Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) (22 page)

Chapter 52

Matt McGregor:

  With major doubt racing through my mind, I wasn’t prepared for that night's events. The recovery from the binge going well, but the training sessions not. I couldn’t keep up with the pace, my brain on a downer from the constant high, it couldn’t operate as normal.

  Spending a couple nights in Katie’s company did relax me a touch. Adding to my worry that week, was fighting bare-knuckle against an ex-boxer and a good one at that. Having his boxing licence removed for too many assaults, he naturally moved into illegal boxing. My advantage of having a career in boxing wasn’t there now, the advantage of being rage driven by ‘roids against Masson wasn’t there, either. There were even less rules in bare-knuckle fighting than there were in unlicenced rings. You could pretty much get away with anything, and that terrified me.

  No gloves, no ring. Just a bare-knuckle scrap between two men, one of them walking away with five grand. I was just preparing to leave The Fountain, when Margaret caught me.

  “Joe, listen son. Make sure you come home tonight?” We grew close over time. Not having any sons, Margaret felt the need to watch over me like a fairy godmother. I welcomed her love.

  “Course I’ll be back, Mags.” Reassuring her I would, but honestly, who knew?

  “Well, if you’re not coming back ‘til the early hours, text me, cos I’ll have to go home.” She stayed a few streets away from the pub.

  “Sure Mags. I will, definitely.”

  “OK honey, good luck.” She gave me a tight hug before I headed outside, Tim waiting for me in the car.

  The journey to the high-rise parking complex was too short. I hadn’t had much time to myself before leaving. Entering through an emergency exit door, guarded by one of Mike’s henchmen, I walked to the fourth level. I couldn’t slow time, my head was in a panic, worried about not being prepared for this.

Opening the door to the top floor, the evening sun shone through the gaps in the wall. A gathering of about a hundred people stood in the north-east corner. Tim dressed ragged in a farmer’s shirt, carrying a plastic bag with water and a towel. My untidy hair, heavy stubble and loose dress made us both look ragged.

  We stepped towards the fight area, hearing the patter of every step and every beat of my heart, taking a stance opposite McGregor. Spotting him straight away dressed as if it was a pro-fight, boxing boots and long shorts, hoodie hung over his eyes, hands in the waist pockets. His shoulders loose, cool, calm and collected. No sign of nervous tension. He had done this many times. He was focused, totally mute while sizing me up me.

  The mood in the room was bleak, shuffling feet of the congregation and conversation heard behind the noise of traffic. Taking off my t-shirt, I tried to loosen up, swinging my arms around and having a shadow-box. No warm-up necessary in this type of fight, just meet in the middle and get on with it. Tim wet my gum-shield, placing it in my mouth.

  A few of the crowd could be recognized, Micky, Bull, Mike and members from the gym and other local faces from Tilly and The Fountain. People gossiped together while we caught stares and walked out to butt heads awaiting the beginning.

  Stepping back, McGregor removed his hoodie, baring abs that looked like an oil-painting, and a clean-shaven chest. Short, inky black hair with long sideburns cut down his jaw. His smooth face wasn’t one of a bare-knuckle fighter, except for his bumpy nose.

  McGregor stood next to me, flexing his pecs, eager to get stuck in. I gave off the impression I was ready, but far from it. I wondered if he could see the weakness in my eyes.

  “Right, men. Fight until the other can no longer continue, three minute rounds. One minute to go.” An accomplice of Mike barked the orders and it wasn’t ten rounds as I was told. The rules the way I saw them: Three minute rounds, knocked down, you had an unlimited time to stand before the round ended and fight until your foe couldn’t continue. Ignoring the original rules was expected here, after all, Mike was running this operation.

  Voices raised and comments exchanged, anticipating the beginning.

“Come on Joe! Do him!” Micky shouted and turned his body in the direction of MacGregor. The traffic noise drowned out the usual eerie silence these events brought, and helped the crowd give more voice. For the first time, cheers and shouts for my name sang out, being the local Granite City boy, it was expected.

  “Time, gentlemen.”

  McGregor fixed to the spot, waiting for me. I hovered around him throwing a couple feints, looking to make him flinch, but nothing. He was unruffled. He had that arrogant air of confidence in his ability that talented boxers had.

  A cagey affair, a minute in, no punch had been thrown. Gawking at him, he returned. I wasn’t about to break stare, or fall for his tactics. He waited. The tension sharp, aggression building in the crowd. They wanted entertainment. They wanted blood.

  Two minutes in, he watched my movement. His way similar to mine. Analyse your opponents, look for weakness in their eyes. Did he see mine?

  Out of nowhere, he started to bounce on his toes, edging around me, his right hand by his chin and left hovering in front of him.

  Moving with him, he floated, looking light on his feet as I expected from his boxing past. Only showing me his left side, there wasn't much target. Bobbing and weaving, he edged closer.

  “Come on, then.” I spoke, taunting him, trying to wind him up. It didn’t go as planned. Smirking at me, both of us in punching distance, a lightning left-jab and right hand snapped into my face, hands so fast I never seen it coming.

  “Time.” Fucking cunt planned that to perfection.

  “He’s a smart one this, watch yourself, don’t get suckered in.” I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for this, spending the past couple weeks getting over my coke binge, training was shit. And, I worried about not seeing my kids. “Keep your wits about you, Joe.”

  Sipping water, I cocked my head at McGregor. Standing by his trainer, taking in water and advice. Here he had the beating of me. Had I lost the heart for this? Maybe I had, right at this moment.

  “Time, gentlemen.”

  Lacking confidence, I crept out, trying a little bounce in my toes.

  Nervously I went in for an assault. Throwing a jab, he swiftly dipped his sculpted frame to the right, countering with a right-hook, then back-handed his forearm, chopping it through my throat.

  Grasping my throat with both hands, slumping in panic, my trachea blocked. Trying to breath, taking deep gasps, but I couldn’t inhale. Sounding like an asthmatic having an attack, slobbering down my chin. I took my time, I had until the end of the round to stand.

  He stood smugly, glowering at my state. Close to surrendering, I could stay down and this could end now. The look on MacGregor’s face was one of satisfaction, counting on an early night, I seen he wanted me to stay down.

  “Joe, get up. Come on!” Micky’s words did nothing to inspire me. What did, was the thought of my Father. I didn’t want him to know I gave up like this, gave up knowing I could stand. Pulling myself off the ground, less than a minute to go in the round, still fighting for a proper breath.

   The look of satisfaction was wiped from McGregor’s face and his smile turned to a frown. I was no mug, he had to learn that. The crowd cheered as I stood. Coming straight at me again, filled with annoyance, a left-jab then a right hand, slipping them by swaying my waist from side to side, a left fist impacted into my ribs. Not yet recovered from the throat punch, the blow took my breath away again. His fists were too fast, his bare-knuckle thrown upward into my rib with a bouldering blow. Usually pain wasn’t a problem, but in this this scrap, I lacked adrenaline. I wasn’t up for it.

  “Time.”

  “Jesus man, hold your hands up, take deep breaths.” Tim shouted. Looking and feeling like a wimp, I lifted my arms above my head, inhaling deep breaths.

  “Can you not hear me out there?”

  “No, I can’t hear fuck all!” On the ground in panic, I could hear nothing. My brain cared for nothing more but to breathe. Letting my lungs fill with air was a relief.

  “Only been two rounds. You better switch on here, Joe.” Tim took it upon himself to pour the entire bottle of water over my head.

  “Fuck! What the fuck you doing man?!” It had the desired effect.

  “Just get out there and wake the fuck up.” Drying me off with my t-shirt, it was time again.

  I heard whispers from the crowd. “Joe's done here, he’ll be gone in this next round.”

  “Time, gentlemen.”

  I came out for the next round with a fast stride, deciding to give this fuck a fight. Anticipating his evasiveness this time. Throwing caution out the window, wasting no time, taking him by surprise, I thundered in with a right hand, left-hook combo landing both. He felt the pain, replying rapidly with two successive left-hooks, a right uppercut, and then a straight right.

  Now able to absorb the pain, letting go of my fear, I planted my feet and tried to rally. He wouldn't stand still, bobbed around on his toes, his sharp jab in my face making me look stupid, but I wouldn’t stop till I got close. Leaping into him was the only way I could close the gap.

  Standing toe-to-toe, clinching for the advantage, interlocking elbows in a wrestle, a sickening uppercut sent my head pinging to the roof as I went into a haze. I was in trouble again. Not stopping, he kept the pressure on, my legs weakened, and the next thing I knew, I was lying flat down in a parking space.

  He sniggered arrogantly, looking down his nose at me.

That changed things. I decided to play a game of my own. Taking my time again, coming round, and pretending I was suffering more than he thought.

  I crouched onto one knee, then slowly rose to my two feet, slouching over my waist, hands on my knees, appearing done in. He seen his opportunity to finish me, the audience rose with anticipation.

  The emerging Joe Marks, son of the great Davie Rhodes, about to fall.

  I looked at McGregor. Appearing broken, only wanting him to fall into my trap, come into my range and seal his fate. I could see his face tighten, in his eye a glint of victory. He stepped closer, then a little closer, he pulled his leg behind his body, ready to volley my head all the way to Pittodrie.

   There he was, right in front of me. His foot travelled in the direction of my skull. Clenching my fist tight, opening my body, I pivoted with a right uppercut from the floor, thundering the punch straight through the base of his chin, lifting him from his feet and sending him onto his back. He tried to pull his upper body up, but his hands were useless, like elastic.

  In the struggle to rise, he rolled over, his tongue hanging out, licking the tarred surface.

  There was still time to stand before the round ended. The crowd didn’t want to see that, neither did I. Time still not up, he flapped about like a fish out of water, his arms almost paralyzed from the shoulder down, his brain only knowing he had to rise, but couldn’t relate that message to his body. Determined, he tried again and failed, crashing back down onto the tarmac.

  “Time.”

  After the shout, Matt McGregor’s crew ran to his aid.  As soon as they did, it confirmed it was over. Gratified, I ambled cock-sure over to Mike, who stood with his arms crossed. Holding my palm out, he knew what I craved. His eyes dropped, annoyed at me once more. Slipping his hand into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, prodding around for too long, he was reluctant to hand it over.

  Swiping the envelope from his greedy paw, I picked up my wet t-shirt from the ground, throwing it over my shoulder and swaggered out the door. Five grand richer.

Chapter 53

Date With Destiny:

Early November, my date with destiny was set in stone. Becoming a reformed character after Matt McGregor took me apart mentally. I didn’t drink, stayed off the coke, worked in the bar, trained, and treated Katie with the respect she deserved, falling deeper in love with her. May was now a memory. Beginning to see the end to this journey of destruction, I hoped for a non-violent future, with peace and happiness. Not finished yet though, the path still had to be cleared before I could settle.

  Plans were in motion.

  The rules of the fight were simple, last-man- standing. Once you hit the deck, you've got a minute to stand, if not, you lose. Winner taking home serious money: twenty grand. Taking place down in the dock-yards of Glasgow.

  Any name worth mentioning in the criminal world intended on making an appearance. Important illegal activities would take place that night. The Eidolon would be conducting a massive arms-deal with a dangerous list of clients.

  The Eidolon was a phantom, appearing and disappearing at will. Some say he was Irish, some say English. The main arms-dealer pulling in crates of weapons supplied from the active IRA, into the country, by plane or boat, changing his route from deal to deal. Every corner of Britain, every outfit worth their name, from Aberdeen to London, got distribution from The Eidolon. He could get you any weapon you wanted, from a Second World War standard, USA issue M1 Garand rifle, to the most powerful hand-gun in the world, the fifty calibre Magnum 500. Smoke-bombs to poison-darts, you name it, he’d get it. Scotland Yard, MI5 and the G2, the Southern Ireland Intelligence Agency, were constantly pursuing him. Their search useless, they had leads on The Eidolon, but find him, they wouldn’t. Being top of the wish-list on every authority’s desk around Britain, it would be a huge achievement for any member of law enforcement to catch him.

A boss of his crew, his loyal four, The Stable.

  Bred from the streets of Belfast, experts in guerrilla-warfare, they could conduct deals for their boss with enviable skills. They would be unknown. Their appearance hidden. All of them furiously dedicated to The Eidolon, they stayed off-grid, no fingerprints and no medical records. Men who lived in the darkness. An effortless relationship built on their fear and unquestionable respect for their boss. Anyone that crossed this five, were dealt with in a calculated, inhumane manner. They had no compassion for life. The scar on Mr Dean’s face, the result of a miscommunication between him and two of The Stable. He himself was fearful of them, and that from a man of ruthless reputation.

The Govan Gang and The West London’s Ghetto Gang were stocking their supply of automatic weapons, Mr Dean himself taking a handful of Glock pistols. Skinner’s four million pound counterfeit deal, going down with Glasgow’s independent gangster Bobby Munroe. A vile man who grew up with death, though not initially in a murderous way. His father was a mortician with a succcessful business. Bobby gained a fascination for the dead, killing innocent people for fun, then hacked them up for his own pleasure. He went from being a serial-killer to a hitman and now he was assisting the Govan gang in moving upmarket. He was rotten, greedy and idolised being Glasgow’s new Godfather. It wasn’t the cash, it was the opportunity to dabble in even more criminal activity. The men he had working for him back in the city were brainless, but brave to mix with such a man. A small disagreement would land them in his private morgue.  All the deals going down that night were just an excuse to witness what would be a violent, bloody affair between two warriors fighting for different reasons. Or, so I kept telling myself. The real truth is, it became part of who I am, I just had to separate it from who I would become. I trained like a professional bare-knuckle fucking demon for this. Rising in the mornings, injecting a hit of juice followed by a four-mile jog. Trained every afternoon. Hit bags with bare hands, toughening my knuckles and I sparred twice a week.

  Boxing at the gym, I told my training partners to leave their gloves off. I wanted to feel the impact of raw knuckles. I wore mine, so when I fought The Reaper without them, there’d be no weight, my hands faster, looking for any advantage over him. Matt McGregor was too quick for me and too smart, a valuable lesson learned from him.

  Underestimating my talents for this game was an error, one I won’t make again, especially up against this Barbaric man. He was famous in his own right. Bitter, angry and no care for his wellbeing, he would come at you blind with broken bones or lost limbs. He didn’t drink, didn’t take drugs, didn’t socialise and had no friends. His sole purpose in life was to inflict pain. Jacked up on daily injections of steroids made him even more dangerous.

  When I become victorious, my name will always be remembered, mentioned in the same sentence as the infamous Davie Rhodes. He wasn’t proud of me as a youth, but I’m sure he'd be appreciative of me now. Ironic that. It humbled me inside, knowing he would be honoured to be my Father. A son will always look for his Father’s praise. Maybe that’s why I did this, maybe deep down inside, all I wanted was for him to love me and accept me. And when I turn over The Reaper, I can say ‘Look Dad, look at your boy now.’