The Scrapper (5 page)

Back at the punch-bag, Sparrow was working furiously. He threw a right-left-right combination. His body weaved right and left, his stance continually changing as the bag swung back and forth. Perspiration was running down his face and down his back and shoulders. Each punch of the bag was punctuated by a grunt. In his mind Sparrow heard the crowd scream. He threw a stiff right into the middle of the bag – and saw the Spaniard stagger away. He heard Molloy scream from the corner, ‘Finish it now, finish it now.’ As tears began to stream from his eyes, he jabbed the bag twice and threw a right hook. He saw his father, now deceased, standing and shouting, ‘Yes Sparrow, yes Sparrow, this is it.’ Sparrow stopped. With the suspension rope squeaking the bag swung from side to side. Sparrow stood, frozen, in front of it. Slowly he extended his hands and
steadied the bag. Slowly he raised his right hand to his mouth and bit at the velcro on the mit. He repeated the action with the other hand and tossed the mits on the floor beneath the bag. With his head down he began to make his way to the locker room.

He was stopped on the way by Froggy. ‘Will we box now, Sparrow? Come on, I box yeh!’ Froggy’s voice was enthusiastic.

Sparrow tried to fob him off. All around them were other boxers who had been training or working-out. They began to wind down and smile over at the two men, knowing what was coming. The Froggy-versus-Sparrow bouts had become a ritual of Sparrow’s work-out days. Sparrow didn’t feel like it tonight, but then he looked into Froggy’s face: he was so excited, his eyes dancing in his head. Sparrow smiled and put his hand on Froggy’s shoulder.

‘Okay then, come on, Froggy – yeh killer!’

‘Ooo … gonna knock you fuckin’ block off, Spawoo!’ was Froggy’s cry as he quickly made his way to the ring. The two men climbed into the ring and interrupted two sparring boxers. The training all around the gym stopped and the boys and men gathered around. Two trainers, Duffy and Flynn, hopped into the ring to be Froggy’s seconds, and in the other corner one of the young boxers helped Sparrow on with his gloves. Froggy sat on the stool in the corner as if preparing for a world title fight. Flynn helped him on with his gloves, and while doing this he spoke to Froggy.

‘Froggy, listen, this is important. Never smoke in the cinema – and close the cover before striking.’

Froggy looked up into Flynn’s face and nodded. ‘Okay, boss.’

Now Duffy joined in. ‘Froggy, never piss while the train is stopped in the station.’

Froggy looked at Flynn. ‘Okay, boss.’

Someone hit the bell and the two boxers rose to their feet. Just as Froggy was about to make his way out of the corner, Flynn called after him.

‘Oh – and Froggy.’

Froggy spun around quickly to look at Flynn. ‘Yes, boss?’

‘Knock his fuckin’ block off!’ Flynn imparted this last bit of coaching with a smile and a wink.

Froggy smiled back. ‘Okay, boss.’

The fighters met in the middle. They touched gloves, the ringsiders now beginning to cheer for Froggy. Froggy began to hop around the ring, hinting at the origin of his nickname.

‘Yer goin’ down, Froggy. I’ve got yeh this time, man. Yeh ain’t got a chance, man.’ Sparrow pretended to be angry.

‘Knock yer fuckin’ block off!’ Froggy returned.

The mock fight began. Sparrow pretended to, but never actually threw a punch. Froggy was throwing awkward punches that landed on Sparrow, but were completely harmless. Eventually, as Froggy began to work up a sweat, he swung a wide right that caught Sparrow on the shoulder. Sparrow staggered and hit the canvas. Flynn jumped into the ring and began the count. Froggy was still hopping around the ring. The ringsiders joined in the count with Flynn.

‘Seven – eight – nine – he’s out!’ They all began to shout and cheer and clap, and Froggy danced around the ring like the world champion, the ringsiders slapping his gloves and giving him the thumbs-up sign. Sparrow
staggered back to his corner, smiling. Froggy shuffled over to Sparrow’s corner.

‘Hard luck, Spawoo. Maybe tomowoo?’ he consoled him.

The youngster in the corner tugged the gloves off Sparrow’s hands. Sparrow stood and put his arm around Froggy’s shoulder.

‘I’ve been saying that for fifteen years now, Froggy, but you’re just too good, Froggy, you’re just too good!’ The two men hugged and everybody went back to training. Once again, Sparrow headed for the locker room, exchanging greetings with some of the other boxers and the older men.

One of the old men called out, ‘Sparrow, have yeh heard about old Eddie dyin’ on his holidays in the Isle of Man?’

‘Yeh, I heard that, Tom,’ said Sparrow. ‘A bit of bad luck! Eddie was a good auld skin.’

‘They’re flyin’ him home at the weekend. The funeral’s Monday morning at eleven o’clock in St John’s church.’

‘Yeh, I know, Tom. Me and Eileen will be there.’

‘Good man, Sparrow, you’re a good man.’ The older man rubbed his hand across Sparrow’s shoulders with genuine warmth and finished with the customary slap on the neck.

Sparrow headed for the shower. Like a mischievous little child, Froggy sneaked into the shower area, tiptoed up to Sparrow’s shower and aimed the camera into the cubicle. Click, flash, whirr. Froggy ran away giggling. Passing the group of old men he said, ‘I got picture of Spawoo’s willie.’

‘Oh yeh? Well, why don’t you get it enlarged for him, son?’ answered one of them. The locker room burst into laughter.

In the shower cubicle Sparrow stood with his arms
spread-eagled up against the wall as the steaming water rolled down his face. He had his eyes closed. In the background he heard the laughter of the old men. Sparrow wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t looking forward to this funeral tomorrow, he hated funerals. In the last few years he had attended so many, two of which broke his heart – his mother’s and his father’s. Within a year of the fight in Madrid, Sparrow’s mother Rita had died from cancer. Macker was never the same after the triple blow of losing his granddaughter, his dreams in Madrid, and then his wife within a year. He died four years later, some say of a broken heart. Sparrow didn’t know if that was true but he often felt guilty for giving up boxing professionally immediately after Madrid. From that day on Macker had never had an opportunity or a reason to whip out his penis again.

Kieran Clancy had his elbow resting on the window of the car and leaned his head against his hand, using only one hand, his left, to drive the police car. They’d been tailing the Minister’s limousine for thirty-five or forty minutes now. The Minister was heading, Kieran assumed, back to Dáil Eireann – assumed, because the Minister never said where he was going, so they just tailed him. Detective Malone sat quietly in the passenger seat. It was sunny for December and on the footpath some girls had ventured out in mini skirts. Malone watched them all with a smile on his face.

‘I love this job,’ Malone commented out of the blue.

‘I hate this job,’ Clancy retorted.

Michael turned his full attention to Clancy. ‘Kieran Clancy! I never thought I’d hear the day when you’d say you hate being a copper.’

‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. I’ve always wanted to be a policeman. I just hate this – babysitting these shit-heads.’

‘Now, wait a minute, Kieran, it’s an important job. After all, he is a Minister.’

‘Minister for crapology. Let me tell you, Michael, the only person who might shoot that fella is one of the gobshites that voted for him.’ As Clancy said this he pointed straight ahead at the ministerial limousine, and Michael’s gaze followed. The left indicator went on and it began to pull in. The police car followed suit.

‘Now what’s he up to?’ They saw the chauffeur climb out of the driver’s door and quickly make his way around to the Minister’s door. He held it open for the Minister, who left the car hurriedly and entered a doorway. ‘What in God’s name …?’ Clancy was mumbling as he climbed out of his car. He didn’t have to ask – it was written all over the chauffeur’s face. ‘He’s gone for a … a rub, says he’s a bit stiff,’ the chauffeur explained, nodding towards the doorway. Clancy turned and looked at the sign over the doorway. The tacky sign read ‘Medusa Massage’.

Clancy threw his eyes in the air and returned to his car, shaking his head. Michael was now out of the car and waiting for Clancy’s return. Kieran took his packet of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, turned his collar up and leaned back against the car.

‘So what’s up?’ Michael asked.

With the smoking cigarette between his lips Kieran
nodded towards the doorway. ‘Your Minister pal has gone for a wank!’

‘What? Off who?’ Michael asked.

Kieran stared at him, one of those stares that says, Why are you asking such a stupid question?

‘Off his chauffeur … in there, you idiot!’ Kieran again nodded to the doorway.

‘You mean that’s a …’

Clancy simply nodded again.

‘Well, my God! I didn’t even know that place existed,’ exclaimed Michael slowly, careful not to let Clancy see him jot the phone number of the Medusa Massage Parlour on the palm of his hand. ‘And how much would a wank be?’ Michael wondered.

Clancy gave him that look again. ‘Are you asking me to quote you? How the hell would I know?’

Michael didn’t pursue it. Clancy threw his cigarette on the footpath and stood on it. He dug his hands deep into his pockets and stamped his feet to keep warm. As he did this he glanced around at the main street.

‘God almighty, this place is desperate!’

‘It’s a kip, all right! I’m glad we’re not stationed out here in Snuggstown.’

‘Yes, Michael, that would be terrible – we might have to pretend to be policemen.’

‘You’re in great form, aren’t you?’

The doorway of a building across the street opened and a man stepped out. His hair was thin on top, and he had a moustache; he was wearing denim trousers and a bomber jacket. He was carrying a sports bag. Kieran watched him as he walked towards them up the street. His face seemed
vaguely familiar. Kieran frowned, then the dawning of recognition made his eyebrows rise.

‘Look! Isn’t that Sparrow McCabe over there, Michael?’

Michael turned and looked at the figure walking in their direction on the far side of the street.

‘It is, indeed. God, he was some boxer.’

‘He sure was.’ They watched as Sparrow walked a short way down the street and inserted a key into the door of a black Jaguar.

‘I wonder did he take a dive that time in Spain?’ Michael asked Clancy.

Clancy continued to watch Sparrow. ‘He must be doing all right now, driving a Jag.’

‘That’s not his.’

Kieran now looked at Michael. ‘How do you know?’

‘I know because before you got me this cushy number, I was in Traffic. The Jag belongs to that scumbag Simon Williams – Simple Simon. He runs Snuggstown.’ Michael turned and nodded towards Medusa’s. ‘He probably owns that place. Sparrow drives for him. He has done for about the last six years.’

As Sparrow climbed into the Jaguar the two men watched him with interest, but were interrupted by the Minister as he exited from the massage parlour. Without a word to either his chauffeur or his bodyguards, the Minister climbed straight back into the ministerial car. The two detectives got into their car and Kieran started the engine, his eyes still fixed on Sparrow. As they set off down the street, they drove past the Jaguar. Kieran Clancy stared at Sparrow. Sparrow met his stare and frowned. The first meeting of these two men was over. It would not be the last.

Sparrow McCabe lived in a two-bedroomed terraced house in Meadowmist housing estate. Although this area was still referred to as the ‘new estate’, it was actually twelve years old, but hung on to its name because it was the final phase of the Snuggstown West housing plan. Just two years after their marriage, Sparrow and Eileen had applied for one of the new houses. Less than a year later they had moved in. The design of the houses was simple. Upstairs there was one large bedroom in which Eileen and Sparrow slept. Next to it was a bathroom and toilet. At that moment Sparrow was standing at the door of the second, smaller bedroom. Inside this room lay the family jewel. After the tragic loss of her daughter in Madrid, it was seven years before Eileen gave birth again. The pregnancy was a tense and tortured time for both of them. When the boy was born he was greeted with a huge sigh of relief rather than open joy. Eileen named him Michael, after her father, but this had quickly been
shortened to Mickey. As the boy grew into a seven-year-old scamp, the name suited him perfectly.

Sparrow pushed Mickey’s bedroom door open softly. The light from the single bulb on the landing spilled in. Mickey’s room was typical of a seven-year-old’s bedroom. His clothes were scattered along the floor where he had tossed them, for like most seven-year-olds he undressed on his way to the bed. Quietly Sparrow gathered up the clothes and folded them. He picked up the child’s things as well – a football and a tiny TV with a computer game console attached to it. The monitor was on and Sparrow clicked it off. The walls were adorned with various posters showing the diversity of Mickey’s interests: Hulk Hogan, the Irish football team, various players in various poses from Aston Villa FC, and a huge Spice Girls poster reflecting Mickey’s anticipation of future adolescence rather than his musical taste.

On Mickey’s bedside table were two framed photographs. One was of the boy himself in football gear, holding a ball. He was laughing and covered from head to toe in mud. Sparrow picked it up and smiled as he looked at this little bundle of energy. He then quietly replaced it beside the photo of himself, a black-and-white one, in full boxing regalia. Sparrow lost his smile.

Mickey was sound asleep but still wearing the headphones of his walkman, so Sparrow leaned over and gently lifted the headphones from the boy’s head. He smiled down at his son lovingly, and bending over him placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. ‘Goodnight, Mickey the Gick!’

Sparrow made his way downstairs, on the way tossing Mickey’s clothes into the washbasket in the bathroom. He flicked on the kettle, then went to the fireplace. It was
freezing cold outside, so he heaped some more coal onto the fire, to have the room nice and warm for Eileen when she returned from bingo. Thursday night was bingo night and Eileen made it her night out with her mother, Dolly. Over the hearth the entire wall was covered with photographs, framed press clippings and other memorabilia from Sparrow’s boxing years. Eileen called this Sparrow’s Wall.

The kettle began to dance. Sparrow hurried to the kitchen counter and switched it off. He tossed a tea bag into a mug, then two sugars, finally adding the scalding water. As the tea ‘brewed’ in the mug he made himself some sandwiches. Within minutes Sparrow was closing the kitchen door with his leg, and holding the tea in one hand, a sandwich in the other and another sandwich in his mouth, he settled himself into his armchair.

He reached down to the floor beside his chair and his hand found the remote control. Then like a gunslinger he began to flick through the channels until he found Sky Sports. A handsome sports announcer with plastic features announced: ‘
Coming up next here on Sky Sports we have Fight Night, tonight featuring the European Heavyweight Title Fight between Karim Smith of London, and Spain’s Enzo Vala. That’s after the break.’
As an advert began, Sparrow’s eyes drifted to the fire flickering in the hearth, then up to the wall over the mantelpiece. He noticed that one of the frames hanging there was crooked. It was a press cutting, with the headline: ‘McCABE LOSES OUT’. As if from a distance he heard Jimmy Magee’s voice boom out:

‘The little Irishman is going to work, a left, a right, he’s pushing the Spaniard towards the ropes. I see blood coming from the cut in Sparrow’s eye but it’s not stopping him! Another cruncher
 
from the Irish champ to the body. Surely, it’s all over now. The Spaniard’s guard comes down
…’

How many times had he replayed that commentary? Sparrow asked himself.

The ‘ding, ding, ding’ of the bell startled Sparrow back to reality. The fight on television was about to begin. He turned to go back to his chair and saw Eileen standing in the kitchen doorway watching him. She removed her satin headscarf and her blond hair fell to her shoulders. Even after fifteen years of marriage Sparrow thought she was still beautiful. Quite beautiful.

‘Fighting the Spaniard again?’ Eileen asked flatly.

‘Yeh.’

‘And who won?’

‘He did.’

‘Again?’

‘Yeh. Again.’

Eileen went to the kitchen counter and flicked the kettle on. ‘Was Mickey okay?’

Sparrow was settling back down in the armchair. ‘Yeh, he was grand, he’s asleep. How was bingo?’

‘Okay. D’yeh want some more tea?’

‘Yeh please. This is gone cold.’

Eileen walked to Sparrow’s armchair, took his mug and made her way back to the sink. She poured out the cold tea and rinsed the mug out. While she was wiping it with the dishcloth Sparrow stared at her. Her body language told him that she was not a happy girl. But she’d not been a happy girl for many years now.

‘How’s your mother?’ Sparrow tried by way of conversation.

Eileen again answered without turning, still busying herself making tea. ‘Oh yeh know, still the same, still giving out.’ She brought Sparrow’s tea over to him. As she placed it on the arm of the chair she looked into his face. ‘She says I should leave you.’

Sparrow looked in her eyes, and saw they were sad. ‘Maybe she’s right, Eileen.’

They looked at each other.

Eileen’s ears pinned back and her nose flared. ‘Sparrow, will yeh fuck off!’ She began to take off her coat and leave the room at the same time.

Sparrow jumped up and caught her arm, but she pulled away from him.

‘I’m sorry, Eileen, I was only messing. Really love, I’m sorry.’

Eileen looked into Sparrow’s eyes and spoke angrily. ‘Sparrow, don’t even
say
things like that, not even as a joke. Sometimes I don’t know with you.’ He could see she was holding back tears. She pointed to the mantelpiece. ‘You fight that fuckin’ Spaniard every day. And every day you lose! That was years ago. Throw the fuckin’ punch, Sparrow, for God’s sake, and let us get on with our lives!’

Sparrow took Eileen in his arms. ‘It’s not like that, love,’ he began. ‘I’m just remembering –’

Eileen pushed him away. ‘It is like that, Sparrow. You just can’t forget it. The fight is over, Sparrow. You lost. I’m warning you, Sparrow McCabe, we’ve had just about as much of this shit as we can take. Mickey adores you and as much as I love you too one of these days you’re going to look into your corner and we won’t be there! That’ll give you something else to blame on the Spaniard!’

Sparrow turned away and leaned on the fireplace with his back to his wife. The memorabilia of the wall seemed stark to him now. Sparrow in action – press clippings: ‘McCABE, THE BEST I’VE EVER SEEN’; ‘YOUNGEST EVER NATIONAL CHAMPION’; ‘TEN IN A ROW FOR THE SPARROW’.

Eileen went over to him and spoke to his back. Waving her hand across the memorabilia, she said, ‘Turn it around, Sparrow. All of this must count for something – there are people out there that remember the best of Sparrow McCabe.’

Sparrow spun around to face her. He was perspiring and the pain was obvious in his face. ‘The loser,’ he blurted out.

‘For Christ’s sake, Sparrow, you lost one fight! What about the fifty you won?’

‘Yeh, what about them? I’ll tell yeh, Eileen, I’ll tell yeh about them. They count for nothing! Eileen, before I left for Spain, your brother-in-law offered me a sales manager’s job. Sales fuckin’ manager.’ Sparrow spat this out.

‘And he still wants you to work for him!’ Eileen’s voice had gone up a pitch.

Sparrow smirked and slowly sank into his armchair. ‘Yeh, as a security man. What happened to the sales manager? I’ll tell you what happened, Eileen, he’s still lying on the canvas in Madrid because he couldn’t finish the job. He hadn’t got the bottle. Don’t yeh see, Eileen, nobody wants a loser!’

But Eileen wasn’t giving up. ‘The only one in this house that thinks you’re a loser is you! And what’s wrong with being a security man, anyway? It would be better than me sitting here worrying every day if you’re going to come
home. Or if I’ll have to explain to Mickey why his father is in prison. Or worse – dead! And will Simon Williams give a shit? Will he?’

Sparrow jumped to a standing position, not to continue the argument but because behind Eileen young Mickey was standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

Eileen turned to see what Sparrow was looking at, and still hyped up from her outburst, she turned on the boy and shouted, ‘What are you doing up?’

Startled, Mickey began to sob. ‘I had a nightmare!’

Sparrow pushed past Eileen and hugged the boy into his body.

‘It’s all right, Mickey boy, dreams can’t hurt yeh!’ Sparrow began to usher the boy out of the room towards the stairs. ‘Come on, Mickey, I’ll lie down with you for a while.’

‘Are you going to prison, Dad?’ the boy asked in a scared voice.

‘No, son, I’m not going to prison. Mammy’s just trying to make a point.’ Sparrow laughed.

When the two had left the room, Eileen walked slowly to the mantelpiece, tears of frustration in her eyes. She looked at the framed picture of the fight in Madrid and then in an outburst of tears punched the picture, shattering the glass.