Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) (9 page)

Chapter 17

The Venue:

  Edging closer to Dundee, taking a slip-road off the dual-carriageway onto some country roads, Tim found himself lost, and me confused. All I could see was green Scottish countryside, fences, sheep and cattle. Pretty much in the middle of nowhere.

  “I can’t fuckin’ remember where this place is.”

  “What kind of place we looking for?”

  “A massive shed covered wi’ blue cladding.”

  “Got a postcode?”

  “No, I’ve not got fuck all like that. Been ages since I’ve been here. Got lost last time, as well.”

  We drove around a little more. Taking his time to get his bearings, although still seeming disoriented, Tim stopped dead in the middle of the road and pointed out the window.

  “That’s the bastard over there, the blue roof, you see it?”

  It was pretty well concealed from the road, the height of the birch wood virtually hiding the shed. Driving a little further along the country road, taking a turning onto a farmer’s rigid dirt track, where a row of ancient trees overhung the road on each side. The woodland surrounded the shed on the left hand side as the road opened up to a big patch of an uneven, hard, muddy surface.  A large shed to the left and a farmer’s cottage over to the right.

A collection of guys hovered outside the large roller-door, including Mike and Bull, the only two I recognised. Most of them dressed casually, except two guys who stood out, one in an immaculate Italian-cut, three-buttoned duke blue suit, smoking a skinny cigar, gold rings on his fingers, looking misplaced in this company.

  Beside him was another well-dressed man. About the same height, but stockily-built, at five foot six. Dressed in sleek pressed trousers, t-shirt and suit jacket, all in black, standing watchful.

  Passing them on the way to parking the Merc round the blind side of the shed, everyone fixed stares on us. We parked next to a vintage E-type Jag, which I immediately paired with the suit. The venue seemed perfect for an unlicensed show, middle of nowhere, hidden from the public and the main road.

  “I need a word with Bull. Take a look around, wait by the front door and we’ll take a look in at the place.”

  “Aye, nae bother.”

  We walked to the front door. Tim stopped by Bull, as I carried on past the hovering suspicious characters, head down, refusing to take anyone on.

  Tim handed the briefcases to Bull and was thanked by a handshake. I slumped against the brick wall, waiting patiently. Stood like a loner, I could see Mike exchanging words with the suit, while having the odd glance around.

  The suit and Mike strode towards me. I was immediately drawn to the deep scar on the suit’s face, stretching from his right ear, down to the corner of his lip in a curved shape. You could tell a blade had been stuck in, deeply. He wore a pair of tinted glasses.

  “Joe, I just want to introduce you to Mr Dean. This is his operation.” An unusually polite introduction from Mike. His thick Aberdonian accent dulled into a well-spoken Scots.

  “Heard a lot about you, kid. Hope you don’t disappoint.” Now I had a face to the notorious fifty year-old Steve Dean. My first impressions of this guy, he wasn’t somebody to disappoint. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eye, seemingly sensitive to light.  

  The dark look in his eye and impeccable manners gave off a certain feeling of earned respect. The biggest clue was the way he was introduced by Mike. Normally not known for his manners, he was usually obnoxious and arrogant.

  “Hope I don’t either, Mr Dean.” Answering confidently, I wasn’t intimidated. He stood, glaring at me, sucking a long draw from his cigar, holding it with his thumb and index finger, swirling the draw around in his mouth, before puffing the smoke out above his silvery, gelled-back hair. He made an absorbing first impression.

  “Well, you certainly are very relaxed, Joe. You must be looking forward to tonight?”

  “Very much so.” Looking forward to it as much as getting stabbed in the arm, but I wouldn't let on any other way.

  “I’ll be sure and tell Warsaw that you’re looking forward to the proceedings.”

  “Please do, Mr Dean.” I figured Warsaw was to be my opponent.

  He cocked his head to Mike, then back to me, seeming irritated at my laid-back attitude, or thinking I was taking the piss. Either way, I wasn’t sure. Sounded as if he held this Warsaw in high regard.

  “OK kid, I’ll see you tonight.” At that point, Bull waddled his wide frame over, handing one of the briefcases to Mr Dean, who in turn gave him an envelope. Pacing away, he yelled to one of the men in the huddle. “Lukas!” Without hesitation, the man dressed all in black collected the Jag, then opened the door for Mr Dean. Lukas obviously was his right-hand man.

  What was in these briefcases?

  “Hey son, watch what you’re saying to Steve. Don’t piss him off.” Mike jabbed his finger forcefully into my chest. I got the feeling he didn’t care for me, or my attitude.

  “What’s going on here, Mike?” Tim finally appearing.

  “Tell this stupid prick not to piss off Mr Dean. I don’t want to be counting his body-parts tomorrow morning.” Mike emphasised every word, rolled his eyes, then marched off.

  “What the fuck have you been saying?”

  “Nothing, he’s just being a bit touchy.”

  “Well he’s right, don’t piss him off. That’s a man that will cut you up without a second thought.” I took it all in my stride, having bigger problems to think about. One of them, getting some food. I was starving.

  “Let’s get some grub, Tim. I’m fuckin’ starving.”

  “Want a look inside first? ‘En we can head into Dundee, grab something.”

  “Aye, suppose so.”

  We entered the shed through the small entrance door I stood beside. On the left, were a couple of shabby brick-built rooms. The shed was poorly-lit, cold from the levelled stone floor, wide and high. I immediately caught sight of the ring situated in the middle like a showpiece. It looked ancient. The canvas, once blue, looked more of a tea-stained brown. The same had to be said for the corner pads.

  I leapt into the ring to get a feel for the occasion. The ropes slack as fuck and floor uneven, the chance of breaking an ankle, high. The fact there was a ring was a plus-point, so I needn’t complain about that.

  “Jesus, classy ring, this.”

  “It’s seen better days, like. Anyway, I know who you’re fighting now.”

  “Aye, I heard. His name’s Warsaw and that can only mean he’s Polish and if he is, that means he’s probably hard as fuck.” I jumped up and down on the loose planks.

  “You’re right about him being hard. In the Polish armed forces for ten years. Moved over here for work, just like the rest of ‘em.”

  “That’s great, Tim. Ten years, great fuckin’ news, this. Not only do I have to have an unlicensed boxing fight, it’s against a hard-ass Pole. Fuckin’ great! Give yourself a pat on the back, mate. You deserve it.” The pressure of the bizarre day had sunk in, so I tried to make Tim feel guilty.

  “Look lad, I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. But, you have to get your shit together if you’re going to win.”

  “Don’t fuckin’ worry about me, mate. You got me into this, but I’ll get myself out.” I said, heckling in his face as I jumped back down from the ring.

  “Right, come on ‘en, I’ll take you into town for some grub, on me, of course.”

  “Should fuckin’ think so.”

  “I’ll have to find out what time to be back. Jump in the car, I’ll be there in a minute.” Walking past the gathering of bodies, flapping my hoodie up, I ignored everyone again. Tim behind, stopped to speak to Mike.

  “Got to be back around six. Three fights the night, you’re on first.”

  “Thank fuck, first. Gets it done quickly.”

  As soon as he said I’d be first, an uneasiness started to build inside me over the event. I stuck it to the back of my mind for the time being while we got fed. I just kept repeating in my min
d
there was only going to be one winner.  

Chapter 18

The Fight:

  Arriving back just before six, the scene had changed dramatically. Seventy or eighty people hanging around the outside of the shed, guzzling cans of lager, making a holy racket of a noise. The car had to scuttle its way through the boisterous Dundonian crowd. A big fifty-seater bus sat in front of the farm-house

  As we idled through, bodies parted, ogling through the windows to see the night's blood. The atmosphere was rowdy and tense, the crowd well on their way to starting their own brawl.

 Into the shed, I followed Tim over to the ring, where a few men settled around a table positioned at ringside. Around twenty bodies in the place, most of them setting up two stalls at the rear.

  One resembling a marquee bar, well supplied with crates of beer and spirit optics. The other must have been the bookie’s, a blackboard pinned up at the back, with a raised stage. Mr Dean was at the bookie stall, roaring at some poor cunt, giving him a telling-off like a school-teacher.

  Getting right up to the table, I could see an open suit-case full of cash with Bull standing over it, speaking to another heavy. As he spotted Tim and me approach, he slammed the case shut, and took a few strides away.

  “Alright, Joe. Not long now?” He slapped me on the tricep in a friendly gesture.” Feeling good?”

  “Aye fine, Bull. Just wanting it over an’ done with.”

  “Won’t be long, bud. Am looking forward to it, should be a good scrap. There’s a lot of people itching to see this fight.” His round head bobbed up and down.

  “Aye, me too.” Appearing calm as always on the outside, I wasn’t on the inside. My stomach doing knots, unsure of where that night would take me.

  One thing I did figure out, the cash in the briefcases was counterfeit. The printers in the shed and paper scattered about all over the place, it made sense now. A handy little business venture to be running, while hosting an unlicensed show. I got the feeling the cash would be sold and distributed to occupants of the shed that night

  Bull turned to Tim. “Right Tim, get your man out of sight. We need to open the doors.”

  “Will do. Better get in the warm-up room before anyone else.”

  Tim led me over to the brick-built rooms beside the small entrance door. Inside, it was bleak and dry, a table and two chairs in the centre of a poorly-lit room. Happy to get out of the way of the mob coming in, I could be alone with my thoughts. We listened to the invasion of yobs entering, chanting songs and roaring at the top of their voices.

  “I’ve got to go back out to the car, get my ring bag. Have a seat, relax. I’ll be back in five.”

  Relax? That’ll be right. How the fuck could I possibly relax awaiting to fight in front of the most hostile crowd of people I’d heard? Dundonians were a raw breed of people, loud and in your face, loved a rumble and riot, most sporting the customary look of a shaved head.

  Taking a pew on the manky floor near the door, I pulled out my headphones, plugged them into my phone, and stuck my hoodie up, starting to get my head in the right place. It needed to be focused and all thoughts of love taken out, meaning there was no room for May, Jess or Junior, for tonight. My foot shook uncontrollably, making my arm tremble as it sat on top of it, the anxiety kicking off.

  The crowd were getting even noisier, the chants getting louder through my headphones. I turned the volume up, constantly reminding myself of the job at hand, trying to think of the situation as a normal boxing encounter.

  Tim arrived in the room about twenty minutes later, with his ring bag and a multipack of bottled water. No idea what he was doing for so long, but it gave me plenty time to ‘relax.’

  “Here Joe, drink some water.” He threw a bottle at my feet.

  Full of nervous tension, my right leg still trembled, my mouth crisp and throat dry, I needed the water.

  “We’ve got about thirty minutes to get ready. What you fightin’ in? Those jeans?” pointing his finger down.

  “Jesus, I never thought about it. I’ll have to, haven't got anything else”.

  “Lucky I’ve got something in my bag, ‘en.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Just a pair of joggers. They were for me, but you can use ‘em.”

  “Sound.” I never thought about taking anything to wear. Just slipped my mind. “You had one of these fights before?” I asked him.

  “I did, aye.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, let’s just say.” He scratched the top of his head. “I wasn’t cut out for this type o’ fighting.” What he meant was, he wasn’t cut out for this game. Fighters can’t normally admit when they know they’ve got a weak spot. Saying it out loud was quite a revelation, especially for a retired boxer like Tim, a well-known name on the streets.

  Everyone has their role in life. It hurt him on the inside saying that. After all, he was a proud man, despite that weakness. One thing you had to give him credit for, was the fact he admitted it.

  Instead of getting into the ring time after time, getting his head smashed in, he admitted that it wasn’t for him, taking on a different role. That was smart, not weak, in my eyes. Besides, he had no need to do this. The man was rich in life. Had a lovely house - on the inside - twin, three year-old boys, a wife he loved and a stash of cash somewhere.

  “Here, sit down. I’ll wrap your hands.” Tim slid two stacking chairs over and set them back to front. I sat floating my hand over the edge of the seat, while he got to work with bandages and tape. He looked as if he had done this a thousand times by way his hands moved effortlessly around my wrists and knuckles. I continued blanking out everything with my headphones in. I focused on the need to bring home the candy and tear Warsaw apart.

  Tim focused on his task, eyes not willing to meet mine. He nudged me to remove my headphones. “When you get out there, just keep focused an’ walk directly to the ring.”

  Well that was obvious, I wasn’t taking the scenic route. “I’ll be right behind you. I got you into this, the least I can do is see you out.” His voice had certainty in it, he had been here so many times. Seen grown men shake in fear, seen men doubt themselves in their moment of glory. He spotted the doubt in my eyes, but in my case,it was what brought out that hidden beast. Despite Tim putting me in this position, I knew the right man was in my corner
.

 
That was to be the case with every fight I would find myself in.

  I didn’t respond. I was entering that zone, that place where nothing matters but victory, and where pain is not felt. Willing to lay your life down to succeed. My stomach churned. The fear at its peak at this point. I felt the need to move, nervous and impatient sitting on this seat.

  “Right, get your top off, stick these gloves on and I’ll warm you up on the pads.” Taking my top off moved my brain one step closer to entering the ring.

  Tim handed me a shiny pair of plain black leather gloves. The finest you could get. Hadn’t even seen a punch, as far as I could see. Wearing the 8 ounces felt like a tight fit, the knuckle could be felt through the padding.  

  “Smooth gloves.”

  “Aye, they’re mine, but now they’re yours. Call ‘em a gift.”

  Just then Mike ventured in, hands in his pockets and fag loose in his mouth. “Don’t mind me boy, just carry on.” He pushed the table over to the side wall and sat perched on the edge.

  “One-two’s, just take it easy for a start, get the juices flowing.” Tim said encouragingly.

  I banged at the pads for a couple of minutes, nice and easy, but getting more pumped the longer I struck them. Then, the pre-fight sweats started. My breathing got heavier with the tension and my body tightened. The only thought going through my head was ‘Bury the Pole.’

The feeling was different going into this fight compared to ones in my youth. Never did I want to hurt or win so bad. The thought of winning drove me on, losing wasn’t an option. Losing meant no cash. No cash meant no food, mounting bills and an even unhappier life.

  All those terrible years of childhood, plus the hard time I’d been having lately, was making its way to the surface, ready to cascade. But I had to push that out, no love in this game.

  “Come on, harder boy.” Tim banged the pads together, a loud echo rebounding from the walls.                                                                                                                   “Harder lad, come on!” Five minutes into our warm-up, it was time to step it up. “Hit these fuckin’ pads as if it was your old man’s coupon.” Tim was getting into the rhythm as much as I was. That forgotten, petrified feeling before you enter battle returned from my past, like a euphoric high you couldn’t stop.

  As soon as he mentioned my Father, my eyes flared with vengeance and I snarled. I moved into a hyper state, full of hate, ready to shatter Tim’s head against the wall. Momentarily, I stopped, and glared into his eyes with a burning urge to tear his tongue out. He dropped his pads to his hips, taking a half-step back. I had put the fear of God into him with a single look.

  I knew then I was ready.

  Instructing him to put the pads back up and get on with it, I could have broken his hands by the end of the warm up. Growling, screaming like an animal with every blow, I felt possessed. My chin buried into my chest, pupils fixated on each punch. I was boiled to the surface and ready to spill.

  “It’s time.” Bull called from the doorway.

  I had one last gulp of water, then Tim coated me in Vaseline. I could hear shouting in a foreign tongue. It was the Pole heading to the ring from next door. He must have been in the other room warming up. I couldn’t understand the words nor understand the tone, but I knew he was as psyched-up as I was.

  “Remember, ignore the crowd, head straight to the ring, I’ll be right behind.” He placed his hand on my left shoulder, looking solidly into my wild eyes.

  “You know why you’re doing this.”                  

  Totally enraged, I flared my nostrils and held his look. On opening the door, the atmosphere hit me like a Tyson right-hook. The population of the shed more than doubled.

  I was so in tune with my anger, my heart beating into overdrive, a tingling of adrenaline rallied my nerves. A better feeling than any drug.

  The light dimmed around the shed, apart from the ring, gleaming, inviting me in. The room filled with smoke, the crowd like a pack of wild animals, plastic beer cups and tins being thrown through the air. Despite the racket, all I could hear was my beating heart.

I barged past the drunk, blood-hungry crowd, some trying to block my entrance.

  It only fueled me, snuffling like a gorilla. The adrenaline at this point overruling my head, the sweat poured from my body, the airless venue suffocating.                                                                             Warsaw awaited me in the ring. 

  He looked big, naturally big. Not defined with muscle but big-boned, all six foot of him.

  Entering the ring, full of rage, adrenaline and excitement, my eyes fixed on Warsaw. Charging back and forth in my corner, I waited for that moment I could let go.

  “Joe, look at me. Calm down a touch. Don’t go steamrolling into this cunt. Use your boxin’ brain. He won’t have one.” Wise words from Tim. He spent the next couple of minutes attempting to calm me down. I took in his words, I listened.

  The referee, dressed sharply with a shirt and bow tie, had his last word with the judges.

They wouldn’t be needed on this occasion.

  The Pole, like me, wore joggers. Had ears like they’d been chewed by a Rottweiler and his nostrils spread like a buffalo’s snout. A Polish Army tattoo on his right arm, looking around his mid-thirties, with the standard army hair-cut.

  The Pole headed to the middle. I nudged Tim out the way and marched forward to meet him in the centre stage. Our heads were millimetres apart, catching each other’s breath. His pupils flared and I could tell he had no fear. I knew he would be a handful, I could see a hardness in him. Not fazed, all I wanted was to put him away, get this done and dusted. The referee gave his instructions.

  “No head-butting, biting, or low blows. Four, three minute rounds. Back to the corners and listen for the bell. You know the crack.”

  I walked backward to my corner, turning your back was a sign of weakness in my eyes.

  The bell went. We both stormed forward, into a collision of heavy exchanges, neither giving an inch.

  So much for using the boxing brain. It wasn’t in his blood to take steps back, or admit weakness. Bobbing and weaving under his hooks, I rolled under, countering with my own thundering hooks, rocking him as he rocked me. Massive blows landed on my forehead, hurting.

  Warsaw had a lack of boxing intelligence, which soon became obvious. He brawled and swung like a bear. Each time he connected with a big blow, the sweat rocked off me, but I stood my ground, as did he. Standing wide-legged, he left himself open to counters. My chance would come. His naturally big frame suited me, as he threw wide hooks, standing square on, I could get underneath them.

  Easy to judge, I caught on to that quick. Unlike him, who ruled with aggression, I had the ability to think. He wasn't looking to land a jab or pick his moment, his eyes focused on the big knockout.