Memoirs of a Karate Fighter (21 page)

I continued to see Clinton from time to time, and more often than not, the meetings left me with a heavy heart. He cut a tragic figure, even during the periods when he was free from the worst symptoms of his psychosis. There had been episodes of paranoia, but thankfully Clinton was always intercepted in time by friends or relatives to prevent anyone getting hurt, and he had ended up being ‘sectioned' under the Mental Health Act. With Hilda often by my side, I went to see him in the hospital. Every time I laid eyes on the bloated person who had been consumed by the chemicals that were supposed to alleviate, if not cure, his illness, I could not help but think back to the times when Clinton had the chiselled physique of a finely honed athlete and when there was an energy and sharpness about him. In the years since his illness was first diagnosed, his life had been punctuated with tragedy and incidents that took him back to the psychiatric ward on several occasions and I often wondered if there would be any end to his torment.

I remember, as it approached the end of May 1986, thinking that the following month would mark my twenty-fifth year. A quarter of a century: it seemed a long time to be alive back then. June would be a special month for me and it would also be one in which the members of the Wolverhampton YMCA karate club would come together for one last time.

The church was filled with the sombre faces of friends and relatives I was only conscious of for brief periods. The Wolverhampton YMCA karate club and Clinton's friends were present and united in grief, but I sat well away from all of them. Like Clinton had once done, I had closed myself off from the outside world as I asked myself where had I been when Clinton had needed me most.

The day before he died, Clinton had called at my house but I had been out, nowhere important. When Hilda had told me of his visit and that he had called around to wish me happy birthday, I said that I would see him during the following weekend. Another time I might have telephoned or tried to find him, but I had been left drained after every occasion I had seen him since his mother's death during the previous year. Clinton had been hospitalized after her death, but with Hilda's help, I had dredged up the will to visit him whenever he had been admitted. We walked the hospital grounds with him and Hilda would sometimes look across as we slowly shuffled along and smile as if to tell me that I was doing fine. It was nearly all too much for me: why had life treated him so cruelly that he had been reduced to this?

With a voice full of well-rehearsed sincerity, the vicar brought my mind back to the funeral service when he asked the congregation to reflect on the ways Clinton had touched our lives. A great wail went up from the back of the church and rippled its way to the front before it reverberated within my chest. My heart felt as though it was swelling and the sensation brought my head toward my knees as I thought my chest was about to tear open and expose the raw pain I had experienced in losing someone I had loved.

There was movement all around me as people got up to file past the open coffin to take one last look. I glimpsed a woman who had a camera in her hand and for a crazy moment I wanted to push her away and shout out that this was not a circus. What were the motives of those who photographed or gazed in at the corpse; a morbid curiosity about what a skilled mortician can do for a body broken by a fall from a thirteenth-storey window, perhaps? As I stood up my head began to spin and I brushed past the woman as I made my way out via a side door.

I sat on one of the low walls in front of the church and while looking across to the tower block from which Clinton had fallen, I tried to imagine his last moments. A hand found my shoulder and I turned to see it was my mother. She asked if I was going to take a last look at Clinton and I told her that I did not want my last memory of him to be one of him lying in a coffin. My mom nodded as if she understood. “Come on then,” she said, “they're finished in there now. We still have to put him to rest.”

More than a month had gone by since the funeral. Hilda had taken Nadine shopping with her and left me to get on with the plumbing job in the bathroom that I had intended to do for almost two years. I appreciated that she left me alone with my thoughts as often as she could.

My mind continually wandered and made my progress with the plumbing so slow that I decided it was time for a tea-break. As I waited for the kettle to boil, I switched on the radio. An old song from the seventies was playing; Carl Douglas' hit ‘Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting'. All at once there were images flickering through my mind: of nights out with Clinton, Errol and Leslie at the Colosseum watching kung fu movies; of the time we had been chased by that gang of men and how Clinton had run back to help me; and of that very first training session at the YMCA after he had persuaded me to go with him.

“Clinton, you
were
as fast as lightening,” I laughed to myself, in time with the song. At least, I thought I was laughing. It was then I noticed the water on my arm. Confused, I looked up to the ceiling while thinking my plumbing had sprung a leak. I looked to my arm again and saw more water, this time dripping from my nose. Mr Kovac, my old Hungarian neighbour, had been right; not even karate could allow me to win all my battles: I could not fight back the tears anymore. I sat at the kitchen table and I wept for what seemed hours as I finally came to terms with never seeing my cousin Clinton again.

Ralph Robb
was born in Wolverhampton, England, of Jamaican parents. He was once an international karate competitor and European medallist and he retains a strong interest in the sport. Ralph now lives in Ontario, Canada with his wife and four children.

Writing as
Sylvester Young:

What Goes Around

Sleeping Dogs Lie

More Than A Game

Writing as
J.S.Noon:

Love Lies and Bleeding