Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) Page 7

  “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.

  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.

  “Le
t’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 mind 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.’