The Longest Fight (3 page)

H
e pushed the switch down. A circle of yellow light swung above the canvas, illuminating Frank’s upturned face. The rest of the gym slipped back into the shadows. Jack draped a towel over the ropes.

‘Concentrate. You’ll get seasick looking up at that thing.’

The gym was empty apart from the thick stale-cupboard smell. They were the first ones in, not that Frank had far to go. Jack had lined him up with a bed to sleep on in the store-room; he never asked where the boy had been before.

Frank sprang closer to the ropes. ‘We’ve been going good for ages now. Are you going to stay my trainer, Jack?’

‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ve got feelers out. Need to get some money coming in first.’

They had to be quick. Frank was bouncing about as if he had springs for feet now, but a few years down the line he would be knocked flat. What did he have to smile about all the time? But Jack remembered what it was like to be that young, all the energy crackling around. Jack used to have Rosie, back then, but Frank seemed content with the ring. One sneaky left hook and
bang,
it could all be over for Frank too.

‘I’ve got a couple of sparring partners lined up for you today, Frank. Some of the blokes from the gym can’t wait to have a go. I’ve said I’ll give a guinea to anyone can knock you down.’

‘Right you are, Jack.’

Frank kept moving, feet shuffling up dust, shoulders dipping as he circled. Jack needed to make sure he could take some punishment. Only a real fighter could deal with pain
and remember his moves. That had been Jack’s best way to a win: thirteen years old and he could take anything they landed on him.

‘Hold that guard up.’ Jack pointed at the drop in Frank’s left hand. ‘Guaranteed, it’s always the hit you don’t see that’ll knock you out.’

‘It’s just me… here.’

Jack threw the towel, it slapped Frank across the face. ‘Didn’t see that coming, did you?’

‘Sorry… Jack.’ Frank scooped up the towel between his heavy gloves and tossed it back.

‘You’d be flat on your back now if there’d been someone in with you. Keep warming up.’

The echo of voices, the splashing of water, came up from the changing rooms. The old fighters were on their way: the ones with barges to unload, and a full day’s work to get in. Jack usually liked to avoid these dropped pennies but they were the perfect sparring partners. The first of them were dragging their dislocated shoulders and cracked knees into the open hall. Jack always felt a rush of cold air slip down his shirt when the gym came awake. The sour smell of liniment tickled his nose. The eyes staring at his back made him tingle like the start of a muscle cramp. He became everything he was meant to be, everything they would never be, when those fighters were looking; not the flat-footed, snot-crusted kid he remembered when he was left on his own. A crowd of about ten fighters circled the edge of the light. Steel Bill, Black Bull, Putney Puncher – names as faded as their patched trousers.

‘Hey, Champagne. Get over here,’ Jack called out.

The man did the word
ugly
proud: head swollen from punches, muscles thickening into wood, and a two-day blackout had robbed him of a smile. Champagne hauled himself into the ring.

‘Let me at him, Jack. Ready for this, boy?’

He stretched up his arms. It looked as though one of the iron girders holding up the roof had planted itself on
the canvas. The other fighters muttered and clicked like disturbed cockroaches. Frank paced the ropes, eyes fixed on his opponent.

‘Champagne… full of air… are you?’

Jack snuffed up a smile and shook his head. Something from those smart-mouthed friends of his had rubbed off after all.

‘When your knackers drop, boy, maybe you’ll get yourself a proper moniker too.’ Champagne butted his gloves together. ‘Let’s see what you’re really made of.’

‘Is that him?’ Pearl whispered in Jack’s ear.

He hadn’t noticed her sneak in. She normally left his morning tea at the door on her way to work, but he couldn’t help feeling pleased that she was taking an interest at last. Jack pulled up one of the stools, sat with his knees pressed to the canvas. The other fighters were still as stone angels peering over a grave. Jack rang the bell.

Frank moved so fast the rest of the room seemed still frozen in the seconds before; even Champagne, with his heavy punch, only buzzed around him like a wasp caught in jam. Frank’s footwork was so light he seemed to spend half his time in the air. But Champagne was getting wise, waiting to follow through with a cross. Frank danced straight into it, pulled up as if a door had slammed in his face. He glanced over. Jack didn’t move. The boy had to learn what happened if he thought he was in there on his own. But Jack didn’t need to worry too much.

‘See that? He’s changing rhythm, slowing down to calculate angles and projections.’

‘What’s he feeling?’ Pearl came up behind him, rested against his back.

‘Those Sunday punches would have most men on their knees, but not our Frank. He just clenches up.’

Now Jack was aware of her, her chest moving above his head, the sharp point of her elbows, he wanted to get free. He lifted his shoulders; she readjusted her tiny weight. She didn’t
notice how her touch burned right through him. He kicked the stool aside, moved up to the ropes.

‘What he’s feeling – is it scalding or freezing?’

‘The blows he’s taking from Champagne would be red as coal in the fire.’

She didn’t understand
wrenching
or
stinging
; words like that had no meaning for her. Dragging Pearl to those hospital appointments, watching men in white coats stick pins in her feet, push straws up her nose and pinch her tendons; she had just sat and sucked the end of her plaits.

A short, straight punch landed against Frank’s chest. The bright burn-mark of blood spread under his skin. Champagne was a swarmer, but he couldn’t get near Frank’s face, tiring himself out with windmill jabs in an attempt to smash that jaw. Frank’s heart was fair beating out of his chest; he snorted air, nostrils flaring, but he wasn’t slowing. Champagne’s gloves began to drop. Frank could take him at any time now, but he didn’t move in for the kill.
Oh, Jesus Christ, don’t hand me a lame one.

‘Take him down, ya soft bastard,’ a voice shouted from the other side of the ring.

Frank looked straight to Jack, waiting for instructions, alert as a dog. Jack nodded. Frank drew back his right; no twist, no hook. The blow impacted with the front of Champagne’s face. The old fighter’s knees locked, a real professional, but even his thick legs couldn’t take that crashing weight. Frank dipped his shoulders, held the older man up, tipped him into his corner. Champagne clung to the ropes; losing was a disease and the other fighters left him to it. The faces collected around Frank’s corner. They didn’t need to applaud; the rush of voices were all talking about his fighter.

Jack held the ropes open as Frank jumped down. ‘Meet my new middleweight champion of Great Britain. Well, he will be one day.’

Jack gripped the boy by the shoulder and squeezed. He wasn’t really talking to Pearl. He was speaking to the rest of the
men in the gym. Frank held his head on one side to let Jack’s words drip down inside him better. His cheeks flushed red.

‘Don’t know… about that.’

‘Put faith in me, Frank. I’m your manager. That’s what I’m here for – to make you a winner.’

Other fighters were jostling against Jack, saying his name, trying to get his attention. They could wait. Pearl stood at the side of the ring, opening up the basket. ‘I brought you tea. There’s enough for both of you.’

‘Give the boy a chance to get out of there. Go and wait by the doors.’

Jack made space for her between the men; they parted to let her through. Frank watched her go.

‘Who… is that?’

‘Don’t worry about Pearl. We’ve got things to do.’

‘I’d be up for sparring, if you’re looking.’ Steel Bill patted Jack on the elbow.

He couldn’t imagine how it felt for them, at the end, when half-a-crown for a knockabout was as close to a good fight as they could get. Trembling hands and slurring words were all they had. ‘Catch me later and I’ll maybe put you down.’

Jack held an arm around the boy’s shoulder, walked him away. The smell of hot skin seemed to burn up all the oxygen, sucking the men tight around him. Skill like Frank’s didn’t rub off, but boxers were a superstitious lot. Fingertips wiped up Frank’s sweat as they slapped him on the back. The boy needed his edges sharpening, some work on his self-taught technique, but he didn’t have any problems taking orders. Frank was one of the lost ones; probably been looking all his life for someone to show him the way. Jack’s heels clacked on the tiles and soft-footed Frank slipped along noiselessly beside him.

‘Cool down a bit, then I’ll set you to some glove work.’

‘Whatever… you say.’ Frank rubbed a leather glove against his red chest. ‘They call him… Champagne… because he’s the best?’

‘No, he used to half-inch bottles of the stuff and trade it for membership to the gym.’ Jack held open the door.

‘When do I get a name?’ Frank ducked under his arm.

‘Don’t rush it. When the time’s right, the name will find you.’

‘I’ve told the boys. I can’t go out with them no more… and I won’t, not even if they call round. Fighting’s more important. Ain’t it?’

‘That’s something you’ve got to decide. But don’t think about pissing me around.’

‘I won’t… What happened to your last fighter?’

‘Glass jaw. Don’t you go worrying about that, nothing wrong with your bones. Now stop chattering, get your breath back.’

Jack landed a soft slap on Frank’s cheek. He wasn’t about to tell the boy about his last investment running off with an East End manager: promises of plenty and his name in lights turning his head. Not much light where Frank was at the moment: a pile of dirty rags in one corner, boxes of something leaving a sticky black footprint where they leaned against the wall, a cot bed taking up the other side. Frank sat on the blanket, pulled his gloves off by trapping them under his arms. The place wasn’t much more than a cupboard. Pearl hovered in the doorway; no room for the three of them in there.

‘What’s that god-awful stink?’ She rubbed her nose. It wasn’t like her to speak her mind, but the smell was sort of scratching his eyes too.

‘I’ll crack a window.’ Frank clambered over the boxes; they sagged under his weight.

A scraping noise came from the wall, probably some dead rat being eaten behind the plasterboard. Jack hated rats.

‘Frank? You back in there?’ a voice called up from the street outside.

Frank stayed close to the boxes. Jack shook his head. The voice was getting louder.

‘It’s Spider. Open up. I know you wouldn’t ignore me, Frank. Wouldn’t want to do that. I’ll be back later.’ Footsteps marched over the cobbles.

‘I didn’t tell them I was here.’ Frank sank down on to the bed.

Jack reached over and knocked the window shut; he needed to keep a better eye on the boy. ‘How you feeling? You took some hard blows in there. Pearl can check you over, if you want? The girl can spot an injury at ten yards. She caught a sprained wrist this week.’

Pearl tucked her arm behind her back. Frank stared at his knees.

‘I’m all right. Don’t want to trouble anyone, Jack.’

‘I’ve got to get to work or they’ll dock me.’ Pearl stepped back into the corridor. ‘Jack, come here.’

‘What?’

But she didn’t answer, just pulled him out of the room. Jack shook himself free.

‘He can’t stay in there.’ She hugged the basket.

‘It’s dry and it’s free.’

‘How’s he going to keep well with that whiff? And it’s so dark, Jack.’ She shuddered. ‘Who calls themselves Spider?’

‘Frank’s my fighter. He ain’t one of your bloody stray mutts to smother.’

She used to collect injured animals, even snails with broken shells.

‘I never took in a dog, and that cat with the snapped leg lasted for months.’

‘Quite a casualty list it racked up, though. Birds, mice, rats.’ He counted them off on his fingers. His mum had finally put her foot down when a fox Pearl was keeping safe under the sink died. The kitchen had filled up with bluebottles crashing against the windows and feasting on plates.

‘I ain’t ten no more. Said it yourself, didn’t you – he’s an investment.’

‘Where do you expect I put him up? The Ritz?’

‘Well, with his fights coming, I bet he could afford a little bit of rent for somewhere…’

She didn’t need to say any more and perhaps she was right.

‘We’ll see after the next fight.’ Jack sighed.

‘Thank you.’ She put her arms around his neck, half strangled him.

‘I said maybe. We ain’t keeping him forever, Pearl.’

‘I know, I know. But I’ll help out, I promise, and I’ll make the money stretch.’

‘Give me the grub, and get out of here.’ He snatched the basket and went back into the room.

Frank wasn’t going to sleep out his days in front of the fire; racehorses, greyhounds and boxers, they all got put out once they were used up.

‘Suppose you heard all that – nothing wrong with the girl’s lungs.’

‘I promise to do me best. I won’t get in the way none. You know how hard I can work. I’d do jobs around the place. Don’t want no one thinking I’m a cadger.’ Frank jumped up, but with no room to move he dropped back down again. The bedsprings jingled; his backside scraped the ground as the mattress caved in the middle. Jack supposed it was a bit like clipping a bird trying to keep Frank in that room. At least under his roof the kid wouldn’t have the chance to start running with those mates again.

Frank started stuffing his clothes into the duffel.

‘I’m looking forward to writing me ma on Sunday. She’ll be happy to hear I’m doing good and might have found a good honest place to live. They only have little Sheila and Theresa left and they’re relying on me. They’ll be saying prayers for you when –’

‘Nothing definite until after that fight. And we’ve got to have a few rules before then.’

‘Anything you say, Jack.’ He dropped his bag and stood to attention.