by Lee Cooper
The fight was close to home this time, in the top floor of Bon-Accord centre parking complex, against ex-professional boxer, Matt MacGregor from Glasgow. All being set up by Mike Jenkins with Mr Dean’s permission. Bare-knuckle for ten rounds, this would be very different from the unlicensed scraps. I wasn’t training, I was taking coke every day, thinking I was invincible.
Me and Micky spent almost every day together, wherever it was, inside The Fountain, round at his place, or at his dealer’s flat on Hayton road. We were kept well-stocked by Kenny Mackie’s limitless supply of gear. Spending nights unwelcomed at Katie's, coming in coked out my box. Bloodshot eyes with an unpredictable personality filled with tins of lager, I was bad news. Disappearing regularly to the toilet, murdering line after line. She knew exactly what I was. Terrified of me, she had to let me in. Making her feel trapped in her own home, probably fearing for her kids’ lives.
Was this how my mother felt all those years?
The endless supply of coke left me with a short fuse and Katie wound me up, sitting on her phone all night WhatsApping and Snapchatting. Testing my patience. My insecurities about myself and a bucket load of jealousy flooded out. Katie started to hide her second life from me , knowing it would annoy me.
Her kids were starting to get to know me more, as I came in more often when they weren't in bed. They didn’t like me, and I didn’t like them. Little fucking pests. One night we were switching channels on the telly.
“Joe, put East Enders on.” Katie shouted trying to grab the remote, I kept it out of her reach.
“No, woman. I’m watching the football.” Aberdeen were playing in a Europa league qualifying match.
“Listen, it’s my TV. Put it on.” I didn’t like it when she made demands. It wound me up more than her phone.
“Put it fuckin’ on!” Yelling in my ear. Taking the butt of my right elbow, I jacked it through her temple as we sat side by side. Clenching my teeth together.
“Keep that fuckin’ shut, woman.”
Lying motionless on the sofa, a sudden flashback of my Mother's corpse came into my mind. Freaking out, I legged it out the door. I had hit an all-time low, disgusted at the person I was turning into.
Chapter 50
Pre - McGregor Fight:
Nine days before the 27th August. The McGregor fight in sight. I’d spent the past seven weeks with a note on the end of my nose and a bottle in my hand. Me and Micky went out every night and got home early. We drank through the day and perked our hangovers up with a line. Eating wasn’t important and neither was training. I had lost May. I kept calling, but there was still no contact between us.
My damaged past and troubles of the present, took a grip on me. Thinking I’d be able to walk in and out of the scrap without care, was a serious mistake. That morning in the gym, told the story.
Pounding at the bag for ten minutes, getting past the initial break of sticky sweat, I didn't feel right. Tim held the bag as I went through the motions, seeing my struggle. Three, two minute rounds later my chest tightened. Carrying on, my heart ached, similar to a tight cramp. I couldn't breathe, coming over lightheaded, gripping my chest as it felt I was entering a spasm.
I passed out.
Coming to, Tim was holding me, his arms around my chest, shaking me from side to side. Confused, I took my time to register what happened. Hoisting me to my feet, he led me over to the weight-bench.
“Fuck me, Joe. What happened?” Looking as stunned as I felt.
“Fuck knows, just got some chest pain an’ passed out.” Coming to terms with the fall, I knew my body had been pushed too far in the past weeks. “Give me a couple of minutes.”
“Joe, you’re a fuckin’ coke-head, look at the state of you. You’re blowing out your arse after a few rounds. How the fuck are you dealing with McGregor? You need to buck-up here, this guy’s an ex-boxer.”
“Aye, I know mate.” As usual, he was straight to the point.
“You’ve got to cancel this fight.”
“No chance. We can’t cancel, not an option.” I was very definite. It wasn’t an option to pull away from this.
“Just train me until the fight and I’ll worry about the rest.” Tim was right, I was a coke-head, hooked on the rush and it was about time I admitted it. Every day I craved line after line, making me sweat uncontrollably, shake violently and take hot-flashes. I was in serious trouble, but had to grind it out the same as I’ve always dealt with my difficulties.
With my coordination coming back, I wobbled through to the changing-room to splash my face with water. Turning the tap on, I gazed into the mirror, not recognizing the eyes staring back. My flattened nose red raw, skin peeling off the sides of my nostrils, my once bright eyes had lost colour, greasy skin with wrinkles gathering under my eyelids. Hair out of shape and needing a cut. My face worn out with the recent abuse and family grief. Looking a different man to the one I knew. What had happened?
I had little recollection of the past couple of months. Tim appeared as my drained face reflected in the mirror. Now thirty three, looking fifty three.
“You need to sort yourself out, lad.”
“I know mate, I know.” I understood his concern, I was out of control.
“Get out for a jog, sweat it out, I’ll wait here. We can start fresh, Thursday night when the rest of the lads are here.”
Flicking my hood over my aging face, I jogged through the Tilly streets for twenty minutes, finding it hard to battle through. Struggling for breath, legs feeling like they were dragging the weight of the world, my chest so tight. My body wanted to shut down. I used the time to reflect on what was happening to me.
After a while, I changed thoughts to Matt McGregor. Had to make the most of the short nine days left, do what I could. A retired boxer and fit as fuck, two advantages I’d be giving up straight away.
Tim was waiting outside Kilgours when I got back.
“My ticker’s going to pack in.” My face bright red.
“Aye, it looks it. Let’s get some grub, then I’ll take you back to The Fountain. I’ve got some work to do this afternoon, for Mike and Bull.”
“Good man. Cheers.” Scraping the bottom of the barrel, I needed someone like Tim looking out for me. “What work?”
“There’s a big cash order going into Skinner in a month or so, heading down the road to Glasgow, somewhere. We need to shift his equipment to a new location. The feds are on to him. The next order’s massive. Four million in twenties, so he doesn't want to take chances. Doing it tonight, we just need to meet in Montrose, beforehand.”
“Four fuckin’ million?! Fuck me!” That’s a lot o’ ink cartridges.”
“Aye, that’s the size o’ the orders now. His paper’s in major demand.” Tim took me back to The Fountain via Pizza Hut for a good feed. I did the sensible thing for a change, stayed in my room and tried to relax, fatigued from the drama earlier in the day. Margaret was in the kitchen cooking the supper for later on, when my phone rang.
“Mr Marks, how are you?”
“Just fine, Steve. Yourself?”
“Good, good. I have some news for you.” Sounding overeager.
“I’ve got something I need to run by you, as well.”
“I’m setting up the fight with The Reaper at the start of November, at Glasgow docks, you’ll get your chance.”
“No problem, Steve.”
“McGregor will be difficult for you and you have to win. But, The Reaper will dismember you, rip you limb from limb if you’re not ready. There’s no one that will fight him now, he’s too dangerous. However, I have faith in you.” His confidence in me was unquestionable, but the confidence in myself was the non-existent. Quite frankly, I was lost on this road but the end was in sight. All I had to do was get past McGregor.
“I know who he is Steve, I won’t let you down.” Seeming sure of myself but in reality, I’d never been so sceptical about what I was doing.
“What did you want to tell me?” Mr Dean asked.
> Chapter 51
Ball Point:
Three nights before the McGregor fight, I tended the bar for Margaret who wasn’t feeling well. A discreet Thursday night. Micky mixing at the bar with the locals. The juke-box volume kept low. I stayed off the powder and ale for the past week, feeling human again. Micky looked anguished sipping his pint, staring into space from time to time. Thinking he was having a bad come-down, or maybe paranoid.
“Joe, want a dram?” Micky asked.
“No mate, orange-juice for me the night. No drinking behind the bar.” The unlicensed boxing was rarely talked about in public. Certain people knew about it and when anyone asked, I would conveniently change the subject. Similar to the football-hooligan scene, everyone knew but nobody spoke about it, unless you were all involved. You never knew who couldn’t be trusted.
“Fuckin’ orange juice, always knew you were a poof.” Nodding me out the way of the punters, wanting a moment in private.
“What is it?”
Leaning his weight over the oak surface. “I have a wee problem.” He sounded seriously concerned, something I’d never seen. Anxious and jumpy, rather than his usual quirky and hyper.
“Remember that cunt Billy I kicked the fuck out of?”
“Aye, we ended up in the nick, remember.”
“Don’t be a clever dick. His old man's getting out soon, and word is, he’s going to be on the look-out for me.”
“What’s his name?” This was going to end in trouble, I just knew it straight away.
“Harry ‘Ball Point’ Duncan earned his name because he tried to murder his own brother by beating him senseless with the ball-point end of a hammer. “He’s coming for me, I know it.” Micky said with concern.
This was a big problem. A man being released from jail after an eighteen-year stretch for the attempted murder of his brother and probably wanted to blow- off steam, Micky MacDonald was right in the firing line.
“We’ll just have to put the word out, be ready for him. I’ll tell Tim to spread the word, too. Don’t worry mate, it’ll be fine. He might even be a reformed character, you never know. When’s he getting out?”
“Aye, right. Piss off! You and me both know that won’t be the case”. Relaxing back into his stool. “I’m no’ sure when, I’m trying to find out.” Micky could handle himself, that was for sure, but when there's a man on a revenge mission, they will stop at nothing for redemption.
I setup a WhatsApp group, adding Micky, Bull, Tim, and some locals I could trust. Everyone loved Micky despite his aggressive side after a few drinks. He disappeared to the toilet, probably to sedate his worried state. His paranoid head was about to get much worse in the coming weeks. Having my face buried into my phone, Katie appeared.
“Hi, Joe.” An inviting smile.
“How are you?” I gave her a smile back, happy to see her lovely face. She came in wearing a tight pair of jeans, her plump ass squeezed perfectly into them, and a t-shirt showing her inked arm. Looking casual, but so fucking hot at the same time. Her freshly dyed midnight-blue hair glowing under the bar lights.
“Aye, I’m good. What’s new with you?” We hadn’t seen each other since I elbowed her in the face. I got the feeling she was as hooked on me, as I was on her. She craved the need for attention, and I was certainty willing to give her some, in private.
“No much, chick. You’re looking amazing the night. Coming up to see me after am finished?”
“Mmm, feed me drink all night and I probably will, Joe.” Her eyes dropped their guard, whisking me back under her spell. I had a deep love for her, which was obvious by the way I lost myself in her company. I loved everything about her and enjoyed sharing conversations. When I spoke to her, I forgot about all my troubles. If I got to spend the rest of my life with this woman, I’d count myself a blessed man.
“Look, I’m really sorry about what happened. I was out of control.” The hurt that I felt after my action really tore me up inside, and I had to let her know that.
“Yeah, I know Joe. Now give me some shots, baby.” I fed her shots and drink all night, hauling her upstairs after closing time to have another amazing night of passion, screwing her roughly up against the wall, throwing her around the room like a rag doll, both moaning with lust until the early hours.
Chapter 52
Matt McGregor:
With major doubt racing through my mind, I wasn’t prepared for that night's events. The recovery from the binge going well, but the training sessions not. I couldn’t keep up with the pace, my brain on a downer from the constant high, it couldn’t operate as normal.
Spending a couple nights in Katie’s company did relax me a touch. Adding to my worry that week, was fighting bare-knuckle against an ex-boxer and a good one at that. Having his boxing licence removed for too many assaults, he naturally moved into illegal boxing. My advantage of having a career in boxing wasn’t there now, the advantage of being rage driven by ‘roids against Masson wasn’t there, either. There were even less rules in bare-knuckle fighting than there were in unlicenced rings. You could pretty much get away with anything, and that terrified me.
No gloves, no ring. Just a bare-knuckle scrap between two men, one of them walking away with five grand. I was just preparing to leave The Fountain, when Margaret caught me.
“Joe, listen son. Make sure you come home tonight?” We grew close over time. Not having any sons, Margaret felt the need to watch over me like a fairy godmother. I welcomed her love.
“Course I’ll be back, Mags.” Reassuring her I would, but honestly, who knew?
“Well, if you’re not coming back ‘til the early hours, text me, cos I’ll have to go home.” She stayed a few streets away from the pub.
“Sure Mags. I will, definitely.”
“OK honey, good luck.” She gave me a tight hug before I headed outside, Tim waiting for me in the car.
The journey to the high-rise parking complex was too short. I hadn’t had much time to myself before leaving. Entering through an emergency exit door, guarded by one of Mike’s henchmen, I walked to the fourth level. I couldn’t slow time, my head was in a panic, worried about not being prepared for this.
Opening the door to the top floor, the evening sun shone through the gaps in the wall. A gathering of about a hundred people stood in the north-east corner. Tim dressed ragged in a farmer’s shirt, carrying a plastic bag with water and a towel. My untidy hair, heavy stubble and loose dress made us both look ragged.
We stepped towards the fight area, hearing the patter of every step and every beat of my heart, taking a stance opposite McGregor. Spotting him straight away dressed as if it was a pro-fight, boxing boots and long shorts, hoodie hung over his eyes, hands in the waist pockets. His shoulders loose, cool, calm and collected. No sign of nervous tension. He had done this many times. He was focused, totally mute while sizing me up me.
The mood in the room was bleak, shuffling feet of the congregation and conversation heard behind the noise of traffic. Taking off my t-shirt, I tried to loosen up, swinging my arms around and having a shadow-box. No warm-up necessary in this type of fight, just meet in the middle and get on with it. Tim wet my gum-shield, placing it in my mouth.
A few of the crowd could be recognized, Micky, Bull, Mike and members from the gym and other local faces from Tilly and The Fountain. People gossiped together while we caught stares and walked out to butt heads awaiting the beginning.
Stepping back, McGregor removed his hoodie, baring abs that looked like an oil-painting, and a clean-shaven chest. Short, inky black hair with long sideburns cut down his jaw. His smooth face wasn’t one of a bare-knuckle fighter, except for his bumpy nose.
McGregor stood next to me, flexing his pecs, eager to get stuck in. I gave off the impression I was ready, but far from it. I wondered if he could see the weakness in my eyes.
“Right, men. Fight until the other can no longer continue, three minute rounds. One minute to go.” An accomplice of Mike barked the orders and it wasn’t t
en rounds as I was told. The rules the way I saw them: Three minute rounds, knocked down, you had an unlimited time to stand before the round ended and fight until your foe couldn’t continue. Ignoring the original rules was expected here, after all, Mike was running this operation.
Voices raised and comments exchanged, anticipating the beginning.
“Come on Joe! Do him!” Micky shouted and turned his body in the direction of MacGregor. The traffic noise drowned out the usual eerie silence these events brought, and helped the crowd give more voice. For the first time, cheers and shouts for my name sang out, being the local Granite City boy, it was expected.
“Time, gentlemen.”
McGregor fixed to the spot, waiting for me. I hovered around him throwing a couple feints, looking to make him flinch, but nothing. He was unruffled. He had that arrogant air of confidence in his ability that talented boxers had.
A cagey affair, a minute in, no punch had been thrown. Gawking at him, he returned. I wasn’t about to break stare, or fall for his tactics. He waited. The tension sharp, aggression building in the crowd. They wanted entertainment. They wanted blood.
Two minutes in, he watched my movement. His way similar to mine. Analyse your opponents, look for weakness in their eyes. Did he see mine?
Out of nowhere, he started to bounce on his toes, edging around me, his right hand by his chin and left hovering in front of him.
Moving with him, he floated, looking light on his feet as I expected from his boxing past. Only showing me his left side, there wasn't much target. Bobbing and weaving, he edged closer.
“Come on, then.” I spoke, taunting him, trying to wind him up. It didn’t go as planned. Smirking at me, both of us in punching distance, a lightning left-jab and right hand snapped into my face, hands so fast I never seen it coming.
“Time.” Fucking cunt planned that to perfection.
“He’s a smart one this, watch yourself, don’t get suckered in.” I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for this, spending the past couple weeks getting over my coke binge, training was shit. And, I worried about not seeing my kids. “Keep your wits about you, Joe.”