The Scrapper

by Brendan O'Carroll

  Lorenzo Menendez looked super-fit. His close-cropped, jet-black hair was shining, his skin was sleek and oiled, and as he walked down the aisle his long red satin trunks shimmered in such a way that they looked like a flame about his thighs. He moved like a ballet dancer. He looked class, and although just one pound heavier than Sparrow, to Sparrow’s mother he seemed to be twice the size of her son. Eileen didn’t even look.

  * * *

  ‘Is this him?’ Bubbles Morgan asked his older brother.

  ‘No.’ Teddy replied without seeming to open his eyes. The two men were sitting in Simon Williams’s Ford Granada outside of the Fionn McCool pub. The public house had been closed for a couple of months while it was being renovated following a fire. Their boss Simon Williams was inside attending the official re-opening party. Simon had instructed his two henchmen to wait outside in the car. The last time the Morgan brothers had been in the pub was before the fire. In fact it was just seconds before the fire, which had broken out at 3am in mysterious circumstances. Tonight Simon was attending the opening by personal invitation of the owner, who coincidentally had now taken out anti-fire insurance with Simon for a modest weekly sum. Bubbles was bored.

  ‘D’yeh know what, Teddy?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If a train was travelling at a hundred miles an hour and a fly was coming the other way and they met head-on, the train would stop!’

  Teddy slowly opened one eye and looked at his brother suspiciously.

  Bubbles detected the doubt in his brother’s myopic gaze. ‘If the fly was going a hundred miles an hour too,’ Bubbles added as if to qualify his amazing statement.

  Teddy now opened both eyes and sat up a little. ‘A fuckin’ fly can’t go a hundred miles an hour!’ There was a moment of silence before Teddy lay back again and closed his eyes.

  ‘He could if he was on a train,’ Bubbles said quietly.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Bubbles, will yeh,’ Teddy grunted. Again, for a few moments, there was silence.

  ‘Teddy?’ Bubbles asked quietly.

  ‘Now what?’ Teddy snapped.

  ‘Can I turn on the radio?’

  ‘Yeh. Just so long as ye shut up!’

  ‘Okay.’ Bubbles switched on the car radio and Jimmy Magee’s voice blasted into the car, live from the Sanmartino Stadium in Madrid. Behind his voice the crowd was manic.

  ‘The Spaniard moves forward again, two quick left jabs, both have got through. McCabe counters with a jab and right-hand drive. He didn’t catch Menendez properly, but it hurt. The Village Boy felt that one …’

  ‘Hey Teddy, it’s Sparrow’s fight!’ Bubbles enthused. Teddy did not move, but his eyes opened.

  ‘Menendez backs away, Sparrow goes after him. Oh! A three-punch combination from the Irish champion – one to the body, two to the head, lightning fast, and Menendez didn’t know where they came from. What a gutsy performance from the young man from Snuggstown. He’s not at all overawed by the champion.’

  ‘Go on, Sparrow!’ Bubbles cheered.

  ‘Shut up,’ Teddy snarled.

  ‘But he’s one of our own, Teddy,’ Bubbles countered.

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ Teddy snapped again.

  Just then the rear door of the car opened and Simon Williams climbed in. Teddy quickly turned off the radio, and started the engine.

  ‘What are you two shouting about?’ Simon asked.

  The two brothers looked at each other. ‘We were just listening to the fight, Mr Williams,’ Bubbles said.

  Simon lit a cigar. ‘Oh yeh!’ he smiled. ‘Sparrow McCabe is fighting tonight, isn’t he? Turn it back on!’

  Bubbles wore a big smile as he twisted the knob of the radio while looking at Teddy. Teddy scowled at him.

  ‘And from where I sit I can see Sparrow’s young wife, Eileen. She has her hands over her face, and well she might as the Spaniard had his best period in the fight so far. A big right hand from Menendez, and the Sparrow rocks again.’

  Simon leaned forward and spoke to Teddy. ‘Eileen? Isn’t that your old flame, Teddy?’

  Teddy didn’t reply. He fixed his gaze on the road ahead. Simon sat back. Teddy glanced in the rear-view mirror, and he could see the thin smile on Simon’s face. Barely audible and with hardly a movement of his lips Teddy mumbled, ‘Come on, Menendez.’

  * * *

  Kieran Clancy tripped lightly down the steps of the Connolly home. He was doing his impersonation of Gene Kelly. When he came to the bottom he leaped over the gate and spread his arms wide as he did a spin. Moya was standing on the porch watching him. She clapped gleefully and laughed.

  ‘Go home, you fool,’ she chided.

  ‘I’m a fool, all right, a fool for love!’ Kieran sang back.

  From an upstairs window the deep voice of Moya’s father growled. ‘Quiet, down there.’

  The two laughed. Then Kieran blew a silent kiss to Moya. She waved him away and went into the house giggling.

  Kieran was a happy man. Just a couple of months a member of the Gardaí and already he was looking at an appointment to a Dublin station. He was currently stationed in Cootehill in County Cavan. He had a long drive ahead of him tonight. He had made the drive down to Dublin that evening; one hundred miles down and one hundred miles back, all to see Moya for just one hour. It was worth it. He climbed into his Ford Escort and as he turned the ignition the radio came on automatically.

  ‘Des Kelly Carpets – we buy by the mile, so you save by the yard!’ Then came a short burst of music identifying the sports programme, and Jimmy Magee’s voice crackled across the air.

  ‘Welcome back to Madrid. Well, what a humdinger this fight has turned out to be. The first two rounds were fairly even; if anything they could be shaded in favour of Sparrow McCabe. Then Champion Menendez went to town. He pulled out all the stops; rounds three, four, and five all ending decisively in his favour. McCabe had taken a bucketful of punishment. But he was still there and came out of the sixth more determined than ever. He brought the fight to the champ and although McCabe has suffered a cut to the right eye, that I suspect came from a clash of heads, he has taken both the sixth and seventh rounds. We have three rounds to go and by my reckoning the scores are all even, but it’s McCabe who seems to be getting on top. From here I can see trainer Tommy Molloy and McCabe’s cut-man Johnny Brough working furiously on that cut now; if they can keep it closed the Irish boy could just about take this title, and he would certainly deserve it. There’s the bell for the eighth round.’

  Kieran had by now pulled onto the Navan road and was heading north. He settled back with a smile of admiration on his face to listen to the rest of the fight.

  ‘Fair play to you, Sparrow,’ he said aloud and slapped his thigh.

  * * *

  The bell clanged loudly for the eighth round. Sparrow could hear it, but it seemed to be miles away, not just in another place but in another dimension.

  ‘He’s on the run! Go after him!’ Molloy’s voice boomed at Sparrow. Sparrow felt the pressure of his cut-man’s thumb coming off his eye.

  ‘Keep it covered, for fuck’s sake – don’t let him open it anymore,’ Johnny Brough roared.

  The perspiration was stinging Sparrow’s eyes. He stood up, and felt the stool rub across the backs of his legs as it was whipped away from beneath him. Molloy rammed the gumshield into Sparrow’s mouth. It was in crooked. Sparrow straightened it with his tongue. With three paces Sparrow was in the centre of the ring. He was alone. Menendez had not arrived yet. Sparrow knew it then. He knew Menendez had lost his thirst for the fight. It’s all over, he thought. I have him.

  ‘Keep it covered,’ came the scream from his corner. ‘Keep the fuckin’ thing covered,’ they shouted again.

  What? Sparrow thought. Oh yeh, the eye.

  Menendez came into focus. He had both gloves in front of his face, and all that was visible to Sparrow was a little triangle, an eye in each corner and the bridge of a nose at the bottom. Menendez’s body was exposed
.

  Sparrow let fly a right. Menendez’s eyes bulged at the impact just below his ribcage. A burst of air left his lungs, carrying blood-soaked spittle with it as it gushed from the Spaniard’s mouth. Sparrow was sprayed with blood.

  Sparrow’s mind was on automatic now: throw a second body-punch – quick – before he has a chance to breathe – when the lungs are deflated, that’s when the ribs are at their most vulnerable.

  The punch left Sparrow’s shoulder even before the thought was complete. Thud! Followed by a crack. One of the Spaniard’s ribs had gone; Sparrow’s eyes widened with the recognition of the sound of bone shattering. The training, the practice, the pain, the sweat, it was all coming to fruition. Sparrow’s instinct knew what to do. He dropped his shoulder to feign a third body-punch. If the text books were right the Spaniard should drop his arms to cover the injured rib. The text books were right. As if in slow motion Sparrow saw the gloves of the Spaniard drop from his face. He was wide open. The Spaniard realised his mistake when his gloves had reached his chest. Too late. The momentum allowed the Spaniard’s gloves to sink another three inches before he began to bring them back up. Too late. Sparrow was focused on his spot.

  ‘Catch him clean!’ he heard Molloy scream from the corner as he threw his body behind the upper-cut. Right on the button. The speed and power from the punch threw the Spaniard’s head back far enough to cut off the blood supply momentarily from the spine to the brain. His legs began to buckle. Menendez staggered back against the ropes. The crowd screamed in anguish. Above the din Macker screamed, ‘Kill him! Go for it, kill him!’

  Sparrow advanced quickly on Menendez. To prevent himself from falling through the ropes Menendez spread his arms wide. It was all over. Sparrow placed his left leg forward to give himself perfect leverage for the final punch. As his foot planted itself squarely on the canvas Sparrow drew back his right arm. The Spaniard knew what was coming. He could do nothing but wait for that millisecond it would take for Sparrow’s punch to arrive. He felt so, so tired. The pain of his shattered ribs was so fierce that he couldn’t breathe. In a way, the punch would be welcome.

  * * *

  Simple Simon leaned forward, excitement in his face. He tried to get closer to the radio; he felt as if he was in the ring with Sparrow.

  ‘Go for it, Sparrow,’ Bubbles cried.

  ‘Kill him, kill him!’ Simon growled.

  * * *

  Kieran Clancy had passed through Navan and was heading for Kells. He was slapping the dashboard of the Ford Escort.

  ‘Go for it! Go on, Sparrow! Take your chance now!’ His radio boomed out the commentary.

  ‘What a beautiful upper-cut! The Spaniard staggers away. He’s going down – no! Saved by the ropes. McCabe moves forward, he winds up for the big one …’

  * * *

  Simple Simon was banging the back of Teddy’s seat. He was jumping up and down like a little child. ‘Nail him! Nail him!’

  * * *

  Kieran Clancy’s car wobbled slightly on the road as he banged the steering wheel. ‘Yes, Sparrow! Throw the punch, throw the punch!’

  * * *

  Menendez looked up into Sparrow’s face; he wished to be eyeball-to-eyeball with his opponent as he went out. He expected to see that look he had seen before, the savage, lustful animal look of the beast as it finishes off the prey. But that’s not what he saw. He saw tears, he saw doubt – the punch was not coming.

  Sparrow watched as Menendez stumbled away after the upper-cut. It was clumsy. It reminded Sparrow of the way a beautiful bird falls, when it is shot from the skies. As soon as the bullet pierced its downy body it ceased to be a bird. For a bird has grace. Style. It has dynamic in its movement. So this thing that falls, tumbling, ugly, from the air is no longer a bird. Instinctively Sparrow followed his target. Automatically he positioned himself perfectly. Of its own accord his right arm wound up for the final punch. He focused on Menendez’s face. It was battered, bloody and bruised. It was ugly. This is no longer a fighter, Sparrow thought. The man was beaten. Victory was one thing, but humiliation another. For a moment the Spaniard’s face changed to Sparrow’s own face.

  Sparrow sprang back.

  ‘Jesus Christ!! What are you doing? Finish him off!’ came the scream from his corner. Even the referee now looked at Sparrow, puzzled. Concerned that Sparrow had seen something in the Spaniard’s face that he had not, the referee tried to move closer to check.

  Tommy Molloy was slamming the canvas with his hands, screaming. ‘What in God’s name are you doing, Sparrow? Throw the fuckin’ punch!’

  Sparrow turned to Tommy and indicated with a wave of his gloves that everything was all right, he knew he had done enough. This was his second mistake. The referee felt himself being pushed aside as Menendez lunged passed him. Sparrow’s hands were down by his sides and he was mouthing something to his corner. The Spaniard let fly.

  Three hours later Sparrow sat ashen-faced in the waiting room of St Bernadette’s hospital just a mile from the stadium, the anguish of defeat completely overshadowed by Eileen’s delivery of their stillborn daughter. Rita McCabe was right: boxing is not a sport for mothers.

  PART TWO

  (1996 – fourteen years later)

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tuesday, 3 December 1996

  IN THE KILMOON HOUSE HOTEL one hundred and sixty people were gathered, all either members or guests of the Kilmoon Chamber of Commerce. They had come together to be addressed by Bernard McCarthy. A member of the Dáil, the Irish Parliament, for twenty-five years, McCarthy was now a Junior Minister with the dubious portfolio of Industrial Incentive. Nobody in the general public knew exactly what Industrial Incentive meant or indeed what this Junior Minister should be doing, and this seemed to suit Bernard McCarthy fine. At every Chamber of Commerce annual lunch it was customary to have a guest speaker – the status of your speaker usually reflected the status of your Chamber of Commerce. The attendance today of a Junior Minister put the Kilmoon Junior Chamber of Commerce in the top twenty percent, so regardless of what Bernard McCarthy said the members would be happy enough. This was just as well, for Bernard McCarthy, after many years in politics, had perfected a talent for spending thirty-five minutes saying absolutely nothing. He would punctuate his speech with remarks like, ‘And I pledge to you’, or one of his favourites, ‘My integrity is well known within this constituency.’

  In the carpark of the hotel just at the back of the function room the Minister’s limousine waited, along with its chauffeur. Just outside the door of the function room itself stood the Minister’s two police bodyguards.

  Kieran Clancy’s eyebrows shot up as he heard Bernard McCarthy use a new phrase: ‘I cannot stress enough how highly I regard the work of the Chambers of Commerce in this country; they are the driving force of the machinery of my office.’ Kieran smiled wryly. In the fourteen years since his graduation from Templemore, Kieran Clancy had arrived where he wanted to be and yet was nowhere near what he wanted to be. He had married the Commissioner’s daughter Moya Connolly twelve years before, and had worked his way up to Detective Sergeant, as he predicted he would. There were many that derided his promotions as favours granted to the son-in-law of a Police Commissioner, but they had no idea of the hard work Kieran had put in, nor did they take the trouble to check that he had graduated top of each class he had ever attended. The rumours never bothered him.

  What did bother him was that, having made it all the way to Detective Sergeant, he had now become a babysitter. He had spent the last eight years attached to Dublin Castle, and had gained the title ‘Special Detective’, but the only thing special about being a Special Detective as far as Kieran was concerned was that there was nothing to do. Day after day, he escorted politicians or high-ranking civil servants to and from meetings.

  An elderly woman pushed the heavy door of the function room trying to get out. Kieran grabbed the brass handle and pulled it open for her. The woman smiled her thanks, nodded towards the room and remarked, ‘I
sn’t he very good!’

  ‘He’s a wanker,’ Kieran mumbled.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ the old lady asked.

  ‘I said thank you,’ Kieran spoke out loud. The woman seemed satisfied and left. Kieran looked down the corridor. Around the corner at the bottom he saw an arm appear. It was pointed straight out and in the hand was a Webley automatic pistol. Slowly the figure of a man crept around the corner, crouched ready for action. The man made the sound of gunfire as he came towards Kieran, still half-crouched.

  Kieran grinned. ‘Will you put that thing away!’

  The figure now stood erect; he was tall and lean with ginger hair. He pulled back the left side of his jacket to reveal a hip holster for the Webley. Spinning the gun on one finger like John Wayne, he slipped the Webley back into its holster.

  ‘Is he still talking?’ Michael Malone asked.

  Kieran simply nodded. He took out a cigarette and lit it. The only time Kieran had ever asked his father-in-law for a favour was when he had been appointed as a Special Detective – he asked would it be possible to transfer Michael Malone to the same unit. The Commissioner pulled a few strings, Malone was transferred and the two men became partners. Kieran and Michael had been solid friends since Templemore. They’d been roommates there, had graduated together, and Michael had been Kieran’s Best Man.

  ‘What are you doing tonight, Kieran?’ Malone asked.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Fancy a game of snooker?’ Malone tried to enthuse Kieran.

  ‘Yes. Sure, why not.’

  From inside they heard a round of applause. Kieran quickly stubbed out his cigarette, straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket.

  As usual McCarthy simply came through the doors and walked past the detectives. To him they were like office furniture. The chauffeur held the door open for the Minister, who climbed into the back seat. Within seconds the limousine, followed by Kieran Clancy and Michael Malone in an unmarked detective car, left the carpark of the hotel in convoy.