The Longest Fight (18 page)

Vincent puffed on his cigar. ‘Don’t be coy with me. Your fighter’s on top form. You’re an unmarked man, new to the big scene. We’re not talking amateur now, you know.’

The milky fog swamped Jack’s head, stinging his eyes until the edges of the room began to seep away. The painted stars on the night-sky ceiling twisted and shook above him; the dark purple walls drifted like clouds towards him. Jack clutched the bar to steady himself.

‘I heard odds on your boy’s last opponent winning were twenty to one. Those are profitable numbers, Jack. And I bet
his next fight will be even higher. The world and his dog think he can’t lose.’ Vincent smiled. ‘Maybe I’ll even come down and have a butcher’s for myself, make sure he hasn’t turned lame.’

A gust of cold air hit Jack’s legs as somebody left the club. The chill wind clung to him, he shook himself free with a judder. ‘He’s fighting better than ever. But he takes a fall and where’s that leave me?’

Jack shielded his eyes against the white lights. He wanted to ask the barman why he had turned the lamps higher, why the music from the drum and Stella’s voice on the stage were raised to a glass-cracking level. Jack held back a burp. Vincent kept smiling. And only hours before Jack would have thrown back that offer, laughed in Vincent’s face… probably would have – probably, but not now.

‘Don’t be in such a rush, Jack. We’ll break bread soon enough. I’ve got a bright future lined up for you. It won’t be bookings for town halls and public baths. We’re talking York Hall, Empire Pool at Wembley. Imagine the percentage of that purse money. Need Pickford’s to take it home each night. I like to hand-pick my people. I’ve got the fighting future, even better than your boy, and he’s all yours, if…’ Vincent showed his teeth.

‘I deserve this.’

Jack shook the brightness out of his eyes. His head felt as if it was attached by rope, and it cracked back into place as he tried to stop the rest of his body going limp.

‘Course you do, Jack.’ Vincent held out his hand.

The cigar smouldered in the ashtray; the tip rocked and hung in the balance. It was all in the handshake. Frank broke their deal and Jack was free to take any offer he could get. He reached out his hand and Vincent clasped it in his. He shook it until Jack thought he would fall forward; the skin was cold, smooth like gripping the rim of a marble sink. Vincent released him. Jack slipped his fingers around the base of his neck to get some warmth back into them.

‘That’s a gentleman’s agreement, boy.’

It was familiar:
boy
. The way the
y
exploded from Vincent’s lips with a puff of air, Jack had heard that a thousand times before. But not here, not in this place; somewhere darker.

‘I’ll be at his next bout. We’ll see how your fighter’s getting on. Then there’s someone I want you to meet, depending on how it goes, course. Go get some air, Jack. You’re looking a bit green.’

The Thin Suit followed Vincent back behind the curtain. Jack held on to the bar, polished as liquorice; he smudged away his face with the flat of his thumb. All of life was in that print somewhere. The air was too thin underground. The thick carpet caught at his feet like waterweeds. He clung to the banister, hauled himself up the Everest steps. The doorman’s hand reached for him. Jack tugged away, elbow crashing against the leaded lamp. The exposed bulb yellow as a baby blanket; flapping against his neck, running all the way to Albany Basin. Glass shattered on the flagstones. Blood on Jack’s hand, dripping down his wrist. He staggered to the bins, the movement spreading like a wave: knees, thighs, chest. The whisky reignited inside him, started to lap against the back of his tongue. Rats squeaked behind the snapped fruit boxes and soiled papers. He spat.

In the puddle-rings at his feet something was rising: a memory, half-formed, silted-over like objects caught in mud at low tide. The water settled and in reflection he saw young Jackie peering over the cobbled edge of Albany Basin. The door to Bobbie Black’s slammed behind Jack, the pool of purple light, and sulphurous smoke, yanked back into the sealed-up club. His balance evaporated in the dark tunnel of the alley. Falling. Everything black…

… Jackie tries to move his legs but something weighs down on him; he parts his lips but no water surges in. His cock is hard, straining the worn cotton of his pyjamas. He opens one eye:
plaster cracks zigzag the ceiling; a dark wooden headboard looms over him like a casket lid. Still in bed – every time he wakes he loses Rosie again. He is shrivelling. But something wriggles in the space between his knees. Small fingers grasp at the blanket pinning him. He snaps his legs up to his chest, cradles his shins.

‘Mum. Come and fetch her away.’

No noise but the baby’s chattering. If his mum is in then she isn’t answering. The baby claws at the blanket; he inches away. She chuckles. But he won’t look at Pearl. Jackie squeezes the blanket against his eyeballs. It feels as if he can see inside his head: under the black water with Rosie, surfacing, fingers sliding in her blood as he tries to grab the iron mooring ring on the bank. But he can’t hold on to any of it: she slips away. He needs the doctor to come back with his cold needle and leather straps, tap Jackie’s thin blue veins, let his body die again (for a few hours at least). Breath condenses on the rough wool. The baby snuffles, struggling through the churned-up bedding. He blocks her with the soles of his feet.

Jackie keeps his head under the covers, but dusty daylight still reaches him. He scratches at his missing fingernail, black and burned from that bloody match. He wants to make it bleed, needs something to show what a weak, useless cunt he is: a real man wouldn’t have dropped the match on to her dress; a real man wouldn’t have let the blanket unravel and the baby hit the cobbles; a real man would have had the strength to drag Rosie out. He puts his teeth to the rough skin, bites down until he hits a buried nub of nail; he tastes iron. It doesn’t hurt. Nothing can replace that last touch: Rosie’s forearm, heavy and cold as a marble effigy; the mud and silt swarming like blackfly around them, swallowing up the sparkle of the gold ring. He tried to save Rosie from the Basin, almost had her, but the hook was forged steel, those bargemen too strong to fight against.
We’re saving your life here,
that was what one of them had shouted as Jackie punched out. What a fucking joke…

‘What?’

He sits up. But Pearl goes silent, squeezes her empty fist in the air: again and again.

‘She ain’t coming back, you stupid lump.’

He kicks away the blankets, goes over to the window. Maybe his mum is scrubbing the doorstep, chatting with Mrs Bell. He presses his bare toes to the wall. The street is empty except for a horse spread dead in the gutter, skin hanging off its spine like brown sacking. He saw them making extra glue for the Bible pages at the factory once: horse bones boiled down into a golden colour like toffee. The back of his mouth stretches elastic but there is nothing left inside him to sick up. Someone will come to drag that carcass away soon, but Jackie isn’t going anywhere. He tightens the cord of his pyjamas, pinching his skin. Not that he deserves release – too many debts to pay: his dad, Rosie. And he knows he has more bad things in him, buried deep like the black canal gunk he was still coughing up all last week.

Jackie thumps his forehead to the damp glass; it sucks at him like a wet kiss, and he presses harder. He searches in his top pocket for a packet of Capstan. His fingers fumble, no spit in his mouth to seal the paper, but he lights it anyway. Ash falls, settling on his fingers. His mum is coming down the road, a swinging shopping basket propelling her into the wind. He bangs on the window as she gets closer, signalling with his hand for her to make it quick. Ash and a drop of blood from his thumb falls on to the floorboards. The kitchen door opens; footsteps thud up the stairs. She rushes to the bed, bringing with her a chill blast of outdoor air, dropping the basket to the floor.

‘Is Pearl all right? Are you all right?’

‘Why didn’t you take her with you? She’s making noises.’

‘It’s nearly time for her dinner.’ She groans as she scoops Pearl up, struggling to hold her to the light as if she is looking for cracks. ‘I thought something was wrong – you gave me a fright.’

She sits down on the bed, Pearl plopping into her lap. He keeps his eyes on the street outside, hunching his shoulders against the noise of his mum’s breathing and the baby’s chuntering.

‘How am I supposed to sleep with that din?’

‘Sleep? That’s all you’ve done since it happened. Time to wake up now, John.’

He drums the tip of the cigarette against the glass; a black smudge grows in front of him. He sucks down; the ember glows, barely alive.

‘I’m so tired, Mum.’

‘You’re tired? How do you think I feel? With Pearl to look after too. You haven’t done a day’s work for nearly three weeks. What’ll happen if you lose your job?’

‘No one asked you to do nothing.’

‘You’re my family, you and Pearl. But who told you your life would be any different from the rest of ours? I lost my husband but you got to –’

‘I don’t even know where Rosie’s family went and buried her.’ His breath condenses on the pane, flickering silver threads like a spreading frost.

‘Someone had to tell them, John. She was their daughter. But I never told them none about Pearl. She’s ours.’

He glances over his shoulder. ‘It shouldn’t have been Rosie.’

His mum sits Pearl in the middle of the bed, nesting the blankets around those fat limbs, and strides up to the window. His mum’s lips move but she doesn’t speak; the bristles of her coat scratch against him. He blows smoke to cover up her reflection. But she snatches the cigarette, stabs it down into the web of skin between his thumb and finger.

‘What the hell you doing?’

‘Hurt, did it? Long as you keep feeling means you keep living. Put them pyjamas in the wash basket – dinner will be ready in an hour. I want you dressed decent at the table, John.’ She hands back the cigarette; squeezes her lips around the red
mark on his flesh then rubs it dry with her elbow. ‘I picked you up some second-hand shoes down the market while I were out. No one’s going back into Albany Basin to dredge up them lost ones.’

His mum drops each shoe, thump thump to the floor, gathers up Pearl and leaves the room. Burning tears swell and burst, turning everything outside the window into a distorted Hall of Mirrors likeness. He won’t ever wear some other man’s shoes again; he’s done with that; he’s done with it all. He finishes the cigarette, one breath at a time, until like smoke Jackie dissolves and slips away.

J
ack stayed long enough to get Frank’s gloves signed off by the official and then he left him to it. The light from the changing rooms didn’t reach the tunnel but the steam wrapped around him like smoke. He kept away from the slimy wall, heading towards the yellow glow that was the door into the hall. Footsteps echoed around the tiles. Cheam Baths dripped through the flaking paint; he left a trail of water behind. Somehow, after leaving Bobbie Black’s, a few nights ago, a crack had grown in the bottom of his left shoe. His damp sock swelled inside; the hole needed seeing to. Make do and mend, that was most fights too these days: stuffed into local halls, covered pools, above pubs – towns where the Tube hit the buffers and buses went to bed. Jack wasn’t going to miss those places, not when he was filling arenas with a new fighter.

He kicked a lost button; it pinged from wall to wall. He didn’t survive one drowning just to disappear down the plughole of south London. Jack scratched the dry scab on his palm. Pearl had cleaned it up, not that he remembered. He stuffed his hands into his pocket and Frank’s letter was in there waiting for him. Pearl had warned him it was coming; probably took the boy days to scrawl the apology. Jack ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair. Safer to keep his hands where he could see them. He was nearly at the doors, but other shapes swam there too.

A shadow spoke, ‘Watch it, old timer. Oh, hello, Jack. Wouldn’t have said “old timer” if I’d known it was you. You recognise me, don’t you?’

‘Spider.’

The boys surrounded Jack, fencing him in. The double doors stood only feet away but the noise up there was deadened and hollow like the banging inside a pipe.

‘It’s the new suit, ain’t it? I told you I was on the up, Jack. I’m doing well for myself. Tailor-made.’

Spider stood so close that Jack saw the yellow teeth, pointed as matchsticks. He held up his arms, doing a slow turn to show them all the cut of the cloth.

Jack smiled. ‘Tailor-made for who?’

‘Didn’t I say he was funny, boys? I’ll tell Frank we’ve been having a laugh. That’s where we’re off to now. Popping in to see Frank before the fight. He’s been with us since you kicked him out. No hard feelings, like. Got caught with his spoon in the jam jar. Man’s got to take what’s coming to him. Ain’t you bothered why we want to see him?’

‘No.’

Spider loosened the fat tie cutting into his neck; the shirt puckered his red scars. The smile was gone. ‘Knocked us all back for a piece of skirt, didn’t he? But mates are mates.’ Spider stepped closer. ‘I hear you’re thick with Vincent Metzger now?’

‘No.’ Jack scrunched his fist around the letter in his pocket.

‘Couldn’t put a good word in for me, could you? I’m looking to expand my trade.’ Spider fell into step beside him; the cluster of boys dropped back.

‘No.’

‘I’ve got other deals, of course. Just thought Vincent must be looking for new men too. What the war didn’t finish off, time will. I could make Vincent some money, all right. Like I made money for you with Frank. We need to have a word about that, about debts. Don’t we, Jack?’

Jack opened his mouth as if he was about to speak then pushed through the doors; they swung shut on his silence. If he didn’t have other places to be he would have laughed in the kid’s face – just who did he think he was? Jack took a seat in the front benches. The grease off Frank’s skin stuck to his
hands and he wiped himself clean on the sleeve of his jacket. Vincent was in the expensive seats at the side: no benches for him, but a chair with a padded back. His grey suit glowed, and a thick brown woollen tie rested on his chest; he looked bloated next to the sharp angles of the Thin Suit beside him. No visible scars marked him like Spider; no features loomed out of proportion to the rest of his face, no stoop, no withered limbs. Nothing about him stood out at all – a blank. Jack woke from nightmares like that, sweat-soaked sheets and steamed-up breath, knowing what he had seen was real, but no amount of dragging and poking in dark corners would make the memory show itself. Vincent was a man to have on your side, and that all depended on this fight. Frank was top of the bill – a Grand Ten-Round International Contest, the posters said. Jack dug his knuckles into the stiff centre of his spine; he hadn’t been sleeping right since that night at the club. When he lay in bed he couldn’t get comfortable, all his bones knocked out of joint, and no matter how much he rubbed he couldn’t get them to fit into place again; like an old worn nub of a man.

The double doors parted: Frank came through followed by Bert. The old wooden steps up to the ring creaked, and the dirty bandage holding one side of the ropes together flapped in Frank’s face as he climbed through. He stood in his corner, eyes measuring his opponent: the length of his reach, the power in his arms. The other fighter was an old hand, been round the circuits more than once, and it showed.

Billy Jones had a face to cut glass, sharp and fiercely pointed as his fists. He always wore a red stripe down the side of his shorts, and it looked as if someone had sliced him open; many had tried but no one had succeeded. Frank’s forehead was pulled into a frown, easy to mistake for anger, and for the first time Jack imagined whose face Frank saw when that black look came into his eyes – maybe it was his. Frank’s boots weren’t new any more, but the silk shorts had been fashioned and mended by Pearl. Two thick white
blocks down the leg, a red pocket, and the initial ‘F’ carefully embroidered at the bottom of the right leg. Jack was a fool not to have seen it before, the attention they gave to each other. The way she talked to him, even talked about him, that quiet voice rising and dropping like a wave.

The bell went. Frank eased himself out of his corner. Slowly circling his opponent, and his left arm hit out at nothing, finding his range. It was like watching two dogs, looking for any in: an old wound, a drop in attention. And then Frank lunged. He had Billy Jones on the ropes. Frank pressed his head against Billy’s chest, rose, and swung his arms to land hits. No punching room for Billy and his arms were trapped at his side like broken wings. The white-shirted referee stepped in and dragged them apart, but the damage was done. Billy sweated, blinking against the sting as it ran into his eyes, swiping at his face with his gloves.

Jack wanted the fight to be over, for it to be decided one way or the other. He scratched at his collar; the longer he waited, the tighter it felt. Frank ploughed on, moving into the shelter of his opponent’s chest. Both men were cut and bloodied – not enough to stop the fight, but enough to bring out shouts for more from the crowd as they followed every blow. The bell would be sounding soon, and Jack checked his watch again. Frank peppered Billy’s head and shoulders with blows, leading with the right. Jack needed Frank to take Billy out. It wasn’t enough to win on points.

Jack gripped his hands around the base of his neck. Frank saw the signal and threw a left hook deep under Billy’s chin, crunching his jaw together. The air rushed from his body, silencing the room as everyone held their breath. Jack didn’t want him to just be winded. Billy’s legs began to shake from the ankles up. He disappeared inside himself, thighs raised to his chest, head thudding on to the canvas. The longest count of Jack’s life: Billy raised his head on seven, but his knees wouldn’t hold on eight, and he didn’t try again. The referee held Frank’s arm high into the air. Vincent stood on the
other side of the ring, smiling at his investment. Jack ignored Frank’s calls, climbed out of the benches and pushed his way towards Vincent.

‘Jack. Your fighter did well. He’s on good form.’ He sucked down on his cigar and released a mouthful of sweet smoke into Jack’s face; moving away into the crowd as he spoke, ‘Looks like we’re all on to a winner. I’ll be in touch.’

But a shadow followed behind Vincent and the Thin Suit. Spider. Jack lost sight of them all as the bodies pressed and shoved their way towards the doors. The promise to give up those mates was just another one of Frank’s lies. Arms and shoulders knocked up against Jack. No one knew who he was this far from Camberwell – no slaps on his back, no offers of a drink.

Bert prodded Jack in the ribs. ‘Why didn’t you come straight to the ring? Frank’s waiting up there. Have you two had a falling out?’

‘He’s played us all. He’s been lying since day one.’ Jack stepped away from the raised platform.

‘Lying’s what all good fighters do. Feint, trick. He’s just a boy. It’s up to us to teach him right and wrong,’ Bert shouted above the shuffling of feet and the scraping of chairs.

‘I ain’t his bleeding dad. See to him, will you? I’m needed elsewhere.’

The main doors were wide open; rain bounced into the hall. Jack pulled a cap out of his pocket and Frank’s letter came with it. He held on to the paper and jammed the hat on to his head; checking Vincent wasn’t around to see. Soon he wouldn’t be swimming off with those other saps, bedraggled as a wet cat; he would be hailing cabs, or sliding into the leather seat of his own motor. He opened the letter and folded it back; only a few lines visible in the middle. The thick curling letters melting away in the rain, but Jack couldn’t help reading them: …
my best pal and the best manager I ever wanted. I feel lucky you took me on, and I know I have done wrong. Pearl never meant to hurt you. That was my
fault as I knew you wouldn’t want me to be with your sister. Be lucky
…

Frank’s letter floated down on to the marble tiles. Jack’s muddy footprint stained the cream paper. Be lucky – that was what everyone used to say in the war when what they couldn’t bring themselves to say was
let’s hope it’s not your turn to die.
Jack was caught on the top step, too many people clogging up the way in front of him. He waited with the rain running down his neck. He hadn’t seen much of Pearl since that night. She disappeared into the darkness of the upstairs landing when he came into the house. She rushed to use the lav first thing every morning before he was up. A seagull screamed, circling for dropped batter bits. He heard Pearl crying at night, but he didn’t know what she had to be upset about.

The mass of men began to thin out, separating back into coats and hats, legs splashing through the puddles; Jack turned around and went back into the hall. The letter was still there, kicked and trapped against the door. He bent down, picked it up, smoothed it flat. He slipped off his shoe and wedged the paper inside; it would keep the water out on his journey to the pub.

The bar was nearly empty; only a bundle of old blokes sat wheezing in their usual corner; Newton playing chess by himself, his tin leg sticking out into the aisle; and Pearl at the bar, a half-finished glass of cloudy Robinson’s in front of her. Jack dragged up a stool.

‘Come out of hiding, have you?’

‘I thought you might be feeling sorry for yourself by now.’ She flicked through a magazine, finger reading the lines.

‘Tell you the truth. I’ve enjoyed the peace and quiet. Oh, wait, you ain’t well acquainted with the truth.’

‘I’m not here to spar with you, Jack.’

He eased himself out of the sopping overcoat, draped it over the rail. Drip drip, coughing from Newton, a muffled
whispering from the huddled men. Jack’s mouth twitched to say something else; he sucked on his bottom lip. She finally looked up. ‘Frank all right?’

‘He won.’ Jack scooped some coppers out of his pocket and felt her pinch his sleeve. ‘He’s fine. You?’

‘Got a blister on my left heel, walking up and down the line, sorting those pastilles at the factory. But I caught it in time.’ She tried to brush some of the water from his jacket but the cloth was soaked through. ‘Frank ain’t got a raincoat.’

‘It’s only a shower.’

Jack slapped his hat against the side of the bar; puddles were breeding on the floor. She rolled the magazine and stuffed it, upright, into her cardigan pocket.

‘How many fights has he got left now?’

‘Let’s just leave it for the night, Pearl. I’m done in.’ Jack propped his head up with his hand.

‘I better check Frank over, see what needs fixing. Have you read his letter? He didn’t tell me what was in it…’

Jack shifted his feet, the edges of the paper sticking through his sock and into his sole. ‘Don’t matter how many fights Frank wins, he’s one of life’s losers –’

‘Mum and Dad would be ashamed of you.’ Her bottom lip shook.

‘That’s what bloody well keeps me going.’ Jack laughed, then swallowed it down into a grunt. How could Pearl ever understand how the mum who had washed her hair in rainwater, softened her crusts in milk, kissed and stroked her head, had a son like Jack? She ran her finger along the curled edge of the magazine; she was going to cut herself. Jack fished in his pocket for a smoke, crushed the empty packet.

‘Don’t suppose you’ve taken up baccy when I wasn’t looking.’

‘I’ve got better things to spend my wages on.’

He blew his nose. It was full of black streaks and lumpy snot; he didn’t want to think about all the filth and dirt lodged deep down inside him. But he didn’t like being in that house
alone, having Pearl drifting around the edges of his vision like a ghost too. She took another sip of orange, swivelling sideways on the stool to watch Newton move a queen.

‘Don’t let me keep you. I should be celebrating but –’

‘No need to worry, I didn’t put nothing on your tab, Jack.’

‘Small mercies.’

Jack waved to Cousin Alf at the other end of the bar, trying to get his attention. He caught Pearl’s reflection in the speckled mirror; she didn’t look like those old photographs. She was red around the eyes; it would lead to an infection if she kept rubbing. She just needed to keep busy to help her forget about Frank.

‘Them potatoes you left out for me last night were rock-hard, Pearl.’

‘I only par-boiled them.’

‘I’ll probably get sick from eating them.’ He already felt himself starting to steam, swelling with heat from the gas fire in the corner.

‘With you in a tick, Jack.’ Cousin Alf waved but carried on with his work.

‘Is that why you’re waiting for me here, to see if I’m OK?’