The Boxer's Dreams of Love

by philip boyle

  There was a monster outside and Eddie wouldn’t let him in. A slow devilish knock followed and Eddie was sure the door would blow inwards and the creature would be in.

  ‘Zinny. Stephen Zinny. He’s here, Eddie. Isn’t that why you came? Eddie?’ He took his hands from his head. Looked through the hole and the nightmare was gone at least. He found enough courage to open the door. The corridor was empty and he would have welcomed the appearance of that little Venezuelan maid. Just crimson carpets to the end of the hall. Back inside the room, lock the door, check and re-check the lock. Back into the room as far as he could go. He picked up everything, his money, his bag, toiletries from the bathroom. Threw them in his bag. Took his jacket from the back of the chair and was throwing it over his shoulder when his phone rang. He stood suspended there until it stopped.

  He looked into the floating dreamy Monet world again and wanted to remain there. He had his jacket on and his right hand held the bag tight. He was ready to leave. He had been ready for the last two hours when the last sense of Tommy had vanished. He was paralyzed by the certainty that it was waiting for him out there. it could be in any form, Tommy had only been its latest incarnation.

  He’s here, Eddie, isn’t that why you came? There was a word missing. Isn’t that why you came back? Because he had been here before. He had met her here, and now he was back in the place where he had first hopelessly dreamed of love. Across the room on the dressing table there was a folder with hotel stationery enclosed. A few sheets of crisp white paper and a couple of envelopes. He thought for a second it was the letter. But that was gone, wasn’t it? He had lost it some time ago. Had he lost it or had he thrown it away?

  He would wait until the monsters outside got tired and went away. He could already see the light outside beginning to turn. Maybe he could sneak out in darkness. He had an idea of where he wanted to go.

  He lamented the state in which she lived. It reminded him of his own demented room in Edinburgh where he indulged his baser thoughts. But then she shouldn’t have been here at all. He had assumed that Zinny would have buried her where she could never be found. They had never expressly agreed exactly what should happen to her. He would have preferred her dead than to have ended up here. He hadn’t been shocked to find her again, to find her alive, because nothing shocked him anymore. How could it after everything he himself had done. And Eddie was here and Stephen Zinny was a tired old man frightened of his own shadow. Maybe Eddie would do what he, Tommy, had come to do. So here they all were, fittingly all present at the end of the game, at the mouth of the ocean. It would end here, only the details needed to be sorted and he thought that God must have a plan. He had brought them all here, he had allowed them all to make it this far. Edie should be dead, Eddie should be in jail and Zinny should be thousands of miles away. And Tommy Pearson, murderer, melancholic misanthrope, should be buried deep, deep down in the bowels of hell, the devil even ashamed to have him there. And all this because of her, because his heart had skipped a beat, because she had brushed his hand away, because he had dared to dream of love.

  He should really go soon, before she came back. He was afraid of what he might do to her. He told himself he could never hurt her himself. He had hoped others would do that but still she haunted him. He wanted to see her sing again, he had lifted his head from his glass in surprise the previous night in the Hacienda and seen her at the bar. With another man, he had his hand on the small of her back and whispered things in her ear while she beheld the small stage with childish wonder, oblivious to the creeping fingers below. Tommy had gone to the bar, stood close, to make sure it really was her. He was feet away and he could have stretched out his own hand and touched her. At one point she looked back and must have seen him but there was no recognition there.

  He had followed her home and watched the light go off in her guesthouse room. And here he was, sitting on her bed, trying to smell the traces of her, in the sheets, in the few other clothes that she had. He spied the shining blade on the floor by the bathroom. As if his dark thoughts had conjured it up. He moved slowly to it, careful it wasn’t the light or his fractured imagination. A surgeon’s knife. He couldn’t imagine how she had come to possess such a thing. He was overwhelmed with a vision of her drawing the ferocious edge of it across her wrists and he could hardly bear it. He had willingly allowed her to be taken against her will, to be kept prisoner, abused, drugged and yet now he almost cried at the thought of her trying to kill herself. She had magically come back, come back to him, ended up here and he wanted to see her sing again. More than anything he wanted that. He picked up the blade and only the tiniest contact with the skin of his thumb was enough to draw blood. He took the cloth handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the blade.

  He thought he heard footsteps from below. He had told the woman downstairs that he was the girl’s father and wanted to surprise her. Somehow she had believed and allowed him inside. But he had stayed too long and knew he should take his leave. He had things to do. Or at least he had one thing left to do and then he could rest, finally.

  What on earth was she doing? She was due out there in less than fifteen minutes and she could hardly draw breath. The dress floated on her tiny frame and the smeared mirror was unflattering. She could smell the beer and the urine, she could hear them outside, the tiny un-expectant crowd that would hardly notice her. She should take comfort in that but she didn’t. They would notice when she started to sing, they wouldn’t fail to stare as the hesitant stuttering notes began. She had auditioned earlier in the day in front of the owner and her new friend, the barman from the karaoke bar who grinned relentlessly as if he was holding back the most amazing secret from her. He wasn’t the owner when she had been before. And she had been here before, that much she knew. Every minute of everyday brought forth new details of her former life. Why was it the distant past that came back first and the last year or so was still a scary blur of nothing? She must have been okay earlier because both men had nodded their heads and shook hands. She had hardly heard her own voice and was a poor judge of it. But she had felt a distinct serenity as she had sung, her body, her mind, everything had relaxed in those few minutes. But that was then and this was now, that was day and this was certainly night. There was a hum of electricity, there was a clattering from the kitchen next door. And there was that clarion of doubt in her mind. That frighteningly skinny kid who cleared the tables and swept the floors now popped his ugly thin head though the door and told her it was time.

  The stage was a raised piece of timber, six inches in height and covered in black satin material. There was simply a microphone and whatever voice chose to venture close to it and attempt to sing. There was a machine that could be used for backing tracks if she needed but her mind had been too cluttered to even think about trying to program it. she assumed that one song, maybe two, and she would be hauled off, jeered off, laughed off.

  A short and sadly tawdry walk took her from her temporary room to the bar. Before they dimmed the lights she saw the faces of the drinkers all turned in her direction. For a couple of moments at least they paid her attention, they were expectant. The lights were lowered as she took to the platform. She heard nothing but the sound of her own dress and the hammer of her heart. She reached for the support of the microphone. She was glad she could no longer see their faces. She suddenly felt overdressed, too bright. She needed a band, even the machine and realized that the songs she had planned were not really designed to be sung unaccompanied. She took her time, she closed her eyes, waited for her heart to slow down. And she tried to remember the last time she had been on stage.

  Every minute of every day…

  In the back bar of the backstreet Hacienda club, Edie opened her eyes and found herself in a large ballroom decked out with tinsel and balloons, glittering tables full of drunken souls. She looked through the tables and searched for the one person she knew but she couldn’t find him. This was a hotel, this was Glasgow, and Eddie was supposed to be here, su
pposed to be with her. Eddie? There, there, he was there, at the back and his head was lying on the table and he was beyond drunk. The one time she had asked him to be there for her. The only time. Edie looked behind her, to the door leading to the corridor, to her dressing room, she saw herself removing her make-up, removing the tears and then the knock at the door. She would let him wait, she would ignore him, how could he have done that to her?

  Edie looked into the present, frowning faces of the customers in the Hacienda. How long had she been standing there with her eyes closed? Long enough to remember that the person knocking on the door had not been Eddie, not Eddie at all.

  The hotel in Glasgow, the last time she had sung on stage, the last time she had seen Eddie. In the dull uncomfortable silence it all poured in on her like concrete, smothering her, overwhelming her. Her barman friend watching from the side had finally stopped smiling. She took her hand from the microphone, she took a step back and almost tripped from the stage. She turned and hurried out the back.

  They were sorry to see him check-out and Eddie felt absurdly sentimental for a moment. He still had no idea where he would spend the night. He assumed some small place in Portsmouth, maybe Arthur would know. He had no plans beyond leaving, leaving Brighton and its useless memories. He would sleep on someone’s floor, anywhere but here.

  His life was carefully tucked away in the bag that yearned for rest. He hurried and he hesitated. The bus was leaving on the hour and he knew they wouldn’t wait. It wasn’t as if he was essential to the team. He was still getting to know most of them and most looked upon him with scepticism. Anybody could be an ex-boxer and how could he prove himself otherwise? He was unsure of his purpose in travelling with them, beyond looking forward to a competitive boxing match. And beyond? So, even with his mind made up he hesitated. He arrived on a corner and saw the bus a hundred yards away. Most of those travelling were already on the bus. Arthur stood outside with his phone to his ear and the driver was pulling hard on a last smoke.

  He was there, he was almost there. It was nothing more than the highrevving souped-up teenage car that made him look in the opposite direction. She stayed close to the buildings as she walked, as if sheltering from the rain which wasn’t there. She carried a plastic bag in one hand whose contents threatened to topple over in the street. Her coat hung wide and willowy, like her hair, her dress, her earrings, visible even at this distance. He had seen her before, walking away from him as now so that her face was turned away from him. The woman that had reminded him of Linda.

  Eddie saw the driver get on the bus and close the doors. He sat in his high seat and started the engine. Eddie knew he could have made it if he really tried. The woman stopped momentarily as one of her heels caught in a crack in the pavement. Her head turned slightly and she pushed the hair out of her eyes. Eddie drew in a breath as again he was assaulted by the idea that it was Linda. He was going to call out to her but the passing bus took his attention away. He watched the vehicle turn out onto the main road and he felt sorry for letting Arthur down. He wasn’t leaving Brighton after all, not just yet.

  He had lost her for a second but he heard heels in the empty night street and soon found her again. He kept a safe distance behind her. He had to be sure, he had to clear that surreal certainty that it was her, however unlikely. This was the second time he had seen her in a place she didn’t belong. She crossed a main road and moved through darker, narrower roads where even the high street lamps failed to penetrate the plunging darkness. She walked quickly and he thought that she had become aware of someone behind her. Again he thought of calling out and only saw embarrassment ahead when it turned out not to be her. She slowed briefly as she moved up a steep hill and finally stopped outside an unlikely premises. Eddie couldn’t see clearly what it was until he was too close to her to stop. She was briefly distracted in the search for keys.

  His eyes moved from the sign above the shop that read Farrell’s Antiques in peeling letters to Linda’s slowly dawning awareness of who was just a few yards away from her. He could almost hear the intake of her breath.

  ‘Hello, Linda.’

  Tommy stirred the ice in his glass with his finger. Sucked the sour sweet juice on the end of it. He was relieved when the lights in the bar were directed only at the small stage. He was transported back to a myriad of clubs over too many years. Why could he not have been content to stay in one them? A staggering youth carrying too many glasses knocked against the edge of his table but Tommy hardly moved a muscle. He just watched the trickle of liquid tip over the edge of his glass and flow to the table.

  Where was she? They had dimmed the lights two, three minutes ago. Where was she? All day he had wondered when, indeed how, he would attempt to speak to her. He could chose his own time but it would still not lessen her shock. He had to amble, sidle up to the moment and try to lessen the effect somewhat. He heard something, the shuffle of a heavy dress perhaps, the clicking of heels on a varnished floor.

  There she was . Out of the gloom she emerged like an angel. He wanted to move closer, stand beside her, no, kneel before her. He saw her face in the harsh light, saw the skin tremble, her timid hand gripping the microphone like a life-support machine. He felt for her, he was ready to protect her against any abuse, heckling or laughter that came her way. But there was nothing but confused, embarrassed silence. He saw her mouth open just a touch but she was locked in a paralysis of nerves. Tommy felt the sting of tears in his own eyes and was grateful for the darkness around his table once more. What had he done to her? He had thought that maybe they might, in time, be able to renew some kind of friendship. Why was that such an insane notion? In the light of everything, in the aftermath of every terrible thing that he had done, they were here weren’t they? She was alive, he was still free. He had murdered four men, including two policemen and still, still, he was free, sitting in a bar, a drink in his hand, about to watch her sing. As if the last few months had never happened, as if God had forgiven all that, had given them both a second chance, to make it right this time. That must be the reason, it had to be.

  One moment she was there, the next she was gone, back into the darkness and there was that eternal silence as people stared at the empty stage. Tommy stood up suddenly, straining in the darkness, searching for her. Had she seen him, had she glimpsed the man who had been the cause of so much distress? But she couldn’t have known it was him, she couldn’t, how? Unless.

  The lights in the bar came up and the manager came to the centre of the floor to apologise.

  And Tommy was gone.

  ‘He’ll come.’ In that moment of doubt, in the way her hand kept pushing the hair back over her ears, in the searching eyes that looked everywhere but at him, Eddie knew there was no such thing as consequence or fate. Linda saw his own doubt. ‘He’ll come,’ she repeated. ‘He knows you mean him no harm.’

  ‘I mean him no harm?’ Eddie laughed for the first time in months. He had watched the café for forty minutes before she had arrived, a part of him expecting to see a team of henchman waiting for him. Now, inside, across the table from a Linda who looked ten years older, the soft diffused morning light cast cold comfort on his own fears. They had spoken little so far. There were a thousand questions that almost made it out but he was afraid to ask her. The woman he met in Stirling, the woman he saw come out of the apartment building in Glasgow. And now the woman apparently living with Stephen Zinny. They could not be the same woman. It was a game, it was coincidence, it was fate. It was all and none of those. He came down on the side that it was none.

  ‘He—’ She was about to say something when the café door opened bringing with it a cavernous breeze and what appeared to Eddie to be just an elderly, none too healthy man coming for his regular morning coffee. Linda bristled, sat up in her chair as if the headmaster had entered the classroom. She stood as Stephen Zinny approached their table. She moved aside let him sit down opposite Eddie. Zinny moved with the slow grace of a man carrying the burdens of the world on his
shoulder. He had looked at everything in the café except Linda. He looked up at her now and his hands played with the salt cellar. For some reason she was still standing, thinking perhaps that it was time for her to leave. Zinny nodded his head and she moved to another table, sitting down meekly in a clearly rehearsed move.

  Eddie could not take his eyes off the pale, uncertain man now in front of him. Was this the same man who had threatened him over the phone? Who had arranged all the rest? Zinny looked straight at him and a degree of hardness returned, in the burning eyes and the snarled lips. He sighed, in frustration rather than any kind of sadness.

  ‘My daughter—’ he began, and stopped. This time the sigh that followed the words were drowning in melancholy. His eyes flitted to the window, the light. ‘No, not there,’ he resumed, a measure of control back in his voice. ‘It’s funny how we’ve never actually met before. How we could pass each other in the street and never know each other. Maybe we should do that. I thought of doing that today.’

  ‘So did I,’ Eddie countered, surprised at the timidity of his own voice. Across the room, Linda played with napkins and rested her head in her hand, looking away from the two men.

  ‘I have done terrible things, Eddie. If I can call you that. I’m sure you have heard, some of which is probably true, most of which you’ve never heard and which you wouldn’t believe.’ He coughed, took a paper tissue from his pocket and buried some phlegm inside of it. ‘Look at me. A fucking old man. I don’t even recognize myself in the morning. It’s gone Eddie, all gone. I’m sure—’ He looked at Linda, then past her to the window, to the light. ‘Where are they, I keep thinking? They must know where I am. I’m not that hard to find. I should have left here long ago but—’ His eyes rested on Linda again. ‘Who is she anyway? I really don’t know. I woke up one day to find her there.’ He paused to clear his throat again.