The Legacy l-1

by Lynda La Plante

  Freedom still hadn’t cottoned on, and Ed began to think that his prize didn’t have much ‘upstairs’. ‘This is your fight, you ain’t gonna spar, you’re gonna box ‘im right outta the ring.’

  Freedom was dubious, it was a short cut, but somehow it didn’t seem right to him. It was dirty. Ed snapped at him that it was life, that was all, and the best fighter would win, who knows, the Irish fighter might wipe Freedom out.

  ‘Don’t you think for one minute Murphy’s a push-over, he’s a fighter, and ‘e’s desperate to get that title, you any idea how much Dempsey took at the gate last fight, one million dollars, mate, one friggin’ million dollars!’

  After crossing town to Tower Bridge, Freedom and Ed took a bus over the bridge to the dockland area. Freedom trailed after Ed as he walked down squalid streets, up alleys, until they arrived at a small, two-up, two-down house which was squashed into a seedy row of identical houses, the street alive with noisy children.

  Ed led Freedom along the passage into a small back room with two cot beds. It was a far cry from The Grange. ‘Right, lad, dump yer bags, toilet’s out in the yard, an’ by the stink of the place the drains is clogged up. Still, maybe we won’t be here for long, eh?’

  Freedom stared around the squalid room, at the cracked window, grey with dirt, that looked straight out on to a high brick wall.

  Unperturbed as ever, Ed was checking the blankets for bedbugs. He whistled, full of energy, and talked nineteen to the dozen. He told Freedom to unpack, but Freedom had only the clothes he stood up in and his training gear.

  ‘I’ll be two minutes, gotta ring ‘is Lordship, tell ‘im we’re settled, like, then we’ll get us some dinner … put yer feet up, get as much rest as yer can, want you fit for Murphy, eh?’

  Left alone, Freedom sat down on his bed. He didn’t open his bag, or even check the bed for bugs. He simply sat, hands cupped loosely in front of him. When Ed returned almost an hour later, Freedom was in exactly the same position.

  ‘Right, Murphy’s comin’ into town, you’re to meet him tomorrow. I’ll fill you in on how you behave. These bog Irish need a bit of handlin’, and you are going ter give a performance … but you save the best for the press, are you wiv me? … like an actor? Yer know, rehearsin’, savin’ hisself for the opening night … Freedom? You listened to a word I said?’

  ‘What happens if he don’t want me to spar?’

  ‘Leave that to me. It’s sorted, now get off yer backside, I’m starvin’ ‘ungry.’

  Ed pulled open the door and turned back, hesitating, then went to Freedom and gave him a hug, ‘Eh, this place ain’t much, I know that, but give us time? Best nobody knows nuffink about yer, understand? Sir Charles, he knows what he’s doing.’

  Freedom gave him that half-smile of his. ‘Thing is, Ed, I don’t think there’s room in here for His Lordship …’

  Ed cuffed him one, but didn’t laugh. ‘There’s them an’ us, that’s life … now get a move on or I’ll ‘ave shockin’ wind.’

  Pat Murphy looked far from ‘bog Irish’. He was wearing a long, camelhair coat with a velvet collar, and a black felt hat, a satin band around the crown. He wore a carnation in his buttonhole and carried a silver-topped walking stick. Ed slithered around the edge of the room, wanting to get a good look at the Irish champion without him knowing. Two men, equally well dressed, stood beside Murphy, and he towered over them. His huge chest under the tailored suit and overcoat looked a lot wider than Freedom’s.

  Murphy was posing for a photograph, the photographer hidden under a black cloth.

  ‘Mr Murphy, could you please hold that pose, thank you sir, and now would it be permissible to have one of you on your own for the Evening Chronicle?’

  Murphy smiled as his two men departed to lean against the ropes. He wore a fine leather glove on his right hand, in which he also held its mate, leaving his bare left hand to rest on the ropes. Ed could see a heavy diamond ring on his little finger. More disconcerting was the size of the man’s fists — they were like spades.

  ‘Come on then, man, let’s be done with this, the bars are open.’ Murphy held his pose, his white teeth gleaming in a frozen smile. He was an exceptionally handsome man and his face bore little or no sign of his boxing career. His nose was straight, his hair, thick, black and curly, hid his ears so Ed could not see if they bore tell-tale marks. Murphy’s eyes were small and china-blue, and they twinkled as he spoke in his thick Irish brogue.

  Jack gave the photographer his marching orders, and was about to join Murphy when he spotted Ed. Murphy gave Ed no more than a cursory glance as he moved with his two men towards Jack’s office.

  ‘This is Ed Meadows, he’s got a good sparring partner for you, Pat.’

  Murphy turned to Ed and gave him his full attention. His twinkly eyes went icy-cold as he gave Ed the once-over.

  ‘Well, they better get him over here, I’ll be needing work outs before the match, your lad good, is he?’

  At that point Murphy’s trainer, O’Keefe, laughed and said that his boy needed the very best, and it was lucky they had offered a sparring partner as their own had been put into hospital the night before they left. Murphy looked at Ed.

  ‘I never meant it, stray punch, poor man went down like a lead balloon, and that’s just how I intend to put the champ down, isn’t that right, Paddy?’

  Paddy O’Keefe nodded, raised his fist and punched the padded, camelhair shoulders of Murphy’s coat.

  ‘Oi, watch out for the coat, it’s pure camelhair, this, have you ever felt such soft material, Jack, go on now, have a feel, is it not like a baby’s arse?’

  They moved into Jack’s office, and Ed asked when they would like his boy brought round. Murphy flicked his gloves and said he’d work out first thing in the morning, around ten o’clock. ‘

  Ed met with Sir Charles at the Pelican Club, and they ate a big fry-up together. A boxing match was taking place while they ate, npt that Ed paid any attention.

  ‘He’s a champ, and ‘e’s flash, must ‘ave made a lot of money on the Irish circuits, his face looks unmarked and he’s got fists the size of shovels. I wonder if we’re not pushin’ our lad too fast.’

  Sir Charles picked at his steak and seemed more concerned with his tomato than with anything Ed had told him. Ed sighed and tapped Sir Charles on the arm to draw his attention to the entrance. Murphy, his camelhair coat and hat taken from him, stood at the grill-room bar. ‘There ‘e is now, sir, look at ‘im, and ‘e’s got the confidence of Jove himself

  They watched as Murphy shook hands with a group of well-dressed City gents and was shown to a table.

  They made a great fuss of him, and many eyes were turned towards the ringside table where he sat.

  The Pelican Club was half-full of regulars, and a strange bunch they were, a mixture of toffs and betting men. Titles rubbed shoulders with gamblers, bookies and sportsmen and, thankfully, there was not a woman in sight. The club was very much a man’s world, reverberating with loud laughter and men calling to each other between the booths and tables.

  ‘Man’s a heavy drinker, by the look of it, and likes the social scene, wouldn’t you say? Our boy’ll take him, he’s not our worry, old chap, take a look at the title holder.’

  Ed looked around and leant across the table, ‘He here, is ‘e? I can’t see ‘im?’

  Sir Charles pushed his plate away and signalled to a waiter, and at the same time he told Ed rather curtly that the champ was under wraps until the main bout, as it should be, he was not even in London.

  ‘You just make sure Freedom knows what to do. I want him under wraps until I give the word, let Murphy think he’s simply a sparring partner.’

  Sir Charles tossed money to the waiter to hand to the boys in the ring. Some toffs came over to the table and Ed knew he was dismissed. He got up and put his hand in his pocket as a gesture, knowing the bill was taken care of.

  If Ed Meadows had ever thought Freedom was in any way difficult to control, poor O’Keefe
had his hands full with Murphy. He had remained at the Pelican Club all afternoon, drinking. Eventually O’Keefe had poured him into a taxi and taken him back to the hotel, and after a few hours of rest Murphy was up again and raring to go. Fresh as a daisy now, he wanted to see the sights of London. No amount of persuasion from O’Keefe would keep the boxer resting. In exasperation he looked at Murphy prancing around the room in his evening suit, looking for his dancing pumps.

  ‘For God’s sake, you’re supposed to be getting ready for the British title bout, you’re not here to sightsee, and what you getting all fancied up for?’

  Murphy beamed. ‘Bejasus, I’ve got three weeks to get one night out of me system, an’ I give you me word I’ll not touch a drop after tonight, now come on man, let’s get going.’

  Poor O’Keefe was dragged off to the Hammersmith Palais to hear the Dixieland Jazz Band. Murphy beamed with delight, he clapped and sang along, ‘Do-wack-a-do, boop-a-doop …’ He was up doing the Black Bottom with a woman O’Keefe had first thought to be an old lady with white hair, but when she turned round he saw that it was the new ash-blonde colour, not white but silver. Murphy wouldn’t come off the dance floor and O’Keefe sat subdued and wretched. At least he was exercising, even if it was the Black Bottom.

  Ed pushed open the privy door, still buttoning up his trousers. His morning ritual had been disturbed by loud, childish sobs … Freedom was standing in the yard with a small, ragged boy, who was clutching a rotting, dead pigeon to his chest.

  ‘Go on, gerrout of it or I’ll tan yer hide.’ Freedom frowned at Ed and gently eased the dead bird from the little boy’s hands.

  ‘It was me pet, I’ve tried everyfink ter make ‘im eat.’ Freedom sat back on his haunches with the little corpse in his hands. The maggots were eating its eyes out, but Freedom stroked the bird’s head gently. ‘I tell thee what, I’ll take him with me, maybe I’ll have him right as rain.’

  From within the crumbling house a woman called for ‘Will’, and the child ran off. Ed cringed with distaste.

  ‘You’ll get disease from that, chuck it in the canal, and never mind talkin’ wiv the kids, you’ll ‘ave ‘em hangin’ round yer neck … an’ get a move on, you’re meeting Murphy today.’

  Pat Murphy showered and O’Keefe rubbed him down, then gave him a heavy massage.

  ‘My God, I couldn’t believe my eyes, she was a dragon, boy, woke up next to a dragon, must have been near sixty, why d’you let me do it?’

  O’Keefe thumped Murphy’s back, hard. It wasn’t for want of trying to prize his champion away from the woman. He’d almost got a back-hander as Murphy, drunk as a lord, insisted the woman was Gloria Swanson. Soon Murphy was togged up and waiting, ready, in the gym. He was doing pressups in a corner while two young lads watched in awe. Then he worked out on the weights, sweating, easing up his muscles. His body was very powerful, and he stood six-foot-two in his leather-soled boxing boots. Ed reckoned he was at least half a stone, maybe more, heavier than Freedom.

  O’Keefe noticed the big fella immediately and crossed over to Ed, jerking his thumb in Freedom’s direction.

  ‘This the lad, is it? He’s a big’un all right, let’s hope he’ll be able to give him a work out, he certainly needs one. Pat, Pat, come on, into the ring with you.’

  Murphy danced his way towards the ring, and couldn’t keep still while O’Keefe put on his gloves. He inserted his gumshield and put his leather head-protector on, then Murphy began punching the sides of the iring. Freedom stepped into the ring, gloves tied, gumshield in, and his leather helmet strapped on. The two worked well, Freedom giving Murphy a run for his money. He also took a number of punches, and pulled back on his punches a little, and was stopped as Murphy spat out his shield.

  ‘Bejasus, what they got here, a ballroom dancer? Can’t you do anything better than this punk?’

  Ed gave Freedom a tiny hooded nod, he could push a bit more. The men started again, this time Freedom was feeling Murphy’s punches, fending them off, but they were like iron, the man had a lot of power behind him. Freedom stepped up his punching, gave a good body blow, only to be encouraged by Murphy himself.

  ‘Thatta boy, come on, get your pecker up, come on, gimme a run for my money.’

  O’Keefe nodded to Freedom, then talked out of the side of his mouth to Ed. ‘Your lad’s got promise, nice mover, needs to train up the power behind his punch but he’s got promise, you’re right.’

  Throughout the bout Freedom was using his right fist, never giving his left space, he defended, defended, very rarely pushing Murphy. Murphy dominated the centre of the ring, moving Freedom around, on him, after him, and he didn’t pull some of his punches. At the end they were both sweating profusely and Murphy threw in the towel, he wanted to rest. Ed could have swiped Freedom, he just stood in the centre of the ring, unsure what to do next.

  ‘For Chrissakes, man,’ he whispered, ‘look like yer out of bloody breath, heave yer chest up an’ down a bit!’

  The following day’s sparring match was a little tougher. Murphy was working now, and not playing around. Freedom didn’t have to act, he had his work cut out trying to fend off the body punches. Murphy concentrated on the body, even after the bout he went and worked on the punchbag for a further hour.

  ‘Well, what you think, can you take him?’

  Freedom mulled the question over for what seemed to Ed to be a very long time, then he said he didn’t know. He didn’t think Murphy was giving full power, he was holding back. The next spar Freedom would push a few punches, but Murphy had one hell of a right hook.

  ‘But he opens up, I’ve been watchin’ ‘im, he goes to a format, right upper, right upper, an’ then he’s comin’ in with a body left, but he double swings and in comes that right hook. You got to get into that opening, he’s wide open for a moment each time.’

  Freedom raised his eyes to heaven, shook his head. ‘Ed, what you think I bin trying to do, mun, he’s a dancer too, you know, light on his feet for his weight.’

  Ed shoved his stubby finger into Freedom’s chest, said that he, Freedom, was twice the mover, and lighter.

  ‘I’m lighter, Ed, that’s for sure, I’d say by about sixteen pounds.’

  Jack came out of his office and went over to O’Keefe. He had a list of reporters requesting permission to photograph the Irish champion. He also had a lot of press photographs of the titleholder from the morning paper’s sports edition. On the back page, Micky Morgan stood with his fists up. Unlike Murphy, his face showed war wounds, a flattened nose, crumpled ears. His eyes were slightly puffy, eyes that glared out of the newspaper.

  ‘Eh, Murphy, wanna see how Micky’s lookin’ lately? Not good, that Scotch fella really gave him a going-over, see?’

  Murphy took the paper and stared at the glowering man, adding up on his fingers how many weeks had gone by since Micky’s last bout. ‘He was cut, wasn’t he? Right eye? Lemme see now … I’d calculate the lad’s only just got nice, clean, fresh skin over this right eye, what you say, boss? Oi, O’Keefe, what you say, doesn’t look too dangerous to me?’

  O’Keefe didn’t even cross the room, he was winding bandages into rolls, concentrating on them. ‘He’s a real fighter, Pat, and he’s hungry, they had a good “take” on the Scottish bout. I wouldn’t think that eye worries him one jot, man’s a boxer, know what I mean? That opponent was good, and dirty, thumb in the eye round one, he was also very handy with his head. Micky took him out in round five, they say the fella’s still not sure what hit him. Mickey was a stoker on board HMS Junnsanta, word is ‘the shovel’s still attached to his hand.’

  Through O’Keefe’s slow assessment of his next opponent, Murphy stood with his arms folded. As O’Keefe wound down and finished rolling the bandages, Murphy turned to the assembled room.

  ‘That’s what I like to hear, man giving his boxer confidence, right, thanks a lot, an’ where’s that gyppo? You hear him? Tomorrow, son, put a bit of energy into it, Jack, you get the press up here, I’ll
give ‘em something to write about, and, O’Keefe, I’ll have that stoker running.’

  O’Keefe looked over to Ed and gave him a wink, then he went to Murphy and cuffed him over the head, flung an arm round his shoulder and said he loved him. ‘Now you’re talking, Pat, talking like a winner.’ Freedom picked up his kitbag. He had not said more than a few words to Murphy or his trainer. He liked them both, liked them a lot. He was silent on the journey home on the crowded tram. He liked to sit up front on the open deck. He wore a cloth cap pulled down and a woollen scarf, his jacket collar turned up. Ed wondered what he was thinking, but he never could tell, it unnerved him.

  The following morning the gym was crowded with reporters hanging around with their big cameras and tripods. They were setting up by the side of the ring. Jack, dressed in his Sunday suit, brought out all the old photographs of himself, but no one was interested.

  O’Keefe had to restrain Murphy from wearing his best velvet shorts, telling him they should be kept for the fight. He couldn’t, however, stop him wearing his new, hand-stitched, monogrammed robe. He was there, flaunting himself, swashbuckling up and down the gym, and he had the reporters roaring with laughter as he posed and danced about. Ed looked over to his two lads, who were standing at the far end of the gym. They looked uneasy and nervous, and he made his way over to them.

  ‘Where in God’s name is he?’

  Ed threw up his hands, Freedom had gone to the toilet, what a time to go! All the press gathered and where was their man? On the throne. ‘He gloved up?’

  Freedom was standing in the dirty, broken-down toilet. His coat was round his shoulders, gloves on, and he was leaning against the brick wall. His eyes were closed and he was talking quiedy to himself. ‘Doing this for you, Evie, I get through this then it’s the title, and you’ll have all the dresses and hats you want, this is for you, Evie, I’m doing this for you.’