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

  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.

  Knowing I was more intelligent than this cunt, I had to find a way to use that intelligence, pick the right time. After two minutes of carnage, he let an overhand right fly through the air, like a sledgehammer. It smacked into my forehead, careering me backwards. Seething, I cursed to myself and bit down on my gum-shield. Things didn’t go too well for Warsaw after that. I slipped onto the back foot, took a few seconds to get rid of my agitation and think clearly, as he cruised forward with the same look of over-eager rage in his eye.

  Waiting for the right haymaker to come again, like your alarm-clock after hitting the snooze button or a song on repeat, you knew what was coming. I went on the back foot and analysed his footwork.

  There it was, the haymaker, rolling under with it, splattering a left-hook across the jaw and right hand into the flat of his face.

  His legs weakened, I knew I had him. Walking forward to meet him again, using my boxing brain to finish the job. Feinting a left-hook with a small step forward, made him flinch and lean back.

  Taking another half step forward, propelling my right hand into the hub of his nose, I felt it shatter and crumble.

  The blood splattered.

  Gushing everywhere, Warsaw fell to the canvas on both knees. The referee jumped in, started to count.

  “1! 2! 3! 4!” The Pole stood, pushed the referee out the way, growled in annoyance, blood flooding out, and came for more.

  Unfortunately for him, I was dead right. As predictable as he was stubborn.

  “Finish him, Joe! Fuckin’ finish him!” Tim yelled out from under the bottom rope.

  Warsaw ran towards me in utter disgust at himself, because touching the canvas was a blow to his pride, his nose shattered, red gore flowing down his thick neck.

  Pissed off to say the least, I used his anger against him. Standing still as you like, waiting for him to enter my range and throw the same right hand haymaker.

  Rolling under his wild right hand with my eyes closed, slipping out to my left, countering with my right hand, planting it on the square of his face. The momentum of his charging frame landing into my fist, was catastrophic.

  His legs buckled, he collapsed onto the blood-stained canvas like a toppling building. The ref pushed me to the side, placing Warsaw into the recovery position, avoiding his once intact, caved in nose.

  There and then, I honestly couldn’t tell you if he was alive or dead.

  Chapter 19

  The Buzz:

  He lay unconscious in the middle of the ring. I felt no sympathy towards him, or what used to be his nose, or any interest in seeing him stand.

  Standing, a lone soul in my corner, my hands by my side, taking in the crowd’s roar as they cheered my vi
ctory. Now I could hear them in their full voice.

  The tension and nerves sank from me as the Pole hit the floor. Proud as never before, body bursting with endorphins, blood soaring through my veins like a victorious gladiator standing in the middle of the Coliseum. Bruised, but still on his feet.

  The audience roaring with satisfaction, pleased at the one-round battle they just witnessed. Racing through me was pure ecstasy, and if the feeling could be sold, I’d be a millionaire before the end of the week.

  “I told you, Joe! I told you! You’re made for this! Good job, lad.” Tim came into the ring, digging his fingernails into my shoulders, looking proudly into my face. I was quite speechless for the moment, relieved the job was done.

  “Let’s get out o’ here, back to the changing-room before this mob turns into a riot.”

  To be honest, I didn’t want to leave. Standing in the ring victorious, my foe dormant on the floor,made me feel alive. The crowd still leaping over each other, throwing beer everywhere, added to my excitement.

  Tim led me out between the ropes into the jubilant crowd, instantly mobbed by people tugging my arms and tapping me on the head. Feeding me praise and trying to shake my hand, I did my best to barge my way through to the changing room. It all felt a bit claustrophobic.

  In the commotion, I lost Tim but continued on untiI I reached the room at the back, finding Tim already there.

  Mike and Bull awaited, sitting on the two chairs, looking keen to praise and stood as I entered the room.

  “That was quick, mate.” Bull said raising his brows with welcomed praise.

  “Cheers, Bull. Quicker the better, don’t get paid for overtime.”

  “You gave the crowd their money's worth there.” Mike said. Both the guys offered their hand, and I said I hoped that would be the last time I’d have to.

  Their new-found respect for me, giving me an extra kick. People knew who I was now and I’d given them a fight to talk about, a fight to remember.

  Mike, Bull and Tim talked about the fight as I took a seat, started to relax and let my head catch up with my body. Taking my gloves and wraps off, downing a bottle of water. I felt satisfied and happy I would be taking the £400 home to May.

  May! As soon as she crept back into my head, I had to check if my face was marked. I rustled for my phone from my jeans pocket that lay on the floor and brought up the camera screen. My forehead and face ached from the hard blows and to my amazement, I was unmarked. A huge sigh of relief.

  Another three bodies entered the room. One of them Mr Dean and the other two were the next trainer and fighter. Mr Dean shook my hand while the rest of the guys discussed that night’s events. “That was impressive boy, very impressive.” He removed his glasses.

  “Cheers, it was easier than expected.”

  “You made it look easy Joe, that’s why. I can see you’re a smart kid, by way you dealt with my boy, Warsaw.” His Fife accent was thick.

  “It takes more than muscle to win a fight, Mr Dean.”

  “That’s very true, kid. I hear you used to box?”

  “Aye, in Aberdeen years ago, my Dad used to train me.”

  “Your Dad, eh! He done a good job, then.”

  “I suppose he did, aye.”

  “Well, hope I see you again. I’ll keep in touch with Mike. Look forward to following your path.”

  “Sure, Mr Dean.” I had no interest in becoming anything back then.

  “Please….call me Steve, Joe.” He put his glasses back on.

  “Alright, Steve.” We shook hands and he coasted out the door. He seemed like a rational well-mannered man, but everyone knew around here, he was anything but nice. A gentleman, but a very treacherous one.

  “We need this room so we can get our man ready?” One of the two men said in a thick Dundee accent.

  “Aye, sure. We’ll get out your hair in a sec.” Tim answered.

  Tim started gathering the stuff we had lying around, while I began changing out of the joggers and wiping Warsaw’s blood off my chest, still not knowing if he was dead, but I think if he was toast, somebody would have said.

  “Let’s put this shit in the car.”

  Took a quick exit out to the car in the cold October night. There were a few people floating around outside. Probably grabbing some fresh air from the smoke-filled shed.

  Tim popped the boot of his car, threw his gear in, handed me a jacket, revealing a couple cases of beer.

  “Have a beer, you’ve earned it.” Tim said.

  “Cheers mate, fuckin’ need this!”

  “You deserve it, after that pay day.”

  “Aye, so where’s my cash, dickhead?”

  “See Bull. He’s the banker. Don’t worry, it's yours.”

  “Sound. By the way, if you’re drinking, how we getting up the road?”

  “We’re no’. We’re crashing in the car.” On such a high, I really didn’t give a shit. Figured out how the rest of the night was going to pan out. Lots of beer, a few bloody noses and a bad hangover the next day.

  “Joe, I’ll have to get the bookie before the next scrap starts. Coming?”

  “Nah, I’ll stay out here, drink my beer and cool down.”

  I couldn’t be arsed going back in, the drunken rabble was kicking off again. Stayed outside, drank my beer taking a moment to myself, thinking about May, Jess and Junior.

  Done what I needed to do, won the fight, won the cash. HappyI’d be returning home without a mark on me. The noise escalated from inside the shed, curiosity got the better of me, so I headed inside with my pockets full of beer.

  Chapter 20

  The Hangover And Ride Home:

  The next morning, waking in the back of Tim’s car, with the morning glare of light beaming into my eyes. I rubbed my hands through my hair. Tim sleeping in the passenger’s seat, still snoring. I realised I was rough as fuck. Head pounding my brain, living two seconds behind my sight, I could tell that day was going to be Hell. My mouth as dry as the Sahara.

  I rummaged around amongst the empty beer bottles in the car looking for water, only to remember it was in the boot.

  I gulped a bottle down and reached for another. It tasted good. Kept a hold of the other one, because I knew I’d need it pretty soon.

  Taking a look around, there was nobody to be seen. No indication of what went on here last night except for the ground, strewn with alcohol cans and bottles. It was just past eight. The open space in front of the shed had turned to mud with overnight rain.

  I decided to take one last look inside the shed. The place was a tip, rubbish everywhere, a few bodies lying flat out on the concrete floor and one guy using a six-pack of beer as a pillow.

  The place reeked of stale beer and cigarettes, I turned and left. I didn’t need any more memories of what I had taken part in. Just beside the door, I heard footsteps approaching me, it looked like Warsaw. As he galloped towards me I thought, “Christ sake, he’s coming for a repeat of last night.” Stopping a few steps in front of me, he looked menacing.

  His right eye bulged like a golf ball. I doubt he could see out of it, his nose caved in like a smashed juice tin. He looked in a bad way. He stood for five seconds without speaking, just glowering at me with his good eye, eventually muttering something in Polish, shook my hand and walked away.

  I headed in the direction of the car, spotting Tim vomiting uncontrollably outside the passenger’s door. Watching him throwing up, set me off. I started spewing next to him. Tim finished before me.

  “What a pussy!”

  “Piss off, you went first!” I spat out between a couple more chucks.

  We both started laughing, chuckling away with sick hanging down our chins and over our tops. We both took our jumpers off and wiped our chins. We looked at each other and started laughing again, hysterically, like a couple of stoned kids hanging out at Seaton Park.

  “I can’t go home stinking like this. I’ll need a shower.” I said. The smell of vomit mixed with stale booze from our breaths
.

  “What time you need to be home?”

  “Any time after seven.”

  “We could go to mine. Dawn can wash your clothes and you can grab a shower, you’ll probably get fed as well.”

  “That’s a plan. Good of you to help me out.”

  “It’s the least I can do, after getting you into this.” Tim said.

  “Talking of that, where’s ma cash?”

  “Bull gave it to you last night, you no’ remember?”

  “No, do I fuck.” I rummaged through my pockets. Sure enough there it was, a pile of notes. I counted it. Five hundred. “There’s five here, instead o’ four.”

  “Bull and Mike decided to give you an extra ton.” Fucking hope it’s not that counterfeit paper.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here before Mr Dean shows up. He usually does a bit of snooping the next day.”

  “Definitely, let’s get to fuck.”

  Speeding off down the dirt track road, we reeked of sick. The only thing I wanted to do was sleep and it wasn’t long before I nestled my head up against the window conking out, not waking up until fifteen minutes from Aberdeen. The snooze did me good. Feeling half-human again. All I needed was a good wash and clean clothes. Getting too old for this drinking carry on.

  “Alright, lad. Woken up at last.”

  “Jesus, I needed that.”

  “We’ll be at mine in a half hour, so you’ll get a shower.”

  “Sound, cheers for this.”

  “No problem. Say, just wondering, you ever hear from your Dad?”

  “No, I disowned the prick once Mom died. I looked for him for a couple of months, but couldn’t find the cunt.”

  “He used to carry quite a name for himself around here. Never lost a bout, as far as I know.”

  “I know fuck all about his past. Just know he was a vicious cunt. I’ll never forgive the fud for what he did. I’d love to catch up with him some day.”

  “Is that why you changed your last name?”