Authors: Emily Bullock
‘How fast are you going to make me run?’ She pressed her elbows to the table.
‘What you talking about?’
‘Don’t piss on my shoes and tell me it’s raining, Jack Munday.’
‘I always had you down as a sharp one.’
He glanced around at the permanent waves, and tight knots; he wanted everyone to know that he was with the smartest girl in the room. Rosie always used to make him glow like that – the best in any place she went. She’d been a fast runner too.
‘You could have warned me, that’s all I’m saying. I wouldn’t have had that last bit of bread to slow me down. And just how are you going to get us past that guard dog in a suit, Jack?’
He winked at her, got up and reached out for her arm, guiding Georgie across the floor. ‘I’m taking the lady outside. She needs a blast of fresh air.’
‘Maybe them oysters weren’t fresh, because I do feel queer.’ She clutched her coat.
The Stiff barred the door with his arm. ‘I am afraid I will –’
‘It’s all right, my coat and wallet’s still on the chair. Ask them to keep the pies warm.’
The Stiff glanced over to the table; Jack’s coat was there. He held open the door, but Jack could see he wanted to follow them out on to the pavement.
He whispered in Georgie’s ear, ‘I’m going to walk you up and down past the window. I’ll take Old Compton, you head for Shaftesbury Avenue.’
‘No, if we’re doing this, we do it together.’
The Stiff peered over the checked curtain that cut off the lower half of the window.
‘Have it your way.’ Jack swung his arm about her waist. ‘Three, two, run.’
They skidded around the corner. She was laughing so hard, he had trouble keeping hold of her. Jack slowed down as they reached the theatre crowds, melting into the fur coats and white silk scarf wearers. The spring air was shivering wet, but Jack didn’t care. Georgie pressed closer. He remembered the last time he made someone laugh like that; it was a lifetime
ago: his cold fingers nipping at Rosie’s waist, their wriggling shaking the lamp on the bedside table.
Jack rubbed his missing thumbnail as they hustled down the street. Georgie reached around and buttoned his jacket. ‘You’ll have to get a new coat or you’ll catch a chill.’
‘I found that old thing on the bus the other day, been saving it for a special occasion.’
The number three was pulling away from the stop. Jack reached it first, looped his arm around the pole; leaned out, hand extended. ‘Jump.’ He only had to say it once. Georgie grabbed on tight, fingers pressed to his wrist. Sometimes life offered up things worth holding on to, for a while at least – warm like the smooth boiled stones his mum would put in their pockets on white frost mornings; things that made him want to keep fighting. He held Georgie’s hand. Together they ran up to the cauliflower top, flopping on to the back bench; laughing as the bus rounded Eros.
T
he ring is set in the middle of the church hall, marked out by lengths of thick brown rope; it keeps the fighters in but it doesn’t keep the laughter out. John wants to throw another punch, puts all his life into it, but his limbs are soft. He takes a breath, moves forward, getting closer to the blond boy this time. Others wait their turn, scabby knees pressed up against the boundary: boys from the gym and St Chrysostom’s over in Peckham. John shuffles after his opponent, feet dragging as if they’re stuck to fly paper. A buzzing itches inside his ear, left over from the last clout. He slinks away from the dart of spring sun piercing the ring. He rubs a glove over his eyes – still cloudy. The blond boy is close; John smells the blackener on his plimsolls.
He takes a punch on the chin. Knocked spinning. Churchgoers stare from the cracked-back Sunday school benches. Posters in pastel shades, reds and blacks, whirl across the wall behind them:
The Right and the Wrong Way, The Meek Shall Inherit and the Mighty Will Fall.
His legs shake; he will fall too if he doesn’t find something to focus on. He spots a scrap of paper-chain pinned high up in the corner, left over from Christmas. The newspaper is too far away to read but he sees the headline:
John Munday, youngest ever flyweight champion of the world.
The boy doesn’t follow through with another hook. John raises his guard. Head snapping back, he doesn’t need to surface for air again: he can touch the muddy bottom of the canal with one lungful, keep his lips pressed tight for as long as his dad can bring a belt down on his backside.
You can’t hurt me.
The words rattle in his head
and harden as he takes a hit to the jaw. He lifts his arms, the gloves as padded as goose-feather pillows. He brings his fist up under the boy’s pimply chin… hits nothing. The boy is quicker than a wasp.
Another sting – John doesn’t know where it lands on him, and he hasn’t got time to check. He follows the trail of the boy’s white legs. One good punch is all he needs to put the spotty fucker down. Defend and attack, that’s what they taught him at the gym. But he wants to rip the blond hair out of the boy’s head, wants to kill him.
The boy twists, dancing John away from the corner. Hit again. They aren’t laughing now. John will take them all on. He feels his vest stretching against his back. The boy is slowing, arms down. John comes at him again; the boy shoves him off. John digs his boots into the floor. But the rest of his body won’t listen. He thumps a glove up against his own chest.
You can never hurt me.
A noise comes out of him, vibrating against his teeth. It isn’t a cry – too loud and deep for that. The blond boy lowers his gloves, presses them against his grey vest. The room gawps, all those dusty Sunday smirks. But John is only worried about one of those faces. His dad stands up. A bell rings, only it must be in his head: John isn’t done yet. He bangs a glove against his ear. The sound stops.
His dad pushes through the neatly ordered rows, kicks the rope, turning the square into a triangle as he gets into the ring. John is in for it now. He sinks his neck down into his shoulders, waiting for the slap. It doesn’t come. His dad sticks one cold hand up under John’s armpit, taking his weight. John’s scuffed boots drag all shape out of the rope; he is guided like a stick through mud. His dad’s suit, taken out early from the pawn shop for the Saturday afternoon fight, rubs against the skin under John’s arm. They are laughing again. The door slams against the back of John’s heels, making him skip forward into the daylight. After the dimness of the hall it is like falling into fire:
all those who stray from the righteous path will burn for all eternity.
His dad wants to
take him somewhere they won’t be seen – even the All Seeing Eye must need to blink.
John shivers as sweat drips through his cut-off trousers, rolling down into his socks. The ground settles under his feet; his dad is slowing. He hasn’t any energy to lift his arm and block the sun; red runs behind his closed eyelids.
‘I’m sorry, Dad. Let me back in, I’ll knock him down good.’
His dad steers him round to the bike shed, John’s bare shoulder scraping along the wall, the vest strap hanging down. He opens his eyes when they reach the shaded side of the building. His dad places his hands to the bricks behind John, holding him up under the armpits, pressing hard enough to make red dust.
‘No second places in boxing. I won’t be there to save you again, boy.’
‘No, Dad.’
But John could have lasted against that streak of piss, lasted as long as it took. He sucks up sticky snot; it catches at the back of his dry throat. His dad lifts up John’s chin with his fist, tapping higher, until their eyes are level.
‘Tell me, how long were you in there, son?’
John pauses, but can’t think what the right answer might be. ‘Five minutes maybe.’
‘A week, felt like a week, didn’t it? Those fools in there don’t know nothing. Laughing like that bloody parrot we got stuck with.’ His palm slaps the wall beside John’s ear. ‘Know why I go to church every week?’
John shakes his head then has to close his eyes to stop the world wobbling; nothing is making sense.
‘It’s because I staked my hand on this life, son, and I lost. Your mother is the only thing I ever won. I can’t be parted from her for all eternity. I pay my dues so there’ll be something better waiting for me up there. But you’ve still got a chance.’ He flicks John’s earlobe. ‘Don’t get sick on my shoes, boy.’
John twists his face to the wall and a thin liquid, grey as turning milk, dribbles down the bricks. He pulls back his lips, tongue stinging as if dipped in vinegar.
‘Don’t pay no attention to them cowards in there. Listen to me.’
John lifts his head again, nods, skull weighing as much as a sack of coal.
‘They ain’t good enough to lick my laces, especially not the vicar and his nose-stuck-up-her-own-arse wife. Our lot used to own half the streets round about, but your aunt and her side robbed us Mundays of it. All we’ve got left is one stinking house and one mangy bird.’
A face appears around the corner, glasses catching the light. ‘Is your boy all right, Munday?’
‘He just needs a little fresh air, thank you, Vicar. Kind of you to ask. He’ll be right as rain.’ He rubs the rim of his cap as he speaks. ‘I’ll make sure he beats those St Chrysostom’s boys for you, next time.’ He elbows John in the ribs. ‘Apologise to the vicar.’
‘Sorry, Vicar.’
‘Good, good. Well, I am sure you wish to get the boy home. No need for him to wait for the prizegiving.’
The vicar pushes his spectacles up, nose twitching, then he is gone. His dad spits; it hits the foamy vomit seeping towards John’s boots.
‘Anyone would think his shit don’t stink neither. You worked hard in there, son.’
John sees his chance to win something. ‘Bet my brothers wouldn’t never get in the ring.’
‘They got your mother’s soft looks and quiet ways. They do what they’re told, shoot where they’re told. But they’ll never be their own man…’
John smiles, even though his face aches like it is numb with cold; he nods as his dad talks. There isn’t even anyone else around to overhear – his dad must be speaking the truth.
‘… and your sisters, they got my dark looks – never marry well. Your aunt’s got my money – why shouldn’t she have my debts too? Let her see my face staring back through those girls every morning at breakfast.’
His dad talks to the corner, but there’s no one there. John doesn’t want him to stop; he watches the way his dad’s eyebrows rise and drop as he speaks. But he has to move, shifting and loosening the old postman boots digging into his ankles.
‘But you! That was quite a show. Never even came close to getting knocked down or giving up. Never be a great fighter, mind, not with them plank feet. You’ve got no grace, no swift footwork. Thin as a canal-weed, and all. But you can take it.’ A hand slaps John on the shoulder. ‘When’s your next match?’
‘Junior Southwark Championship qualifiers are July.’
He holds still as his dad unlaces the gloves, yanking them free, releasing a muggy stink like a ripe fart; tying the strings together and slinging them over his suited shoulder.
‘What will you do in your next fight?’
John studies his sweaty hands, but they aren’t floating up past his face as it feels they should be.
‘Win?’
‘I wouldn’t hold out much hope, boy. But you’ll lose better.’
His dad snorts, steps away from the wall; John’s knees sink but he stays upright. The bike squeaks as it is wheeled out of the rack. His dad pumps the pedal with one foot, swings his other leg over the saddle, turning a wide circle in the yard. ‘Jump, if you want a ride home.’
John staggers towards him, but the bike rolls past too quickly. His dad manoeuvres into a tighter circle.
‘Jump, I say.’
John doesn’t have the strength to make it back to the house on his own and he can’t return to the hall. A cheer goes up inside; someone must have hit the floor. A hand stretches out towards him, sweeping round like the minute arm of a clock.
‘Jump.’
John grabs the wrist, sticks the toe of his boot on the wheel nut, feels himself hauled up on to the back. The bike swerves but keeps moving: across the dusty bricks, out through the rusted gates, on to the road. Air hits John’s face; he squeezes his eyes against the sun and the grit. He locks his knees, resting up against his dad’s spine.
‘Will you come to my next fight, Dad?’
‘I seen you – don’t need me there again. Time to decide what sort of man you want to be. Any old fool can swing a few punches when he’s got an audience. But can you stand on your own and take the punishment?’
‘I can take it.’
‘You’re a lucky boy. I never had a man to teach me nothing. My dad, now, he’d give anyone anything, do anything for anyone. Much good his kindness did me and my mum. Old Winifred worked herself into an early grave holding on to that house of ours.’ His dad pokes a finger into John’s hip. ‘Only free dog is one who hates the hand that feeds it, you’d do well to remember that. Make something of yourself. They’ll be laughing on the other side of their faces then.’
His dad sticks out his arm, signalling a right turn. John rests for a moment, chin on the top of his dad’s head. He blinks down at the long forehead and bony tip of nose, the empty imprint of that pointed finger scalding his skin. He rocks backwards as his dad puffs his lungs out, building up speed to cross the junction of Camberwell Road; zigzagging past the number three bus waiting at the stop – a blur of red metal and pink skin out of the corner of his eye. John wants to hate: feels it like a fist lodged deep and dark in his windpipe, he wants it so badly. A boxing glove bounces against his thigh.
He is going to win his next fight, and the next, and the next. His dad pushes the swinging leather aside. ‘Howl again like you did in the ring and I’ll pick us up some batter bits from the chippie.’
John thrusts out his chest, hands gripping his dad’s shoulders. His mouth is parched but he opens it wide; his jaw
clicks: it rumbles out as a low, animal bellow. His dad joins in with a roar as a tram overtakes. The sound shakes their ribs, rattles on down to the spokes of the bike: round and round.