Musclebound

by Liza Cody

  ‘I ain’t confused,’ I said.

  ‘Then you’ve got a harder head than Keith,’ he said. ‘That was an almighty punch you took. Keith wouldn’t have known when teatime was.’

  ‘Are you Keif’s dad?’ I said. ‘What’s the politzei doing here?’

  ‘The hall manager call them.’ Keif’s mum made a disapproving kiss sound with her teeth and lips. ‘About time. There were little children in that riot.’

  ‘I got to go,’ I said. I didn’t want to talk to no politzei.

  ‘Keith, you take her to get her head X-rayed,’ Keif’s mum said.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m all right now.’ There was a lump the size of Pete Carver’s fist on my forehead but I was feeling a lot better.

  ‘Not sick no more?’ Keif said.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, remembering. ‘Did I really throw up in the ring?’

  Keif started laughing.

  ‘Stupid boy,’ Keif’s mum said.

  ‘That’s a sign of concussion too,’ Keif’s dad said. ‘Take her to casualty.’

  But people were beginning to stream out of the Ladywell Baths and there were a couple of uniforms among them.

  ‘Bye,’ I said and I took off round the corner before anyone got a chance to recognise me and call out in front of the cops.

  I was feeling quite clearheaded, but I couldn’t find the Yugo. Maybe someone nicked it – I don’t know. I was too tired to look for it careful. I borrowed an old Saab instead. I was just driving off when Keif tapped on the window.

  ‘This ain’t your car,’ he said.

  ‘Is now,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t let Mum see you,’ he said.

  ‘I’m only borrowing it.’

  ‘She’d still whack the crap out of you,’ he said. ‘That’s the only time she ever whacked me – when I was fifteen and I nicked a car with a couple of mates.’

  ‘Ain’t nicking,’ I said. ‘Borrowing.’

  ‘Move over, precious,’ he said, ‘I’m taking you to casualty. My folks say you should get an X-ray.’

  ‘You didn’t find me,’ I said. I wound the window up and drove away.

  A Saab is a good solid car with a good solid heater so I warmed up in no time. And as I warmed up, my heart warmed up too. I was remembering the way the crowd called my name when I got in the ring, and the heat of the spotlights on my skin. I was remembering how I barrelled into Pete Carver and knocked him across the ring. And how the crowd went ‘Ooh-aah’ when they saw that. I’m still big and tough. I’m still the London Lassassin. And I can take an almighty punch. Keif’s dad said so, and he should know – he used to be a boxer.

  I’m big enough for this life. I can take whatever almighty crap it throws at me.

  And the crowd remembered me. ‘Where you been, Bucket Nut?’ they said. They hadn’t forgotten me. They wanted me there – they helped me climb back into the ring. You don’t need a heater when you got memories like that.

  And I’d given the crowd a few memories that night as well. Let Mr Deeds stuff that in his trousers and sit on it. I wished I’d seen him but you can’t have everything. Anyway, give him a sniff of trouble and he always goes missing.

  But I was tired and I had a headache. I took all the good memories and stored them at the back of my mind. Tomorrow, when I was feeling better, I’d take them out and look at them one by one.

  Meanwhile, driving was a bit of a problem because for some reason I wasn’t seeing the traffic-lights till it was nearly too late. Take a tip from me – if you ever borrow a motor and you want to get home without trouble from the politzei, drive perfect. Not too fast, not too slow. Obey all the traffic signs and stop at red lights. And don’t forget to wipe the car down afterwards. Leave it as you’d like to find it. It’s a favour to the owner. And also you don’t want to leave traces of yourself for politzei to find. Politzei ain’t a very forgiving bunch of boobies. So don’t help them catch you. OK?

  Chapter 24

  Don’t you give me no aggravation,’ I said to the dogs. ‘I ain’t in the mood.’ I was unlocking the gate and Ramses and Lineker came bounding up to say hello.

  ‘Where’s Milo?’ I said. But Milo came trotting over, so it looked like he’d survived an evening without human protection.

  All I wanted was a cup of hot sweet tea and a lie-down. A comeback is a tiring event. I wanted a cup of tea to settle my guts, and an aspirin for my noddle. I didn’t want no trouble. I’d had enough of that to last a lifetime. And I was sore all over.

  I made a mug of tea, but the milk was sour so I had to drink it without. I couldn’t find an aspirin for love or money. It wasn’t the kind of homecoming I’d imagined. I bet Keif’s mum cooked him a nice hot dinner, and Cousin Carmen rubbed him down with a gallon of her magic embrocation. That’d be the perfect way to come down after a fight.

  Because you do come down. At first, when you’re still on a high, you don’t feel anything but excited. Then, gradually, all your aches and pains come along, knocking at your door.

  A fighter always has aches and pains – what else would you expect? But I went into this fight with more than my fair share. Count ‘em – I had a bruised toe, a singed ankle and a dodgy back before I ever climbed into that ring. But did that stop me? No, it did not. And what’s more, when I climbed into that ring, I didn’t feel anything but the champagne fizz in my veins.

  The same goes for all my worries and troubles. When I’m the London Lassassin it’s like I walk out of my own skin. I put on another one when I put on the black costume. And every time I put it on, it’s brand-new and it fits me better than my real skin fits me. All my worries and troubles are in my old skin and I leave them outside the ring.

  But after a fight, when it’s all over and the spotlights are turned off and the crowd goes home, I have to stop being the London Lassassin. I have to be plain old Eva Wylie again and put up with all her aches and pains and worries.

  And who cares about plain old Eva Wylie? No one. That’s who. But a whole crowd cares about the London Lassassin. A whole crowd boos and shouts and spits. That’s what I call being noticed.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I said to Milo. ‘They noticed me tonight. You should of been there.’

  ‘Herf,’ said Milo, waking up and twitching his ears.

  ‘So who needs milk in their tea, or hot water, or an aspirin?’ I asked him. ‘Aspirin’s for wimps.’

  Milo yawned.

  I lay down on my bunk and pulled the sleeping bag up round my neck. I don’t know if it was the bang on the head, but I kept dozing off and then waking up with my heart beating too fast. It was like the bang on the head was fighting it out with the adrenalin rush from being the London Lassassin.

  It was confusing. Sometimes I’d wake up with a start and think I was going to be late for the Ladywell Baths. And then I’d doze off again only to jump up thinking Wozzisname was outside scratching on my door. That was the worst. I’d done everything I could to get rid of Wozzisname but he was still hanging around in dark corners, dead and undead.

  Next time I woke up, I realised it was Milo scratching at the door, wanting to be let out. So I went out with him. It was dark and damp, but it was the sort of dark and damp I was used to. Walking around with the dogs made my head feel more normal.

  It was after midnight. I was tired and sore. I wanted to sleep but I didn’t want to lie in the dark with Wozzisname waiting for me to nod off. ‘Cos that’s how it seemed. It seemed he was just waiting for me to let me guard down so that he could rise up out of the river and point his undead finger at me.

  ‘You never even knew me,’ he was saying. ‘But you won’t never forget me. You put me in the river, but you can’t get rid of me that easy.’

  ‘Bugger off,’ I said. ‘You brought it on yourself. You and Ma.’ But I knew he wouldn’t listen. No one listens.

  The other person who never listens is Anna Lee, the Enemy. She turned up in her white Peugeot and tooted on her horn till I went to the gate.

  I’d never admit i
t to her, but I was quite pleased to have a real live human being to talk to that night. Not that she’s quite human – with her poker-straight posture and her poker-straight life. No one that organised is quite human.

  ‘What you doing up so late?’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you find another poor sod to do your dirty work for you? You should be all tucked up in your bed by now.’

  I was a bit pleased to see her, but I wasn’t going to let her in. I never invite politzei into my home. We talked through the gate.

  ‘I came by earlier,’ she said. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Bloody typical – she always starts with a question.

  ‘I just wanted to talk to you,’ she said. ‘What on earth happened? There’s a huge lump on your forehead. How did you get hurt?’

  ‘Questions, questions, questions,’ I said. ‘You don’t never have a conversation like a normal person. Everything you say, everything, is a sodding interrogation.’

  ‘Force of habit,’ she said. ‘It’s what I do for a living. Sorry if it upsets you.’

  ‘Well, blow me down and feed me buttercups!’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said “sorry”. You never‘pologise.’

  ‘It’s the end of a long day. I must be weakening.’ She leaned against the gatepost, which made her look less like a cop and more like a human being. ‘Oh hell,’ she said, ‘now I’m going to upset you again.’

  ‘Takes more than you to upset me.’

  ‘No it doesn’t,’ she said, ‘but never mind. Try and believe I’m not out to get you. Just for once, believe I’m trying to help.’

  ‘Help what?’

  ‘You. It’s about counterfeit money. Bent money. I told you about it the other night at the Cat and Cowbell.’

  ‘So?’ I didn’t care what she said. As long as she kept her hooter out of my hollyhocks.

  ‘Some of the local traders came to see me and Mr Schiller about a scattering of bad notes which have turned up in the last few days – John from the burger bar, Mr Hanif, Value Mart … They’ve all taken fake twenties and fifties. Bad notes, but good bad notes – you couldn’t tell from a casual glance. But they all came up dodgy under a detector light.’

  ‘So what?’ I said.

  ‘The police haven’t seen any of this batch before. They want to see more. They want to know where it’s coming from.’

  I said nothing. There was a heavy, low feeling starting to creep from my guts to my heart.

  ‘Eva,’ she said, ‘it’s coming from you. I’ve interviewed all the traders. You are the only common factor.’

  ‘Who’re you calling common?’ I said, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was beginning to feel too blue to talk back.

  ‘Where did you get it, Eva?’

  ‘Why ask me?’ I said. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ But I knew. I knew if I looked inside that Puma bag again I wouldn’t see my future, my fortune. I’d see a load of crappy paper. I should of known it was too good to be true.

  She said, ‘Who gave it to you, Eva? Who’ve you been working for?’

  ‘I been working for you,’ I said. ‘Maybe it came from you like the rest of the shite you give me.’ All that lovely dosh was turning to dung, right before my eyes.

  I wished she’d go away. I wanted to be alone again. I wanted the Enemy to get stroppy and flounce off, but she never does what I want her to do.

  ‘Who else?’ she said. ‘Has anyone else paid you this week?’

  ‘None of your business,’ I said.

  ‘That’s a new jacket,’ she said. ‘New boots. Where did you get the money, Eva? You haven’t had any new clothes as long as I’ve known you.’

  See what I mean? She’s always, always, got that sharp snout in my business. It’s a copper’s snout.

  ‘You don’t know anything,’ I said. ‘You think you do, but you don’t. I’m back in the ring now.’

  ‘That’s terrific, Eva,’ she said. Like she wanted me to think she was really pleased. Fat chance. ‘So the money came from fighting. Were you paid in cash? Or did someone cash a cheque for you? You haven’t got a bank account, have you?’

  I should never of worked for her. You shouldn’t never ever give politzei a line on you. Once they’ve got a line they never leave it alone. The only thing to do is to keep your lip zipped – don’t give them nothing.

  ‘Piss off,’ I said. ‘I don’t work for you no more. I don’t have to talk to you.’ I began to walk away. I’d had enough.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘But think about it. Passing counterfeit money’s a serious offence, Eva. It’s not like boosting the odd motor. It isn’t slap-on-the-wrist time if you get caught. It’s serious time – years, Eva, you could be locked up for years.’

  What about Wozzisname? How much serious time would I get for him if anyone found out? How important was passing a few bent notes compared with that?

  ‘Shove it,’ I said. ‘You got no right coming round here threatening me. You ain’t welcome here.’

  ‘I’m not threatening you,’ she said. ‘I haven’t told anyone about this except Mr Schiller. Honestly, I don’t want to see you in trouble. But if I do nothing I’m colluding. Then I’m in trouble too.’

  ‘Life’s tough,’ I said. ‘Buy a crash helmet.’

  ‘I’m not the one with an ostrich egg on her forehead. You need a crash helmet more than I do.’

  I stared at her. There are some people in this world who never bring good news. They just ain’t capable of it. The Enemy was one.

  ‘I’ll give you twenty-four hours,’ she said. ‘Talk to me or talk to Mr Schiller. After that it gets official. Think about it, Eva.’

  Dung and depression, bollocks and blues. That’s all I ever get. People. They do nothing but bring you down. It’s my comeback, right? Did anyone pat me on the back and say, ‘Nice one, Eva’? I must of had my fingers in my ears if they did, ‘cos I never heard ‘em. No. What I get is people bringing me down.

  I get threats and abuse and bollocks and blues. I might as well pack up and leave town – find someone without a detector light and buy a ticket to some place where they’ll take dogs and you don’t need a passport, where I can get lost and start again. Is there somewhere like that? Where it ain’t a crime to be big and speak your mind. Where I can do what I’m good at without everyone bars me and brings me down and gives me a headache.

  ‘Have you got an aspirin?’ I said to the Enemy.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. She rummaged in her bag and gave me a card of pills. Maybe she does have a bit of a human heart after all.

  She said, ‘Do think about it, Eva. I’ll stop by tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ I said. ‘I won’t be here.’ And I went away to where I couldn’t hear her voice no more.

  Why is it – when you’ve got a million things to think about and they’re all stacked up like traffic in a jam on the motorway – you can’t think at all? How come your brain just coughs and stalls?

  My brain went walkies except for thinking about the aspirins. It was like I had a bass drum between my ears, and I couldn’t think of nothing but swallowing a handful of aspirins as quick as possible. After that I couldn’t think of nothing but making another mug of strong sweet tea. And after that I must of nodded off again because there was nothing at all.

  When I woke up there was half a mug of cold tea beside me and Milo was whining to be let out. I was sore from head to toe. I wanted a deep, piping hot bath and a pile of fluffy towels. I wanted a long slow rub-down with a gallon of Cousin Carmen’s embrocation. I wanted a double helping of pasta and meatball sauce or a pepperoni pizza. Most of all I wanted Simone to talk to.

  Was it her I saw running up the steps to the Ladywell Baths? I hoped it was. She should of seen me up there under the lights. If she didn’t see that, she’d never know what I really am – what I made of meself since she got took away. It was crucial, and she had to see it to understand it. I wanted her to understand.

  I was so g
ut-whacked when she cringed to God Greg and handed him my shooter, but she was still my sister and she was the only person I could talk to about the money. She was the only one I could trust.

  I couldn’t keep the money no more. It was bent. I had a little twitch about that. Maybe it wasn’t bent. Maybe the Enemy only said it was bent so she could get her sticky fingers on it. I spent half a minute hoping that was true. But I couldn’t believe it. The Enemy’s a stuck-up nosy cow, but it’s no use complaining ‘cos she’s too straight and then not believing her when she says the dosh is bent.

  Besides, God Greg more or less said so himself when he was droning on about how it’d do me more harm than good.

  But the main reason I believed the Enemy was telling the truth was ‘cos it felt like the truth. I can’t be a squillionaire – I ain’t born to that kind of luck. Some are and some ain’t. I ain’t. What I got I sweated for. Nobody ever gave me nothing for free. And it’s no use thinking they ever will. Some gets stuff given to them. Not me. I got to grab.

  Those squillions was just too good to be true, and I should of known they was dung. They was handed to me on a plate and I should of known it was a plateful of poop. It had to be, ‘cos it couldn’t be anything else if it was handed to me.

  I put on my shoes and jacket and went out into the dark. It was mizzling rain. The dogs came trotting over smelling of wet fur.

  We went on another tour of the yard together, and I must say they was behaving like gentlemen. Dogs and people is much more alike than they think. With dogs you got to show ‘em how to behave and you got to make them pay attention. You got to prove you’re the boss. Which I did a couple of nights ago with Ramses, because you can’t only prove it once. You got to keep on proving it or they take advantage. It’s the same with people, only people are stupider. They don’t learn so quick.

  Our last stop was at the dog shed. I went in and took the Puma bag off of the wall. I wanted to say goodbye to it. And if you think I’m soft you’re wrong. I wasn’t saying goodbye to a lousy bagful of paper – I was saying goodbye to all the things I would of done with it if it wasn’t bent. I was saying goodbye to a fitness centre called Musclebound, and if that ain’t worth a lump in the throat I don’t know what is.