Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) (23 page)

Chapter 54

Pumped Up:

  Mid-September. Before heading down Kilgours for a night’s sparring, I joined Margaret behind the bar. Micky MacDonald, now my good pal, had come in for a few jars.

  “Did you get your stew, love? I left it in the kitchen for you.”

  “Aye, cheers Mags.” I gave her a peck on the cheek to say thanks. “It was great, by the way.” She was a gem, old Margaret. She had seen my soft side, just as she had seen Micky's. Gentle and stubborn, with a cheeky sense of humour, the perfect landlady. I became increasingly worried about her though, on nights I wasn’t here, in case anything happened in this bar.

  “You’re spoiled here, Joe. Think I’ll start nipping round for supper every night.”  Micky was acting odd that night, one minute quiet, in a trance and next cracking jokes as normal.

  “You’re welcome any night, Micky. You know that.” Her mothering instinct was always there. She would bend an ear to any man’s problems at the bar.

  “No chance you’re coming for supper, that’ll make my portion smaller. Besides, you don’t look like you’ve had a meal in your life.” He was a skinny radge, Micky.

  Margaret walked away to serve a punter. I leaned over the bar and spoke quietly. “You seem off the night, Micky?”

  “Aye, I’m off the gear. Canny handle it any more. I’m too old for it now.”

“Away and fuck, mate. How old are you?”

“Forty one. I’ve been taking panic attacks all week. Just need to chill out for a while”.

“Fuck, I know how that feels, just calm down for a while, you’ll be fine”.

“Aye, I’ll just play it cool for a few weeks.” He took a little bow closer to me and spoke from the side of his mouth. “That fuckin’ Harry Duncan’s on the loose. He’s out.”

“How long’s he been out for?”

  “Twenty days apparently, and I’ve no idea where the cunt is.” His fingernails took a chewing that night. Probably the reason he’s off the coke.

  “You’ve maybe dodged a bullet here. If he was that keen to find you, he would’ve caught up wi’ you by now.” I tried to reassure him, but I didn’t know what else to say.

“Anyway, how many days you been off the ching?”

  He looked down at his pint, head tilting side to side, mouth mumbling numbers. “Eh… twenty hours now.”

  I burst out laughing, complete joker this cunt. “What a fud! Twenty hours! You’ve not even reached a day yet, you bam!”

  “Aye, you’re right. No point making it twenty-four. I’m away for a line. Catch you later.”

  That was Micky down to a T. Complete lunatic and just on the planet to have a good time. Micky sent me out the door in a good mood, but that didn’t last long

  Walking into Kilgours around that time, my mood would automatically transform, sending my mind to a cold place, a dark place I had to go to. I needed to sink into the same mental state as The Reaper.

  I spoke little to anyone except Tim, but lately, he just left me to my own devices. He could see the task on my hands. That night, the bags got a pounding as usual, cuts from knuckles were constantly opening from scrapping the leather. I moved rapidly through the circuit, chin sunk into my chest, getting on with it. Still sitting at ninety-two kilos, I was ripped and confident. Every sit-up, every pull-up, every punch was all about becoming the victor. Sweating like Hell, my furious pace leaving the rest of the gym behind.

   My pure dedication to this was frightening. Tim told me to slow down at times, I just kept on, didn’t care for life, didn't want to stop and think.

  Every day I thought of the kids, May and what I had done to her. Once The Reaper was done, I had to make amends to see my kids again. There was no hope with May, I knew that, I could see my future with Katie and her kids, if she’d have me.

  This must have been my best night’s training to date. I sparred with all four guys in there, one after another, three minutes a time. Gloves on to save hurting them, but I preferred them to wear wraps only, get my reflexes up, get used to feel of hard knuckle on my flesh. Twelve rounds in the ring I completed that night, not at full pace, but hard enough. Well aware The Reaper done no sparring. No one was stupid enough to step in between the ropes with him, unless they were paid a decent amount, even then they would fall to save the pain. Any advantage I could gain, would be badly needed.

  Seven weeks to go, I was solidly psyched and longed for the notoriety of being the hardest man in the country.

Chapter 55

Micky:

  Waking the following morning at 6.45, cuddled into Katie’s luscious body, I struggled to pull myself out of bed. Sleepily making it to the kitchen for some tea and on for a seat in front of the telly. Turning on the local news. ‘A man was found dead on the streets of Torry, in the early hours of the morning, thought to be murdered. No further information can be disclosed at this time.’

  Thinking nothing of it, I continued to channel-hop, wondering what to have for breakfast. Then, I jumped up and ran to grab my phone from my jeans pocket. In a panic, I dialed Micky’s number. ‘Welcome to the Orange answer phone…’ I had a bad feeling, that squirrel in your belly when you know something's not right. Anxious to find out what was going on, I called Tim.

  “Tim, you heard about the body found in Torry?”

  “What? Jesus Joe, it's seven in the morning, lad.” Half asleep he wasn’t cracking on to what I was saying.

  “There’s been a body found in Torry. Is it Micky?”

  “What you on about? Can’t be, surely.”

  “HARRY DUNCAN, TIM!” Yelling down the phone to him, I needed him to wake the fuck up.

    “I’ll phone you back. I know who to get a hold of.” Straight off the phone, I dressed then legged it out the flat door, sprinting to Bucksburn Police Station, hoping I could find out the information I needed.

  The panic continued on the way. Almost certain it was him, knowing in my gut it was him, I wasn’t ready for the reality. Storming through the door, straight to the reception-desk where a young female constable worked.

  “The murder last night. Who was it?” Alarm in my voice, preparing myself for the news.

  “Calm down, sir. We can’t release that information.” She had that arrogant charm any copper had, and didn’t like my hostility.

  “WHO IS IT?!” Shouting, she flinched, petrified at my tone.

  “Look sir, calm down. Take a seat.” This bitch was pushing it. Close to jumping over the counter, Mr Magill’s ogre-like body strolled past, holding his polystyrene cup of coffee by his chest, looking weary like he had no sleep. I knew he had the answer I needed.

  “MAGILL!” Yelling in his direction to get his attention. “Was it Micky last night?”

  “I’m sorry Joe…it was Micky.” My heart missed a couple of beats, then took five or six thumps to catch up with absorbing the shock, instantly forgetting about my own worries.

  Taking four steps backwards, falling onto the waiting area seats, my insides felt empty. Staring into space, I didn’t know how to take this, even though I’d experienced it before, you're never ready.

  The same horrific pain when I saw Mom, stone dead, on Dad’s seat. That same gut-wrenching horror of someone taken from you, knowing you could have done something to stop it. Instant feelings of regret.

  “Joe, you OK?” No, I fucking wasn’t, fucking idiot.

  “How was he murdered?” Knowing it was Harry Duncan, I wanted to know how he did it.

  “We found him on the street, close to his Aunt’s, a kitchen-knife in his back, must have been jumped, probably full of a night’s coke and alcohol. Do you know anything?” Wrenching my head round to Magill as he gave me that evil stare of suspicion. He needn’t bother asking.

  “Not a clue.” He knew I was speaking shit, but he entertained me.

  “OK, Joe, OK.” He was more compassionate than I expected.

  Leaving the police station, I walked back to The Fountain to break the news to Margaret.  Dreading telling her, to be the one to broke the terrible news.

  I called Tim, he couldn’t take it in. He would need time.

  Eight o'clock, Margaret wouldn’t appear until 10.30am to ready the bar. I would sit in the pub and wait. I couldn’t tell her over the phone.

  Soon as I entered the bar, I headed straight for a bottle from the storeroom, grabbing a glass on the way back, propping up the bar on the last stool Micky sat on. Dull and silent like a morgue, left with only my thoughts, only the pool-table light shining, casting dark shadows across the room. I opened the bottle and watched the golden liquid fall willingly right to the brim of my glass. Picking it up holding it above my head, I toasted. “Here’s to you, Micky.”

  The back door burst open at 10.00am, Tim walked in, anxiety plastered all over his face. A bottle of whisky now lay in my stomach. I couldn’t take it, didn’t know how to take the pain. All I wanted was for someone to take it away.

With no nourishment in my guts, the liquor flowed straight to my head. I couldn’t see straight, couldn’t stand or barely talk.

  “What the fuck, Joe? I can’t believe it.” He still struggled to process the truth.

  “Better believe it, mate. Micky’s gone.” Completely plastered, I slurred my words.

  “Look at the state of you!” Tim sounded concerned as I swayed my head back and forth, stretching my hand out, trying to find one of the three glasses in my blurred vision. Downing the rest of the alcohol.

  Tim collected his own glass, filling it to the brim with Grouse from the optic, taking a pew with me at the bar. As I tried to stand to head to the bog for a piss, I fell over in a heap.

  “Fuck me, Joe get up.” I couldn’t stand on my own, Tim helped me back onto the seat, slumping my head over my arms at the bar, my head spinning around, I passed out.

  Tim shook me vigorously, as piss soaked my jeans.

   So drunk I didn’t care, and didn’t move.

  Right then, Margaret walked through the front door, finding me slumped on the bar-stool. As she discovered the pool of piss by our feet, she looked into my half-shut, bladdered eyes. The first tears of grief rolled down my cheek.

  “JOE? What’s wrong?” The tears started flowing helplessly, I couldn’t hold them back. Telling her would make it a reality. “What’s happened? Tim?”

  “I don’t know how to say this, Margaret.” I managed to stutter but couldn’t continue as my body started sobbing uncontrollably. I could no longer talk, it was up to Tim. My hands covered my eyes, my chin sank to my chest.

  “Tell me what? You’re scaring me now.” Margaret lifted her trembling palm to her mouth. She could tell the news she was about to hear would to be devastating. Tim was awkwardly silent, only prolonging what he had to say. It was out of my hands. I didn’t have it in me.

  “Fuckin’ tell me, Tim!”

  “It’s Micky, he was…found murdered in Torry this morning.” Margaret stared, trying hard to take it in. “What?”

  “It’s true. I’m so sorry, Margaret.”

Her knees buckled, using the bar to hold her up. Tim helped her to sit.

  “He was here last night, sat where Joe is. It can’t be right.”

We were all in complete shock and denial. I wasn’t able to stand, couldn’t console her as she fell apart. Tim put an arm round her shoulder. Fuck knows how he stayed so calm, but he was good at that, nothing in life fazed him.

  “Joe, get upstairs lad, clean yourself up.”

  “Aye, help me.” Picking me up, still weeping, trousers stinking and soaked in piss, Tim carried me up to my bed-sit, sitting me on my bed. I wrestled with taking my trousers off, bumped my way into the toilet, my head fell into the pan and I spewed out the contents of my whisky-filled guts.

Chapter 56

Grief:

  The next few weeks sent me deep into grief. It seemed people I cared about, left me. A lone soul, only accompanied by my demons, I couldn’t cope with people, and drank myself into destruction. Lost in depression, thinking there was no way out. Hounded with regret I wasn’t there for my pal. I could’ve  done something about Harry Duncan, I could’ve found him and dealt with him before he got to Micky. I kept asking myself why I didn’t? Harry Duncan had disappeared from the radar.

That week, I relived the time I’d spent with Micky, but that wouldn’t  bring him back, nothing would.

  Alcohol and an abundance of coke became my coping mechanism, again. It became a hundred pound a day habit, Micky's dealer Kenny Mackie dropping off gear at the pub whenever needed. Margaret’s store frequently raided, even when she changed the padlock, I found a way to break in. When the whisky ran out, I drank vodka, when there was no vodka, I would drink anything. Smells of stale booze, stinking feet and smoking twenty a day filled my bed-sit. I didn’t wash or clean my teeth, wore the same clothes, only changing after vomiting.

 
Tim took it upon himself to visit daily, trying to pull me out of the hole. Worrying more than anyone, aware of my imminent date with The Reaper. That man didn’t have a soft side, didn’t care for life nor anyone’s well-being. His job, simple. Turn up, take his foe’s head off, collect his money, and go home.

  Katie made attempts to help me in the first week, shouting at her in bouts of rage every time she got close. It’s possible I hit her a few times as well, I can’t honestly remember. Margaret dealt with her grief in her own way, by just getting on with things. She helped Micky's Auntie prepare for the funeral arrangements, once his body was released by the police. Making an effort to look after me, she would bring up plates of food, leaving them on my bedside-table. Sometimes I ate them, most times I didn’t. Opening my door each morning, picking up empty bottles and wraps of cocaine. Also to check I was still alive. Attempting to speak to me about the situation, I wouldn’t take her on, knowing we all have our way of coping with grief. Locked up in my room for three weeks, built up a level of aggravated tension I’d never felt before. Holding it in, trapping it, to be used another day.

  The day before the funeral, in the first week of October, Margaret held a gathering in the pub in remembrance of Micky MacDonald.

  It was the first day I left my room, showered and stopped drinking. The Fountain bar mobbed out the door. Jukebox kept to a low volume, echoing stories admiring the main man. Tim, Katie, Bull, Mike and all locals of Woodside and Tilly turned up. The grief in the air could be felt, friends and relatives breaking down in tears.

 
Margaret was particularly pleased I surfaced from the bed-sit. Probably thinking I was beyond help. Not sure what changed that day, maybe I just got through the first stage of grief. Probably the thought that one day, my life might end like poor Micky’s.

  “Joe!  You’ve showered! You OK?” Hearing the relief in her voice, beckoning to me, an instant smile on her sad face. Leaning in, giving me a tight hug. “So glad you’re  up, love.” Affectionately rubbing my shoulder up and down.

  “Thought I better get on with it.” Reassuring her I was OK, but I wouldn’t be until my path was cleared. Having a few matters to deal with, before I could leave this life behind.

  “So nice to see you up. You want a drink?” Standing behind the bar, the lure of alcohol not taking my fancy now. My head needed screwing on, starting…now.

 
“No, I’ll give you a hand, it’s busy the night.” Needing to keep occupied, I helped her behind the bar.

  Locked in a room, minced for three weeks, made socialising difficult. Hot flushes making me sweat uncontrollably, with a constant panicky feeling stuck in my gut. Struggling to function behind the bar, my attention span at a minimum and hands shaking, uncontrollably making pouring drink and operating the till frustrating. Trying to count change in my head especially difficult. I had to disappear into the kitchen often to have a moment, before I needed a paper bag to breathe into. The background noise from the punters ran through my head like a rebounding echo. My body had been violently abused, turning me into a desperate case.

  My mind wanted to explode. That’s when I knew, attending the wake the next day was out of question. I might regret it, but I’d done my grieving, needed to re-tune and get the fuck on with what I had to do.

  “Joe…you're white as a ghost.” Katie came for a word with me, seen me struggling to function. I was glad to see her, once again it seemed like she had forgiven me.

  “Aye, I’m OK. Honest, I’m fine.” Obviously I wasn’t. Ready to pass out at any time, sticking it out to help Margaret.

  “You don’t look it, Joe. You want to go to the service with me tomorrow?” She had a lot of affection for me, I had no idea why, treating her like shit all the time. Guess she needed loved, too.

  “I’m not going, Katie. Can’t face it.”

  “That’s not right, you have to.”

  “Look, I don’t want to argue about it. Micky will understand my reasons.”

  “Ooh Joe, you’ll regret it. What if I come see you after the service? It’s not good sitting on your own at a time like this. I’ll get a babysitter for the kids.” For the first time in weeks, I could handle company, especially hers.

  “Aye, that’ll be good. Give me a text before you come round.”

  Tim was in constant conversation with me all night. I told him I needed his presence at the gym every day. He handled the whole situation better than I ever could. Dealing with my Mother’s death will always have a knock on effect. Never getting over it, it spilled out after Micky’s murder.