Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) (15 page)

Chapter 33

Pre-Fight:

  The rest of the afternoon we lazed about, ate plenty and talked shit until it was time leave. Tim grabbed his usual ring bag and threw a six-pack of water in the boot, along with my bag.

  The journey down didn’t take long, maybe an hour. Enough time to put my head down as I liked to do before fights, but I couldn’t sleep, fixated on what was about to happen. I was more wired than usual. My head over-thinking the worst scenarios. In a way, I think I was doing this to prove something to my Dad. Maybe I was looking for him to accept me, love me in a way that a Father should.

  No gloves, just mitts and definitely not in the ring. This was taking me well out of my comfort-zone and deep into the lion’s-den. So disturbed by this I could hardly speak, keeping my head up against the window, sliding into my jacket.

  Traveling to the south side of Montrose, we drove through an open, green-painted steel gate into the massive parking lot of a motor garage. The building long and low, with eight roller-doors and lights turned on in the inside. The car park filled with vehicles.

  “Before we go in, I just want you to know everyone's betting against you here. Only the big rollers are here, so there’s a lot of personal bets going around.”

  “Aye, so every cunt thinks this prick will do me over?”

  “Pretty much aye, but not me. I wouldn’t let you do this if I thought otherwise.”

  “Well, I’ll give you the best tip for the day.”

  “What?”

  “Bet on Marks.” I sounded confident, but was faking it.

  Heading into the garage on this cold frosty night, the sky covered over in black, fifty spectators scampered around under the bright yellow lights in front of eight car ramps, each with a roller-door.

  A heavy, oily smell matched the greasy surroundings. I only recognized Mike, Bull, Peter, Mr Dean and Lukas, the rest a selection of suited-up businessmen, paper gangsters and the odd piss-head. When the door shut behind us, a silence spread throughout the garage.

  Our footsteps clunked as we walked in the direction of Mr Dean. He stood with tinted-glasses on and a gleaming long black overcoat, his aura marking him out from his acquaintances. I say acquaintances, because he didn't come across as a man with many friends.

  “Mr Dean.” I offered my hand.

  “Joe…how you feeling tonight?”

  “Not bad, Mr Dean. You?”

  “Aye, I’ll be fine if things go my way tonight.”

I could only think he was relying on me to carry out the execution.

  Mike Jenkins peered over, seemingly jealous of the respect Steve and I had for each other, then pulled Tim aside. They turned their backs, deep in conversation.

  I chatted with Mr Dean. An interesting, elegant man, and a very dangerous one. He ran a sprawling criminal empire and had connections from the local council office, to Scotland Yard. There wasn't a problem he couldn't handle.

  A group of four hovering close by us were having a heated discussion on a fighter they called ‘The Reaper’ from England. Apparently he hadn't been beaten, putting many in hospital, and called him a Barbarian.

  “Who’s The Reaper they’re speaking about, Steve?”

  “He’s climbing up the ladder in England. I know the guy that looks after him. Says he’s a killer.”

  “A killer, eh? Where’s he from?”

  “Liverpool. A Scouser. Jack Gallagher looks after him. A good friend of mine.”

  “Sounds like a hardy cunt, by the way they’re talking about him.”

  “Hard! He’s the business.” A rare moment of excitement crossed his face.  

  Tim appeared back and pulled me aside. “What do you want to do before the fight?”

  “Chill out somewhere quiet.”

  “The only place I can think o’ is in the car. I’ll come and get you thirty minutes before the kick-off.”

  “Where we warming up?”

  “I’ll get the boys to set up a quiet corner. I'll need to wrap up those knuckles first.”

  With my tension over the fight, I completely forgot about my half-healed torn-up knuckles. With just over an hour to go, I took myself out to the solitude of Tim’s car. Preparing my head, I looked out a pair of headphones, starting my usual playlist on my phone, flopped back in the seat, and began to move into the zone.

  As time ticked by, I let all thoughts of love and family drift out, replacing them with my pent- up hatred of my Father. I could only think about Skinner and decapitating him, ripping the bully apart, leaving him lying in a pool of blood. That same feeling I had prior to the Warsaw bout came over me once again. I had no interest in Skinner’s well-being, I only wanted the money.  

  “Come on, lad. Get out the car. I'll tape up these hands.” Tim startled me, tapping on the window.

  “Not inside?”

  “No, do it out here. Keep  those hands hidden.”

  Tim was right, and good advice, too. He popped the boot where I sat with one leg on the inside and the other on the ground. Bitterly cold outside, the chill of the frost made me shiver. Tim went faster than normal to get it done. He looked more like a doctor performing surgery. Cutting short bits of zinc-oxide tape, sticking them to the top of the bumper ready to use. Opening up a couple bandage packs, placing them down. Using two types of scissors and a strict procedure to combine all the items.

  “Think I’ll call you the doctor from now on.” Joking with him.

  “I’ve had somebody tell me that before. I’ve done this so much, it’s second nature to me. Here, drink some water, stay relaxed.” The usual worried look layered on his face, as he concentrated on my hands, reluctant to look me in the eye.

  “What’s wrong, worried about me?”

  “What the fuck you on about, Joe? There’s nothing to worry about.” Knowing he was lying, I could see the concern on his face.

  “What were you and Mike talking about in the shed, earlier?”

  “Forget that. You need to concentrate on what’s happening now. This guy will tear you apart if you don’t sort that head out.”

  The chit-chat turned my thoughts off the fight, so I stuck my earphones back in to keep my cool. My body started to swap nerves for that first tingle of adrenaline, my heart pounding like a drum. Tim carried on taping my hands, me winching with pain due to his over-exuberant bandaging, patting and pressing.

  Taking a massive gulp of water to quench my parched mouth, I glanced at Tim's watch. Twenty minutes ‘til show time. And, there was something odd about Tim’s behaviour. Maybe the idea of his mate getting hurt might be the cause. I didn’t give that a second thought. Having that mind-set would leave me on the edge of defeat. Instead, I switched all thoughts onto inflicting pain on Skinner.

  “Joe…you know it’s last-man-standing the night?”

  “Aye, I’d worked that out for myself.”

  “You know what it entails? I know we spoke about it the other day.”

  “Round starts and ends when somebody hits the deck.”

  “Then, you’ve got a minute to get back to me, or stand. If you don’t, you lose.”

  “A minute. No problem, Doc.” I felt cracking a joke might lighten the tension.

  “Seriously, Joe. A minute, that’s all you’ve got. There’s no ref as such, only a guy holding the stopwatch.” Tim paused for a few seconds “Listen, a piece of advice. This prick is going to try and do you when you’re down, it’s what he does. Like I said, he hasn’t got any principles and don’t forget it.”

  “Aye, I’ll keep an eye on him. Don’t you worry.” The wrapping job on my hands done, I grabbed my gum-shield and black mitts, Tim picked up his pads and we headed inside out of the freezing cold night.

  Back inside, we plodded past the growing throng towards a quiet corner. No sign of Skinner.

  I decided to fight with my jeans on and removed the rest of my clothes to let the baying crowd see I was in good shape, shoulders and arms now starting to bulge, a well-defined chest, but still my gut overhung a little.

  Sliding the focus-pads on, Tim was ready to warm me up. My hands wrapped so tight, I had to force them into the mitts. Tim held the pads up, instantly each strike echoing the building with loud slaps.

  19.50, still no sign of Skinner.

    The stable of spectators now glaring over to the corner while Tim took me through the motions on the pads. The bodies in the room had created a warm buzz in contrast to the earlier temperature, and the warm-up was a sweaty one. It was simple to open myself up now.

  Three things that tuned my mind: Dad beating me, Dad beating Mom and the sight of her battered head hanging over his seat, dead. After five minutes, almost breaking Tim’s hands with loud grunts of fury every time I made contact, all thoughts of normal life left my mind and body, filling my head with pure hatred, my fists clenched tight and my eyes in a trance.

  Where was Skinner? I was ready.

  “Joe, drink some water.” I gulped down a few mouthfuls of water, letting the overspill roll down my chin.

  I heard the door open, and everyone froze in mid conversation, gazing. In walked two short, bald skinny men, wearing tight black trousers and black bomber-jackets, the door momentarily closed, before Skinner stalked in.

  My intensity skyrocketed.

Chapter 34

Skinner:

  He stood with his muscled back to me, displaying his tattooed shrine to Germany, the back of his bald head portrayed the Swastika tattoo, coloured in a deep black, on the rear of his shoulders an outline of the Nazi eagle.

  Covering his back, a portrait of Adolf Hitler in front of the Swastika flag, the writing ‘The Third Reich’ underneath.

  Turning to eyeball me, he carried that same cold stare, shooting shivers up my spine. We exchanged deep scowls, waiting for the proceedings to begin. Neither dared to blink, or break the staring match.

  Momentarily he glanced left, to Mike leaning up against one of the roller-doors, taking a long slow drag of his fag, blowing it out and returning an acceptable nod. A strange move, considering I was fighting for Mike!

  “Right men. You both know what’s about to happen here. Two rules. One, no hitting when the other man is on the ground. Two, when you’re knocked down, you’ve got a minute to rise. Play by the rules, gentlemen. One minute to go.”

  This was it, time to go to work, time to fuck this cunt up. My heart rate thumped uncontrollably through my chest, but I held my cool on the outside, as did Skinner. Couldn’t give away my fears.

  My blood pumped at a rate of knots. Turning to Tim, my mouth dry with fear, he knew to feed me some cold water and soak my gum shield before slotting it into my mouth, still showing the same anxiety in his face.

  Tim inhaled a sharp breath. “No guts, no glory.”

  Eyes focused, I didn't take him on. Knowing what I had to do. Mr Dean walked out into the middle of the floor between the car ramps and roller-doors, the slight chatter in the room dulled again. This was it.

  A single word of “Begin.” Shouted by Mr Dean.

  Marching forward hanging my guard, swaying my left and right hands below my chin, getting the feeling-out process over.

  He plodded, slowly, arrogantly towards me. His lean muscled frame, his veiny arms hanging by his side, sinister eyes burning through my forehead. Half a smile layered across his face, he analysed my every move.

  I was in no mood to fuck about, the intensity ruling my mind. Leaping forward, a jab landed square on his jaw, shocking my wrist with the collision. I forgot punching a jaw was agonising without gloves.

  His head rocked back, repaying me with a smile. Cheeky cunt, let him come closer and I’ll make that smile bigger.

  Repeating the move again, but this time a left-jab, then a right hand, right down the middle, flat on the kisser it landed. The right burst his lip, nearly breaking my hand in the process. Blood dripped, and I made the mistake of thinking this was going to be an early night.

  How wrong was I to be? He put fingers over his mouth, realising it was leaking. He spoke “You’ll drink my blood, you fuck.” He groaned in a London twang.

  I’d pissed him off already. At this point, I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  He started hunting me down, looking to inflict pain, and it didn’t take him long.  Trying to avoid him, I shuffled round on my feet, waiting to get the feeling back in my right hand. He cornered me between a roller-door and a section of crowd, instantly grabbing my throat with his left, turning me motionless, four short rapid rights in a piston motion rebounded off my face, feeling like the stump end of a metal bat.

  I slumped to the ground, Skinner towering over, globules of blood dripping from his chin down past my eye, collecting with the foul stew on the ground. Breathing heavily, Skinner itched to carry on his assault. I heard a welcome voice. Mr Dean.

  “Round over, back to your corners.”

  This was the first time I’d heard the spectators. Cheering and grateful at the sight of my underdog frame slumped in pain. Picking myself up, I wasn’t hurt, just stunned.

  “What the fuck had just happened? Definitely wasn’t Queensberry rules in this game.”

  “That’s what you call bending the rules, Joe. Don’t give him an inch. If you want to come out of this fight walking, you better wake up to what’s happening. You're the smarter fighter. Don’t stand still, he won’t be able to hit you. Don’t fight his fight. Make it your fight.”

  Standing beside Tim, keeping my back to Skinner, taking in his words of wisdom, realising I could be out of my depth, I had to adapt to survive.

  “Time.” Mr Dean shouts. His man Lukas was holding the stopwatch.

  Skinner was already waiting in the centre when I turned. I had to remember what Tim had said, be smart.

  Skinner, repeating his plan with the same half-smile, followed my dance around the floor. Over-anxious for him to lose patience, I cracked first with a left-hook, ducked to his left side, took a wide swing with my right hand, landing in the solar- plexus, winding him and hearing him wince, but he soaked up the pain like a sponge.

  I had to quickly shuffle away to avoid his hand grasping for my throat, and now he was stalking me, waiting impatiently for his own moment to pounce, closing me down as I lurked closer to the same trap again. Forcing my right arm towards his face, he caught my fist cleanly in his right palm which impressed me, but I was the broader man here, and I could not let myself forget that.

   He squeezed, bending my arm out to the side, ogling me with a smirk, mixed with determination and bloodlust, then pounced with the same rapidly fired punches, this time six of them.

  Falling to the ground, blood spurting from my nose, shouts of cheers from the gathering mob filled the shed as they showed how the thrill of a man down was what they wanted. Taking ten seconds to get to my feet, lifting my head and eyes until my head cleared.

  “Skinner. You’ll have to do a lot better that that, big man.”                                           

  His response, the same blank, angry evil look that hadn’t changed.

  Mr Dean again stepped out from the crowd. “Back to your corners.”

  Walking back, I knew Skinner’s punches were stunning me, but never going to finish me. My advantage would be to box him. Tim got quite animated. “Fucking hell, mate! What the fuck you playing at?”

  “Pissing him off.”

  “By getting your arse handed to you?  Stop fuckin’ about. I don’t want to carry you to the fuckin’ hospital!”

  “Relax, Tim.”

  “Jesus, wake up! This guy will kill you!”

  “No, it’s me who’ll be doing the killing.”

  Giving me some water and wiping the blood from my nose and chin with his towel, I understood what he was saying. I knew I was in trouble, big trouble, if I didn’t get my head in gear. Pissing Skinner off would result in him making mistakes. Beat him from inside out. Turn him against himself.

  The next round here.

  With blood clogging up my nose, I snorted it up, and spat it over his golden rigger-boots. That was it! His boots! He couldn't move around on them quick enough.

  What a dick.

  Putting the ‘Don’t stand still’ plan into action even more, knowing I could be quicker on my feet, shifting around him smoothly, slipping in and out of his range like a coiled spring, landing some blows, and avoiding his counter-tactic of gripping my neck.

  That round, I cut open his left eyebrow.

Four more rounds went by, Skinner caught me time after time, sending me to the hard ground, which was fast becoming an unwelcome friend.

  I was getting fatigued, trying to keep on my toes was hard work. He seemed to expel next to no energy.

  It was the seventh round before there was a change to his style. Starting to box me, throwing jabs and some combos. Aware of his own frustration, he visibly tensed up. I carried on in and out, slipping his punches and countering with mine. Hurting and frustrating him more as time went on.

  After five minutes of the seventh, the longest of all the rounds, my sweat and blood spattered my body. I thought he was there for the taking, but he was judging the timing of my movements perfectly now.

  I slowed for a few seconds looking to land something that would take effect. I began to see him weaken with frustration as I refused to fall. There I made the mistake, standing idle in front of him as a thunderous right-hook stunned me. Standing immobile on the spot, he floored me with a left.

  I was back lying on the dusty, oily, bloodied floor, disorientated, broken and searching for Tim through my double vision, in a state of panic only knowing I had to stand, get on my feet or it would be over, I would be the loser.

  Getting onto to my hands and knees, three massive blows rammed into the side of my ribs sickeningly, shattering my ribs, the pain immense. Gasping, it felt almost impossible to breathe. I could hear Tim shouting. “Get up! Get up!”

  It took everything I had in me to rise from the depths of defeat. But, the pain woke up another part of me. Unsteadily standing, determined, my stubbornness was now controlled by rage. I would be no loser.

  “You’ll have to do a lot better than that, big man.” Repeating what I said earlier, telling him I was no mug, continuing to dig under his skin.

  I had provoked a long-awaited response. His eyes softened for the first time, and his body language changed. He knew he had started something he couldn’t finish. Hearing Tim in the background. “Joe, get back here!”

  I waited until Skinner turned round and headed back to his two midgets.

  My body in more pain than I ever wanted to feel again. “My fuckin’ ribs are broken.”

  “Broken?”

  “They’re fucked!”

  “You can’t go on, Joe. You’re in too much pain. I can see it in your face.”

  “Time!” Mr Dean shouted all too soon.

  “I’ve come too far to give up.”

  “No! Think about your kids. Don’t do this.”

  “That’s why I have to carry on.”

  Getting back to the centre of the circle dividing the crowd, I stood ready for Skinner, holding my bust ribs with my right hand, my left fist clenched at my chin, blood running down over my mouth.  

  He looked at me with irritation, not expecting my return, standing there for several seconds trying to figure me out. I could read his face now. He glanced at Mike again, who stood tall and rigid, uncertainty in his eye. There was the customary nod of his head as if to say ‘Finish him off.’

  Everything became clear. This was a set-up, and Mike had stitched me up. Now I was pissed. Skinner must have thought ‘Another couple of blows and he’ll be finished.’ Peering through the crowd to Mike rather than Skinner, another massive right-hook slammed into my jaw, jerking my neck. Almost blacking out, my memory suddenly burst into action.

  I could once again see my Dad, fists pounding into my Mother, her slumped, dead body. Now, with no coordination, no sight, and only functioning on raw instinct, I launched a vicious punch at Skinner’s smug face, a right-hook that landed with perfect accuracy, shattering his jaw.

  He fell like a clattering tree, onto the ground, thumping onto his left shoulder. The force of the punch left me exhausted, on one knee. I loomed over the racist bastard as he squirmed on the blood-splattered floor, his jaw hanging from his face, his hand held up, begging me to stop his pain.

  His call of mercy wouldn’t be met. Rising to my feet, I lifted my leg high, showing the sole of my trainer, ready to smash it into his face.

His only saviour was Mr Dean, pulling me back from Skinner’s crumpled, broken, empty shell.

  “That’s it, boy. That’s enough, you’ve won.”