The Sister (14 page)

"What's your name, son?"

"It's Miller."

"What's your first name?" he said, looking at him intently.

"It's just Miller," he said, his face deadpan.

A glint of amusement flashed in the trainer's flinty eyes, and he wiped his hand on the leg of his grey tracksuit and offering it, introduced himself. "Mickey Taylor."

They shook hands.

"We're going to need your first name for the application," he said, taking a form from the clipboard on the chair next to him. "Fill that in, then we'll get started."

There was a time when he only allowed proper fighters to train in his gym, but he'd relaxed the rules in recent years because he couldn't afford to turn money away. Among the usual array were various non-combatants: nightclub doormen, friends of fighters, wayward kids and the occasional policeman.

The boy in the ring was a middleweight prospect. Even though he was only sixteen years old,
Taylor was sure he could take an ABA title and turn pro in a few years. There were always two, or three, sparring partners lined up ready for him.

Miller watched from ringside with interest until
Taylor said, "Don't stand there gawping, go and see Terry and he'll get you started."

The warm up routine was a basic lesson in stance, and a demonstration of bag work, followed by skipping. Twenty minutes later, he'd built up a sweat, and Terry started him on the pads. Miller bobbed around in front of him, picking off the moving targets with ease. Terry moved faster, becoming more and more nimble on his feet, boots squeaking as he shuffled and turned, switching direction, making the pads harder to hit. Miller stuck to him closer than a shadow, catching the padded targets at will, with either hand.

Taylor, delivering coaching points to his boy in the ring, found his attention drawn by the blur of movement and the thwack of leather against leather, as the newcomer's gloves repeatedly struck home. "Terry, send him over," he called out.

"You said on the form you hadn't boxed before, son,"
Taylor said.

"I haven't," he said.

Taylor gave him a sceptical look, "Are you sure . . . What do you reckon, Terry?"

"If he hasn't, then I am a Chinaman."

Taylor scratched the back of his head. He couldn't think why the boy would deny it, but then he didn't seem to want them to know his Christian name either. Taylor was puzzled.
Let's see how you handle yourself in the ring, eh?

"Are you up for sparring, boy?"

"I'm ready," he said.

"Let's get you gloved-up. Do you have a gum shield with you?"

"No, we're only sparring. I won't need it."

Terry raised his eyebrows.

Taylor leaned forward and whispered to his protégé, "Don't take it easy on him."

Thomas, who stood watching with each of his gloved hands resting on the top rope, stuck out his gum shield, a bored expression on his face.

As he slipped through the ropes onto the canvas, Taylor said, "No shame in it, boy. If he hurts you just nod to me, and I'll stop it, all right?" Moving back, he clapped his hands, "Box."

Carney came straight at him, arms pumping out a variety of punches. Working behind a ramrod, stiff left jab, he hooked, crossed and attacked.

Switched off from all conscious thought as his grandfather had taught him, he bobbed and slipped everything Carney threw at him. Only movement mattered; he closely defended and countered. Pure instinct took over. The countdown buzzer kicked in; Carney finished strong, it was all he could do to stay out of trouble; he flicked his eyes up at the clock - two seconds to go. Carney connected with a body shot which staggered him. Although he made it to the corner, the punch caused a delayed reaction. A full half minute later, he stumbled as it folded him at the waist.

Taylor
called out, "Next!" With a note of self-satisfaction in his voice, he said, "He's been perfecting that shot for weeks, killer isn't it?" Miller nodded with a pained smile.

He only had himself to blame for allowing his concentration to waver.

In the showers afterwards, Carney approached with Taylor, who asked him for his real name.

A puzzled look crossed his face. "It's exactly as I wrote on the form."

"Why did you tell me you'd never boxed before? Thomas could barely lay a glove on you. You're not a ringer are you, son?"
Taylor was priest-like, inviting confession.

"I used to spar with my grandfather when I was a kid about ten years ago. That doesn't count as boxing, does it?"

Taylor rubbed his eye. "He must have been some kind of trainer, your granddad. Why won't you say what your first name is son?" He held the application form out in front of him. Pointing to the entry by the first name, he said, "You don't expect me to believe your name is just … Miller, do you?"

"I told you when I first walked in that my name's Miller. I don't want to be called Mickey, or Tommy, or anything else. I just want to be called Miller, end of story."

Chapter 25

Two and a half years later, a few days after his nineteenth birthday, Miller was walking home in a vicious rainstorm in the early hours. In the future, he would remember this night many times. The memory, when it started, was monochrome.

The drab greyness of the rain and its incessant hiss deflated him, and he pinched his face against it, eyes reduced to slits and though the insides of his pockets were damp, he dug his hands further in, looking to warm them.

A car drew up alongside. The passenger door swung open. Leaning across with his face peering up at him was his old form master, Kirk. "Get in, I'll drop you off."

He was so close to home that a lift now made no difference to him; already soaked from walking in it for so long, he simply didn't feel the rain anymore. "I'm all wet, sir."

"Get in," he insisted. "We have quite a bit of catching up to do."

The drive took only a matter of minutes and when they arrived outside his house, their polite exchanges extended into deeper conversation and Kirk asked him about his life, and how he was getting on, adding, with a grin. "Are you still making your way through enemy lines?"

He listened as Miller explained how he suffered from feelings of unworthiness, how they'd undermined him, and sapped his will to do anything, so that in the end, he'd dropped out of his psychology course halfway through.

"Have you seen anyone about these feelings?"

"No, not now, originally I did, but stopped before I came into your class at school … I thought you knew all about my background?"

"I probably did at the time. I am only human though, sometimes I forget things other teachers wouldn't…" he said, turning off the wipers. "So how close were you to completing your course?"

"This would have been the last year," he said. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Kirk shaking his head in dismay.

"You need a purpose in life, something you can do to snap you out of it. Psychology is a fascinating subject. You were sufficiently interested to start with it though weren't you?"

Miller nodded. "Do you know much about it, sir?" Although he was tired, and wanted his warm bed, he sensed the older man needed to talk.

"So what happened . . ." Kirk asked, turning the engine off. "What went wrong for you to lose interest now?"

Miller took a deep breath, and held it a full ten seconds, saying as he exhaled, "Everything . . ."

Kirk listened intently as his former pupil started and then faltered; as he tried explaining how he'd lost the only girl he'd ever loved. "Her name was Josie, and she put the colour back into my life . . ." he fell silent.

"Tell me about her," he said, resting a hand on Miller's shoulder.

"I can't…" he looked down at Kirk's hand. "Your hand is cold."

"That's right, and your clothes are saturated . . . In Tibet, the novice monks go outside, ordered by their master, onto the mountain slopes in the freezing cold, wrapped only in wet sheets. They have two choices. Freeze, or learn to generate Tumo, an intense body heat. Those that do, succeed in drying several of them throughout the night. Quite an achievement, wouldn't you say?"

"How do they do it?" he said, thinking about it.

"Our minds are gifted with powers we don't understand, all we need to know is how to tap into them, and that's not something I can tell you. How did you meet your girlfriend, by the way?"

Strangely, he no longer felt cold. "I came across her one night, surrounded by a mob; two girls kicked, punched and pulled her down to her knees, just because she was pretty, I guess. She fought back, but it was futile, her face contorting with the pain of each new blow or wrench of her hair. I watched for only a split second before I intervened. I knew I ran the risk of coming under attack myself. I grabbed her hand and pulled her away. A dozen hard-faced youths encircled us; I kept my left arm around her and marched to the edge of the circle as if I couldn't give a shit. The pack closed in on us . . ." he said, his words trailing off.

"And then what?" Kirk asked.

"Someone yelled, 'Leave him!' It had come from behind the mob; they dropped their aggressive stances, and parted to let us through. I looked closely at them, trying to match the voice to one of the faces, and then I saw Thomas from the boxing club. I nodded in recognition of him, and as I walked past with my arm around the girl. Thomas grunted, 'All right.' That was how I met her. We were very happy, right up until the beginning of last month . . ."
"Okay-y-y, so what happened last month?"

Kirk felt the muscles tense beneath his hand, but he kept his grip firm and reassuring on the young man's shoulder. For a second, he thought Miller would clam up again. "Take your time . . ." he said.

"She died. She was out with a hen party on their way back from France . . . and fell overboard on the night ferry; although they looked, they never found her body." He slumped forwards. "That's it for me now. Everyone I ever get close to . . . dies. I couldn't stand the pain, or the thought of going through it again." Miller said, darkly.
Kirk lifted his hand from him, perhaps afraid at that moment, that Miller's jinx might get him, too.
"It will take time, boy, believe me. You'll learn to love again, but first, you must rid yourself of that defeatist mentality."
He sat up straight, angrily demanding, "And how do I do
that
then, Mister Kirk?".
"It's just, Kirk, as you well know," his former teacher reminded him. "How do they dry the sheets on a cold mountain, Miller? Well, I did say I couldn't tell you, but I'd suggest it's sheer force of will," he looked at him, knowingly. "You will find a way."

He opened the window a crack, the sound of the rain came in. Lighting a cigarette, he peered closely at it, as if it held a deep secret. "I don't think I'd have smoked if it wasn't for the war, and if it wasn't for cigarettes . . . I don't think I'd have made it through." He drew hard on the filter; the tip glowed and bathed his blunt face with an orange glow. "I'm sure I mentioned some of this before…"

When he spoke of the war, it was
his
war, the Korean War, but knowing time was short, condensed the part he'd played into a mere summary. ". . . and when it was over, I met up with a couple of dozen men from my unit, most of whom had been held prisoner by the Chinese. They told me about the mistreatment they were subjected to . . . degradation, abuse, and brainwashing. Some had changed beyond the point that you might have expected the experience alone to change them. Today is the 25th April, and the 32nd anniversary of my escape through enemy lines . . ." For a moment, he drifted. "You know, boy, I escaped, but I never got away. I'm
still
getting away. Most of the others that made it, made it out within hours. I got left behind, and it took me two, even three days . . . Anyhow, look it up, do your own research . . . we don't have time to get into it now."

"I will," Miller promised. "And what about you, sir, are you still teaching?"

Kirk looked across the seat at him, the cigarette end glowing as he drew on it. He sucked the smoke deep into his lungs and blew it at the gap in the window, where it siphoned into the outside air. "No, I felt it was time for a change, aim at new targets…"

"So what is it you do now?"

"I'm still in education, a freelance trouble shooter. I weed out kids with problems. It's a challenge, but I enjoy the freedom it gives me." Changing the subject back to Miller, he said, "So you wanted to be a psychiatrist?"

"Yes, I did. To be truthful, I don't find it that appealing anymore, not in isolation . . . coupled with something else, maybe. I'd love to be a private investigator. It
's been an ambition of mine, ever since I first persuaded my mum and dad to allow me to read True Crime magazine. "

"Really?" said Kirk, "That's interesting."

Miller watched the rain rolling down the windscreen. After a lengthy pause, he said, "Do you remember the scene of that accident?"