Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) (8 page)

Chapter 14

The Training:

  When I woke up later on the sofa, May had already left for work. Making the most of an empty house four hours a day, I used the time to train in my garage in the lead up to my pro-boxing debut.

  Our garage housed my own gym, which was converted a few years back. A big, heavy bag hung in the centre, a rack of dumbbells in the corner and a speedball.

  I had the other equipment, a weight-bench, a big rectangle mat, skipping-ropes and a few medicine-balls. The walls were covered in boxing posters of Ricky Hatton, Tyson, Ali, and a bunch of others. Trophies, medals and pictures of my past hung on the walls. None of my Father but there was a few of Mom. It was good to know she watched over me

  It was my church, my place to fuck off to from the stress of life, and take my frustration out on the weights and bag.

  AC/DC often blasted out the speakers, or anything that would give me motivation to train and get me in the mood.

  Starting my workout with a customary ten minutes of skipping, moving to the heavy bag for around six to ten three minute rounds depending on how much energy I had, with a thirty second break between rounds. Spent a good ten minutes on the speedball, before doing some weight work. That was the routine for three days and the other two weekdays would be sit- ups and stomach work along with cardiovascular circuits. Road work was done at the weekend.

  This was my plan for the next couple of weeks until the big debut. It didn’t matter how much pain I suffered, just had to train and it was a lot harder at the age of thirty-two, compared to when I was a young pup.

  The one problem though with all the training, was food. Not being flush with cash, I just had to eat whatever I could. I would love to be eating steak and chicken, just couldn’t afford it.

  Attending boxing on the Tuesday and Thursday, I never sparred again over the next ten days. They probably took pity on me and besides, my ribs were killing me and my eyes needed to heal. Wincing in pain a lot over the next week. It wasn’t nice. I hoped it would clear up by the time the fight came round.

I also spent a lot of time worrying about getting injured in this fight, or something terrible happening. What would May think about it? She wouldn’t be happy once she found out I'd been lying to her. I say once, because lies always filter out in the end. Losing the fight wasn't an option. I needed the money, we needed the money.

Chapter 15

The Hard Truth:

  The days ticked away until finally Saturday, the day of the fight, arrived. I agreed with Tim the fabricated story that would get me out of the house and into the ring without suspicion. Both of us working security at a music festival in the Dundee area for the Saturday night and most of Sunday. We would leave early on the Saturday, returning late home the next day. May thinks it’s a two-day event, justifying the £400. She didn’t have an inkling what amount of pay security guards got, but it damn sure wasn’t 400 quid for a weekend’s graft.

  All that had to be done was fight, win and take home the money.

  That morning I got up earlier than the household. I didn’t feel the need to speak to them before leaving. The alarm sounded at 6.30am, I switched it off as quickly as possible so it wouldn’t disturb May. Raising slyly and putting my clothes on, I sneaked out the room. Before closing the bedroom door, I glanced round at May. Stunning even when sleeping, looking at her bulb-shaped nose and the beauty spots on her cheek. I couldn’t imagine a life without her, which made the stab of guilt even worse. 

  I tip-toed down stairs into the kitchen for some breakfast, having that feeling you get when you’re a child doing something wrong, but in your head, you reassure yourself it’s right.

  I left the house heading straight for the bus stop, catching the 7.45 to Kingswells. The cover story required me to leave early.

I was really psyched-up for the fight and it reflected in my eagerness to get to the bus stop, itching to get between the ropes and have it over and done with.

  The usual thoughts circulated my head leading up to a fight. Who was he? Will he be tough? Will he hit hard? Where’s he from? None of that mattered, really, I only told myself not to be second best, don’t be the mug that loses, be the one who takes home the candy.

  The journey to Tim’s took about forty minutes. He stayed in a really clean, established area, but his house wasn’t up to much. Junk and pieces of scrap scattered around the garden. The gate hanging off, the aerial cables flying around the air in the wind.

  Tim’s house stuck out from the others and not in a good way. I knocked on the door, expecting the inside to be as rough round the edges as him.

  “Joe, come in, make yourself at home.”

  “Alright, Tim. What’s the crack?”

  “Am fine, lad. Have a seat, I’m just cooking some grub. Hungry?”

  “Eh aye, I could eat again. I’ll need the energy for the night, I suppose.”

  Strolling into his living room, I had to slow my steps. The expression ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’ came to mind. Outside might have looked like a mess, but inside was something out of an edition of Tatler.

  Absolutely spotless, expensive-looking black leather reclining sofa, big fifty inch-flat screen TV, an exquisite looking marble-topped bar built in the corner, with a stock of expensive malts.
  The guy definitely had style. His house looked the exact opposite of him. Strolling around with torn-up clothes, bad hair, never clean shaven, yet drives an expensive Mercedes Benz and lives in an immaculate house.

  Something didn’t quite add up here. After a couple minutes I got bored and wandered through to the kitchen. Just as nice as the living room, heavily tiled floor, spotless white cupboards with shiny black work surfaces. All the mod cons, from a mains-powered tin-opener, to the huge free-standing Aga.

  “Nice pad. No offence, but I wasn’t expecting it, judging by the outside.”

  “Aye, she’s not bad, lot o’ cash in here. Just had a good security system installed. Never know what cunt’s scoping out your house.” His spindly arms lay on his hips, proud of his smart thinking. “Making the outside look like a dump, the less chance anybody thinks the inside will be any better.” He was quite a contradiction, and thought outside the box.

  “Where’s the wife and twins? I was looking forward to meeting ‘em.”

  “Dawn took them out for the day, a kid’s party or something at the other side o’ town, then she’ll probably head for the shops to spend my wages. You just missed her.”

  “Spill the beans ’en? How can you afford all this stuff?”

  “Hard work, mate.”

  “Come on, I won’t tell.”

  “A deal here, a deal there.” I knew exactly what he meant. The local Del Boy, he hadn’t worked an honest day in his life. Having a scrap business in his name was just a front, even though he dabbled in it to cover his arse.

  His house was packed full of dodgy goods. I didn’t need him to tell me otherwise. Anything that was stolen from somewhere, ended up in his pad.

  “So, what time’s kick-off the night? When’s the weigh-in?”

  “It starts around sevenish. There’s no weigh-in at these types of shows.” I frowned, an alarm-bell going off in my head.

  “What do you mean, no weigh-in? It’s a boxin’ show, is it no’?”

  “Well, it is a boxing show, but…it's unlicensed.” As he said that, he waited for my reaction.

  “Fuckin’ unlicensed show? You’re havin’ a laugh?”

  “No, I’m not, Joe.” Answering bluntly, I knew by the sober look on his face he wasn’t joking.

  “Fuckin’ hell, Tim! You fuckin’ serious!? It’s bad enough am lying to May. Never mind it being a fuckin’ illegal show.” I turned away, massaging my temples, absorbing the unbelievable truth: he’d played me.

  “It’s not exactly illegal, but some o’ the things that happen there can be.” He was too casual about this, there was no reaction, it seemed second nature to him.

  Stomping around the kitchen, holding my breath, furious. “Fuck me! Fuckin’ Hell!” Had visions of throwing him through his patio-doors. What the fuck has he done?

  Tim stopped cooking for a moment and looked at me, square-eyed. He could tell I was ragging as he stuttered, trying explain his deceit.

  “It may not be illegal, mate!” I butted in “But, it’s brutal. I’ve heard the story of Dad killing someone.”

  “Aye, I know the story. Carl Jenkins deserved what he got, beat to a pulp. Trust me Joe, you’re made for this.”

  “Trust you? Piss off! What if I get killed, have you thought about that? Look, this isn’t happening, am no’ fuckin’ doing it.” Adamant I wasn’t getting involved. It was wrong on so many levels.

  “You have to do it, Joe. There’s a gangster called Steve Dean running the show. If you don’t turn up, I can’t guarantee he won’t come after you. Trust me, you don’t want to fuck him over.”

  “This is just too fucked up.”

  “Look, just have the fight, take the £400 home. If you don’t want to fight again then don’t, but you can’t back out on this one. It’s too late.” I was disgusted about getting suckered into this.

  All the time, Tim had been cooking, avoiding my eyes. He laid a plate of eggs, overcooked bacon, sausage and beans in front of me. I wanted to plant it back in his face.

  For some reason, I just stuck my head down and ate, pondering the situation I’d been landed in. Sitting silent at the kitchen island counter and munching my food with my hand round the plate, resisting raising my head, I could only come to one conclusion – I had to take the fight. It would cause huge repercussions if I didn’t. There was a chance this Steve Dean could turn up at my door, putting my family in danger. This was the one and only reason I had to go through with this fight now.

  “Fuck me! I’ll have to do it. I can’t risk putting the family in danger.”

  “You’ll be fine. It’s not as bad as you’re thinking.”

  Tim was a lot of things, but I never saw this coming at all. It felt like he’d stabbed me in the heart. I’d been conned. Could have walked away, but the risk to my family would be a weight on my shoulders.

  This was a shit situation to be landed in, stuck between a rock and a dangerous place.

  I really didn’t know what to expect from this fight now. Didn’t even know if it was taking place in a ring, or what?

  Absolutely livid, I couldn’t talk to Tim. Wracked with worry about the whole situation. What was I walking into? It’s possible I could end up badly hurt, or land in the morgue.

  This was a bad road to travel down.

Chapter 16

Montrose:

  Finishing my food, I headed out to Tim's Merc, totally ignoring him. He kept a keen eye on me as I walked out the door, making sure I wasn’t doing a runner.

  My cheeks bright red and fists clenched in my jeans pocket, I was annoyed but slightly calmer than ten minutes ago. All those years ago, I’d made the decision to hang up my gloves so my family weren’t raised in a fighter's world, and now, I was about to walk into an unlicensed boxing show.

  Agitated and out-of-sorts now, I just had to get this done and dusted. Tim wandered casually out of the house with a ring bag I expected was full of fight gear. Passing me as he walked round the car to the driver’s door, I blanked him.

  “Come on ‘en. Let’s get going.”

  Jumping into the car, I immediately laid it out.  “Look, don’t speak to me on the way down the road. I can’t be fucked wi’ you right now.”

  “Don’t be like that, lad.”

  “I said don’t fuckin’ talk, just drive.” I snapped at him, talking from the side of my mouth, burning a glance at his face, and he got the point.

  “Alright Joe, whatever you say.”

  Staring out the window at the path I was taking, left me deep in thought about what I was walking into. What kind of world would this be? Who’s this Steve Dean that Tim fears so much? I couldn’t stop fidgeting in the car, using my phone to keep my hands busy, spitting out and replacing chewing gum every ten minutes. I was anxious about the whole affair, but at the end of the day, it was still a fight, a fight I had to win more than ever now.

  The conversation was non-existent, apart from Tim taking a couple of phone calls. Things started to make more sense now. Kilgours was full of raw boxers loaded on steroids, dodgy characters and bad attitudes. It fitted the scene of the unlicensed scrappers. Kilgours was named after an old street in Tillydrone. Kilgour Avenue. The name changed to Alexander Terrace in the late 60’s because of its notorious reputation for crime.

I always wondered why the sparring was so brutal and now I knew, now it made sense. The kind of bout I’d be in tonight, wouldn't be the kind you see on TV between two professionals. The rules might be there, but wouldn’t be followed.

  Guessed it would be more like street-fighting than anything. You could be up against any cunt, an ex con, ex-army, a psycho or an ex-fighter like me, I just didn’t know what to expect.

  About a half hour into the journey, Tim broke silence. “Joe, I’ve got to make a pick-up. It’s a little detour through Montrose. Won’t take long.”

  “Whatever.” I couldn’t go the rest of the day without speaking to him.

He reversed into an industrial-estate, stopping at the rear of a small, shabby-looking building with faded cream paint and no windows, just a roller-door big enough for a car and an entrance by the side. It looked like the back of a vacant shop.

  Tim disappeared inside, leaving me alone in the car. The roller-door opened after ten minutes, letting me see inside the building, which was brightly-lit with a white light and untidy. I could make out a couple printing-machines and piles of scrunched-up, ink-stained paper scattered around.

  Tim popped the boot of the car while I eyed him in the side-mirror, watching curiously to see what he was up to. A short, slimy bald guy sidled out carrying a couple of briefcases, his fingers and arms covered in ink.

  Tim placed the briefcases in the boot and chatted for a couple of minutes. Out from the side door came another man. A malicious, dodgy-looking character, wearing one of those black puffed-up jackets, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and drawing on a smoke.

  He stood, reading from a slip of paper in front of Tim. I couldn’t make out the conversation, but it sounded like figures. Tim handed over an envelope, which I assumed was cash. Sticking it into his back pocket, the dodgy man glanced into the side-mirror, catching my stare, arms by his side, the fag hanging out his mouth. His evil, intimidating glare sent a shiver through me, an aura of pure hatred in his eyes. Turning his back, I stared at a massive swastika tattoo on the back of his head. One of these Nazi white supremacist types. Tim finished his business, shook hands, and returned to the car.

  “What the fuck was going on there?”

  “I can’t tell you, lad. You don’t need to know.”

  “You’re into some dodgy shit, aren’t you?”

  “Just doing a pick-up, that’s all.”

  “Need to know basis, I get it.”

  “The less you know the better, the way I see it.”

  “This part o’ your income?”

  “Nae exactly. I don’t make any profit from this. I’m just doing Bull a favour.”

  This day was getting stranger with every passing hour. Bull seemed like a big-time criminal. I felt myself getting sucked in. I wanted to find out what was in the briefcases.

  “So, how do you make your money ‘en? Surely can’t all be from thieving?” I asked.

  “Thieving? Less o’ the swearing. I suppose I can tell you, but it stays between us.”

  “Well, I don’t think I’ll be talking about this day for a long, time so I think you’re safe.”

  “See this unlicensed show we’re going to? Mike and Bull pay me to train the guys and find the fighters. I make a lot of money on the night, placing bets on who I think will win an’ most of the time, I know. Plus, the thieving adds up, then there’s the wee bit of scrap dealing I do.”

  The part about Mike and Bull paying him to find and train the guys, I figured out for myself on the way to Montrose. The betting I couldn’t have known about.

  “Bets? What bets? There’s betting at these things?”

  “There’s always a bookie at these shows and whoever runs the show, provides the bookies. It’s one o’ the main reasons they happen. It’s a major slice o’ the profits.”

  “You betting on me?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just do the business the night. I never bet on my own guys if I think they’re going to lose. There’s usually about three or four fights a night, so there’s a good chance of making a few quid.”

  Things starting to fall into place, here. Tim thought he’d get me in the door, use me as a puppet to make some cash, not thinking twice about playing with my emotions, or my safety. Not sure he would be betting on me tonight, but my instinct told me he would.

  We spent the rest of the journey to Dundee discussing how much money he made in the past. Tens of thousands, he said. Saying he had a gift, able to pick the winner just by the return of a look. Involved in the game for years, it became second nature.

  I quizzed him on the rules for the evening, looking to ease my worry. The fight would take place in a ring, I would wear gloves. That was all I needed to know.