The Boxer's Dreams of Love

by philip boyle

  desolate street where he could drop her like an empty wrapper. ‘Cheers,’ Manny grinned as a glass appeared in front of him. She looked around for something to cheer herself. She saw the phone

  in the corner. She felt for the coins in her pocket. Her mobile had been

  discarded along the way, probably buried in the snow, its secrets frozen. ‘Eddie. Did he say anything? About me?’

  CHAPTER 38

  Eddie tries to get to Brighton The rain like bullets on the window. The unnatural cry of the wind that ghosted down the street outside. He checked to make sure the window was closed properly. He could feel a draught from somewhere. Maybe it was inside him. His hair rested on the edge of the bed that squeaked and groaned under the tiniest movement. And as for the couple next door, it probably wouldn’t be long until they were back from their little trip. Tommy hoped it would have tired them out so that they could all have a good night’s sleep.

  That wasn’t the reason and he knew it. Why his mind couldn’t rest, why it spluttered off in all directions at once. This was not the retirement he had planned, not the golden beach under a thousand suns. He checked his phone. He wasn’t going to try again, not tonight. What the fuck was he calling him for anyway? What was he going to say? How’s the house, are you looking after the garden, oh, and by the way, Stephen, I have done terrible, terrible things. And all because… why? Two steps from the bed and you were in the bathroom, that’s how small this hovel of a hotel was.

  He ate in the hotel restaurant with frosted glass windows, saw his own breath hover reluctantly over the plate of inedible food beneath. Two couples accompanied him through this last supper. He had come to that point where he knew he couldn’t remain as he used to be. He’d bought a new wig and it itched like hell. He’d purchased a new, second-hand suit and he could smell the spirit of its previous owner in every fibre.

  His phone sat silent and obedient beside the salt cellar. Zinny wasn’t answering, didn’t want to talk clearly, he could understand that. He was the last link in the chain, the last vestige of hope in this horrible world. Mr. Zinny would do one of two things, Tommy was certain. He would give up his, Tommy’s, name in order to save his soul or he would find Tommy himself.

  ‘I’ll find you,’ Tommy said out loud and the residents lifted their cobwebbed heads for a moment before settling back down. Tommy wanted to see the house, the view of the ocean, the smell of salt sea, the acrimony in the Brighton air. He had hated it when he lived there. He had bought the place because he could. Awash with cash that flowed in with the tide and never seemed to go out. But it didn’t bring him what he wanted. What everyone wanted. Sooner or later everyone goes home. And he was a long way from home.

  Dublin had been a nightmare bled from a dream. A wound that wouldn’t heal, a voice that wouldn’t stop screaming in his head. They had a description alright but a different name. They had him on camera in the hotel corridor. They had two witnesses, that rough-hewn elderly couple who Tommy hoped would live on with that knowledge forever lodged in their dull minds. Someone would put it together, someone would know who he really was. Or maybe they wouldn’t. They wouldn’t believe it possible. But surely Zinny, surely. And so, here he was, out on the margins, in a small town in the west of Ireland, whose name constantly escaped him, in an insignificant hotel, with his new hair sitting proudly on his head.

  Waiting for the songs to come back. They still phoned him from the clubs, from the basement bars. They still phoned him, the begging buskers desperate for gigs, desperate for a break. A part of him cried for their sorrows. He was busy, he said, away on business, personal business, he’d be back. He hadn’t realized that they, or anybody, would miss him. And he knew he would never be back. Wouldn’t recognize me anyway, he thought, he smiled and then he saw the green stockinged feet of the woman standing beside his table.

  ‘You want some dessert?’ she croaked as she took away the stillalmost-full plate.

  ‘No, thanks.’ He saw the light flash on the phone heralding the call he’d been waiting for. ‘Sorry,’ he said as he reached for it.

  ‘Hello?’

  The woman had distracted him and now the accent threw him. Irish brogue, brogue, Brogan. He ended the call before it began and turned off the phone.

  He hurried from the restaurant, from the hotel, from the voices in his head.

  Eddie frowned at his phone. Pressed the redial button and heard the dead connection. Doesn’t matter, anyway. The house can do as it pleases, let someone else live there freely and enjoy it’s cold damp pleasures. No fond reminiscence, no tears of regret. But surprisingly, five minutes down the road, under the first flakes of the blizzard that was to come, he remembered holding Edie after she’d first come out of the hospital. He looked back even though he couldn’t see the house any longer. He had left the keys of the house under a piece of stray wood by the front door. He wasn’t going back there.

  He was waiting for a bus and stuck out his hand for a taxi, feeling guilty about the expense. But the less he had the more he felt like spending it. The driver talked and talked and Eddie heard none of it. He was wondering again where his car was.

  ‘Stop!’ Eddie heard himself shout. The taxi slid to a halt on the slippery road and the car behind bleated angrily.

  ‘Wha’ the fuck?’

  Eddie was out of the vehicle in a moment, the bag still stuck to his hand like a tattoo. It wasn’t her, wasn’t he knew, but still. She walked ahead, slightly leaning to one side, maybe to counteract the weight of her bag which seemed weighted down with the worries of the world.

  It wasn’t her, he knew, but still he touched her on the shoulder and she wheeled around. He could smell the drink on her breath, saw the wild wide eyes that couldn’t believe it was daylight. It was Linda part two, maybe three but not the Linda he knew.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said and instead of the abuse which he expected, deserved, instead she looked with frightened, fretful eyes that wanted to be taken care of. She wanted to be that person he was looking for.

  ‘No reason to be sorry, no reason at all.’

  The taxi had waited, the driver pretending to be angrier than he really was, and the journey to the airport continued. Eddie looked behind and she was already gone, the road was gone, and the whole world was turning white.

  The road had disappeared now, there was a flashing red light an indeterminate distance ahead and the driver hurled unheeded abuse through the clouded windscreen. Eddie looked at his watch, knew he wasn’t going to make it and wondered why he was in such a hurry. If the world was coming to an end surely he should try to slow everything down. He watched the meter on the dashboard in front. He watched the bristled cheek of the driver, whispering soft whistles under his breath. The static of the radio cradled a distant world where white was now the order of the day. Outside, a symphony of car horns, music angry and angular.

  ‘Gonna be a while,’ the whiskey voice from the front said, settling back, calm and easy, eyes drifting like the flakes above the lush ground. At least he had turned off the meter.

  Snow, snow, quick, quick snow. Eddie didn’t think it was funny and he didn’t laugh. So why had he thought of it at all? The wind whistled like a lone hungry wolf. Past cars frozen and abandoned, windows with drawn blinds of condensation. The crunch of his shoes on the soft virgin snow reminded him of childhood winter days that had never really existed. Other vain creatures like him roamed the bleak roads on the outskirts of the airport, clawing their way towards the gleaming glass buildings where all flights would be grounded. Should have taken the train after all, but he hadn’t wanted to waste all those hours getting there. And he’d have to get a train anyway from the airport. There was no roar of rushing engines, no sight of silver angel wings rising above all this. He had no gloves and the hand that gripped the bag had turned the colour of ruby red. He thought of all the nights his hands had rested in buckets of ice to dull the pain and the bruises after fights. Now the weak and turret limbs made him whimper like a child.r />
  And for what? The taxi was a few hundred yards behind. It was easier to look back than forward, the rapier wind flowing in that direction. He could hardly see in any direction and he wondered how all of this could have happened so quickly. Was nature so different from life?

  And all for what? For the stale memories of Brighton, for the forlorn hopes of what lay ahead, for the desperate crazy dreams of finding a man the rest of the world could not find. And what then? Eddie turned and faced the blinding way ahead and yearned for the warmth of the terminal, that couldn’t be much further. He may well be stuck there for God knows how long but he’d be out of this. It was then that he slipped and dug his kneecap against the side of a black Mercedes. The agony was stubbornly strong and he couldn’t help but slide down into the sludge alongside the vehicle where he waited for the venomous driver to emerge and threaten further violence. For a moment he lay with his head in a blanket of snow. Further flakes floated mournfully down and in those seconds the world was silent, epic, beautiful. He could stay here forever and dream. And dream.

  ‘What?’ The sound of her own voice frightened her. There was something soft and wet in the corner of one eye. The world was on its side. White slowmotion rain that melted on her face. Her own breath heaved cantankerous wheezes. Her legs throbbed with a dull pain from something she didn’t care to remember. It remained thankfully out of her reach. She was afraid to move, afraid to register the true facts of her injuries. Maybe there were none. She was on the street, she knew that. The cobbled surface underneath her was a blanket of packed snow and fallen rain that seeped into her clothes. Her brain was now catching up with her eyes, her thoughts chasing her vision. Memories following hard, regretfully, after.

  Linda heard the approaching feet, then saw them, black thick shiny shoes, two pairs, she had to crane her neck to see the rest of the bodies attached to those feet. Uniforms flecked with flakes that melted as soon they found their resting place. The faces of the policemen looked like teenagers to her. She knew she had to get to her feet before they were upon her although she realized how impossible that was going to be. Maybe they would pass her by, float over her invisible form, maybe she was dead.

  She grumbled to her feet, stumbled again, cracked her right knee but had no time to experience the pain. She tottered, staggered, tried to fix her hair that felt like clotted cream. She saw her bag on the ground, dirty, the contents on the edge, sliding out. She reached for it and felt their shadows beside her. Too late. Whatever story was about to crawl out of her mouth would contain hardly an ounce of conviction. She hadn’t the energy to pretend otherwise.

  ‘No,’ she answered to their first, obvious question. She was not alright at all. She wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong or how precisely she had gotten here. Wherever here was. She presumed she was still in Edinburgh. Where am I, she asked? They looked at each other and shook their heads. They wouldn’t answer her question, as if it was a state secret. They asked her to accompany them to the station. She would have gone anywhere to get out of the cold, get out of this place, where ever this place was.

  She sat in the back of their car and turned her head, looking at the space beside her, thinking of the last time she’d been in this situation. The car slid on the white road and she knocked her head against the window. They were slowing down, then they were moving over to the side of the road, then they were stopping. Everyone else appeared to stop at the same time. Have I caused this, she wondered? She smiled to herself, suddenly craving a drink, vodka, she could almost feel the fierce fire breath of it in her mouth. Eddie. She had been supposed to meet him. Ages ago it seemed, probably only hours. As if the dream was replaying in her head, they passed the spot at which they had parted. There was now a young couple locked in a cold embrace, laughing. Eddie had asked her out for a drink. He was a strange man. She could feel the desire there, all the time, he wanted it but something always held him back. Even that one time, she thought he had made himself believe that he was with someone else. Her, her , her. But she was dead, wasn’t she? The car attempted to move and managed a few meandering yards into the centre of the road. The driver was cursing and his colleague just hurled further abuse at him. They obviously weren’t meant to go anywhere. They appeared to have forgotten about her. She knew the doors would be locked so her starry idea of escape was abandoned almost as soon as it was imagined. Outside was all one colour, dark figures bowed their heads in fruitless attempts to move through it. A man on the other side slipped and spilled the contents of his shopping bag on the pavement, a spark of real colour in the coming gloom.

  One of the teenage cops turned to look back at her. The contempt on his face was a living breathing pulse. Clearly, he, they believed she was to blame for all this. If she hadn’t been lying in the street, they could have escaped all this somehow. He looked at her and spoke to his colleague.

  ‘What the fuck are we going to do with her?’

  ‘Is she alive?’

  ‘Hey!’ he shouted as if she was deaf or a long way away. ‘Hey yourself,’ she countered, adding another layer of resentment on

  his part.

  ‘She seems to have recovered. She looks to be back to her old, oil

  painting self.’ They didn’t have to discuss the rest. They knew, the time

  wasted in dragging her back to the station, getting a doctor to look at her,

  find out who she was, where she lived, if there were any caring relatives

  and finally they’d let her go, no charge, a piece of garbage that should have

  been left where it belonged.

  ‘Get the fuck out of here,’ the driver’s first words to her spoken with a

  distinct lack of charm. She didn’t need a further invitation. The door was

  actually unlocked. The frozen world outside struck her like a raw blade.

  How the hell had she survived lying out there dressed like that? ‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said as she exited to a shivering slippery

  road. She almost wanted to climb back in.

  Weightless, fragmentary, a tiny molecule in the eternal universe. If

  she wasn’t careful she was going to collapse again, the cold attacking her

  with tiny pinpricks. She had remembered where she was supposed to meet

  Eddie and it was much closer than home. Home?

  The Train of Delights sat hovel-like on the street. The door weighed a

  ton, probably not helped by the fact that a low swinging bearded man was

  leaning his sizable frame against it. He barely registered Linda as she

  pushed him aside. The smell of him, of all of it was too heady a mix and

  she swooned like a Victorian maiden, even putting a hard across her

  fevered brow in a show of needing help. She felt hands underneath her, she

  was leaning at an angle, she saw the trails of broken varnish within inches

  of her face. She was placed precariously on a stool and soon became aware

  that she was the only woman in the place and as such she was now the

  centre of much unwelcome attention. A hand attempted to loosen the

  button her blouse and she pushed it away. Jesus, what now, what further

  indignity would be heaped upon her?

  ‘Eddie Brogan?’ she tried. No flicker of recognition on any of the

  wasted worn red faces. She said the name again, a little louder this time.

  Nothing but floating, hazy eyes upon her, men dreaming of a few foisted

  minutes of pleasure with her. She could imagine them all now counting the

  coins in their pockets, trying to choose between another few rounds or

  something far more exotic. Was it so obvious what she was? And why in

  hell had Eddie wanted to meet her here?

  ‘Wanna drink, love?’ the barman said, his thoughts only a few

  notches higher on the scale than the rest of them. She doubted whether

  he’d protect her if th
ey all decided to take her in turns. He’d probably lock

  the door for them, then look away, assuage his own guilt. She did want a

  drink, she asked for the vodka that had been plaguing her. She moved in

  slow, careful steps to the bar and handed over a creased five pound note.

  She drank it down too quickly and felt a drop meander down her chin. She put the glass down and didn’t have to ask for another because it was already there, like magic. She took her drink to a booth in the corner and felt some avaricious eyes fall away from her. Whatever their craven hideous desires they had neither the strength nor the courage to be the first to make a move. The low whispers returned. Her skin crawled when a figure emerged out of the darkness, only across the table from her. How had she not seen him before? Had he been summoned from hell? He certainly looked as if he had spent some time there. His face was swollen, brown bruises, the nose clearly broken, and he sucked in his breath like an

  old man.

  ‘You a friend of Eddie?’

  The words came slurped and shovelled and each syllable brought a

  new source of pain.

  ‘I’m looking for him, yes.’

  ‘Well, if you find him, tell him I’m still standing.’ He attempted a

  laugh. ‘Manny, you tell him Manny’s still stalking the proud ring, take

  more than a coward’s punch to keep him down for long.’

  ‘He did that to you?’

  ‘Caught me off guard, nothing fair in that, I was trying to help him.

  Used to be friends. Used to be—’ Manny tired of the effort of talking. He

  leaned back into the dark and took in a new breath.

  ‘You want a drink?’ Linda asked.

  ‘Too kind, too kind, too—’

  Too kind. What she’d said in mock civility to that anything but a

  gentleman who had picked her up that afternoon. She had meant to do so

  many other things, good things. She wanted to do those things. Buy some