The Boxer's Dreams of Love

by philip boyle

  Linda watched Edie go. She looked at the things left behind on her table, at the uneaten food, the tumbling spoon now restored to its rightful place on the saucer, the dribbles of coffee running down the cup. All the waste. And what about that debutante dress she had been wearing underneath her dirty coat? She tried to imagine the tale behind the contrast of the lady and her clothes. Linda turned from these thoughts and looked out of the window, pushing the woman from her mind. She drank her espresso like it was a shot of bourbon. She looked across the street, across the Dickensian chimney tops to the church spire and the high rises further distant spoiling the image.

  She pulled the rest of the torn nail off her finger and winced a little at the slight pain. She looked up at the wailing kids across the café with the deaf and dumb mother who conversed on her phone, oblivious to the carnage going on around her. And what right had she to condemn anyone? I go anywhere but where I should go, I look for somebody who has surely forgotten me by now, I go everywhere but home, I think so little of my mother, let alone my kids, my two sterling kids. Brighton was not what she had imagined but then nothing ever was. The mind played tricks just like the body. She watched the foreign girl at the counter clearly struggling to deal with only a handful of customers.

  She could get a job here, get a little flat with a view across the rooftops, she could walk each morning in the fragrant air, she could spend a couple of evenings a week in a dark dozy jazz club and sip sour mash whiskey while fending off the welcome attentions of timid men. All the things she could do and none of them would happen. All the years waiting for something to happen, all the opportunities passed up or thrown away because something better was supposed to happen. And then, and then, one careless morning it was all gone and she was here, here in this café that was closing in another hour and she would have to leave. And go where? They still hadn’t cleared the table opposite, its food remained, rotting in front of her and the stains hardening down the side of the cup where the woman’s mouth had been.

  Torn ragged runners run along the wet hard sand. He runs with the exhilaration that only comes with knowing that he shouldn’t be doing it at all. He hears the cries of the gulls and the wind and above it all the resigned cries of his mother beckoning him to come back immediately. But he runs and he runs and he knows he will suffer for it later but at that age everything is now and only now and later will never happen.

  ‘Aniela? That is your name isn’t it?’ He wasn’t even going to try and pronounce her surname. And even if he tried, he doubted if she’d do anything but sit shaking with her head down, her mousy hair flowing in crinkle waves down to her tiny waist.

  He gave up. He shook his head, rubbed his tired neck, appealed for help from his sitting silent colleague. The girl knew nothing, she was nothing, could hardly talk for God’s sake, how were they even allowed in the country? And this one was legal, apparently.

  The quiet detective waited for Aniela to sip her water and calm down a little. He nodded to his colleague to remain by the door and basically say nothing. Fucker always waded in big fucking feet first, too much time spent watching fictional policemen instead of doing what he should. She was scared, she was alone and she probably knew nothing but still they had to question her. He was patient, he let her find her own time. Wondered what had brought her here. How many people could leave their own country and find work abroad, find a place to live, hardly speak the language? He wondered if he could have done it. He couldn’t imagine what would have to happen to make him leave. She was eighteen, nineteen, innocent, she was lucky she wasn’t working in the streets or in a tiny back room with a blanket on the bed and her body just a pleasure machine for the lonely and the sick. She blew her nose and caught his eyes. He smiled and a trace of one came in return.

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she replied and her voice barely registered.

  The photograph meant nothing to her. Barely a flicker in her pretty

  hazel eyes.

  ‘His name is Tommy Pearson.’ Again nothing. This was a waste of

  time. She was a tenuous link in a fragile chain. They had gone to the house

  too late. Reports of constant traffic in and out of the house in recent weeks

  and months and now nothing. The house was empty, just cold furniture and

  stale food. And Tommy hadn’t been seen there in months if not years. But

  she worked for somebody, she was hired to work, she was in the country

  legally and who was she to question who her employer was. It was a nice

  house in a nice part of town. Tommy Pearson owned the house but he

  never seemed to live there. And who was he anyway? Nobody as far as

  they could see. No record, not even a traffic violation, just a manager of

  dubious talent, known and liked in his own circles. But the word had come

  down to them to take a look at the house, talk to this Tommy. They didn’t

  say why, they never did.

  The interview went on for another half hour or so and nothing

  emerged but the sad oft-told tale of an innocent immigrant looking for a

  better life and finding that things were the same everywhere. They were on

  the verge of letting her go, she served no further purpose and she wasn’t

  likely to abscond too soon. She had neither the resources nor the reason to

  do so. And somewhere in that last moment, relieved to discover that she

  was free to go, she remembered something. A name, funny name. Zinny.

  Yes, that was it.

  She had only seen him on a couple of occasions but she heard the

  name mentioned. Spoken in fear and absolution, in nervousness. Whoever

  he was, they were scared of him, kept out of his way.

  And just as Aniela was dreaming of her paltry flat, the draughty

  window and the tiny glimpse of the sea from the bathroom window, her

  mention of that funny name unfortunately meant that she would be

  spending a little more time in the company of the police.

  It was the smell. The smell that carried him back, made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He had found the club by accident. He was walking aimlessly, trying to shake off the night before, his fruitless search in the tail-end bars and clubs, the handful of Jack Daniels and ice that had accompanied him on his journey still haunting him in daylight. They trampled like storm troopers in his head. Looking for a place to eat, he heard the grunts and low moans that he assumed belonged to a drunken fight that had carried on since last night. He had no desire to investigate, let alone get involved. But it was like passing a car accident and looking the other way, it was impossible. On the lovely-named Juniper Flower Street that was anything but, all he could see as his heart beat in fearful anticipation was the barrel door with a brass plate. He was relieved to find no brawl in full flow but was curious about the sounds, muffled but still there, they seemed distant and yet close by. The plate on the door read Barrow Boxing Club and Eddie felt suddenly, stupidly unworthy of standing on the doorstep of such a place, never mind actually going in. But what else was he going to do?

  A gentle push and the door pushed inward to a world of smells, sights and sounds that had held Eddie Brogan’s heart and soul since he could remember. He walked in to the large expanse of the gym that belied its small insignificant exterior. He was catapulted back to the countless nights and days of parallel pain and pleasure, the weeks and months spent in training that would break the back of even the strongest and even that was only inadequate rehearsal for the fight itself. Nothing could ever prepare you for that. Eddie had never gotten used to it, maybe it was the audience, the realization that his talents were mediocre at best. But in the gym, in the daytime, in the pounding of furious fists on the punch bags and the swollen rivers of sweat that took over your body. In the skipping feet and heart, in the encouragement of the coaches, in the camaraderie of the fellow travellers
on the road to glory who all shared the same dream. One punch, that’s all it took. And anyone could do it, the most awkward, dumb, knuckle-headed fighter without a shred of wit or intelligence in or out of the ring could do it. One moment, one lucky opening, the opponent’s hands dropping for a second and you threw it, in hope, in desperation, but you threw it and just maybe it landed. And anyone could do it, land as sweet a blow as the most revered poets and artists inside the ropes.

  A few looked in Eddie’s direction but they paid him little mind. Far from being immediately recognized as the broken bygone boxer, ex-boxer that he was, he was greeted by a few with a nod of the head, as if they recognized in him something of their own. Perhaps they saw the traces of old bruises, they recognized a nose that had been broken both ways and all the way back again. All boxers, fighters, whatever you called them, walked in a certain way, a little slouched, guarded, slightly unsteady legs. He sat in a chair against the wall, out of the way and inhaled the view in front of him. The ring in the centre bounced and careened under the heavy weight of two paunchy men who clearly weren’t going to make the weight at the weigh-in.

  He fell into easy conversation and the morning somehow got away from him. Story of his life, time and opportunity slipping from his grasp and he was not much further along the road. He had left the ring, the gyms, the fights to find something better, healthier, nobler. He had dreamed of love and yet here he was, stripping, borrowing sweatpants that hung loose on him and trainers that were too tight. He took it slow at first at one of the bags, throwing out lazy, careful shots, unable to figure out what his feet were supposed to be doing. Slowly he found a rhythm of sorts and he stopped thinking about what he was doing. His arms moved faster, his heart was about to leave his chest and he wanted to stay there forever. But his body wouldn’t let him and he was soon sitting back down with his head between his knees, his head wrapped in a towel already soaked through.

  ‘You’ve done a bit, eh?’ Eddie looked up with great effort and saw the thick grey hair and sundamaged skin of a man probably ten years younger than he looked. Irish as well unless that brogue in his voice was some jibe or insult being thrown his way.

  ‘You could say that,’ said Eddie. They sat in a trucker’s diner that reminded Eddie of a place in Smithfield in Dublin that his father used to like. He disliked how that memory had surprised him, hated the sudden appearance of his father in any form. The old man from the gym just sat and watched Eddie devour his full English like he hadn’t eaten in months.

  ‘One of the few benefits of not fighting anymore. Don’t have to watch the weight,’ Eddie said in reply to the man’s little laugh at Eddie’s appetite.

  His name was Arthur Fisher, he’d been at the gym for thirty five years, had once dreamed like all the rest of making it in the game but he knew early on that it wasn’t for him. He hadn’t the stomach, the selfishness that you needed. ‘You have to respect the opponent but I had too much respect, that was the problem.’ Eddie liked him because he didn’t ask too many questions, apart from boxing ones and Eddie delighted in falling back into the telling and hearing of familiar tales.

  And by curious indirections, Eddie found directions out. He found an answer when he hadn’t even asked the question. The night before was almost forgotten, in fact his real purpose for being in Brighton was fast being forgotten. And then.

  ‘Zinny,’ Arthur said in answer to a casual question by Eddie. A simple polite question had been asked about Arthur’s family, Eddie wasn’t really waiting for a answer, was still trying to digest his food, beginning to think of the hours, minutes and days ahead. Something changed in Arthur’s countenance in the aftermath of that question. There was another side to Arthur’s life beyond the romantic surroundings of the gym. Eddie was starting to regret asking when the word Zinny popped out.

  ‘Zinny?’ said Eddie, trying to hide the excitement and urgency in his voice. Arthur looked at him with cold eyes. And he started talking in slow measured mournful tones like he was giving a funeral elegy. He was talking about his son, living or dead it was hard to ascertain and Eddie didn’t want to ask. He was waiting for the man’s tears, he hated that in other people, never knew what to say. And what could you say? His son was gone from his life in one way or another. Boxing had held no interest for him, unless you counted drug and drink fuelled Friday fights.

  ‘He had everything,’ Arthur continued. ‘Everything you or I never had. He had everything but it was never enough. Never is, is it? Nothing to fight for if you have all you want. No purpose unless there’s a struggle. And all these fucking kids are born and are already there. They don’t have to go anywhere, do anything, ‘cause they’re already there and everything is already done. I thought it was just a phase, like all kids. Let him go through it, the not talking, not coming home until all hours, skipping classes. You have to allow a certain amount, don’t you? You have kids?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, he just ploughed ahead. ‘But it went on, school was abandoned, and subsequently my hope. He woke me one night, stone cold drunk and high as a fucking kite. Eyes so wide you could lose yourself in them. And he’s talking non-stop, talking rubbish, high-pitched like a child, waking his mother, who had less control over him than I had. Talking and talking and mentioning Zinny, like he was the answer to all his prayers.’ He stopped, self-conscious, aware of the rising sound of his own voice, afraid of his own emotions.

  ‘And who is this Zinny?’ Eddie asked in a heightened throwaway manner. Judy Garland in her twilight years. That’s what Edie thought. It was the light or lack of it. If only she’d stolen some make-up along with the dress. The lack of one only highlighted the inappropriateness of the other. Judy in her meltdown years when oddly she had become more interesting and compelling. Unlike Edie. The bedroom was cheap and sat unsteadily above a student bar. She realized she would never sleep. The music pounded through the floors, and it was still only eight o’clock.

  The music now floated, it dripped like rain through her clothes, permeating her thoughts. It became part of her, it moved in time with her breathing. She sat, she lay on the quicksand bed, she stood at the window and looked down on a narrow street that gave nothing away. Everything interesting was just out of sight. There was a purpose to all this and watching, waiting in her charmless room. The dress was a reason, a sign of something. A shrill voice pierced the air like curtain fabric being torn. The melody ripped from the song, the lyrics shorn of all meaning. From a club nearby, another level of noise to add what was there already. There was no escape from it. She showered and slipped on the dress once more. Her shoulder bag lay tilted on the floor by the bed. The blade was peering out, she stared at it through the open bathroom door. She was frightened of it, it seemed to pulse with life, with intent. It was looking for its own purpose. Everything existed for a reason. The knife was crying out to be used. Why else take it? Why had it blinked its gleaming eye at her from the hospital floor? What reason did she have with it if not to use it?

  She waited for the insect blade to crawl back inside the bag, or disappear under the bed, in a dark corner. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She was hyperventilating, sweating, even the dress was losing its lustre.

  Somehow she had slept. She woke to find herself staring at the ceiling from the middle of the bed. Everything was quieter outside. She looked at her finger and could hardly see the trace of the cut. Eleven o‘clock by her dull silver watch. She rose and drank from the tap in the bathroom, trying to quench a sudden intense thirst. Her heart was beating slower, she felt full awake, almost clean, as if she had shed the sad remnants of her time with Verna. And the time before that. The time before that. She felt strong enough to remember a little more. The beach, sleeping on the blanket, the money in the bag, the clothes. And the time before that? The car with two men, driving for draining hours in aimless wonder looking for a spot to leave her.

  And before that?

  Not now. She wrapped the scalpel in mounds of toilet paper and buried it deep in her bag. She put on her shoes and
walked to the window. Still little to see, still everything was just out of sight, just out of reach. Another sound now mixed itself with the dull throbbing headache of the piped music from below and the karaoke down the street. The squeaking springs of unromantic love, the urgent painful sounds of a couple in the room beside hers. There seemed little joy in their pleasures.

  The bar was a living, breathing thing, the wood and the concrete, the smell of beer and food, animated conversation, gesticulating arms, heightened, an opera of life. She was wrapped in its cloak the moment she opened the door. They looked so young, so hopeful, as if they still believed, still dreamed of love. That all was possible. She was noticed by a few and quickly dismissed, she was from another planet, a different species altogether. She found her way to the bar and was already choking from the heat and the alcohol and the cloying optimism that hung in the air like incense. She ordered a vodka neat and drank it straight, to the obvious fascination of the impossibly pretty girl behind the bar.

  A second, a third. She felt the notes in the pocket of her coat. How much longer could she last? She headed for the door, afraid of being trapped in there forever. There it was, three doors down, a neon sign of a blue parrot that flickered on and off. There was a cheap sign in the door that said karaoke as if you couldn’t really guess from the ghastly sounds coming from inside. Through a gaggle of giggling girls in tight lightning dresses covered in a cloud of drink. Past tables of swaying couples to a tiny circular stage where a Dolly Parton clone was shrieking primal screams in a parody of a song.

  Home. The word whispered in her ear. Standing at the bar, sipping a blue cocktail. There was a pause in the music, the stage was empty, the crowd had quieted and a man worked at some wires on the floor. Finally there was a cheer as he stood and bowed, everything restored and the entertainment could continue. Edie slowly put her glass down, pushed it away from her. She turned and walked in slow graceful steps to the stage. There was a girl almost there before her, about to step up and embarrass herself when Edie glided past her, elegantly pushing her aside.