The Scrapper

by Brendan O'Carroll

  * * *

  Kandy Korner store, Snuggstown, 12.45pm

  When Dublin Corporation decided to close the tenement buildings of Dublin and knock them down, they created in a semi-circle on the north side of the city a whole new batch of satellite towns. In some cases these were already established outlying villages that were simply expanded into towns. In other cases, as was the case in Snuggstown, a whole new town was built in what had once been green fields. Snuggstown was now the largest of the satellite towns: ninety-six thousand people living in four square miles. Although well laid out, Snuggstown had not been well planned. Now this may sound contradictory, but consider this: the new town of Snuggstown was twenty-five years old. There was no cinema in Snuggstown. There was no park in Snuggstown. There was no rail service to Snuggstown. There were only three children’s playgrounds in Snuggstown. There was one police station in Snuggstown, and at any given time there were just twelve officers on duty. This meant one officer to approximately nine thousand people. So it was that Snuggstown was impossible to police. The police had, in fact, long ago become spectators to the goings-on in the place. The gangster community of Chicago, New York and the other major cities of America had learned in the 1920s that to make crime a sensitive political issue was not a good thing, so they split the cities into specific areas over which individual gangs or families had reign. This stopped inter-gang squabbling, kept crime out of the newspapers and thus off of the politicians’ table. Since then most American crime has been organised like this – hence ‘organised crime’.

  In Snuggstown, organised crime meant Simple Simon Williams. Simon was now lord of anything illicit that moved in Snuggstown – be it drugs, protection, prostitution and the fencing of all major transactions. Simon Williams was Lord of the Manor. There were of course other drug dealers in Snuggstown, and Simon tolerated them – but only because their wholesale supply came from him. As he had predicted fifteen years previously, Simon Williams owned Snuggstown. The two henchmen who had started with him, Teddy and Bubbles Morgan, were now his lieutenants. They did Williams’s running and fetching, and in return he paid them well and ignored their own little scams, such as the mickey-mouse shop protection racket they ran. It gave them a few bob, he thought, and it made them feel important.

  Mind you, nothing could ever make them look important. At that moment Bubbles Morgan looked decidedly unimportant. The thirty-three-year-old man stood in a newsagent’s shop reading a children’s comic. He laughed aloud. His brother Teddy, standing just fifteen feet away from Bubbles at the newsagent’s counter, was not laughing, and neither was the newsagent Teddy was talking to.

  ‘Listen, Mr McArthur, it’s community insurance. You pay the insurance and me and Mr Williams will make sure you don’t have any trouble from the community, okay?’ Teddy had a scowl on his face as he outlined the deal.

  ‘I’ve had to close early every night this week. My wife has been sick, you see …’ the newsagent pleaded.

  ‘Tell me, Mr McArthur, do I look like a fuckin’ doctor?’ Teddy extended his hand.

  Without further comment or argument the newsagent opened the drawer of the till, picked out some notes and put them into Teddy’s hand. Before he had even closed the till Teddy had put the notes in his pocket and turned his back. As he walked past his brother on the way out he had to stop and retrace his steps. He tapped Bubbles on the shoulder and signalled him to come on. Bubbles first went to put the comic down and then changed his mind. He rolled it up, stuffed it in his inside pocket, smiled at the newsagent and they both left.

  St Thomas’s Boxing Club, 1.00pm

  St Thomas’s Boxing Club had been turning young Northside Dubliners into boxers since its foundation in nineteen sixty-one. In its thirty-five-year history it had turned out six Olympic boxers. These Olympians were commemorated in the club building itself with life-size portraits down the south wall of the building. Well, actually, five life-size portraits and one larger-than-life portrait of their greatest hero, Sparrow McCabe. Over that period, of course, trainers came and trainers went. Committees changed, but unfortunately, through the usual lack of funding, very little of the decor had, though the equipment over the years had been updated.

  If ever proof were needed that old boxers never die, one would just need to take a walk through the locker rooms in St Thomas’s Club. There the elderly, retired boxers and trainers would gather every day for games of cards or games of chess or just to sit and talk, all of them suffering from the ‘I could have been a contender’ syndrome.

  There had been one constant in St Thomas’s Boxing Club over the past fifteen years. That constant was ‘Froggy’ Campbell. Every day Froggy would open the club first thing in the morning and would be the last one to leave when he locked it last thing at night. For this Froggy received no payment. Nor did he seek any. For the world of St Thomas’s Boxing Club was Froggy’s world. Froggy was thirty years of age, and it was believed that lack of oxygen at birth had caused Froggy’s brain damage. At first everyone thought he was just deaf, but as he got older and special school followed special school, it was discovered that Froggy was trainable but not teachable. A difficult situation to explain, but best described by his mother when she would say, ‘Froggy can be trained how to dress himself but he will never learn why he has to.’

  A big man and perfectly healthy in every way, if a bit overweight, Froggy had the mind of a six-year-old child. He mopped out the showers, swept the gym, washed the windows, and spent his entire day shuffling from one task to another, always with a smile on his face. Froggy had two passions in his life. One was boxing, obviously. The other was his polaroid camera. The latter interest began when Froggy was sixteen years of age and he got his first camera. He’d been given it as a present from Madrid by Sparrow McCabe, the man whose portrait was bigger than any other on the club wall.

  Froggy never understood what had happened to Sparrow in Spain, but he did remember that Sparrow was very sad when he returned. Still, he had taken the camera out of its box and loaded the film, showing Froggy how to work it. Froggy immediately took his very first photograph, a black-and-white head-and-shoulder shot of a very sad Sparrow McCabe.

  It was Sparrow who had taken Froggy to the gym for the very first time. Sparrow had often met the retarded boy, then only fifteen years of age, as he walked to the gym. Every day the boy would smile and say, ‘Hello.’ And one day Sparrow stopped to talk to him. It had been a strange conversation, for at that time Froggy’s vocabulary revolved around four words: Yes, Thank you, Mammy, and of course, Hello.

  Sparrow was in training every day then, and he would call to Froggy’s house at the same time each day, and with Froggy’s mother’s permission take him by the hand down to the gym. Sparrow would be the last to leave, so he would lock up, take Froggy by the hand and walk him back home. After six months of this, Froggy began to make his own way to the gym. And because the pattern had been set, he would insist on being the last to leave the building.

  Nowadays Sparrow trained only two or three times a week – and one couldn’t really call it training, it was more of a work-out. But this didn’t break Froggy’s routine; it was easier for his mother to let him go to the gym every day than to try to un-train him.

  Today was one of Sparrow’s work-out days. Froggy was sweeping around the ring, for the tenth time, and all the while his eyes never left Sparrow McCabe, who was working-out on a punch-bag. Froggy was dressed in ill-fitting boxer shorts and vest, ordinary street shoes and socks, and had his latest polaroid camera hanging around his neck. His camera had been updated four times. This latest one even spoke to him. Just as he pressed the button a little voice would say, ‘Watch the birdie!’ Where the other three had been bought over the years by Sparrow, this latest one was a Christmas present from all the boxers who used the gym.

  Froggy laid his brush against the edge of the ring and shuffled over to where Sparrow was now furiously working the bag. He lifted his camera. Snap and flash. There was a whirring sound as
the camera spit out its photo. Waving it like a fan, Froggy shuffled towards the locker-room, past two older men playing chess. Both players had been boxers for years and looked like they’d been hit in the face by the same frying pan, their features identically flat. Just as Froggy passed, one of them made a move. ‘What kind of a fuckin’ move was that?’ demanded one of the men watching the game. ‘What would you know?’ the one who’d made the move asked. ‘I know this much, if I was the king on your board I’d be chargin’ you with fuckin’ treason.’ The men laughed, but all this meant nothing to Froggy.

  Oblivious to it all, Froggy made his way to the lockers. He opened the door of his own locker and placed the new photograph of Sparrow on top of piles and piles of photographs. Froggy had kept every photograph he had ever taken. Froggy then went to the showers and turned one on. He checked that there was soap in the soap tray. Then carefully laid a large towel outside the door of the shower for Sparrow. He whipped up a smaller towel and headed back to Sparrow.

  Back at the punch-bag, Sparrow was working furiously. He threw a right-left-right combination. His body weaved right and left, his stance continually changing as the bag swung back and forth. Perspiration was running down his face and down his back and shoulders. Each punch of the bag was punctuated by a grunt. In his mind Sparrow heard the crowd scream. He threw a stiff right into the middle of the bag – and saw the Spaniard stagger away. He heard Molloy scream from the corner, ‘Finish it now, finish it now.’ As tears began to stream from his eyes, he jabbed the bag twice and threw a right hook. He saw his father, now deceased, standing and shouting, ‘Yes Sparrow, yes Sparrow, this is it.’ Sparrow stopped. With the suspension rope squeaking the bag swung from side to side. Sparrow stood, frozen, in front of it. Slowly he extended his hands and steadied the bag. Slowly he raised his right hand to his mouth and bit at the velcro on the mit. He repeated the action with the other hand and tossed the mits on the floor beneath the bag. With his head down he began to make his way to the locker room.

  He was stopped on the way by Froggy. ‘Will we box now, Sparrow? Come on, I box yeh!’ Froggy’s voice was enthusiastic.

  Sparrow tried to fob him off. All around them were other boxers who had been training or working-out. They began to wind down and smile over at the two men, knowing what was coming. The Froggy-versus-Sparrow bouts had become a ritual of Sparrow’s work-out days. Sparrow didn’t feel like it tonight, but then he looked into Froggy’s face: he was so excited, his eyes dancing in his head. Sparrow smiled and put his hand on Froggy’s shoulder.

  ‘Okay then, come on, Froggy – yeh killer!’

  ‘Ooo … gonna knock you fuckin’ block off, Spawoo!’ was Froggy’s cry as he quickly made his way to the ring. The two men climbed into the ring and interrupted two sparring boxers. The training all around the gym stopped and the boys and men gathered around. Two trainers, Duffy and Flynn, hopped into the ring to be Froggy’s seconds, and in the other corner one of the young boxers helped Sparrow on with his gloves. Froggy sat on the stool in the corner as if preparing for a world title fight. Flynn helped him on with his gloves, and while doing this he spoke to Froggy.

  ‘Froggy, listen, this is important. Never smoke in the cinema – and close the cover before striking.’

  Froggy looked up into Flynn’s face and nodded. ‘Okay, boss.’

  Now Duffy joined in. ‘Froggy, never piss while the train is stopped in the station.’

  Froggy looked at Flynn. ‘Okay, boss.’

  Someone hit the bell and the two boxers rose to their feet. Just as Froggy was about to make his way out of the corner, Flynn called after him.

  ‘Oh – and Froggy.’

  Froggy spun around quickly to look at Flynn. ‘Yes, boss?’

  ‘Knock his fuckin’ block off!’ Flynn imparted this last bit of coaching with a smile and a wink.

  Froggy smiled back. ‘Okay, boss.’

  The fighters met in the middle. They touched gloves, the ringsiders now beginning to cheer for Froggy. Froggy began to hop around the ring, hinting at the origin of his nickname.

  ‘Yer goin’ down, Froggy. I’ve got yeh this time, man. Yeh ain’t got a chance, man.’ Sparrow pretended to be angry.

  ‘Knock yer fuckin’ block off!’ Froggy returned.

  The mock fight began. Sparrow pretended to, but never actually threw a punch. Froggy was throwing awkward punches that landed on Sparrow, but were completely harmless. Eventually, as Froggy began to work up a sweat, he swung a wide right that caught Sparrow on the shoulder. Sparrow staggered and hit the canvas. Flynn jumped into the ring and began the count. Froggy was still hopping around the ring. The ringsiders joined in the count with Flynn.

  ‘Seven – eight – nine – he’s out!’ They all began to shout and cheer and clap, and Froggy danced around the ring like the world champion, the ringsiders slapping his gloves and giving him the thumbs-up sign. Sparrow staggered back to his corner, smiling. Froggy shuffled over to Sparrow’s corner.

  ‘Hard luck, Spawoo. Maybe tomowoo?’ he consoled him.

  The youngster in the corner tugged the gloves off Sparrow’s hands. Sparrow stood and put his arm around Froggy’s shoulder.

  ‘I’ve been saying that for fifteen years now, Froggy, but you’re just too good, Froggy, you’re just too good!’ The two men hugged and everybody went back to training. Once again, Sparrow headed for the locker room, exchanging greetings with some of the other boxers and the older men.

  One of the old men called out, ‘Sparrow, have yeh heard about old Eddie dyin’ on his holidays in the Isle of Man?’

  ‘Yeh, I heard that, Tom,’ said Sparrow. ‘A bit of bad luck! Eddie was a good auld skin.’

  ‘They’re flyin’ him home at the weekend. The funeral’s Monday morning at eleven o’clock in St John’s church.’

  ‘Yeh, I know, Tom. Me and Eileen will be there.’

  ‘Good man, Sparrow, you’re a good man.’ The older man rubbed his hand across Sparrow’s shoulders with genuine warmth and finished with the customary slap on the neck.

  Sparrow headed for the shower. Like a mischievous little child, Froggy sneaked into the shower area, tiptoed up to Sparrow’s shower and aimed the camera into the cubicle. Click, flash, whirr. Froggy ran away giggling. Passing the group of old men he said, ‘I got picture of Spawoo’s willie.’

  ‘Oh yeh? Well, why don’t you get it enlarged for him, son?’ answered one of them. The locker room burst into laughter.

  In the shower cubicle Sparrow stood with his arms spread-eagled up against the wall as the steaming water rolled down his face. He had his eyes closed. In the background he heard the laughter of the old men. Sparrow wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t looking forward to this funeral tomorrow, he hated funerals. In the last few years he had attended so many, two of which broke his heart – his mother’s and his father’s. Within a year of the fight in Madrid, Sparrow’s mother Rita had died from cancer. Macker was never the same after the triple blow of losing his granddaughter, his dreams in Madrid, and then his wife within a year. He died four years later, some say of a broken heart. Sparrow didn’t know if that was true but he often felt guilty for giving up boxing professionally immediately after Madrid. From that day on Macker had never had an opportunity or a reason to whip out his penis again.

  * * *

  Main Street, Snuggstown, 1.45pm

  Kieran Clancy had his elbow resting on the window of the car and leaned his head against his hand, using only one hand, his left, to drive the police car. They’d been tailing the Minister’s limousine for thirty-five or forty minutes now. The Minister was heading, Kieran assumed, back to Dáil Eireann – assumed, because the Minister never said where he was going, so they just tailed him. Detective Malone sat quietly in the passenger seat. It was sunny for December and on the footpath some girls had ventured out in mini skirts. Malone watched them all with a smile on his face.

  ‘I love this job,’ Malone commented out of the blue.

  ‘I hate this job,’ Cl
ancy retorted.

  Michael turned his full attention to Clancy. ‘Kieran Clancy! I never thought I’d hear the day when you’d say you hate being a copper.’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. I’ve always wanted to be a policeman. I just hate this – babysitting these shit-heads.’

  ‘Now, wait a minute, Kieran, it’s an important job. After all, he is a Minister.’

  ‘Minister for crapology. Let me tell you, Michael, the only person who might shoot that fella is one of the gobshites that voted for him.’ As Clancy said this he pointed straight ahead at the ministerial limousine, and Michael’s gaze followed. The left indicator went on and it began to pull in. The police car followed suit.

  ‘Now what’s he up to?’ They saw the chauffeur climb out of the driver’s door and quickly make his way around to the Minister’s door. He held it open for the Minister, who left the car hurriedly and entered a doorway. ‘What in God’s name …?’ Clancy was mumbling as he climbed out of his car. He didn’t have to ask – it was written all over the chauffeur’s face. ‘He’s gone for a … a rub, says he’s a bit stiff,’ the chauffeur explained, nodding towards the doorway. Clancy turned and looked at the sign over the doorway. The tacky sign read ‘Medusa Massage’.

  Clancy threw his eyes in the air and returned to his car, shaking his head. Michael was now out of the car and waiting for Clancy’s return. Kieran took his packet of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, turned his collar up and leaned back against the car.

  ‘So what’s up?’ Michael asked.

  With the smoking cigarette between his lips Kieran nodded towards the doorway. ‘Your Minister pal has gone for a wank!’