.’
‘Well, if you say so. I best get back to Pearl, she’ll be waiting. I’ll tell her you’ll be round later. We’ll put a nice spread on for you. You done good.’
Frank wrapped a scarf around his neck, stuffing the ends down into his jumper. Jack felt the Thin Suit’s eyes on him all the way up the stairs. He surfaced into the alleyway. The
cold nipped at his skin; the smell of coal dust and traffic soot stung the insides of his mouth and nose. He made his way to a bus stop around the corner, hoping he wouldn’t have to listen to anyone discussing the fight. Two fat women waited on the pavement, baskets and headscarves, bodies hunched inside pre-war winter coats. The first bus came, but it was only going as far as Tower Bridge; no point changing more than he had to. Frank would be walking round the corner any minute; they could go together. The women got on; a man with a young son came to stand by the wall.
The boy kicked a can up and down the gutter as his dad peered at the racing news under the flickering street-lamp. All Jack had to do was get on the bus, lose himself in the rush of late-night drinkers and be home in less than thirty minutes. Frank was old enough to look after himself. Another bus went past, but none of them was right. Jack couldn’t seem to get his feet to work. Frank was probably too tired to walk quickly – always trailing behind. The man shoved the young boy up the bus steps, the conductor’s hand hovered above the bell wire, but Jack waved it on. He sprinted back to the pub.
Jack slid past the overturned bins. Edging along the wet wall, the noise growing louder: the slap of leather on the ground, grunts like a hungry dog foraging. A light came on, the attic window from the pub providing a spotlight; no moon or leaking street-lamps reached that far. The sharp lines of the Thin Suit’s grey flannel cut through the centre of the alleyway. The black mound on the ground had to be Frank – down again. If the Thin Suit left it at a quick kick then he and Frank would get the next bus, even if it was going to Tower Bridge. The kick came. The Thin Suit pressed his nose against the black shadow.
‘Get up, Frank,’ Jack murmured.
But Frank couldn’t hear him. The second kick never came but the Thin Suit slammed his foot down on to Frank’s right hand, grinding in his heel. Frank screamed but no one on the street stopped: coats buttoned-up, marching into the wind.
The starlings were back, screeching and twisting in a dark cloud above the pub, hundreds of them. Jack banged his head against the brick.
‘Fucking idiot.’ His breath fogged but no sound came out.
If Jack broke them up it wouldn’t make it any better for Frank; it was the way this sort of business went. He and Frank hadn’t even seen any of the money yet, and they never would if Jack interfered now.
The Thin Suit worked up the ribs, rooting with the toe of his shoe, as he spoke. ‘Hesitation is bad for your health. Can’t have you making any plans for a comeback, can we?’
His back was to Jack; intent on what he was doing. He was enjoying it, Jack could tell by the relaxed swing of his arms, the cocked angle of his head. Jack knew that posture, knew what it was like to be curled up on the floor. He kept close to the bricks, edging around a row of barrels; holding his breath as rats skidded across his shoe out towards the light of the street. It was too late for Jack to do anything now, it really was. The Thin Suit raised his foot again, this time over Frank’s left hand; he was going to break every bone.
‘This puts you out of harm’s way, for your own good.’
A spike of light pierced up into the alley; the Thin Suit’s foot paused in mid-air as the back door to the pub banged open. Vincent stood in the doorway. Jack crouched down, puddles illuminated in front of him. Spider came out from behind Vincent, climbed the steps, shoulders swaying; his shiny suit looked as though it was shrinking around him. He stood next to the Thin Suit, pressed his knuckles to his knees, peered over at Frank.
‘I need him with one good hand.’
‘It’s not fucking up to you.’ The Thin Suit pulled up to his full height, a good six inches above Spider.
‘It’s my say-so. Leave the lad be now,’ Vincent called up.
His shadow displaced the pool of light around Frank – lying flat on his front, face turned to the side. The Thin
Suit cracked his neck to the side as he inspected Spider. He snorted twice, turned and went down the steps. Vincent’s cigar smoke crawled up the black brickwork.
‘That boy’s lucky to have a mate like Spider. He’s brought to my attention just how useful a strong pair – well, one hand – could…’
The door slammed shut on the rest of the words. Jack needed to stand up, his joints throbbed, but Spider was still in the alleyway.
‘Help us up, Spider.’ Frank drew his knees up under himself.
‘All I ever do is bail you out, Frank. You owe me this time, no getting around it.’
‘My hand. It’s smashed up.’
‘He was going to break every bone you were born with before I turned up, and now you’re moaning about one pissing hand. So much for gratitude.’
Jack wanted to bash Spider’s head between the ridged bin lids, but more fool the boy for taking on a debt to Vincent – it would be called in soon enough. Spider stood up, lit up a cigarette, the orange flame reflected in the shimmering threads of his suit. Puddle water soaked into the cuffs of Jack’s jacket, a chewed cigarette butt floating towards his fingers.
‘What are mates for, eh, Frank? You just got to worry about getting on the mend because I’ve got us work lined up. First job’s not far off. I’ve fixed it good. Shouldn’t really say much now but Vincent thought it was spot on too. That new department store they’re finishing on Oxford Street, we’ll strike it rich there. What was I always telling you?’
‘I never thought it would come off.’ Frank tried to lever himself forward on his elbows.
Spider reached down, grabbed the back of Frank’s belt and pulled; the cigarette clung to his lip. Frank made it to standing, swaying forward, staggering up against the wall, his left shoulder taking the weight. Jack’s muscles tightened; any minute now cramp was going to shoot up from his feet
into his thighs. He rocked slowly on his heels, loosening the ligaments in his legs. Spider prodded Frank’s bag up to the wall with the toe of his shoe.
‘Never had enough faith – not you, not that manager you signed up to. I did it without any of you. And look who’s offering the handouts now.’
‘I ain’t said I’ll do it, Spider.’
‘There’ll be something you need and you’ll come looking for me to provide it. Same as always. Now you know what it’ll cost you. Here, get yourself a cab back, I’m good for it.’ Spider jiggled his pocket, pushing up a handful of coins; poured some into Frank’s bag. He jumped down the steps, two at a time, and went back into the pub.
Frank never should have hesitated, shown indecision. It wasn’t Jack’s place to save the boy from himself; if he went round doing that for everyone then he would be six feet under himself by now. But he couldn’t go back to the house without Frank, couldn’t face Pearl’s questions. He eased himself up, stepped out into the middle of the alleyway and walked towards Frank.
‘Came back to see what was taking so long. What happened to you?’
‘He got me with a low blow before I saw it coming. Help me, Jack.’
He rushed forward, grasping hold of Frank’s shoulders to keep him upright; the dead hand swung free. They fell back against the bins; lids rolled to the floor. Jack couldn’t look at the red and white pulp hanging from the end of Frank’s arm. Out of the corner of his eye it looked as if a boxing glove had shrunk around his fist, no fingers to be seen in the swollen mound.
Frank pressed his forehead to the bricks, left hand gripped around his right wrist. ‘How bad?’
‘I’m no doctor but Pearl can’t fix that up, it’s going to take a hospital this time.’ Jack scooped up the bag, pulled it over one shoulder and pushed the other shoulder under Frank’s armpit.
‘Will you come in with me?’
‘Let’s just get there first.’
Jack wrapped his other arm around Frank’s waist, supporting him, wobbling to walk upright. They staggered out into the street like payday drunks. Frank was heavy, dragging him down, making the sweat build under Jack’s jacket. But everything would work out: Frank would heal. Jack had got his hand trapped in the door hinge when he was younger and it wasn’t even noticeable now, just a small hollow groove in his index finger.
Don’t put your digits in the door, boy
; Jack must have heard his dad say it a hundred times and never listened until that last time when his dad got his brothers to slam it shut – it was a lesson well learned.