The Longest Fight (31 page)

M
y watch ticks, drawing my eyes from the open Bible. Less than a minute left. The print on the page floats up towards me, black specks like bouncing rain. I should read it out, but the words are not right. Pierrepoint coughs; he does not like the rhythm of these hangings to be altered. Procedures must be followed before that rope is dropped, and we are coming to the end of them all. The men stare at the greening crucifix on the opposite wall, but Jack is not looking there. He still studies the ceiling, or perhaps he is thinking back to some other time.

Our paths must have crossed growing up, running the same streets. Standing here, watching the pulleys being cranked, I am sure that is why he told me everything. No grassing – the constant cry over bomb sites and back yards; Newton’s son knows the rules.

No windows, no noise from outside, but Jack closes his eyes and tilts his face as if he feels rays on his skin. The envelope postmarked
Victoria, Australia
sits in his top pocket; he showed me the tinted photograph of Pearl and Frank standing together in front of a corrugated hut, blurred hands waving: the black and red flash of a student nurse cape, a pencil behind Frank’s ear and sawdust on his sleeves – solid and shadowless outlines in the bright New World sunlight.
To Dad Love Pearl & Frank
neatly printed in blue ink across the right-hand corner. He replied to each letter, reading his words over and over until the paper wore thin at the folds, but he never posted the replies. They will be wrapped in brown paper, packaged up with his knitted bedsocks, ounce
of tobacco, shaving mirror, snapped comb, silver-framed picture of Rosie, title deeds to the house (a result of the only letter he did send, to his sisters), and sent by boat to Australia come the end of the day.

The younger man steps forward with the white hood; it billows as he lifts it into the air. Jack stands with his back stiff, a soft rush of breath from his mouth. I reach for his shoulder. The hood slaps my arm, droops and hangs still. Pierrepoint blinks twice – telling me this is not how things are done. But I do not move away; I squeeze the rough material of Jack’s shirt. This is his final chance to tell the truth to someone other than me, to save himself.

‘Do you have any last words?’

He flexes his wrists, fingers locking as he holds his own hand. ‘I done it for her.’

My arm falls down to my side. The hood comes again. And that is when he sees it; before the whiteness seals him up. Floating specks of dust in the light, each one a moment from his life balanced against another – this time he really sees it. After all, it is the longest fight there is, life. Jack has known knockouts in the first round and long agonising defeats in the fifteenth: no reward, no prize purse. It is only the fight itself that is important: finding the strength to make it through. The noose fits over his head; wisps of greased hemp stand up – thin and bright as baby hair. The cotton hood trembles as Jack breathes, sucked into a shallow O between his lips.

The Bible in my hand feels heavy. I know the words by heart, but now they are not enough. The pinioning straps are checked – securely fastened. The last time I visited Jack, before he was moved to the condemned cell, he opened this Bible, ran his finger across the lines. ‘Maybe I printed these words at the factory, maybe my dad did,’ Jack said. He told me then he wanted to return something that was mine.
Boxing
by A.J. Newton, printed in black ink down the spine. I had heard the tales from my father, but I never thought there was much truth to it until Jack pushed the book across
the scrubbed table. Silver pencil trails score the dusty pages, trickling through the margins. Rich’s wins and points totalled in columns on the back leaf, the date for his title fight at White City written in capitals: two weeks from today.

I rub my fingers across the black leather of the cover, close the scarlet-edged pages. We all step back from the spot where Jack stands; only Pierrepoint keeps beside him. When they post the notice of death on the prison gate it will be on plain white paper. Usually a crowd gathers, pushing to examine the small type. Georgie said she would be there to read Jack’s name, to finally accept he was not coming home. She has not missed a visiting day, but this will be her first without Jack. Only on the last visit did he make her cry, telling her she would find someone else some day because that was the way things always went, whether you wanted it or not – and he knew because it had happened to him. She told me Jack would always be printed inside her. I offered to persuade her not to come; he laughed at that. Instead he asked me to take her for champagne and oysters after Rich’s title fight, said that night out was the only promise he ever made her. She is waiting out there now on the rain-licked cobbles. Pierrepoint removes the safety pin, places his hand on the metal lever. Nothing now can stop the clack and scroll of the typewriter from printing that name, the name he was born with: John James Munday. Only one thing left.

‘Be of good courage.’

The platform drops. The rope cracks tight about the prisoner’s neck. The body shakes, slowing to a sway, until only the scuffed oxblood brogues circle from left to right. The grey shadow of the doctor appears in the room below. He presses a stethoscope to the prisoner’s chest. But Jack has nothing more to say.

Turn up the lights, sweep out the ring. This fight is done.

I would like to thank the following people for their care and attention in getting this book made: Ed Wilson, my agent, and Candida Lacey, MD at Myriad, for their vision and belief in Jack; Holly Ainley, my editor, who didn’t pull her punches and always hit the mark (in a friendly, non-violent way); Linda McQueen and Dawn Sackett for having great eyes for detail; Leo Nickolls, for the lovely book design; and all at Myriad Editions. It has been a pleasure to work with you all.

I also want to express my gratitude to early readers of
The Longest Fight
– Robin Lindsey, Elizabeth Silver, Hatice Özdemirciler, and in particular to Linda Anderson and Derek Neale whose feedback and advice was invaluable. Thanks are also due to my family and friends for their encouragement and support.

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