Musclebound (23 page)

I crunched. Then I ducked. I knew what was coming.

Of
course
I knew what was coming. And of
course
I ducked. Just not quite quick enough.

Pete’s fist hit my forehead, THUNK. I swear my feet left the floor. The last thing I remember hearing was some woman in front saying, ‘You asked for that, Bucket Nut.’

The next thing I knew I was staring up at the lights. My dinner was hitting the back of my throat and I had a headache like a steel spike between the eyes.

But no one was taking any notice. It was like there was a disco going on in the ring. Feet, feet, feet everywhere.

I lay there, and all I could think was that Wozzisname had come back with the hammer and done for me like I done for him. Which was only fair. And I thought that everyone I knew had come to dance on my grave.

I was punchy, see. I wasn’t thinking right.

I closed my eyes and swallowed my dinner back down.

When I opened my eyes again I knew what was happening – Pete had called for a rumble, and a rumble was what he got.

A rumble is when everyone gets in the ring and mixes it. It’s what a promoter does when he’s run out of ideas and he wants something special to wind up the crowd in the last twenty minutes.

It looked like Mr Deeds had got a rumble he hadn’t planned. There was Keif and Pete, Phil, the Wolverines, Steve Stinger, Rotten Johnny, Iron Ian, Force Four – all of them – and Gruff. All dancing to a tune I couldn’t hear.

It was all wrong. There’s rules to rumbles. Sort of. If you go out over the top rope you’re eliminated. It goes on till there’s only two left, and then those two bash it out.
Women don’t take part. I wasn’t taking part. I was flat on my back.

I turned my head. Slowly. All I could see was feet, feet, feet. Rushing past, dancing, hopping, bopping, shuffling. It didn’t look like a rumble. It looked like a punch-up.

A rumble’s fun, but a punch-up ain’t pretty. Anyone in a pub can have a punch-up, but only wrestlers can rumble proper.

I sat up. Then I lay down again. I wasn’t ready.

The blokes was spoiling my comeback. I dragged myself over to the corner post. All the noise was beginning to filter into my brain, and it hurt.

The crowd was at lift-off point. They was in the aisles. They was at ringside. The bouncers couldn’t keep them back. It wasn’t a proper rumble but the crowd didn’t know. They was all screaming their lungs out.

The MC was going. ‘Please will everyone resume their seats. Will you
please
sit down.’ But no one was listening.

In the ring, it looked like everyone with a grudge was doing something about it. And it looked like a war between the weights. ‘Cos the heavyweights are the stars, see. They get the best of whatever’s going – the most money, more promotion, the biggest dressing-rooms. So the little guys resent them.

In the ring it looked like the little guys was all ganged up against the heavyweights.

That made me feel better. I didn’t want to see a punch-up with no point. But there’s definitely a point to beating seven bells out of the blokes who’ve been lording it over you for years and taking the best of everything.

I wished I didn’t feel so woozy. I didn’t know if I was part of the crowd or part of the punch-up. I couldn’t seem to focus. I’d start watching Phil head-charge a Force Four guy and then my eyes would cross and I wasn’t watching no more.

I decided I wasn’t part of anything. I couldn’t fight and I couldn’t watch. So I rolled out of the ring. I stood leaning against the platform with my legs wobbling and my guts turning cartwheels.

And then the little lady with the red handbag and the pink frock said, ‘You got to get my Keif out of there. You started this.’

I’d forgotten all about her. She had a sweet face but it was all squeezed tight with worry. I stared at her in amazement till my eyes crossed. I looked back in the ring.

Keif was getting up off the mat. His nose was streaming blood. He seemed to be having a good time.

‘It’s only a nosebleed,’ I mumbled.

‘He can’t take a big punch,’ she said. And then the crowd surged into us and she disappeared.

‘Hey, Bucket Nut,’ some bloke said, ‘aincha going back in?’

Someone else said, ‘Pete shouldn’t of hit a woman.’

And someone else said, ‘That ain’t a woman – that’s Bucket Nut.’

‘Ha-ha-ha.’

‘Gotta get Keif,’ I mumbled. ‘Give me a bunk-up.’

A bloke clasped his hands for me to step on and a couple of others gave me a boost and I crawled back under the bottom rope.

I only had one thought in my head. I thought, ‘They want me in here. They bloody
want
me in the ring.’

Then I stood up and looked for Keif. I stepped over Iron Ian. Bodies everywhere. Naked flesh and wrestling trunks writhing like a tankful of toads.

I grabbed the back of Keif’s boxer shorts. He spun round, fists up.

‘Doing, babe?’ he said. ‘Yee-ouch!’

Gruff whacked into his midriff and heaved him up on his toad shoulder.

‘No dogs, no women,’ Gruff panted, ‘and no fuckin’ nignogs.’

He was bent from the weight of Keif on his shoulders. He was trying to edge past me to throw Keif out of the ring. The spotlights made his toad-eye glitter.

I didn’t even think about it. I planted my left foot and booted him, hard as I could, in the wedding bells.

‘Ding dong,’ I mumbled. I kicked so hard I expected to see his dirty bits pop out of his mouth. But they didn’t. He jack-knifed. Keif crashed to the floor.

‘Yee-ouch!’ screamed the crowd.

‘C’mon,’ I said to Keif ‘Your mum wants you and I ain’t feeling too good.’

‘Wha’?’ he said.

I leaned down to help him up off the canvas. I shouldn’t of done that – my brain took a ride on the roundabout and my guts took a ride on the swings. I puked up on the back of Gruff’s head, and I couldn’t remember why he was kneeling down.

I’m not quite sure what happened then, but the next clear thing was Keif saying, ‘Where’s your car, Eva?’

‘Somewhere in Deptford,’ I said. We was outside in the street.

‘Deptford?’ he said. ‘What you talking about?’

Then I remembered. He wasn’t talking about the Clio. He was talking about the Yugo.

‘Where’s my jacket?’ I said. ‘I don’t want to lose it. It’s new.’

‘Here,’ said Keif’s mum. We were outside the Ladywell Baths and there were three police cars parked by the steps, blue lights flashing.

As I put my jacket on I noticed how cold it was.

A tall white guy said, ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

‘Three,’ I said.

‘What’s your date of birth?’ said the tall white guy.

‘How’re you going to know if she gets it wrong?’ Keif said. ‘None of us knows when her birthday is.’

‘What’s your date of birth?’ the white guy said again. He was asking quite polite, so I told him.

‘See?’ he said. ‘Doesn’t matter about us knowing when her birthday is. What we’re looking for are signs of confusion.’

‘I ain’t confused,’ I said.

‘Then you’ve got a harder head than Keith,’ he said. ‘That was
an almighty punch you took. Keith wouldn’t have known when teatime was.’

‘Are you Keif’s dad?’ I said. ‘What’s the politzei doing here?’

‘The hall manager call them.’ Keif’s mum made a disapproving kiss sound with her teeth and lips. ‘About time. There were little children in that riot.’

‘I got to go,’ I said. I didn’t want to talk to no politzei.

‘Keith, you take her to get her head X-rayed,’ Keif’s mum said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m all right now.’ There was a lump the size of Pete Carver’s fist on my forehead but I was feeling a lot better.

‘Not sick no more?’ Keif said.

‘Oh,’ I said, remembering. ‘Did I really throw up in the ring?’

Keif started laughing.

‘Stupid boy,’ Keif’s mum said.

‘That’s a sign of concussion too,’ Keif’s dad said. ‘Take her to casualty.’

But people were beginning to stream out of the Ladywell Baths and there were a couple of uniforms among them.

‘Bye,’ I said and I took off round the corner before anyone got a chance to recognise me and call out in front of the cops.

I was feeling quite clearheaded, but I couldn’t find the Yugo. Maybe someone nicked it – I don’t know. I was too tired to look for it careful. I borrowed an old Saab instead. I was just driving off when Keif tapped on the window.

‘This ain’t your car,’ he said.

‘Is now,’ I said.

‘Don’t let Mum see you,’ he said.

‘I’m only borrowing it.’

‘She’d still whack the crap out of you,’ he said. ‘That’s the only time she ever whacked me – when I was fifteen and I nicked a car with a couple of mates.’

‘Ain’t nicking,’ I said. ‘Borrowing.’

‘Move over, precious,’ he said, ‘I’m taking you to casualty. My folks say you should get an X-ray.’

‘You didn’t find me,’ I said. I wound the window up and drove away.

A Saab is a good solid car with a good solid heater so I warmed up in no time. And as I warmed up, my heart warmed up too. I was remembering the way the crowd called my name when I got in the ring, and the heat of the spotlights on my skin. I was remembering how I barrelled into Pete Carver and knocked him across the ring. And how the crowd went ‘Ooh-aah’ when they saw that. I’m still big and tough. I’m still the London Lassassin. And I can take an almighty punch. Keif’s dad said so, and he should know – he used to be a boxer.

I’m big enough for this life. I can take whatever almighty crap it throws at me.

And the crowd remembered me. ‘Where you been, Bucket Nut?’ they said. They hadn’t forgotten me. They wanted me there – they helped me climb back into the ring. You don’t need a heater when you got memories like that.

And I’d given the crowd a few memories that night as well. Let Mr Deeds stuff that in his trousers and sit on it. I wished I’d seen him but you can’t have everything. Anyway, give him a sniff of trouble and he always goes missing.

But I was tired and I had a headache. I took all the good memories and stored them at the back of my mind. Tomorrow, when I was feeling better, I’d take them out and look at them one by one.

Meanwhile, driving was a bit of a problem because for some reason I wasn’t seeing the traffic-lights till it was nearly too late. Take a tip from me – if you ever borrow a motor and you want to get home without trouble from the politzei, drive perfect. Not too fast, not too slow. Obey all the traffic signs and stop at red lights. And don’t forget to wipe the car down afterwards. Leave it as you’d like to find it. It’s a favour to the owner. And also you don’t want to leave traces of yourself for politzei to find. Politzei ain’t a very forgiving bunch of boobies. So don’t help them catch you. OK?

Don’t you give me no aggravation,’ I said to the dogs. ‘I ain’t in the mood.’ I was unlocking the gate and Ramses and Lineker came bounding up to say hello.

‘Where’s Milo?’ I said. But Milo came trotting over, so it looked like he’d survived an evening without human protection.

All I wanted was a cup of hot sweet tea and a lie-down. A comeback is a tiring event. I wanted a cup of tea to settle my guts, and an aspirin for my noddle. I didn’t want no trouble. I’d had enough of that to last a lifetime. And I was sore all over.

I made a mug of tea, but the milk was sour so I had to drink it without. I couldn’t find an aspirin for love or money. It wasn’t the kind of homecoming I’d imagined. I bet Keif’s mum cooked him a nice hot dinner, and Cousin Carmen rubbed him down with a gallon of her magic embrocation. That’d be the perfect way to come down after a fight.

Because you do come down. At first, when you’re still on a high, you don’t feel anything but excited. Then, gradually, all your aches and pains come along, knocking at your door.

A fighter always has aches and pains – what else would you expect? But I went into this fight with more than my fair share. Count ‘em – I had a bruised toe, a singed ankle and a dodgy back before I ever climbed into that ring. But did that stop me? No, it did not. And what’s more, when I climbed into that ring, I didn’t feel anything but the champagne fizz in my veins.

The same goes for all my worries and troubles. When I’m the London Lassassin it’s like I walk out of my own skin. I put on
another one when I put on the black costume. And every time I put it on, it’s brand-new and it fits me better than my real skin fits me. All my worries and troubles are in my old skin and I leave them outside the ring.

But after a fight, when it’s all over and the spotlights are turned off and the crowd goes home, I have to stop being the London Lassassin. I have to be plain old Eva Wylie again and put up with all her aches and pains and worries.

And who cares about plain old Eva Wylie? No one. That’s who. But a whole crowd cares about the London Lassassin. A whole crowd boos and shouts and spits. That’s what I call being noticed.

‘Oh yeah,’ I said to Milo. ‘They noticed me tonight. You should of been there.’

‘Herf,’ said Milo, waking up and twitching his ears.

‘So who needs milk in their tea, or hot water, or an aspirin?’ I asked him. ‘Aspirin’s for wimps.’

Milo yawned.

I lay down on my bunk and pulled the sleeping bag up round my neck. I don’t know if it was the bang on the head, but I kept dozing off and then waking up with my heart beating too fast. It was like the bang on the head was fighting it out with the adrenalin rush from being the London Lassassin.

It was confusing. Sometimes I’d wake up with a start and think I was going to be late for the Ladywell Baths. And then I’d doze off again only to jump up thinking Wozzisname was outside scratching on my door. That was the worst. I’d done everything I could to get rid of Wozzisname but he was still hanging around in dark corners, dead and undead.

Next time I woke up, I realised it was Milo scratching at the door, wanting to be let out. So I went out with him. It was dark and damp, but it was the sort of dark and damp I was used to. Walking around with the dogs made my head feel more normal.

It was after midnight. I was tired and sore. I wanted to sleep but I didn’t want to lie in the dark with Wozzisname waiting for
me to nod off. ‘Cos that’s how it seemed. It seemed he was just waiting for me to let me guard down so that he could rise up out of the river and point his undead finger at me.