The Longest Fight (17 page)

J
ack surfaced from the Underground at Leicester Square, the clattering voices of Pearl, Frank and Georgie still stuck in his head, not even the din of the Northern Line having dislodged them. He entered Soho, street-light shrivelled away from unlit doorways; the smell of beer and scalding tea, gas heaters and rainy pavements. He took long, heavy strides as if he spent every night walking that side of the river. Jack flicked up his jacket lapels; he’d got all the way to Kennington before he realised he had forgotten his coat but he hadn’t been about to go back for it. Unaccompanied women stood in groups of two or three on the corner of Dean Street. He kept moving. He found himself on Wardour Street three times before he spotted the club. Nothing but a small brass nameplate tucked beside a doorway: Bobbie Black’s.

Jack stepped into the thin alleyway, avoiding the oily puddles. A man in a woollen suit stood on the step.

‘This here’s a private place.’

The leaded lamp by the door turned him into a patchwork of green and black lines. Jack knew the bloke was eyeing his cheap shoes from the market and his pre-war suit.

‘I’m a private man.’

He slid the card out from his pocket:
Vincent Metzger
printed in gold across the middle of the white square. The steel-plated door opened. Jack went down a narrow flight of steps and was eaten up by the club. Heavy red carpet covered the floor, right up to the edges of the room. The walls were navy blue, tinged with purple, the colour of London’s night sky. Jack stood and squinted at the bottom of the stairs; music
pulsated against his ribcage. Circles of white light pierced down like moon rays scattered across the room. But between those pools of brightness the place was murky as a coalhole. Jack skirted the edge of the tables, made his way towards the strip of bulbs illuminating the bar.

He stuck with the whisky. It came on a small, shiny metal mat. Jack hoped it was real silver, as he’d blown the best part of a week’s money on that one glass. Ever since he’d got the card, Jack had been planning this trip to Vincent’s. It was supposed to be a big night, one of the best; make Vincent wait a week until he was ready to bite Jack’s hand off. And now here Jack was, sooner than he wanted, much sooner. The drink didn’t touch his mouth, just hit the back of his throat; he blinked away the water that stung the corner of his eyes. It was good stuff, fiery and cold, with a dryness that made his tongue shrink. Jack let the drink burn inside as he leaned against the bar. Frank had turned all those plans to ash.

Small groups sat around the white tablecloths, legs hidden under folds of material, features sheared off by the light drilling down from the ceiling. A woman sang on the stage at the front, all tight blonde curls and snugger silk gown; the dress reflected the club. Her whole body shone, rippling and bouncing to the murmur of voices that lay just beneath the level of the music, as though mercury had leaked from a thermometer. Jack couldn’t make out a word, he couldn’t even hear the two suits near him at the bar, but he didn’t suppose it was the type of conversation he wanted to overhear.

He tuned back in as the music changed: slowed-down and breathless, the trumpet barely peeping, the singer’s voice thick as malt syrup off the back of a teaspoon. The tap of the drum disrupted his heartbeat: he recognised the song. Rosie had soothed the baby to the opening lines, soft as a lullaby.
Say a prayer for me, but not farewell.
His mum out of the room, and they’d pretended for minutes at a time that it was their home. He had rested his chin on her head; Rosie kept rocking but lifted one hand up to stroke his cheek.
The lights
will soon be out.
Jack bit into the ice cube, a deep marrow-ache spreading through his jaw like taking an upper cut.
Darkness might cast its spell, But dawn will see us together again, don’t doubt.

He ordered another drink; it went the way of the first. A deadness crept into his arms and legs; he couldn’t leave even if he wanted to. He had to make the best of a bad fighter. Tonight, Pearl and Frank had left him with no choice. The Thin Suit appeared at the side of the stage. He held back a red curtain and Vincent came into the room; hands and faces tilted in greeting as they passed the tables. Of course Jack could sneak and he could lie, as good as Pearl and Frank – it was the stock he came from. If that science journal Newton gave Pearl said his dad was spun around them, twisted up in their insides, then who was Jack to argue? Scrimping on the morning run, the lateness to training, it all made sense now.

Vincent stepped off the carpet and on to the black bricks surrounding the bar. Frank was willing to throw away all they had worked for, and for what, for what? He was going places, and didn’t need Frank to get him there. He was Lucky Jack after all, thinking on his feet as usual. He scooped the last cube from his glass, splintered it between his teeth again just to feel something.

Vincent stood in front of him, blocking the stage.

‘Evening, Jack. I was starting to think you’d got cold feet.’ His voice was low, as if it came from deep down inside his chest.

Jack raised his empty glass in greeting, his tongue numb from the ice. The Thin Suit ordered more drinks by tapping his finger like a pointed bird’s beak; the barman came running.

‘You all right? Seems to me you look a bit off.’ The Thin Suit held the drink, just out of Jack’s reach.

Vincent rested one arm on the bar and his knuckles rapped the polished wood in time to the music; a gold watch was draped around his wrist and silver cufflinks sparkled.

‘Ain’t nothing wrong with me.’ Jack stuffed his hands in his jacket.

‘No, there’s something. Touch of fever maybe, bad news…’ The Thin Suit wagged his finger.

‘You must be thinking of someone else, mate.’

‘No, I’d have to disagree and say that’s not a happy face. What could it be?’ The Thin Suit tapped his chin as if he was thinking it over.

‘It’s a fucking top-of-the-world face.’ Jack grinned, his molars grinding.

Vincent patted the Thin Suit on the elbow and indicated his drink. The Thin Suit took a slow gulp of whisky, his Adam’s apple bobbing like ice.

‘Top of the evening to you too, Jack. Your fighter’s Irish, ain’t he?’ Vincent smiled.

‘South London, born and bred.’

Jack coughed as the last shard of ice scraped down the lining of his throat. The Thin Suit slapped him on the back, so hard he felt his ribs shudder.

‘Pity. Everyone likes to see the Irish take a beating.’ Vincent pulled up a stool.

‘He’s got Irish blood.’

Vincent laughed. The woman stopped singing and the band changed their music, but no one turned to look at Vincent: thrown back head and open mouth. The music started again, the Stargazers’ ‘Broken Wings’. Jack had always thought it was a stupid song until then. Vincent spread his hands on the bar.

‘I’m glad you’ve come to see me. I wondered how long my card would burn a hole in your pocket.’

The Thin Suit angled his head and whispered something into Vincent’s ear. Vincent nodded. ‘But right now I’ve got some business needs my attention. Make yourself at home.’

Jack’s eyes were glued to the singer on the stage, every curve and stretch of fabric. She stopped singing and focused on him, lips apart, chest rising.

‘I’ll be back.’ Vincent winked. ‘She probably thinks you’re a young Tyrone Power.’

‘She’s got good taste, then.’ Jack pulled out his packet of cigarettes.

‘It’s dark in here.’ The Thin Suit straightened his razor-slim tie.

Vincent thumped Jack on the shoulder. ‘Well, don’t leave without seeing me.’

Jack watched them move off to a table at the edge of the room; the Thin Suit pulled the seat out from under one of the men, offered it to Vincent. The man had to crouch, gripping the tablecloth for support. Jack slipped two cigarettes out of the packet, lit one and swallowed the dusty taste of tobacco. He licked the tip of the other, sucked down harder as he drew a flame from the glowing end of the first. The music still played but the singer glided through the tables as if her feet weren’t touching the ground, dress swelling against the white foam of the tablecloths. Georgie never bothered to dress fancy like that. Jack held out the cigarette. The singer took it as she positioned herself against the bar, elbow down and bent as she rearranged the set of her hair. Smoke slipped out as she smiled. He summoned the barman with a click of his fingers.

‘Two whiskies.’

‘It’s medicinal, for the voice.’ She draped her other wrist over the curved lip of the bar.

‘I don’t think you need any help.’

‘Stella’s the name, like the stars.’ She held up her hand, fingers dripping down.

Jack didn’t know any film stars, they were more Pearl’s thing, but he took the hand and held it in his without letting go. She didn’t pull away.

‘Haven’t seen you here before. How do you know Vincent?’ With her free hand she raised the glass of whisky off the bar. Jack downed his drink in one mouthful, cigarette dangling dangerously between his fingers.

‘Business.’

‘I know, none of mine.’ She revealed a tightly packed row of teeth.

Her smile broke the firmly lacquered layer of her hair and face; teeth that could bite. Georgie was the one who’d walked out; probably found herself some other bloke before she reached the end of the road. Stella’s pupils swallowed up most of the whites of her eyes, and Jack couldn’t help remembering that parrot. She had the same stretched veiny neck, but it was too late to leave now.

‘Vincent likes my voice. He’s setting me up with some recording time. I only sing here for the practice.’

Away from the hazy lights of the stage he saw that the hem of her dress was wrinkled from constant washing and a loose thread hung from the scooped neckline.

‘Sounded pitch-perfect to me.’ Jack dropped the dead cigarette into his glass; his fingers reached out for the stray thread and plucked it free. ‘Dust.’

He looked into those kohl-smudged eyes. His fingers laced their way under the satiny material, hooked themselves into the hollow of her collarbone. He let go when he noticed Vincent coming back from a table in the middle of the room. The Thin Suit slid down into Vincent’s seat, moving it around so he faced Jack. The last curls of smoke drifted up from Stella’s cigarette.

‘So, you like the place, then.’ Vincent put his arm around Jack’s shoulder and the other around Stella’s waist. ‘My sweet young things.’ He pulled them against his silky suit.

‘It’s classier than my local.’ Jack breathed out as he was released from Vincent’s grip. ‘But that’s not why I came.’

‘Why don’t you tell Vincent why you’re here?’ He smiled, then held up a finger to Jack as he turned to the girl, pushing a curl from her face. ‘What use is there in a singer that don’t sing?’

‘I was just on my way back to the stage, Vincent.’

Jack watched her go, but, pretty as she was, much as he wanted to bury his face against that pillow chest, he was
there to see Vincent. Plenty of girls out there ready to lie back just like Georgie. And there were plenty of fighters too. He straightened his shoulders.

‘I’m here to talk business.’

‘Do you know how I do business, Jack?’

‘I’ve heard things. But I ain’t interested in rumours.’ Jack pushed his empty glass away. ‘Things are changing with my fighter.’

Let Vincent plan and scheme all he wanted, Jack wasn’t going to fight against him; he would save something from the mess Frank had left behind.

‘Don’t dismiss rumours, Jack. Just make sure you’re the one making them for yourself. Rumours, alibis, threats. I didn’t get to be partners with Bobbie Black by keeping my nose clean.’

‘London’s always been a dirty city.’ Jack kept his focus locked on Vincent: dark hairs sprouted at the inner corner of his eyes where tears came from.

‘And long may she stay so. I’ll salute that.’ Vincent raised his glass. ‘But you’ve finished your drink. Let’s top you up.’

He held Jack’s empty glass in the air. Another whisky arrived on a silver tray in seconds. The groomed barman placed it down, his white shirt pleated and starched, a black bow-tie strangling his neck. Jack took the drink and the man disappeared back behind the lights of the bar. The Thin Suit sat and stared from across the room, rubbing his knuckles under his bony chin. Vincent edged closer. ‘Work is all about money and dues, but boxing, that’s something different. It’s an art. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to hang up some watercolour my old nan did. I want Van Gogh, I want Turner. Art’s about value, about money.’

‘Like I said, things are changing.’

‘Really? I’ll be honest, I thought the boy was a keeper, but you are the expert, Jack. If there’s something I don’t know…’

‘He’s better than any I’ve ever had, but they all get broken down in the end.’

‘But are you looking for a handout or are you looking to sell, Jack?’

Jack rubbed his arm. Frank was like bomb shrapnel embedded in the skin: cut it out before the flesh grew around it, sucked it into the body where it could do more harm, rip things up, leak its poison – ARP training had taught him that much. He licked the last of the whisky from his lips.

‘Maybe I’m ready to sell… for the right price.’

Vincent took his empty glass and raised his hand again; and again; and again; and again. Jack lost count of the drinks, and the conversation slipped away from him. He blinked hard as he tried to bring the room around him into focus. But the floor jumped beneath his feet and he couldn’t keep still, lurching and listing like a man on the ropes. Vincent was still talking. Jack clung to those words and dragged himself back.

‘… you can be the manager everybody wants. I can see to it. A telephone call here, the odd telegram, and all of England will know what sort of man Jack Munday is.’ Vincent lit a thin cigar and added to the smoke that swirled around their heads. ‘The best bloody manager there is, Jack. That’s what you want, don’t tell me it ain’t.’

‘What do I have to do for it?’ Jack tried to clip each word but they ran together in a stream. Stella and the musicians on the stage swayed to the rhythm of their song; either that or Jack was spinning now too.