by Liza Cody
‘Ha-ha-ha,’ went the crowd.
‘Sit down, Mum,’ said Keif.
‘Why you let them say you coming from Trinidad and Tobago?’ she said. ‘You know you born in the Elephant and Castle.’
‘Sit down, Mum!’
‘Ha-ha-HA,’ went the crowd.
‘Yeah,’ said Pete, leaning over the ropes, ‘SIT DOWN, MUMMY.’
‘HA-HA-HA,’ went the crowd.
‘Don’t you talk to me like that,’ Keif’s mum said.
‘Yeah,’ I yelled up at Pete. ‘Don’t you talk to Keif’s mum like that.’
‘I sit down when I want to sit down,’ she said.
‘Shit,’ said Pete. ‘Eva! What you fuckin’ doin’ here?’
‘Language, boy!’ said Keif’s mum.
‘Don’t worry, missus,’ I said. I could see the bouncers closing in.
I hauled myself up on the ropes.
‘That’s Bucket Nut!’ said the people in front. ‘Where you been, Bucket Nut?’
‘Maternity leave,’ some joker said.
‘Ha-ha-ha.’
‘Fuck off out of here,’ Pete said.
He tried to knock me off the edge of the stage, but I scurried sideways like a crab till I got behind the corner post.
‘Too slow,’ I yelled. ‘What you been doing, Pete? Eating dumplings, getting wrinkly?’
‘You going to fight Bucket Nut?’ someone yelled up. ‘You going to fight her, Pete?’
‘He ain’t going to fight me,’ I called back, swinging out of Pete’s reach behind the post. ‘He’s too old. He’s too fat.’
Out the corner of me eye I could see one of the bouncers helping Keif untangle himself. The other bouncer was creeping up on me. There was too much to watch and I was watching it all. You can keep your crack, cocaine and heroin. Adrenalin’s my drug of choice. It’s the best rush in the bleeding world. Bar none.
The ref came trotting over. ‘Bloody hell, Eva Wylie!’ he said. ‘You can’t come in the ring, Eva. I can’t allow you in my ring.’
‘Tell her,’ said Pete. ‘Just fuck off, you silly bitch, you ain’t wanted here.’
‘You going to carve her, Pete?’ yelled one of Pete’s fans.
The bouncer crouched, ready. I faked left. The bouncer sprang. Pete stuck his arm out. I faked left and swung right, out of reach. I ran along the edge of the staging, hanging on to the top rope for support.
‘He’ll never fight me,’ I yelled to the fan. ‘He ain’t even got the goolies to chuck me out.’
‘Oooh, Pete,’ went the fan. ‘Show her. Carve her, Pete!’
Pete sent off a wild haymaker. I swung back taking the rope with me. Pete stumbled forward.
Behind him I saw Keif climbing back in the ring.
‘Bit more reach, Pete,’ I said. ‘You ain’t really trying.’
The spring of the rope boinged me back towards him.
‘Try again, Pete,’ I called. ‘Arms too short? You know what they say – short arms, short dick.’ I was talking up. Everyone could hear.
‘Oooh,’ went the front rows.
Pete hauled the top rope towards him. I jumped down off the stage.
Keif lolloped across the ring and gave Pete a mighty shove in the back. Pete fell into the rope. The rope sagged. Keif picked up Pete’s ankles and tipped him out of the ring.
‘Aaahgh,’ went the front row, leaping up and scattering – except for one fat bloke who wasn’t quick enough.
Phlump, went Pete as he landed on the fat bloke’s lap.
‘Ow,’ went the fat bloke, ‘get off!’
Quick as lightning, I leapt back on the stage. I somersaulted over the top rope.
I was in the ring.
I was back, under the lights, in front of the crowd.
It was mine.
I took a lap of honour.
‘Bucket Nut!’ yelled the crowd.
‘OK, OK,’ said the ref, ‘joke over. You’ll have to go, Eva, we got a fight on here.’
‘Not without me,’ I said. I took another lap.
Everyone with two legs was standing up. Everyone with a mouth was shouting.
‘You all right?’ I said to Keif. But I didn’t care.
‘It ain’t exactly Queensberry Rules,’ Keif said.
‘No rules,’ I said. I could hardly hear him. He was hardly there. I was watching Pete lumber over to the MC’s table.
‘Please, Eva,’ said the ref, ‘be sensible.’
The MC stood up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said into his microphone. ‘As you can see, there’s been a ring invasion. If you’ll all calm down for a minute, while we deal with the intruder, the fight between Pete Carver and, er, Mohammed, er, Wily will resume without delay.’
I ran over to the MC’s side of the ring.
‘There’s been an invasion all right,’ I yelled. ‘But I ain’t no intruder. I’m the London Lassassin. How you gonner “deal” with me? Eh? Eh?’
He covered the mike with his hand. ‘Bloody hell, Eva. Get down. You’re barred, you know that. Get the hell out of here.’
‘Make me,’ I yelled, at him, at Pete, at everyone. ‘Come up here and make me.’
‘Go on, Pete,’ yelled the fans, ‘make her.’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Pete,’ said the MC with his hand shielding the mike. ‘They think this is a bloody stunt.’
‘Well it ain’t,’ Pete said. ‘Get Mr Deeds in here. He’ll sort her out.’
‘Go on,’ I yelled. ‘Run to Daddy Deeds.’
‘Yellow,’ called Keif. ‘I smell yellow. What do I smell? I smell a yeller feller.’
‘Yeller,’ screamed the crowd.
‘You’ll live to regret this,’ the MC said.
But Pete was already climbing into the ring.
Chapter 23
I danced back, taking Keif with me. Pete climbed through the ropes.
I took the centre of the ring. I unzipped my combat jacket.
‘Hoo-eee,’ went the crowd, ‘take ‘em off, Bucket Nut. Dum-dum-dee-dum, dum, dum!’
‘Dirty buggers,’ I said. I flung the combat jacket at the ref.
‘Eva?’ said Keif.
‘Out me way,’ I said.
‘You asked for it,’ said Pete. ‘Now you’re gonner get it.’
He came in fast and low. He got those long arms round my waist and heaved me up off the canvas. He was going for the quick throw out of the ring – the quick spectacular throw.
I could tell by the way he was changing his grip, he wanted to get me above his head. He wanted to do the helicopter.
‘Over here,’ yelled some wag in the crowd. ‘Chuck her to me. I’ll catch her.’
I let Pete swing me sideways. But that’s all.
I flipped one knee up and clumped him on the ear.
I twisted, heaved the other leg up. I locked my ankles round his neck.
He still had me by the waist. I let myself hang by the waist and ankles. I twisted sideways and bit his knee.
‘Shit!’ – he said.
I chomped harder, and that was as far as the helicopter got.
He went for the pile-driver instead. He wanted to crash me down head first.
I hung on. I wrapped my arms round his legs and hung on by ankles, teeth and arms. If I was going down, he was coming too.
‘Oi ref,’ yelled the front rows. ‘She’s biting. Cheat, dirty cheat.’
Pete’s sweat smelled of old shoes. The hair on his legs pricked my arms. His knee tasted like old burger meat.
I ain’t never fought a man before. It’s different. Believe.
I ain’t never fought anyone who didn’t shave her legs.
Biting a hairy knee ain’t something you want to try regular.
‘Ooooh,’ went the crowd.
‘Take it easy,’ said the ref. I didn’t know who he was talking to ‘cos I could only see his shoes.
‘Ow!’ went Pete.
‘Yum,’ I went.
Keifs red boots danced past.
&nbs
p; Pete jolted me up and down. I thought he was going to shake my teeth out and leave ’em like tent pegs in his knee.
I couldn’t see what Keif was up to – but suddenly Pete staggered and started tipping over backwards.
He let go of me just before he hit the canvas. I let go too. I took my weight on my hands and went into a forward roll away from him.
When I got up it looked like Keif was sitting on Pete’s head.
‘Two against one,’ someone called from the stalls. ‘It ain’t fair.’
‘Way to go, Keifee-baby,’ I yelled.
But Pete flung his legs up, clamped his knees round Keif’s ears and hauled Keif over on to the deck.
They was both arse up. I bit Pete’s bum.
‘Fuck!’ went Pete.
‘Oi!’ went the ref.
‘Dirty cheat!’ went the crowd.
Pete rolled on to his back to save his bum. I jumped and landed, both knees first, on his belly.
‘Ooff!’ he went.
He hit out. I dodged sideways. His fist hit me on the right shoulder and knocked me over backwards.
‘Yeah, Pete,’ yelled the crowd. ‘Give her some.’
If he’d hit my face he’d of knocked my head off. It ain’t like being hit by a woman – when someone Pete’s size hits you, you stay hit.
He knocked me over backwards.
‘Carve her, Pete,’ went Pete’s fans.
Keif took a flying leap and landed where I’d just been.
‘Wooof!’ went Pete. He sat up, locked one arm round Keif’s neck and forced him down so his ear was grinding into the canvas. He caught one of Keif’s flailing arms and twisted it hard.
Keif tried to roll with the twist, but Pete got to his knees, then his feet, twisting hard.
‘Bastard,’ he said, when he wasn’t panting. ‘Bastards.’
I got up a bit slow, holding my shoulder.
‘Wotcha going to do now, Bucket Nut?’ someone yelled. ‘Had enough?’
‘I had enough of you,’ I yelled back, rubbing my shoulder.
Pete was stood over Keif. Keif was pounding on the canvas with his free hand. Pete looked like he was trying to wrench Keif’s arm out of its socket. He stepped on Keif’s face.
I lowered me left shoulder and charged him in the small of the back. Wham! I jarred into him. He tripped over Keif, staggered a couple of yards and sprawled into the ropes just above the MC’s table.
‘Give me the mike!’ he yelled. He snatched the mike out of the MC’s hands.
‘Rumble,’ he bawled into it. ‘Rumble, rumble, rumble!’
‘Yeah, rumble,’ screamed the crowd.
‘Oi, hold it,’ said the ref. ‘Why wasn’t I told?’
‘Fuck off,’ said Pete. ‘We don’t need you any more – if we ever did.’ He threw the microphone back at the MC and spun round to face me.
‘You’re dead,’ he said, pointing his fat finger at me. ‘You’re a dead bitch.’
‘Dead,’ shouted the front rows. ‘Dead bitch.’
I bit Pete’s finger. Well, that’s what a bitch is supposed to do, ain’t it? If he wants me to behave like a lady he should stop treating me like a bitch. Besides, it’s rude to point.
I crunched. Then I ducked. I knew what was coming.
Of course I knew what was coming. And of course I ducked. Just not quite quick enough.
Pete’s fist hit my forehead, THUNK. I swear my feet left the floor. The last thing I remember hearing was some woman in front saying, ‘You asked for that, Bucket Nut.’
The next thing I knew I was staring up at the lights. My dinner was hitting the back of my throat and I had a headache like a steel spike between the eyes.
But no one was taking any notice. It was like there was a disco going on in the ring. Feet, feet, feet everywhere.
I lay there, and all I could think was that Wozzisname had come back with the hammer and done for me like I done for him. Which was only fair. And I thought that everyone I knew had come to dance on my grave.
I was punchy, see. I wasn’t thinking right.
I closed my eyes and swallowed my dinner back down.
When I opened my eyes again I knew what was happening – Pete had called for a rumble, and a rumble was what he got.
A rumble is when everyone gets in the ring and mixes it. It’s what a promoter does when he’s run out of ideas and he wants something special to wind up the crowd in the last twenty minutes.
It looked like Mr Deeds had got a rumble he hadn’t planned. There was Keif and Pete, Phil, the Wolverines, Steve Stinger, Rotten Johnny, Iron Ian, Force Four – all of them – and Gruff. All dancing to a tune I couldn’t hear.
It was all wrong. There’s rules to rumbles. Sort of. If you go out over the top rope you’re eliminated. It goes on till there’s only two left, and then those two bash it out. Women don’t take part. I wasn’t taking part. I was flat on my back.
I turned my head. Slowly. All I could see was feet, feet, feet. Rushing past, dancing, hopping, bopping, shuffling. It didn’t look like a rumble. It looked like a punch-up.
A rumble’s fun, but a punch-up ain’t pretty. Anyone in a pub can have a punch-up, but only wrestlers can rumble proper.
I sat up. Then I lay down again. I wasn’t ready.
The blokes was spoiling my comeback. I dragged myself over to the corner post. All the noise was beginning to filter into my brain, and it hurt.
The crowd was at lift-off point. They was in the aisles. They was at ringside. The bouncers couldn’t keep them back. It wasn’t a proper rumble but the crowd didn’t know. They was all screaming their lungs out.
The MC was going. ‘Please will everyone resume their seats. Will you please sit down.’ But no one was listening.
In the ring, it looked like everyone with a grudge was doing something about it. And it looked like a war between the weights. ‘Cos the heavyweights are the stars, see. They get the best of whatever’s going – the most money, more promotion, the biggest dressing-rooms. So the little guys resent them.
In the ring it looked like the little guys was all ganged up against the heavyweights.
That made me feel better. I didn’t want to see a punch-up with no point. But there’s definitely a point to beating seven bells out of the blokes who’ve been lording it over you for years and taking the best of everything.
I wished I didn’t feel so woozy. I didn’t know if I was part of the crowd or part of the punch-up. I couldn’t seem to focus. I’d start watching Phil head-charge a Force Four guy and then my eyes would cross and I wasn’t watching no more.
I decided I wasn’t part of anything. I couldn’t fight and I couldn’t watch. So I rolled out of the ring. I stood leaning against the platform with my legs wobbling and my guts turning cartwheels.
And then the little lady with the red handbag and the pink frock said, ‘You got to get my Keif out of there. You started this.’
I’d forgotten all about her. She had a sweet face but it was all squeezed tight with worry. I stared at her in amazement till my eyes crossed. I looked back in the ring.
Keif was getting up off the mat. His nose was streaming blood. He seemed to be having a good time.
‘It’s only a nosebleed,’ I mumbled.
‘He can’t take a big punch,’ she said. And then the crowd surged into us and she disappeared.
‘Hey, Bucket Nut,’ some bloke said, ‘aincha going back in?’
Someone else said, ‘Pete shouldn’t of hit a woman.’
And someone else said, ‘That ain’t a woman – that’s Bucket Nut.’
‘Ha-ha-ha.’
‘Gotta get Keif,’ I mumbled. ‘Give me a bunk-up.’
A bloke clasped his hands for me to step on and a couple of others gave me a boost and I crawled back under the bottom rope.
I only had one thought in my head. I thought, ‘They want me in here. They bloody want me in the ring.’
Then I stood up and looked for Keif. I stepped over Iron Ian. Bodies eve
rywhere. Naked flesh and wrestling trunks writhing like a tankful of toads.
I grabbed the back of Keif’s boxer shorts. He spun round, fists up.
‘Doing, babe?’ he said. ‘Yee-ouch!’
Gruff whacked into his midriff and heaved him up on his toad shoulder.
‘No dogs, no women,’ Gruff panted, ‘and no fuckin’ nignogs.’
He was bent from the weight of Keif on his shoulders. He was trying to edge past me to throw Keif out of the ring. The spotlights made his toad-eye glitter.
I didn’t even think about it. I planted my left foot and booted him, hard as I could, in the wedding bells.
‘Ding dong,’ I mumbled. I kicked so hard I expected to see his dirty bits pop out of his mouth. But they didn’t. He jack-knifed. Keif crashed to the floor.
‘Yee-ouch!’ screamed the crowd.
‘C’mon,’ I said to Keif ‘Your mum wants you and I ain’t feeling too good.’
‘Wha’?’ he said.
I leaned down to help him up off the canvas. I shouldn’t of done that – my brain took a ride on the roundabout and my guts took a ride on the swings. I puked up on the back of Gruff’s head, and I couldn’t remember why he was kneeling down.
I’m not quite sure what happened then, but the next clear thing was Keif saying, ‘Where’s your car, Eva?’
‘Somewhere in Deptford,’ I said. We was outside in the street.
‘Deptford?’ he said. ‘What you talking about?’
Then I remembered. He wasn’t talking about the Clio. He was talking about the Yugo.
‘Where’s my jacket?’ I said. ‘I don’t want to lose it. It’s new.’
‘Here,’ said Keif’s mum. We were outside the Ladywell Baths and there were three police cars parked by the steps, blue lights flashing.
As I put my jacket on I noticed how cold it was.
A tall white guy said, ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Three,’ I said.
‘What’s your date of birth?’ said the tall white guy.
‘How’re you going to know if she gets it wrong?’ Keif said. ‘None of us knows when her birthday is.’
‘What’s your date of birth?’ the white guy said again. He was asking quite polite, so I told him.
‘See?’ he said. ‘Doesn’t matter about us knowing when her birthday is. What we’re looking for are signs of confusion.’