Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1)

by Lee Cooper

  I was getting fatigued, trying to keep on my toes was hard work. He seemed to expel next to no energy.

  It was the seventh round before there was a change to his style. Starting to box me, throwing jabs and some combos. Aware of his own frustration, he visibly tensed up. I carried on in and out, slipping his punches and countering with mine. Hurting and frustrating him more as time went on.

  After five minutes of the seventh, the longest of all the rounds, my sweat and blood spattered my body. I thought he was there for the taking, but he was judging the timing of my movements perfectly now.

  I slowed for a few seconds looking to land something that would take effect. I began to see him weaken with frustration as I refused to fall. There I made the mistake, standing idle in front of him as a thunderous right-hook stunned me. Standing immobile on the spot, he floored me with a left.

  I was back lying on the dusty, oily, bloodied floor, disorientated, broken and searching for Tim through my double vision, in a state of panic only knowing I had to stand, get on my feet or it would be over, I would be the loser.

  Getting onto to my hands and knees, three massive blows rammed into the side of my ribs sickeningly, shattering my ribs, the pain immense. Gasping, it felt almost impossible to breathe. I could hear Tim shouting. “Get up! Get up!”

  It took everything I had in me to rise from the depths of defeat. But, the pain woke up another part of me. Unsteadily standing, determined, my stubbornness was now controlled by rage. I would be no loser.

  “You’ll have to do a lot better than that, big man.” Repeating what I said earlier, telling him I was no mug, continuing to dig under his skin.

  I had provoked a long-awaited response. His eyes softened for the first time, and his body language changed. He knew he had started something he couldn’t finish. Hearing Tim in the background. “Joe, get back here!”

  I waited until Skinner turned round and headed back to his two midgets.

  My body in more pain than I ever wanted to feel again. “My fuckin’ ribs are broken.”

  “Broken?”

  “They’re fucked!”

  “You can’t go on, Joe. You’re in too much pain. I can see it in your face.”

  “Time!” Mr Dean shouted all too soon.

  “I’ve come too far to give up.”

  “No! Think about your kids. Don’t do this.”

  “That’s why I have to carry on.”

  Getting back to the centre of the circle dividing the crowd, I stood ready for Skinner, holding my bust ribs with my right hand, my left fist clenched at my chin, blood running down over my mouth.

  He looked at me with irritation, not expecting my return, standing there for several seconds trying to figure me out. I could read his face now. He glanced at Mike again, who stood tall and rigid, uncertainty in his eye. There was the customary nod of his head as if to say ‘Finish him off.’

  Everything became clear. This was a set-up, and Mike had stitched me up. Now I was pissed. Skinner must have thought ‘Another couple of blows and he’ll be finished.’ Peering through the crowd to Mike rather than Skinner, another massive right-hook slammed into my jaw, jerking my neck. Almost blacking out, my memory suddenly burst into action.

  I could once again see my Dad, fists pounding into my Mother, her slumped, dead body. Now, with no coordination, no sight, and only functioning on raw instinct, I launched a vicious punch at Skinner’s smug face, a right-hook that landed with perfect accuracy, shattering his jaw.

  He fell like a clattering tree, onto the ground, thumping onto his left shoulder. The force of the punch left me exhausted, on one knee. I loomed over the racist bastard as he squirmed on the blood-splattered floor, his jaw hanging from his face, his hand held up, begging me to stop his pain.

  His call of mercy wouldn’t be met. Rising to my feet, I lifted my leg high, showing the sole of my trainer, ready to smash it into his face.

  His only saviour was Mr Dean, pulling me back from Skinner’s crumpled, broken, empty shell.

  “That’s it, boy. That’s enough, you’ve won.”

  Chapter 35

  The Victor Claims The Spoils:

  Mr Dean held my left hand aloft. “Winner, Joe Marks!”

  A shockwave was still rocketing through the garage. No one expected this.

  I stood beaten, in pain and mentally exhausted, the high of the blood-soaked scrap second to none. Money now took the place behind the victory. The atmosphere vastly different to the Warsaw result, where the crowd chanted my name.

  Judging by the deafening sound, silence, the mob were awe-struck. Fighting and winning had totally consumed me. Combined with the black-market for fists, added to the adrenaline buzz I felt, looming over Skinner on the ground suffering, his shattered jaw was a dark, bloody and brutal mark of victory to me.

  Skinner couldn’t move, or talk. He just held his broken jaw in place with his hand, the massive blow to the head concussing him. Looking in his eyes, all the arrogance and evil had gone, replaced with sorrow and weakness.

  His ego and body broken, was hurried out the door.

  Some of the crowd were arguing frantically about the result. Many had lost a lot of money and pointed their frustration at Mr Dean and his chauffeur.

  Didn’t anyone have a few quid on me?

  Tim helped me over to sit on a stack of car tyres. “How you feeling?”

  “My ribs are fucked, my hands are fucked, my jaw is sore, but I’ll live.”

  “Where the fuck did that punch come from?”

  “The same place they all come from. Hey, this is a set up.” By Tim’s expression, it was obvious he knew something.

  “Mike told me to make sure you lost. I didn't know how to say.”

  “Fuckin’ knew it.” I said, as Mike casually walked towards us.

  “He’s coming over. Don’t let him know that I’ve got it figured.” Mike must have put up Skinner’s grand as well, so he was now two-grand down with nothing to show for it. Skinner must have been banking on a two-grand grand payday.

  “Got it.” Tim said.

  He strolled over, his hands in his long, leather jacket pockets, eyes mostly focused on the ground, probably in disappointment or embarrassment, offering his hand. I welcomed his gesture. Knowledge is power, and he had made the wrong decision.

  “Well done, boy. Bull’s got your cash.”

  “The sooner the better. I need to get out o’ here.”

  “You make sure and get healed up. I’ve got to go take care of some business.” His tone blank, with no feeling. I could tell he was rankled as he turned and walked away.

  A deadbeat loser of a drunk stopped him in his tracks.

  “Mike, you cost me a lot of fucking money tonight!” He slurred through the haze of alcohol.

  Mike spun and back-handed the drunk’s face. The sound echoed throughout the shed, demanding everybody’s attention. Tossed in the air with the force of the slap, the man retreated back into his shell. About a hundred and twenty kilos in that slap. Lucky it wasn’t a punch.

  “Somebody’s pissed off.”

  “I couldn’t tell you, Joe. I was stuck in the middle. I’m sorry.”

  “Tim, you weren't to know it was a set up until you got here the day. Just get me back to yours. I need a strong dram after that.”

  “It’s the hospital I’ll be taking you.”

  “No hospitals, I hate ‘em. We can sort it out at yours.”

  “Sort it out?! Your ribs are broken.”

  “Ribs heal on their own.”

  Before leaving, Tim took off my mitts and wraps, as I sat on the stack of tyres. The skin of my knuckles hanging off in a threaded mess of red, had to be peeled away as the bandages were removed.

  The adrenaline wearing off, the pain started to sink in. Using the mitts had left my hands shattered. My body started to shake along with my hands. I couldn't control it, as I retreated back into a normal state.

  “You’re shaking man, go with it, take it in.” Tim
frowned, worried.

  Sitting there, hands in agony, face bruised and ribs broken, it was all his doing, in a way. He felt guilty for what he had done. Every time I took a breath, my ribs ached. I couldn't be sure they were broken, but by intense stabbing pain, it felt like they were.

  The audience started to leave, while Bull ambled over, his slicked-back black hair shining under the yellow light. I wondered if he knew anything about the setup, but my instinct told me he didn’t.

  “Here’s your money, mate. You earned that, well done.” He sounded proud and even happy to hand the cash over. You get what you see with Bull, and I didn't think he had anything to do with the double-cross here.

  The only people that knew, were Mike and Skinner. Mike, knowing Skinner was a sinister bastard, thought he would take me apart outside a ring. The feud with my Father tore him up inside. Little chance of ever catching up with him, and deciding to end the feud with me.

  “Cheers, Bull.”

  “How’s the ribs?”

  “They’re fucked mate, but I’ll live.”

  “Make sure you get healed up and I’ll see you back at the gym.”

  I had no desire to return to the gym. That was it for me, I couldn't put my family through this.

  Tim helped me up and led me out the door.

  I painfully entered the car, and Mr Dean appeared with his chauffeur, Lukas. He never spoke. Dressed in his usual black. He seemed to do everything for Mr Dean. A loyal servant, by the looks of it. An intriguing character.

  “Hey, Mr Marks!” He shouts.

  By this time, I was already in the car, the aching body made it too hard to exit to greet him. I wound down the window.

  “Good fight in there, boy. How’s the ribs?”

  “Ah, they’ll heal, eventually.”

  Steve slipped his hand into the inside of his pocket, took out his business card and handed it over.

  “Give me a call if you ever need anything. I’ve got a good fight in mind for you, if you want it.”

  “I'll mull it over, Steve.” I said with curiosity, already thinking about the next pay-day.

  All I wanted to do for now, was get out of here, back to Tim’s for a stiff drink and some pain-killers.

  Chapter 36

  Sunday Morning Blues:

  “Holy fuck. Get me to a hospital. I’m in serious pain, here!”

  “Aye! Told you! Should have taken you last night.”

  “Just help me off this couch!”

  Waking up on the couch in agony, I knew straight away I had to see a doctor. My heavily-bruised ribs making it hard to manoeuvre, wrists and hands feeling like they'd been trying to punch through a wall and my knuckles scabby, torn-up with skin festering around. To be honest, I couldn’t decide where the most pain was.

  I had to get the thinking-cap on, conjure up a story for May.

  And the kids. I didn’t want this, but I’ll be taking home two grand with me. That should count for something.

  We drove to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary straight away in Tim's Merc. Mostly looking forward to getting some pain-relief. The paracetamols swallowed last night, washed down with Stella and whisky, had worn off, replaced with gut-wrenching pain, mixed with a nasty hangover.

  Going to this particular hospital was a risk. I’m sure somebody would recognize me as May worked here eight years ago. I had little to no options.

  Tim dragged me to a seat in the waiting area, while he checked me in at the reception desk. Filling out the necessary paperwork.

  Approaching 09.30 on Sunday morning, the waiting area empty. All the weekend casualties more or less gone. We were quickly seen by an older nurse, Elaine, taking me through for an X-ray first.

  Returning, I waited on a bed, in a small, closed-off area from the waiting room. I sat upright staring forward, my eyes glazed-over, bloodshot and tired, waiting patiently for the doc to appear. A nurse flashed past, who I recognized straight away from a past staff party.

  Chloe, I’m sure her name was. Taking a second look as she strolled past, but I wasn’t sure if she clocked me. I couldn’t be certain either way, but something else to add to my worry.

  Finally, after twenty minutes, the Indian doctor made an appearance, and I hoped he was here to fill my pockets with anaesthesia.

  “Hello, Mr Marks. You look in a lot of pain here.” Getting straight to the point, poking around my ribs, making me wince and shiver. Under the glaring white light of the room, colours sparked in my eyes. Grabbing a certain part in the right side of my rib-cage, I could have strangled him. My eyes turned cock-eyed. “Whoa, doc! That fucking hurts, you know!”

  “Sorry sir, I need to be thorough. Well, I’ve a little good news, there’s no breaks showing up on your x-ray.” No breaks!

  “So, what’s the damage down there?”

  “Looks like they’re badly bruised and maybe cracked, so take it easy, Mr Marks. You won’t be able to work for a few weeks. I’ll give you some pain-killers for the ribs and I’ll get the nurse to wrap them up. You need to keep the movement in them to a minimum. Now, what’s wrong with your knuckles?”

  “Ah…nothing, I had a tumble and scraped my hands down a wall…very drunk!”

  “Tumble, did you?” He knew I was speaking absolute shit. “OK, I’ll get the nurse to tidy up the skin hanging around there and wrap it up. I'll prescribe you some Dihydrocodeine, strong paracetamol and cream for your knuckles. Stay out of trouble for a few weeks Mr Marks, your body needs a rest.”

  “OK, doc. Thanks very much, I appreciate it.”

  “The nurse will be with you, soon.”

  Another twenty minutes, a male nurse called Gavin turned up. No Chloe, which was a relief.

  I let him do his stuff, wrapping my ribs up quite tight, after picking the skin off my knuckles with a small, sharp, curved, stainless-steel knife, disinfecting them and rubbing some cream on before wrapping them up with a complicated-looking bandage technique round my fingers and knuckles.

  “OK, Mr Marks. Keep the bandage on until tomorrow morning, apply the cream three-four times a day and make an appointment with your local GP for a check-up. Here’s your pain-killers and instructions on how much to take.”

  “Thanks very much, Gavin.” Glad all that was over. I ripped the boxes open with my teeth like a depraved junkie as I limped back into the waiting area. Not bothering to read the recommended dosage, I swallowed a couple tablets from each box.

  “Tim, let’s get the fuck out of here, I’m starving.”

  “Sure, good idea. Anywhere you want to go?”

  “Head up the road to Murdo’s.” Famished, light headed and feeling a stone lighter than the day before, I needed a good meal before facing the wife and kids.

  The thought of last night weighed heavy on my mind, giving me a guilty conscience, while all I wanted to think about was the cash tucked away in the glove-box.

  “Can we have two full breakfasts, with a pot of coffee, please?” Sitting down at the first free table we seen as we entered the lounge at 11.15am.

  “Sure, no problem. Should be around a ten-minute wait.” Said the stunningly hot, blonde waitress. A great rack and toned butt, squeezed into her snug black leggings, Tim’s eyes were glued to her as she sashayed away, wiggling her cheeks with perfect precision.

  “Jesus Christ mate, check that.” Tim said.

  “Perv! But, I wouldn’t say no, like.”

  “Better get in line pal, I’m first.”

  Tim’s mobile rang. ‘Withheld number.’ Answering, his eyes opened wide, he then handed it over “It’s for you.”

  “Hello?”

  “What the fuck have you been doing?”

  Chapter 37

  Job Prospects:

  “Hey, get up, you’ve got work to go to.”

  “Aye, calm down, woman. I’m getting up.” Fucking half-five in the morning, what a chore this was. Half dead, slouching out of bed, pulling my jeans up at the end of another ordinary, boring week at the wholesalers.

  St
ill shockingly cold in the middle of April. Never mind. I just had to get on with things. Get to work, finish the week, my probationary period, and earn a few pounds for the piggy-bank.

  This was the usual way I dragged myself out of bed for work. May shaking and shoving me to turn the irritating alarm off. The days of making the breakfast when I got up were over. The new routine now involved putting the kettle on, filling the 4-slice toaster, trying to wake from my zombie-like state.

  It was now May’s job to get the kids up, while I went to work.

  I wasn't able to attend that interview for the dispatch job, after being banged-up from Skinner's bent-rule tactics that shattered my ribs. Feeding them the same story I tried to tell May.

  Five guys jumped me at the music concert, and I wouldn’t be able to attend due to the state I was left in. Having a good chat with Angela, the head of HR on the phone, putting on a BAFTA-winning performance, I got the feeling she felt sorry for me, insisting I went to the top of her list for the next available position.

  By a miracle, the guy they ended up hiring was a bit of a waster and sacked after four weeks, giving me the opportunity of the job at the turn of the New Year.

  The interview went really well, to my big surprise, and by the second week in January, I had a job. By then, the ribs and hands healed, but my relationship with May hadn’t. Getting dropped off that Sunday, I tried to feed her the same story, but she seen straight through me as she always did.

  Quite openly, I revealed the truth about both fights. Explained the reasons why I felt I had to do it: for the kids, house and her. She understood how trapped I felt, but couldn’t come to terms with the dark world I’d been involved in. But, worst of all, she couldn’t believe I could lie to her that easily. What other lies are there, she asked, over and over.

  Regularly after that, she became distant with me, gave me the cold shoulder every time I tried to get close. Time after time, it made me feel continually useless and guilty about the damage I’d done to our marriage. Midway between conversations, she would choose to ignore me and sometimes just walk away, leaving me talking to myself.