Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) Read online

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the famous Joe Marks!”

  “Jesus Christ. Is that really you, Tim?” Taken totally by surprise. I hadn’t seen this guy for years.

  “The one and only! How’s tricks?”

  “Just grand, mate. How’s life treating you?”

  “Aye fine, lad.”

  “Still boxing?” Curious to know what he was up to nowadays.

  “No, not fighting any more. Just doing the coaching side of things at the Kilgour Club. What about you? When’s the last time you threw some leather?”

  “Ooh, Jesus. It’s been about 8 or 9 years since I’ve

  been in a gym. Kilgour club?”

  “Aye, in Tilly. It belongs to a pal of mine now.”

  “My old gym! What happened to Stevenson?”

  “Aye, that’s right. No idea about Tommy, retired, moved on, I suppose.”

  “Jesus, that brings back some old memories. What you doing through these parts on a Wednesday night?” I asked.

  “Visiting my Gran, she's in the Garioch care home.” Tim replied with a sigh.

  “Where you staying now? Manor Avenue in Aberdeen still?”

  “Na. Got myself out of there when the wife started to show a bump. Didn’t want my kids growing up in a place like that. I’ve got a place in Kingswells now, just outside town. It’s a lot quieter there.”

  “Aye, you’re right, mate. That’s why we moved out here from Tilly, get away from the kind of life I had there.”

  “Hey, how about coming to the gym one night, have a little work-out, then we’ll get a proper catch up? Judging by the size of your gut, you need it.” Said Tim with a smirk.

  “I’d love to, but I don’t have any way of getting there and back.”

  “I’ll take you! I'll visit my Gran beforehand, then I’ll pick you up afterwards. There's a guy I know at the gym who could give you a lift home. He stays around here somewhere.”

  “Give me your number ‘en, and I’ll give you a shout. I'll have to clear it with the wife first, you know what women are like, eh? Could be doing with something to do like, been out of work for a while and bored out my tits.”

  Tim wrote his number on a receipt and handed it over. “You’re still wi’ that gorgeous May, are you?”

  “Of course mate, married wi’ a couple sprogs. Have you just the one?”

  “I wish. Twin boys and they're a fuckin’ handful.”

  “Bet they are. Tim, it’s been great to chat but I’d better finish this run before the old legs seize up. I’ll call you, alright?”

  “Sure, no worries Joe, nice to see you. Catch you later.”

  Tim rolled up his window and sped away in his flashy silver Mercedes C63 AMG, with the twin exhaust roaring through the big engine.

  I hadn’t seen him since ending my boxing career nine years ago.

  He was a tall gangly guy around six foot two, wide, bony shoulders, gnarly fingers on the end of long snarly arms, with more muscle in his elbow than his bicep. His face hadn’t changed, thin and gaunt with high cheekbones, a bony jaw usually coated in stubble and a ruffled head of shabby hair that hadn’t seen the use of a comb in years.

  He slogged around slowly but not sloth-like, never appeared to have a worry in the world as he scraped his knuckles across the deck like an orang-utan.

  Nothing would phase Tim, wise beyond his years and had been since we were young tearaways. Back in the day we did a lot of training together, competing at the same weight, but fortunately we never had to fight each other, only spar. We didn’t want to fight, we were too close.

  He was in an awkward category of boxer, limber with long arms, feet moving quicker than his hands and brains. He's the kind that would drive me insane inside the ropes. The constant game of chase was similar to trying to catch the Roadrunner, once you thought you had the clever cunt stuck in the corner or up against the ropes, he would slip away like a mongoose slips a snake. Just as your brain registered where he had slipped to, that's when he would lay his counter-attack, leaving you weary and confused.

  We knew each other too well, in and out of the ring. When sparring, we knew what each other had planned almost before we knew ourselves. Sharing countless rounds together, we were like two lost brothers brought together over the love of throwing leather.

  Our two coaches constantly got us together for sparring and training sessions when we had upcoming bouts. He fought for a club in the centre of town called Aberdeen City Boxing Club and I fought for the Drones Club, now renamed to Kilgours. It was good to see the guy after all these years.

  Finishing my jog, the memories flowed back, giving a much needed spring to my steps.

  Chapter 5

  The House and Home:

  Our house was located on the outskirts of Inverurie in a fairly new scheme, the perfect place to bring up kids, with the only traffic being from residents.

  The houses were freshly up ten years ago, the area kept clean and still looked in great nick. The neighbours were OK, noisy bastards at times, but the whole town was and of course everyone wanted to know your business. I had learned that from working at the Mill all those years. My only advantage in the early years, I stayed in Aberdeen away from all the gossip.

  Lots of families lived around the cul-de-sac and our two young ones were always playing with the neighbour’s kids, out in the gardens or in their homes. We had a three-bedroom detached house at the end of the street, painted a creamy colour, with a short drive and a garage.

  I arrived home a bit later than normal after the chance meeting with Tim. I kicked the muck off my trainers before heading in. Entering our house, the natural wood-look staircase was on the right, the striped brown and grey papered hall led to the kitchen, with the entrance to the living room on the left through the glossy varnished doors.

  As soon I got through the door, my youngest, Jess, ran to me, gripping my leg with a cuddle. She was four and attending pre-school. A total cutie with bright, shiny, loose blonde hair flowing down her shoulders and bottle-green eyes she inherited from me. The rest of her flawless looks inherited from her mother, making her a little darling.

  “Daddy, was you out running again?” She asked in a squeaky high pitch, looking up at me with her dreamy eyes.

  “Yes, hon. Daddy was running again. Have you had your supper yet?”

  “No, not yet. Mummy’s making spaghetti.”

  “Ooh, great. Be a good girl, get yourself cleaned up and tell your brother, wherever he is, to do the same.”

  She paused and thought about it, trying to weigh up if playing with her doll was more important.

  “OK daddy, I’ll go wash my hands and tell Junior.” She climbed up the stairs, using her hands for support, shouting “Junior! Supper! Get ready!” Right bossy little madam she was.

  They were both great kids, but Jess in particular was so well behaved.

  I wandered through to the kitchen where May was setting the table, looking gorgeous as usual. A perfect, slender figure, even after two kids and at the age of thirty two, and five foot five. Wavy black hair curved at the base of her neck, dreamy chestnut eyes, and olive skin, darker than the usual Scottish woman. The woman of any man’s dreams. The only word I could use to describe her was majestic. I counted myself blessed every day I woke in her arms. She could make any man turn his head to take a second look. I was lucky to have her, considering I wasn’t that much of a looker with my smashed up nose and scruffy appearance. Somehow, May must have seen the good in me.

  “Hi, good looking, what’s cooking?” I asked, smiling.

  “Spaghetti and meatballs. Hungry?”

  “Bet your ass am hungry, after that run. I’ll get these sweaty clothes off, and grab a quick shower.”

  Showering, I prepared myself to ask the question, but the truth was I intended on going to Kilgours with Tim, with or without her permission.

  We all sat down at the solid wood dining-table in the middle of the kitchen, a compact room once everyone was seated. May insi
sted we have supper every night at the table to generate the ‘family feeling’ as she put it. Her cooking was equal to her beauty. Everything she made I ate with enjoyment over the past 13 years.

  With the kids sat down, we all started to eat. The kids were always well behaved at the dinner table, or anywhere really. That was down to May’s natural mothering, so patient. I had never heard her raise her voice to them, and she didn’t need to.

  I sat carefully priming myself to ask the question on my mind and failing a couple of times, already knowing she hated the word boxing.

  I decided I’d get the kids out the way first. At the end of our meal, I asked my seven year-old, Junior, to clean up.

  Just as well behaved as Jess, but as he was getting older, a little bit of cheek was setting in. His chestnut eyes inherited from his mother were beginning to glint smugly, a know-it-all, the same smarty-pants every kid is at that age, but we were all young once. Being slightly taller than the average kid his age, I thought he would probably grow into a big strapping lad like his old man. Quite a looker, he was already attracting the attention of the girls in the playground. He would break some hearts in the future. And, he was gifted at getting his own way, especially with his mother.

  “Son, could you clean up the dishes when we’re done, please?”

  “But Dad, I’ve never had to do that before!”

  “I know, but as you get older you have to help your parents out around the house like I had to when I was younger.” Actually I meant parent.

  “Can I get ice-cream if I do?” Asking in a ‘You help me and I’ll help you’ kind of way. He wasn’t stupid this one, learning the same old manipulating routine we all did.

  “Just do it son, and don’t argue. Arguing is for spoiled people and if you want ice-cream, ask your mother.” I said and slid the decision over the table to May.

  “Well, if you do a good job with the dishes, I guess I could let you have some. And Jess, too.” May tilted her head at Jess, lovingly.

  “Mummy, am not going to say no to ice-cream, silly.” She squealed in that cute little way of talking that would melt the hardest hearts. We all chuckled around the table. She was a little diamond, she was.

  With the kids sitting at the table, murdering their plates of Mackie’s ice-cream, I turned my attention to May, leading her through to the living room, sitting her down on the sofa and cuddled into her. The room toasty, with the free-standing gas fire burning for the past hour.

  “May, I have something to ask you?” Saying slowly, with a hint of dread in my voice.

  “I don’t like the sound of this, Joseph.” Joseph, only said when she didn't care for my manner. It wasn't even my real name, she just did it to let me know she was pissed-off.

  “No, it’s nothing bad. I bumped into Tim the night when I was out jogging. You remember him?”

  “The guy you trained with all the time?” She said, pretending to be stupid, but May knew exactly who he was.

  “Aye, that’s the one. We had a good chat at the side of the road, and he asked if I fancied going back to boxing, and I do May. Am so fuckin’ sick of this house-husband shit. It’s making me depressed.”

  “Joe, we’re skint. How the Hell can we afford that? And I never liked that Tim guy. He always seemed a bit dodgy to me.”

  “Look, it won’t cost anything, May. Tim’s picking me up and as he’s coaching now, he won’t charge me anything, am sure. And I know he doesn’t exactly stay on the right side of the law, but he was just trying to make a few quid, like all of us. Besides he’s got a family now, so he’s probably a changed man.” I kept my speech polite, trying to butter her up.

  “Well, I know, not working and sitting around the house all day is getting you down, so I’m not going to stop you. Besides, I know you, Joe. You’ll go anyway with or without my permission.” May spoke proper for the area, she was brought up that way.

  “Thanks. Sometimes I wonder what I’ve done to deserve you.”

  “It’s probably something to do with your big heart.” She placed the palm of her hand on my heart and looked lovingly into my eyes. “You always do right by us and you know, there’s a tiny piece of me that loves you.” She muttered, sarcastic but affectionate.

  “Haha, cheeky. I love you, too.”

  I moved in and gave her a slow kiss, gazing back into those eyes and said “Thanks, you’re the best, babe.”

  As soon as the conversation finished, I grabbed my phone, gave Tim a call, and asked him to pick me up. He would be coming back into town next Tuesday to visit his Gran, and would pick me up around 6.30pm.

  Jesus it was only Wednesday! I’d have to wait a whole week. Like a young excited schoolboy, it was sure to drag, but for the first time in ages, I had something to look forward to.

  The coming week, I carried on doing my usual daily routine of waking the kids for pre and primary school, getting them dressed, fed, and then walking them to school. Always letting May sleep in a little in the morning, because her part-time job didn’t start until 11 in the corner shop not far from us.

  Right around the time she got pregnant, May had a horrifying, life-changing experience working in A&E in Aberdeen Royal. Her best friend Amanda, someone she'd shared countless memories with since primary school, was in a horrific car crash on the A90, colliding head-on into the back of an articulated lorry. The impact smashed her rib cage, causing a massive lung puncture. It was at nine o'clock, Saturday night, an hour into May’s shift. The ambulance got stuck in the traffic caused by the accident, as it tried to race its way to the hospital. Amanda’s left lung needed surgery. The medics only just managed to keep her alive. Arriving at the hospital, Amanda was rushed into the operating theatre, May by her side. Then, her second lung collapsed and along with internal bleeding from her injuries, she died within minutes, holding May’s hand.

  Earlier that day, the pair were shopping in town, laughing and enjoying life. Amanda was so pleased to hear the news of May’s pregnancy. We were so happy before Amanda’s accident, and her death affected May’s mental state for years. Emotionally she couldn't function, sinking into a deep depression, worried she'd never be the same person again.

  She wasn’t, and neither was Amanda’s family.

  I was there for May every minute possible, like she was there for me in my time of grief. With the money worries we had, she talked about returning to nursing. I couldn't have that. The emotional trauma that would cause, would tear her apart.

  My job situation showed no signs of change. This lifestyle was draining me. Don’t get me wrong, I loved spending so much time with my kids. More than my father did for me when I was young, but that’s another story. But, this situation was not for me. Making some kind of money was a must…

  Chapter 6

  Butterflies:

  Time gradually ticked away for the next six days, finally taking it to a rainy, dull Thursday evening. I grabbed the old kit-bag, but smelling like a dead cat, it was binned. Borrowing one of Junior’s rucksacks, I filled it with my old gear that also hadn't seen fresh-air for years. An overused pair of black gloves, a wrinkled, cut-up blue head guard, my old gum-shield, wraps, spare t-shirt and a bottle of tap water. Dumped it at the front door and impatiently waited for Tim.

  I’d been in the garage a couple of afternoons, banging away at my rock-hard boxing bag, trying to get rid of the rust collected on my now overweight, sluggish body. Putting on a little weight over the years as you do when you get older, slowed me down a bit.

  Getting tired in the shed having workouts, some of my punches felt as if bricks were hanging from my wrists and logs were tied to my feet, but being heavier had one advantage. I packed more power. Dishing out a few KO’s back in the day, I knew I had a bit of power. However, others thought I was too much of a softy, sometimes letting opponents off the hook, when I should have done a number on them, finishing them off.

  I put that down to my youth, walking around battered and scared out of my wits most of the time. Especially the fi
ghts I had after Mom passed. Maybe I had some unfinished business deep down in my subconscious. My Father always said “Ye’ could be the best, boy, but yer’ too weak.”

  Keeping reasonably fit over the years with my running and spending a couple hours in the shed a week, but I wasn’t in near good condition as I once was. The limits my Father used to push me to made me the fittest man in the gym, and on most occasions, the fittest man inside the ropes.

  Feeling that nervous tension about returning to the gym, I wondered if there would be anyone I knew? Would anyone remember me?

  I used to be a big name in and around Aberdeen gyms and fed off my Dad’s reputation, but at the same time, having no interest in becoming anything like that vicious bastard.

  Tommy Stevenson, my old coach, used to keep me in tip-top condition, technique and sharpness wise. He passed on a lot of knowledge. I wonder what happened to the guy and how the gym looked now.

  The doorbell rang and I knew it was Tim. I immediately jumped up, said goodbye to everyone, grabbed my bag and bolted out the door.

  “Alright, Joe? Jump in. You ready for this the night? I bet you’ve missed it.”

  “Aye, fuckin’ right I have.”

  “You’re in no’ too bad a shape there, except for this gut!” He jabbed his finger into my belly, grinning. I was in fair shape around my shoulders and chest, but my belly sagged.

  “I’ve kept a little fit over the years but not anything like the man I used to be!”

  Driving to the gym, we reminisced about old times that seemed like a lifetime ago now, and how much blood, sweat and tears we shared over the years. We had a laugh talking about all the guys that we fought and the amount of times we had had our noses broken. Any boxer worth his salt had his nose broken at some point in his career. Boxing was like going for a swim, you couldn’t go into the water without getting wet.