Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) (16 page)

Chapter 35

The Victor Claims The Spoils:

  Mr Dean held my left hand aloft.
“Winner, Joe Marks!”

  A shockwave was still rocketing through the garage. No one expected this.

  I stood beaten, in pain and mentally exhausted, the high of the blood-soaked scrap second to none. Money now took the place behind the victory. The atmosphere vastly different to the Warsaw result, where the crowd chanted my name.

  Judging by the deafening sound, silence, the mob were awe-struck. Fighting and winning had totally consumed me. Combined with the black-market for fists, added to the adrenaline buzz I felt, looming over Skinner on the ground suffering, his shattered jaw was a dark, bloody and brutal mark of victory to me.

  Skinner couldn’t move, or talk. He just held his broken jaw in place with his hand, the massive blow to the head concussing him. Looking in his eyes, all the arrogance and evil had gone, replaced with sorrow and weakness.

  His ego and body broken, was hurried out the door.

  Some of the crowd were arguing frantically about the result. Many had lost a lot of money and pointed their frustration at Mr Dean and his chauffeur.

  Didn’t anyone have a few quid on me?

  Tim helped me over to sit on a stack of car tyres. “How you feeling?”

  “My ribs are fucked, my hands are fucked, my jaw is sore, but I’ll live.”

  “Where the fuck did that punch come from?”

  “The same place they all come from. Hey, this is a set up.” By Tim’s expression, it was obvious he knew something.

  “Mike told me to make sure you lost. I didn't know how to say.”

  “Fuckin’ knew it.” I said, as Mike casually walked towards us.

  “He’s coming over. Don’t let him know that I’ve got it figured.” Mike must have put up Skinner’s grand as well, so he was now two-grand down with nothing to show for it. Skinner must have been banking on a two-grand grand payday.

  “Got it.” Tim said.

  He strolled over, his hands in his long, leather jacket pockets, eyes mostly focused on the ground, probably in disappointment or embarrassment, offering his hand. I welcomed his gesture. Knowledge is power, and he had made the wrong decision.

  “Well done, boy. Bull’s got your cash.”

  “The sooner the better. I need to get out o’ here.”

  “You make sure and get healed up. I’ve got to go take care of some business.” His tone blank, with no feeling. I could tell he was rankled as he turned and walked away.

  A deadbeat loser of a drunk stopped him in his tracks.

  “Mike, you cost me a lot of fucking money tonight!” He slurred through the haze of alcohol.

  Mike spun and back-handed the drunk’s face. The sound echoed throughout the shed, demanding everybody’s attention. Tossed in the air with the force of the slap, the man retreated back into his shell. About a hundred and twenty kilos in that slap. Lucky it wasn’t a punch.

  “Somebody’s pissed off.”

  “I couldn’t tell you, Joe. I was stuck in the middle. I’m sorry.”

  “Tim, you weren't to know it was a set up until you got here the day. Just get me back to yours. I need a strong dram after that.”

  “It’s the hospital I’ll be taking you.”

  “No hospitals, I hate ‘em.  We can sort it out at yours.”

  “Sort it out?! Your ribs are broken.”

  “Ribs heal on their own.”

  Before leaving, Tim took off my mitts and wraps, as I sat on the stack of tyres. The skin of my knuckles hanging off in a threaded mess of red, had to be peeled away as the bandages were removed.

  The adrenaline wearing off, the pain started to sink in. Using the mitts had left my hands shattered. My body started to shake along with my hands. I couldn't control it, as I retreated back into a normal state.

  “You’re shaking man, go with it, take it in.” Tim frowned, worried.

  Sitting there, hands in agony, face bruised and ribs broken, it was all his doing, in a way. He felt guilty for what he had done. Every time I took a breath, my ribs ached. I couldn't be sure they were broken, but by intense stabbing pain, it felt like they were.

  The audience started to leave, while Bull ambled over, his slicked-back black hair shining under the yellow light. I wondered if he knew anything about the setup, but my instinct told me he didn’t.

  “Here’s your money, mate. You earned that, well done.” He sounded proud and even happy to hand the cash over. You get what you see with Bull, and I didn't think he had anything to do with the double-cross here.

  The only people that knew, were Mike and Skinner. Mike, knowing Skinner was a sinister bastard, thought he would take me apart outside a ring. The feud with my Father tore him up inside. Little chance of ever catching up with him, and deciding to end the feud with me.

  “Cheers, Bull.”

  “How’s the ribs?”

  “They’re fucked mate, but I’ll live.”

  “Make sure you get healed up and I’ll see you back at the gym.”

  I had no desire to return to the gym. That was it for me, I couldn't put my family through this.

  Tim helped me up and led me out the door.

  I painfully entered the car, and Mr Dean appeared with his chauffeur, Lukas. He never spoke. Dressed in his usual black. He seemed to do everything for Mr Dean. A loyal servant, by the looks of it.  An intriguing character.

  “Hey, Mr Marks!” He shouts.

  By this time, I was already in the car, the aching body made it too hard to exit to greet him. I wound down the window.

  “Good fight in there, boy. How’s the ribs?”

  “Ah, they’ll heal, eventually.”

  Steve slipped his hand into the inside of his pocket, took out his business card and handed it over.

  “Give me a call if you ever need anything. I’ve got a good fight in mind for you, if you want it.”

  “I'll mull it over, Steve.” I said with curiosity, already thinking about the next pay-day.

  All I wanted to do for now, was get out of here, back to Tim’s for a stiff drink and some pain-killers.

Chapter 36

Sunday Morning Blues:

  “Holy fuck. Get me to a hospital. I’m in serious pain, here!”

  “Aye! Told you! Should have taken you last night.”

  “Just help me off this couch!”

  Waking up on the couch in agony, I knew straight away I had to see a doctor. My heavily-bruised ribs making it hard to manoeuvre, wrists and hands feeling like they'd been trying to punch through a wall and my knuckles scabby, torn-up with skin festering around. To be honest, I couldn’t decide where the most pain was.

  I had to get the thinking-cap on, conjure up a story for May.

  And the kids. I didn’t want this, but I’ll be taking home two grand with me. That should count for something.

  We drove to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary straight away in Tim's Merc. Mostly looking forward to getting some pain-relief. The paracetamols swallowed last night, washed down with Stella and whisky, had worn off, replaced with gut-wrenching pain, mixed with a nasty hangover.

  Going to this particular hospital was a risk. I’m sure somebody would recognize me as May worked here eight years ago. I had little to no options.

  Tim dragged me to a seat in the waiting area, while he checked me in at the reception desk. Filling out the necessary paperwork.

  Approaching 09.30 on Sunday morning, the waiting area empty. All the weekend casualties more or less gone. We were quickly seen by an older nurse, Elaine, taking me through for an X-ray first.

  Returning, I waited on a bed, in a small, closed-off area from the waiting room. I sat upright staring forward, my eyes glazed-over, bloodshot and tired, waiting patiently for the doc to appear. A nurse flashed past, who I recognized straight away from a past staff party.

  Chloe, I’m sure her name was. Taking a second look as she strolled past, but I wasn’t sure if she clocked me. I couldn’t be certain either way, but something else to add to my worry.

  Finally, after twenty minutes, the Indian doctor made an appearance, and I hoped he was here to fill my pockets with anaesthesia.

  “Hello, Mr Marks. You look in a lot of pain here.” Getting straight to the point, poking around my ribs, making me wince and shiver. Under the glaring white light of the room, colours sparked in my eyes. Grabbing a certain part in the right side of my rib-cage, I could have strangled him. My eyes turned cock-eyed. “Whoa, doc! That fucking hurts, you know!”

  “Sorry sir, I need to be thorough. Well, I’ve a little good news, there’s no breaks showing up on your x-ray.” No breaks!

  “So, what’s the damage down there?”

  “Looks like they’re badly bruised and maybe cracked, so take it easy, Mr Marks. You won’t be able to work for a few weeks. I’ll give you some pain-killers for the ribs and I’ll get the nurse to wrap them up. You need to keep the movement in them to a minimum. Now, what’s wrong with your knuckles?”

  “Ah…nothing, I had a tumble and scraped my hands down a wall…very drunk!”

  “Tumble, did you?” He knew I was speaking absolute shit. “OK, I’ll get the nurse to tidy up the skin hanging around there and wrap it up. I'll prescribe you some Dihydrocodeine,
strong paracetamol and cream for your knuckles. Stay out of trouble for a few weeks Mr Marks, your body needs a rest.”

  “OK, doc. Thanks very much, I appreciate it.”

  “The nurse will be with you, soon.”

    Another twenty minutes, a male nurse called Gavin turned up. No Chloe, which was a relief.

  I let him do his stuff, wrapping my ribs up quite tight, after picking the skin off my knuckles with a small, sharp, curved, stainless-steel knife, disinfecting them and rubbing some cream on before wrapping them up with a complicated-looking bandage technique round my fingers and knuckles.

  “OK, Mr Marks. Keep the bandage on until tomorrow morning, apply the cream three-four times a day and make an appointment with your local GP for a check-up. Here’s your pain-killers and instructions on how much to take.”

  “Thanks very much, Gavin.” Glad all that was over. I ripped the boxes open with my teeth like a depraved junkie as I limped back into the waiting area. Not bothering to read the recommended dosage, I swallowed a couple tablets from each box.

“Tim, let’s get the fuck out of here, I’m starving.”

  “Sure, good idea. Anywhere you want to go?”

  “Head up the road to Murdo’s.” Famished, light headed and feeling a stone lighter than the day before, I needed a good meal before facing the wife and kids.

  The thought of last night weighed heavy on my mind, giving me a guilty conscience, while all I wanted to think about was the cash tucked away in the glove-box.

  “Can we have two full breakfasts, with a pot of coffee, please?” Sitting down at the first free table we seen as we entered the lounge at 11.15am.

  “Sure, no problem. Should be around a ten-minute wait.” Said the stunningly hot, blonde waitress. A great rack and toned butt, squeezed into her snug black leggings, Tim’s eyes were glued to her as she sashayed away, wiggling her cheeks with perfect precision.

  “Jesus Christ mate, check that.” Tim said.

  “Perv! But, I wouldn’t say no, like.”

  “Better get in line pal, I’m first.”

  Tim’s mobile rang. ‘Withheld number.’ Answering, his eyes opened wide, he then handed it over “It’s for you.”

  “Hello?”

  “What the fuck have you been doing?”

Chapter 37

Job Prospects:

  “Hey, get up, you’ve got work to go to.”

  “Aye, calm down, woman. I’m getting up.” Fucking half-five in the morning, what a chore this was. Half dead, slouching out of bed, pulling my jeans up at the end of another ordinary, boring week at the wholesalers.

  Still shockingly cold in the middle of April. Never mind. I just had to get on with things. Get to work, finish the week, my probationary period, and earn a few pounds for the piggy-bank.

  This was the usual way I dragged myself out of bed for work. May shaking and shoving me to turn the irritating alarm off. The days of making the breakfast when I got up were over. The new routine now involved putting the kettle on, filling the 4-slice toaster, trying to wake from my zombie-like state.

  It was now May’s job to get the kids up, while I went to work.

I wasn't able to attend that interview for the dispatch job, after being banged-up from Skinner's bent-rule tactics that shattered my ribs. Feeding them the same story I tried to tell May.

  Five guys jumped me at the music concert, and I wouldn’t be able to attend due to the state I was left in. Having a good chat with Angela, the head of HR on the phone, putting on a BAFTA-winning performance, I got the feeling she felt sorry for me, insisting I went to the top of her list for the next available position.

  By a miracle, the guy they ended up hiring was a bit of a waster and sacked after four weeks, giving me the opportunity of the job at the turn of the New Year.

  The interview went really well, to my big surprise, and by the second week in January, I had a job. By then, the ribs and hands healed, but my relationship with May hadn’t. Getting dropped off that Sunday, I tried to feed her the same story, but she seen straight through me as she always did.

  Quite openly, I revealed the truth about both fights. Explained the reasons why I felt I had to do it: for the kids, house and her. She understood how trapped I felt, but couldn’t come to terms with the dark world I’d been involved in. But, worst of all, she couldn’t believe I could lie to her that easily. What other lies are there, she asked, over and over.

 
Regularly after that, she became distant with me, gave me the cold shoulder every time I tried to get close. Time after time, it made me feel continually useless and guilty about the damage I’d done to our marriage. Midway between conversations, she would choose to ignore me and sometimes just walk away, leaving me talking to myself.

  Getting sick of the situation, I would sneak out of the house on occasion, nipping round to the pub for a couple pints, some welcome company and conversation with the locals.

  That morning was the end of my three-month probationary period at work, which would see me fully employed with all the usual working benefits, thirty day’s holiday and a fifty-pence pay rise.

  The job was shit, full stop.

  I worked at an industrial wholesaler in Inverurie, stationed in the dispatch section. Monitoring the stock and compiling the data onto the computer-system and taking orders from a Neanderthal of a boss. Once started, they placed me on some courses, fork-lift, manual handling and a pish safety course. It was difficult adjusting from months of unemployment into a Monday to Friday lifestyle. 6.30am-3.30pm. The two grand of blood money I earned from the Skinner fight was put back into the house, but only after a few days of argument with the wife. More educated, and from a better family than me, she had a strict attitude when it came to breaking the law. She seen the money as dirty laundry and didn’t want any ties to it. It took a bit of convincing, but she came round. The debt on the mortgage was paid off and we were now living comfortably again. One thing I couldn’t stand about my job, was taking orders and being made to feel like a school-pupil, especially from the boss who was a complete fud. He treated his job as if he was the President of the United States. He didn’t realise there was more to life than loading trucks and keeping stock. Many days I had to bite my lip and keep my fist in my pocket as he spoke to me like a dim-witted child. I longed for the weekend as soon as the alarm went off on Monday morning.

  I hadn’t seen my pal Tim since dropping me off that day. I missed the cunt. Didn’t have any real friends in Inverurie. Sure, I had neighbours, work-colleagues and people I talked to in the pub, but I could never have conversations with them as I would with Tim. I could speak my mind with him, and we roamed in the same circles since young, tearaway teenagers.

 
Texted him from time to time to see what he was up to, or what illegal activity he’d been mixed up in. May couldn’t know of that, banning me from speaking to him, or seeing him. It was hard to take. In May’s eyes it was him, or her. It annoyed me, as I’d just gotten to know the guy again.

  I kept some stories to myself regarding the underbelly of unlicensed boxing. To her, it was obvious Tim was the start and end of it, and in many ways, she was right, he was. But, I never held a grudge on the guy. There wasn't room for a new grudge in my troubled mind. Why waste your effort holding a grudge, unless the grudge had history, like the one I held?

  May and me scraped as much cash as we could manage, for the kids at Christmas.  

  I tried my best with her over the festive period, finding out I wasn’t the only person in this house carrying a stubborn streak. Her parents visited for Christmas, bringing lots of welcomed presents for the kids.

  When Jack and Margaret visited, May’s attitude to me changed for the better and it felt as if things were looking up for our relationship, but no, she put on the show for them.

  Her parents were up their own arses. Her stuck-up mum Margaret never liked me, she couldn’t accept her prized daughter married a man like me, or should I say, a man from a family like mine. Fucking cow, looked down her nose, not letting go of that ‘Better than you’ streak to have a decent, human conversation. The only time she would, after a few gin and tonics, the guard would drop and the ‘Lonely at home housewife’ would pour out of the bottle. Seeking the attention from younger men, flirting and becoming very touchy-feely, looking for them to make her feel a young woman again, and willingly, she would let them.

  At the age of fifty-two, Margaret Wood still had her looks. It helped that she wore the best clobber, expensive jewellery and a face-full of lippy and slap, standard cougar get-up. Felt she was upper-class, coming from an above-average rich family and her husband Jack being an over-paid offshore driller. A stereotypical gold-digging housewife, but earned her crust putting up with an arrogant English arse-hole.

  Tolerating Jack did have its benefits for Margaret. Plenty of peace and quiet to get the local handyman round a couple of days a week, and unlimited use of his credit card, plus the luxury of driving around Stonehaven in his brand new Range Rover Sport.

  Jack Wood was a chunky, broad, average height man in his late fifties, already gearing up for retirement. Rich and gullible to his wife’s carry-ons, while he was ‘Freezing his ass off in the North Sea’ as he put it. He was an easy-spending, happy chap that would happily write a big cheque to help us out, but would hold it against me forever, with sly remarks and ‘witty’ comments.

  He was a simple guy at home. Bought a paper in the morning, walked the dog and jugged a few cans of lager a couple of nights a week.  Loved a bit of illegal hunting on estate properties with his shotgun, giving the old guy a sense of feeling young again. A spot of fly-fishing on a Saturday morning wasn’t out the question, either.

  I didn’t mind Jack in small doses, but patience would wear thin with him. I could sink a few beers in his company no problem, until he would boast about working offshore and the big coins he earns.

  All the time I’d known Jack, he had never offered help in any way. Until that boozy Christmas night sitting at the kitchen table, sharing too many beers he offered his hand. “You ever thought about offshore?” Sure I’d thought of it, many times but I hadn’t the money to sort it out, and he knew that.

  “Aye, all the time Jack, but I don’t have the cash or experience to go anywhere.” It was never supposed to sound like a cry for help, but unfortunately it came across like that, making me sound pathetically helpless. Leaning in closer to me by sliding his forearms across the table, he offered his help.

  “Well, I can help if you want it?” Cheeky cunt, basically making me ask for his help, he was. What was he going to do? Write me a cheque, get me a job or make me grovel? The idea of letting him help me and owing him, wasn’t thrilling me. “I could call the office set up an interview for you as a roustabout or roughneck, put you through all the necessary courses to get you on the chopper.”

  OK, this sounds like not a bad situation at all, but I couldn’t get under his grip. I would hear about this for the rest of my days. Sure, I’d be better off and financially sound, but was it worth it? Taking his constant remarks about how he helped out his down-and-out son-in-law get started in the North Sea.

  In all fairness he was trying to help, but in a patronising way.

  We were both well on the way, with a mountain of empty tins sitting on the table and getting on like a house on fire, but the longer I sat at the table that night, the more I wanted to give him a slap.

  Well, it ended up I didn’t need his help. I called him up and said I’d managed to get a start at the wholesalers. It was considerably satisfying for me, but it was a kick in the stones for him, and brushing off his help made my day.