Bucket Nut

by Liza Cody

  Another time I would have gone to have a look but my teeth hurt and I was cold so I went back to the dressing-room.

  Lineker was asleep under the bench, but Ramses was sitting just where I’d left him, watching the door with his angry yellow eyes. He was an inspiration to me, that dog. I patted his head and he made a lunge for my hand.

  ‘That’s my boy!’ I said, feeling better. It was a good thing he still had his muzzle on.

  I warmed up all over again. Time dragged. It’s always like that. Maybe I should get to a gig late and not be ready so soon. But I can’t keep away. It’s too exciting. I want to keep every minute in a little box for late at night when I’m all alone. I want to bottle the sound and the smell and the feeling of having a bubble in my chest, because, later, when you’re all alone at night there’s nothing. Just nothing. This is something. This is what makes your heart bang against your ribs. And I want it.

  They wanted to take it away from me. I could feel them out there – the Chengs, the Suckles, the polizei. All the Mr Deeds, the old men, the Mas and Nans – all of them. They do nothing but take things away. Maybe they had their chances once. Maybe they blew them. Who cares? But they are never going to nick this one off me. Never. It’s real. Nothing else is real.

  The interval came and went.

  Then it was Harsh’s turn.

  After Harsh it would be me. And Rockin’ Sherry-Lee Lewis. Us two. Out there. On the canvas which shone like a moon in the night.

  I went out to watch Harsh.

  Harsh is lovely to watch. He’s like a song. He is all balance and rhythm. I can’t understand why the crowd keeps on chatting and drinking while he’s fighting. Well, yes, I can. They don’t understand the finer points. That’s why. They’re idiots. Morons.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ they say, ‘that’s real wrestling,’ and they go and get another pint from the bar, another packet of crisps for the kiddies.

  I felt a movement behind me. It was Sherry-Lee Lewis.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s Harsh,’ I said. I was proud of him. ‘He’s my mate. He taught me.’

  ‘Yeah?’ she said. She watched with narrowed eyes. Then she gathered her satin gown round her shoulders and turned away.

  ‘Well, flower,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘he’s leaving us with an awful lot of work to do.’

  And she walked off. Her mam loomed out of the darkness and followed her.

  Stupid mare. Well, not really. I knew what she meant, but she shouldn’t have said it.

  I let her go. I’d tell her how I felt about Harsh later. Where it counted.

  I bounced on the balls of my toes. I couldn’t keep still. There were tickly little worms running under my skin and that bubble in my chest.

  I went back to the dressing-room. There was only a couple of minutes left.

  From the end of the corridor I heard Mr Deeds’ voice. At first he sounded pleased.

  He said, ‘At last.’

  And then, ‘You’re late.’

  And then, ‘Oi! You can’t bring them in here.’

  I folded my arms across my chest and I stood outside my dressing-room door. That brazen bitch! She’d come.

  Well, let her come, I thought. She didn’t mean squat to me.

  The first thing I saw was Mr Deeds. He looked as if he was running backwards.

  Then I saw three black guys pushing him.

  Then I saw Goldie.

  Goldie saw me.

  She pointed a finger over Mr Deeds’ shoulder. She said, ‘That’s her!’

  Everyone stopped in their tracks. I stared at Goldie, but she wouldn’t look at me. Her eyes were dull. Dead animal eyes, I thought, dead animal.

  Mr Deeds said, ‘C’mon fellers. We can sort this out later. Complimentary tickets all round. Wha’dya say?’

  One of the guys said, ‘Stuff your tickets, man. It’s her we want.’

  Mr Deeds said, ‘Okay, okay. She’s yours. But after. Right? She’s going on in a minute.’

  I was looking at Goldie. But she couldn’t look at me.

  ‘This what you want?’ I said.

  She said nothing.

  ‘This what you want?’

  ‘Don’t shout at me,’ she said. ‘You always shout at me.’

  She looked at me then. It was all so wrong.

  She was beautiful. Her eyes were full of tears which spilled down those thick dark eyelashes. And she had a nasty great bruise on her cheekbone.

  ‘What they done to you, kid?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing, nothing, nothing. I’m paying your debts.’

  Mr Deeds said, ‘Look fellers, gimme a break, will you. Come back later and we’ll sort all this out. Eva’s fighting in a minute.’

  ‘Yeah,’ one of the guys said. ‘She’s fighting. Us. Outside.’

  Then Harsh came down the steps from the arena. He was with his opponent, Harry and another of the trainers.

  They stopped.

  Harry said, ‘Oh my Lord. Suckle’s soldiers, Eva. Din’t I tell you?’

  Harsh said, ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘It’s Eva,’ Mr Deeds said. ‘There’s some mistake. These gentlemen don’t want her to go on.’

  ‘That’s right,’ the guy said. ‘She’s finished. She comes with us. No fuss. No mess.’

  That was when Sherry-Lee Lewis, Star of the East, appeared. She floated in her red, white and blue satin robe, up to the crowd outside my door. She was a big woman. I told you that, didn’t I? Bigger than Harsh, bigger than Harry, bigger than two of the guys Goldie brought.

  Then I heard my music. Did I tell you about my music? It’s ‘Satisfaction’ with a lot of steel and brass but without the words.

  That was it.

  I said, ‘I’m on.’

  The black guy said, ‘No you’re not.’

  And he took an open razor out of his pocket.

  Bastard.

  It’s like I said. They all want to pinch it off me.

  Sherry-Lee Lewis said, ‘Want any help, pet?’

  ‘Fuck off all of you,’ I said.

  I backed into my dressing-room and slammed the door. I untied Ramses and Lineker. I grabbed my bag.

  I had Ramses’ and Lineker’s chains in one hand and my bag in the other.

  The door flew open.

  The three guys came shoving in. The bastard with the razor was first. Suckle’s soldiers. Fucking squaddies.

  Ramses leaped. He nearly pulled me arse over teatime. The bastard with the razor jumped back.

  Everyone fell over themselves getting out the way. Suckle’s wimps.

  ‘Yeah!’ I shouted.

  Out we went – Ramses, Lineker and me. I swung the bag with the tins of stew and the bolas in it. I didn’t give a toss who I hit. Anyone stupid enough to get in my way got what they deserved.

  ‘Come on, boys,’ I yelled to the dogs.

  ‘Come on!’ I yelled to Harry. ‘Let’s go!’

  And we went. Up the stairs. Through the door. Out into the aisle.

  Far below was the ring.

  They were playing my music.

  I could feel it all – down to the tips of my toes. The dogs, pulling my arm off. The heat. The dark. The crowd turning. Everyone straining their necks to watch me come down.

  ‘This is mine,’ I said. ‘Nobody’s going to take it off me. Nobody.’

  ‘The London Lassassin!’ yelled the MC in the ring.

  The crowd started baying and booing like they always do.

  ‘Shut yer face,’ I yelled back. ‘Who d’you think you are?’

  ‘Yak-yak-yak,’ went Lineker.

  ‘Ro-ro-ro,’ went Ramses.

  And as we passed the crowd went bat-shit.

  ‘Look at the dogs!’ they shouted.

  ‘She brought dogs!’

  ‘The bitch brought her dogs! Ha-ha-ha.’

  ‘Shut yer freakin’ mouth,’ I shouted. ‘Yer all morons.’

  ‘Freak,’ they yelled back. �
��Slag. Cow. Slut.’

  ‘Ro-ro-ro,’ went Ramses.

  It was a good entrance, if I do say it myself. The best I’d ever pulled. I wanted to drag it out, slow it down. Even then, there was part of my brain saying, ‘Remember this. This is the night you fought Sherry-Lee Lewis at the old Ladywell Baths.’

  But the dogs were yanking my arms out of my sockets, and, too soon, I was down at the ringside with Harry panting and flip-flapping behind me.

  The ref and the MC came to the ropes. They both looked amazed.

  The MC said, ‘What sort of stunt do you call this?’

  ‘Out me way,’ I said.

  ‘No you don’t,’ the ref said. ‘No dogs in my ring.’

  ‘Give the dogs to Harry,’ the MC said.

  ‘Not me, boss,’ said Harry, backing off.

  ‘Bucket Nut!’ screamed someone in the crowd. And the front rows took it up. ‘Bucket Nut! Bucket Nut!’

  ‘Cretins!’ I screamed back. And I took the dogs on a parade all round the outside of the ring. I wanted everyone to see. All the Chengs, all the Suckles, all the bastards with razors, all the Goldies, everyone who wanted to stop me.

  ‘Bucket Nut!’ they screeched. ‘Dirty bitch!’

  ‘Good show,’ the ref said. ‘Nice work. But you still ain’t letting those hounds loose in my ring.’

  He had a point. To tell you the truth, now I’d got us down to the ringside, I didn’t know what the fuck I was going to do with them either.

  And then the music changed.

  It was like an explosion. ‘Great Balls of Fire’ came crashing out of the speakers at full volume. It made me jump. It made the dogs bark louder.

  The MC scampered to the middle of the ring and turned on his microphone.

  ‘By special request,’ he shouted, ‘all the way from Newcastle, the women’s heavyweight champion of the Eastern seaboard, the one, the only, Rockin’ Sherry-Lee Lewis, Star of the East.’

  Down she came. I’ve got to say it – she was a sight. Her red, white and blue robe billowed like a banner on a windy day. Her red hair seemed to crackle with life. Her white, white skin picked up the light and shone back like she was lit from inside.

  She had two trainers – one either side, and behind her came her mam and her sister. I’ve got to admit it – she looked like a sodding queen, really regal and dignified.

  The crowd gave her a great hand. There would always be a big welcome for someone who was going to show the London Lassassin what’s what.

  She took no notice of me whatsoever. She walked straight by me, Ramses and Lineker, like we didn’t exist. She swung herself up and over the ropes in one easy swing. She took over. She claimed the ring for herself.

  Round she went with her arms raised, waving and saluting like she’d already won. And the crowd loved her. They stood and cheered.

  What a star!

  ‘I’m impressed,’ I shouted up at her. ‘What do you do for an encore? Rule Britannia?’

  She came over to the ropes.

  ‘Oh, is that you, pet?’ she said. ‘Didn’t see you there.’

  Ha-bloody-ha.

  ‘Aren’t you coming up?’ she said. ‘I can’t stop around all night by meself.’

  ‘You’re making out all right,’ I said. ‘Except you could go blind, doing what you’re doing. That’s what the doctors say.’

  ‘Cheeky monkey,’ she said. ‘Give the little doggies to me mam. She’ll look after them for you.’

  Now that is class.

  ‘All right, Mrs Lewis?’ I asked.

  Mrs Lewis looked at me and she looked at the dogs. She sighed. She took the chains and went to the front row. Four men and one woman immediately got up to give her a seat. She sat.

  ‘Siddown!’ she bawled at Ramses and Lineker. That woman had a bark louder than the dogs. Well, she was Rockin’ Sherry-Lee Lewis’s mam, wasn’t she – she had to have a bit extra.

  Chapter 23

  I never go through the ropes – I go over them in a somersault. It makes me look dangerous. It makes me feel ready. I landed on my toes and strolled over to the middle of the ring.

  Some bloke in the crowd yelled, ‘Oy, slag, my groin looks better than your face!’

  ‘Come up here,’ I yelled back. ‘We’ll all have a look.’

  Sherry-Lee Lewis said, ‘What was all that ruck backstage?’

  ‘Personal,’ I said. ‘Some blokes giving me aggro.’

  The ref came over to look like he was giving us official instructions.

  ‘What’s going on, Eva?’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of strange faces in the crowd.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You best not chuck her out the ring tonight,’ the ref said to Sherry-Lee Lewis. ‘It looks like she got trouble out there.’

  ‘All right,’ she said.

  ‘Chuck me out the ring?’ I said. ‘You can try.’

  ‘Let’s get started,’ the ref said, and he went off to one side.

  We went to our corners. I looked down at Harry and he looked up at me. Years ago he would have looked down at me and I would have looked up at him. It seemed like whenever I saw Harry these days I felt sad.

  ‘Cheer up, Harry,’ I said. ‘We got a show to do.’

  ‘Be lucky, Eva,’ he said.

  The bell went, and I spun round and strutted over to meet Sherry-Lee Lewis.

  We both went down in a crouch. We circled a couple of times clockwise.

  I watched her feet and legs. She had good legs – loads of strength in the calf and femoral muscles. Her feet looked a bit slow.

  I made a lunge and she sidestepped. Yeah, a bit slow but not that slow.

  She made a lunge and I sidestepped.

  We both lunged and met with hands at shoulder level. She tried to force my arms back. I tried to force hers. Nothing doing.

  I tried to jerk her in towards me. She didn’t budge an inch. We stayed in the grapple position.

  I tried again. The idea is to drag her in and past me. As she goes past I tangle a leg and force her down. It’s a simple move.

  The tug I gave her would’ve been enough to put Bombshell in the back row of the stalls. But Bombshell is a pile of parts. Sherry-Lee Lewis is a class act.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that, flower,’ she said, coming round a bit but not very far. She circled to my right.

  Then without warning she dropped on one knee and went for my right ankle. I brought my leg up, spun on the other foot and went down on her back. She rolled out from under me and we both popped up on our toes again.

  ‘Kid’s stuff,’ I said.

  ‘That’s right, petal,’ she said. ‘I only use it on kids.’

  We went in again. Hard. She got one hand on my upper arm the other arm went behind my neck. I grabbed her elbows. Our heads clashed. I could smell her deodorant.

  She had the better hold and she began to drag me down. I resisted. She put on more force. I let go suddenly and sat, whipping my arms round her knees as I went down. Again she rolled as she came down and again we got up.

  We were learning a lot about each other.

  The ref said, ‘You finished shaking hands? Pep it up a bit, girls.’

  We circled again. I feinted for her arms. As she stepped back I dropped on one knee and grabbed her ankles. I pulled them towards me and she went over on her back with a crash that made the boards shake.

  ‘Oooh,’ went the crowd.

  I flung myself on top of her. She got her knees up, caught my weight on her feet. She kicked up and I went sailing right over her in a forward roll.

  ‘Aaah,’ went the crowd.

  It was well-timed. Nicely done. And it looked good.

  Fighting with a stranger must be like learning to dance with a new partner. You got to be a bit confident of the other person before you slip in the fancy moves.

  I ended up on my back near the ropes. She landed on my shoulders. I brought my legs up, caught her in a scissors – my knees round her head, and pulled her over me.


  Now she was on her back and I was on my knees over her face. It was time for some dirty stuff. I got up and started stomping her throat. It looks vicious and it sounds terrible, but actually I hardly touch her.

  ‘Great ugly bully!’ an old lady in the crowd screamed.

  I gave her the finger and kept stomping.

  ‘Oh-oh-oh,’ cried Sherry-Lee.

  The good bit was we were right on the edge and she was touching the ropes. The ref rushed over and said, ‘Break it up.’

  I gave her a couple of extra stomps and the ref pulled me away.

  ‘Cheat,’ yelled the crowd.

  ‘Bitch. Ugly great slag.’

  ‘Come up here and say that again,’ I yelled, leaning over the ropes.

  Sherry-Lee caught me by the left arm and spun me round.

  ‘Go on give it to her,’ yelled the crowd.

  ‘Ropes,’ she said, out the corner of her mouth.

  She wheeled me round and ran me at the far ropes. They hit me in the back. I let myself sink in, and then I catapulted out. She caught me again and threw me across the ring into the ropes on the other side. I was working up a good head of steam – thwonging off the ropes, wheeling and thwonging again.

  When I was going fast enough I gave us an extra spin in the middle of the ring and instead of me crashing the ropes I sent her in, face forward. While she was hanging there I clasped both hands together, leaped in the air and walloped down with a double forearm smash on the back of her neck. She fell to her knees and I kicked her in the face.

  It was a bit soon to do that sort of stuff. She didn’t know me well enough to trust me, and she didn’t like it. But I worked fast and I didn’t hurt her. All she felt was the breeze as my boot stopped a whisker away from her chin.

  She was good. She arched back like I’d knocked her head off.

  I hauled back for another kick. I’m good at kicking. That’s what villains do. They kick you when you’re down on your knees.

  The crowd was screaming fit to burst.

  I let fly and she went over backwards. I stood on one of her knees, picked up her other leg and started twisting her foot. The ref got down to look at her shoulders. When he was safely out the way I started biting her ankle.

  She shrieked.

  ‘Look what she’s doing!’ they shouted in the front row.