The Longest Fight (25 page)

F
riday night was cold as hell: like being locked in the back yard on Christmas Day when he was ten and frost had drilled its way into every bone until the pain made him howl; stray dogs had chorused him. Jack drew his coat tighter, tried to stop his teeth clacking together. On his third cigarette and still no sign of Vincent. He stamped life back into his feet. Beer barrels and crates of empties cast long shadows into the alleyway like fingers trying to hook him. The smell of yeast and rotting wood was thick in the air. Jack flicked the butt away. It sparked against the wall, hissed in a puddle; dark shapes moved across the surface of the water. Two men stood at the mouth of the alley. Jack held the smoke inside, the last brush of warmth tickling his throat. Above the drone of buses on the street, the echoing clip of footsteps, a chattering of starlings swarmed through the air.

‘Thought you weren’t coming.’ He held out his hand.

‘I’m always good to my word. How’s the fighter?’ Vincent kept his hands in his pockets.

‘Tucked up in the warm. Looking good, though.’ Jack blew on his whitening fingernails.

The Thin Suit stood behind Vincent. No coat; two red hands hanging down as if he was burning from the inside. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a lighter. His face illuminated from underneath as Vincent sucked down on the glowing cigar; lines etched around his mouth looked as if they were never stretched by smiling. Vincent beckoned Jack closer with his free hand. ‘Harry is already in there, so we’re all set to go. Just make sure your fighter follows through.’

‘It’s in the bag.’

Jack tapped his foot on the flagstones. The cold couldn’t get him now. Soon he would have leather gloves and Georgie in a new fur coat pressed against his side to keep him toasty. He almost didn’t want the fight to be over so soon; he wanted to feel the tingling, like a shot in the arm, spreading through his body.

Vincent’s cigar tip smouldered.

‘Don’t forget to keep your distance in there. The last thing we need is prying eyes.’

Jack nodded. That red circle was all the light left; the evening had slipped away. The boxes and crates melted into the darkness of the wall. Jack shrank his arms and legs closer; it was like standing at the bottom of a grave, feeling the sides closing in.

‘Should be filling up by now.’ The Thin Suit tapped his watch.

‘Always looking out for me.’ Vincent gave a wave; ash fluttered to the floor.

The Thin Suit followed a step behind; Jack waited for a few minutes more, hacking at the black moss between the cobbles with the heel of his shoe. Silent as Camberwell New Cemetery. His mum and dad had a joint plot, stacked on top of each other:
Here lies
… No one had thought it funny when Jack suggested the stonemason stop right there.

He felt his way down the steps to the back entrance, fingers slipping on the sodden bricks. A cloud of steam wafted upwards as he went inside. The smell of beer dripped from the ceiling; puddles of water lined the corridor. Jack was glad he wouldn’t need to drink from the tap any more – members’ clubs all the way for him. A row of hanging light bulbs led to the makeshift changing room. Frank sat on a stack of empty crates, lacing up his boots.

‘Where’ve you been, Jack?’

‘Don’t worry, just checking everything’s in place.’

‘Have you seen my opponent?’

‘He’s down the end of the corridor, and he ain’t exactly your opponent tonight. You’re on the same side, remember?’

The rounded ceiling of the cellar room was so thick that barely a noise permeated down from the pub above. But Jack knew it was all happening. The ring set up, benches laid out, and glasses full. He took a seat opposite the barrels, moving the chair to the left; getting away from the glare of the wall lamp. Jack prodded Frank’s boot with his foot.

‘Ain’t much of a talker tonight, are you?’

Frank’s fingers looped bows into the laces. ‘I’m getting ready.’

‘Where’s Bert?’

‘Checking the ring.’

Frank went on methodically tightening the laces through each eyelet. He was absorbed in the routine; somehow Jack hadn’t thought he would bother with it tonight, but he supposed it was a hard habit to break. Frank’s eyebrows knitting together as he rolled the top of his socks over his boots. His right eye had a thick padding of scar under the brow, nose shunted a little further back into his head, ears puffed up, and dents on his left cheekbone.

Frank rubbed his hand across his face. ‘Marks of the trade, hey, Jack.’

‘Everything costs these days.’

Frank lifted his chin into the light. ‘Have I paid enough?’

‘Come on. I read that letter – this is the best way.’

He went back to his laces. A puff of smoke and dust spat upwards into the air above the lamp: another moth had got too close. Jack watched the ash fall and hoped Pearl hadn’t got to Frank, singeing his wings before the big fight.

‘It’s good to be on edge before a bout. And this is just like any fight – better even. We know how this has to end. Just put on a good show and remember to count the bells. I know you can count to five.’

Jack checked his watch, counted off another three seconds. Frank rubbed his head. ‘There’s something I got to ask –’

Jack cut him off. ‘We won’t get it wrong, but you’re right, we need to follow the routine. I’ll get your gloves.’

He stood up, felt the weight of all those men stomping around the pub above him. They would all be watching, checking for any sign. He opened up the bag; the gloves were icy cold. Jack’s nose twitched as he worked the leather, nostrils drawing in sweat, a metallic ionisation: the smell of a fight brewing. All those years before had been building to this one night. Jack licked his lips: the taste of butter on his toast, real chilled milk in his tea every day, whisky that hummed with smoke and peat, the brush of silk against his skin. Everyone would know his name: Jack Munday.

‘Jack?’ Frank stood with the bandages in his hands.

‘Let’s get those on.’

He picked up the white roll, held the boy’s hands steady, wound the bandages tightly about his fists. The white lines made Frank’s hands look bigger, great big square palms and thick fingers. Hands that were made for fighting, but they would find something else to do. The knuckles protruded as Jack bent Frank’s hands into paws. He tried to think of what he would buy first; he might even go to Oxford Street, new department stores opening all the time: a tailored suit or maybe even a car, a black Ford Consul to start with and working up from there. Jack didn’t need to look as he worked the bandages around; the image of those bright blue veins and creased pink palms was imprinted on him.

Bert manoeuvred his round body between the barrels as he came into the cellar. He slapped his hands down on Frank’s shoulders. ‘Ready to weigh in, and get them bandages signed off? Time to teach that upstart a lesson. Getting top billing with you, the cheek. I’ve never even heard of him.’

Frank glanced up. ‘Jack hasn’t told you?’

‘Frank’s a bit nervous, not quite feeling it, ain’t that right?’ Jack tugged on the bandages.

Frank nodded his head, stared at the white ends flapping and waiting to be tied off. Bert rubbed the red pinch his
glasses left on his nose. ‘I can mix you some tonic up. Get it down you after weigh-in.’

‘He’ll be fine. Come on. We’re up next.’ Jack herded them out of the cellar towards the scales at the end of the corridor, then it was up the narrow steps where the ring was waiting.

The noise erupted like a hailstorm when Frank came up. The crowd parted for them, feet shuffling and eyes black in the dimness. Pillars held the roof up, and a thin carpet slid about under the stomping feet. The place was so packed Jack couldn’t even see the bar, but the men had pints in their hands; splashes ballooned on his suit and beads of beer glistened on Frank’s arms. The men were waiting to see him win or to see him crushed by the newcomer; most of them didn’t care which. Always was someone waiting to knock out a champion and leave him in the dust, and always was a fool waiting to be beaten down for the nerve of thinking they stood a chance. It made Jack want to laugh until his cheeks ached. The crowd pressed up against the benches in front of the ring. The noise was just as jumbled; Jack couldn’t make out words, only the thumping of voices. He held open the ropes.

‘We’re all going to get what we want out of this. Make it look real,’ he whispered into Frank’s good ear.

Rich already stood in his corner, shoulders jumping, feet moving on the canvas as if he was running through the fight in his head. The ropes snapped back into place and Jack sat down on the benches. Every muscle in his body tensed, but there wasn’t room to stretch out his legs. He drummed his fingers on his knees, waiting for the bell. Programme read, announcements made, gloves shaken, back to corners. Thud thud thud in time to his heartbeat. Finally, the only sound left was the ringing of metal. But Frank hadn’t heard it; how could he have? Jack rubbed his ear. Frank stood inside his corner, hands drooping low. Close enough to see the purple dusting above his kidney, the dark-shaded muscles under his ribs; still
enough to see him breathing. Bert was in front of Jack, right by the ring, staring through the hole of Frank’s legs.

Jack broke the silence. ‘Get out there.’

A cheer went up. Rich strode forward, stretching but not landing, head tilted. And still Frank didn’t move. The first hiss slithered over the canvas.
Don’t let it end this way.
Rich tightened his guard, shuffled closer then circled off again. A bottle bounced off the ropes and smashed in front of the first row. Jack kicked glass from his shoes. Frank edged forward but his arms remained loose at his sides. The noise filtered down to Jack as if he were lying at the bottom of the swimming baths: pops and clangs exploding against his ears. The referee was walking towards Frank. If he touched him on the shoulder that was it: technical knockout. The rows of benches swayed around him as if they had been hit by a wave. Spider jumped up, appearing further down the row, the shiny thread of his checked suit catching the light.

‘Kill the darkie, Frank.’

One day someone would have to squash that Spider, but not tonight. Jack stood up, knees shaking.
Don’t freeze now, boy: guard up, head down, hit hard.
The stamping of feet on the floor rattled Jack’s brain against the sides of his skull. A balled-up programme flew through the air, hit the side of Rich’s face.

‘Get back on the boat or smack him one,’ a man in a white suit shouted, waving his arm.

‘Only boat I’ve ever been on is the Woolwich ferry,’ Rich shouted back.

His neck set hard, the muscles poking down into his shoulders. He spun and lunged at the ropes, fighting to get into the crowd. He bounced back like the thrown bottle – enough to make him catch a breath.

‘Let him have it,’ Jack shouted between his hands; and he didn’t care which one of them heard him. Throw one punch, that was all it would take. He gripped his hand around his throat, hoping Frank would remember their signs. An
elbow jabbed Jack in the spine and he sat down, winded. Rich let go of the ropes, swung back towards Frank’s corner, muttering under his breath, shaking his head as he pulled back his arm. His fat gloved hand landed square between Frank’s collarbones. The force pulled Frank’s arms together and in reflex he hit out. Rich was ready for it: knees bent, calling Frank on. A cheer as Frank led with his right, making contact on Rich’s upper arm. It was the permission he had been waiting for. Rich grinned, dipped his head, and threw a sharp swing that caught Frank a blow on the temple. Frank rocked forward, a patch of red hair turning black as treacle at the roots. Blood flicked on to the canvas, enough to feed the crowd. But it was too early to fall. Frank’s knees locked. Jack relaxed his hands, uncurled his spine.

The bell for the end of the first round; Jack leapt up to Frank’s corner. He wiped Frank’s face with the towel, his breath steaming through the cotton. All the mouths crammed into that low-ceilinged room gasped at the stale air, no windows or draughts to refresh it. Bert knocked against him as he moved to the other side of Frank.

‘I see what’s going on. Glasses or no, I’m not that short-sighted.’ Bert scrubbed a sponge over Frank’s shoulders.

The crowd stamped and called; no one seemed to notice the fighting had stopped – for a moment at least. Jack opened the pots as Bert rubbed Vaseline into a graze on Frank’s cheek. ‘Need-to-know basis, that’s the deal. Only me and Frank needed to be in on it.’

‘I know about those sorts of deals. Make sure I’d turn up so it looked real, more like it.’ Bert shook his head, bending Frank’s neck to the right. ‘This is it, Jack, I’m out. After this fight’s done, we’re done. My reputation’s a clean one. I mean to keep it that way.’

The bright lights above the ring even washed out their shadows; cut off from the crowd by a tide of voices, scraping wood and breaking glasses. Bert worked a cotton ball up under Frank’s left eye.

‘I should wallop your backside, Jack. I don’t believe you even see what’s coming to you.’

‘Lay off. It ain’t personal. I’ve seen you all right, ain’t I? You’ll get your cut. Don’t think I was going to short-change you.’ Jack knelt down in front of Frank. ‘No freezing again. What got into you?’ He put his hands on Frank’s knees, blocked out the crowd behind him.

‘I thought I… was going to sick up… my lungs. Do you think… I’m yellow?’ Frank swiped sweat from his forehead with his arm. ‘Jack’s got it… all worked out, Bert. I can’t… keep fighting. I’ve got a future… to think of.’

‘That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard anyone say.’ Bert picked up his box and the bucket.

‘Head down, hands up, look out for that left hook.’ Jack laid it out in front of Frank but it was all for show: no self-respecting manager would give up the opportunity to talk to his fighter between rounds. He had to keep to the routine. But Jack couldn’t help looking over his shoulder at Rich in the other corner.

‘Your folks would be proud.’ The words slipped out.

Frank’s eyes turned dark as the cobbles in the alley outside: cold and wet. The bell rang. Frank roared out of his corner. He didn’t seem to hold back, and Jack was looking for it. He tuned into the roar of the crowd behind him. Spider gave him the thumbs-up as he pushed out of the row, making his way across the room. It was the fight that everyone hoped to watch: a night that would be talked about for years. Jack lost sight of Spider moving behind the bookies’ runners. Even they were twitching, licking pencil stubs, tilting back hats; they usually made an art form out of lounging against walls.