The Sister(114)

‘Stick close to me, boy,’ Brooks told him as they moved among the masses of people. Brooks pushed him near to the front. Mounting restlessness added to Tanner’s anxiety, and he couldn’t settle, although the mob seemed oblivious to him. Someone was talking about Shaw.

‘Just like the old man, just like him. I thought he’d disappeared for good, just like the old man. The mother, though, now she was a lovely woman.’

‘Aye, she was that. He fell out with his dad you know.’

‘Yeah, I heard. Burned him out of the home when the mother died, didn’t he?’

‘Yeah, took her maiden name after that.’

‘I never knew that,’ the other man said. ‘What was she? A...’ Tanner’s ears pricked up. A sudden roar in the crowd drowned the name out, as the fighters appeared. He caught his first glimpse of Shaw. He wore a short and spiky straw-coloured beard and moustache, the gaps between the clumps of coarse hair reminded him of stubble in the fields after harvest. Fearsome looking, Shaw had his head completely shaved, revealing scars that criss-crossed his scalp. From where he stood, Tanner couldn’t be sure it was the same man in the E-Fit.





Chapter 99



In the field, the smell of trampled grass, cigarettes and old leather hung in the air, the level of noise already intimidating rose to a crescendo as the fighters appeared. Shaw limbered up slowly; the younger man Flynn fired off a series of rapid combinations. The throng roared its approval. Shaw pushed out a lazy left and then doubled it, crossing over with a slow right hand. Brooks was right; money was changing hands left, right and centre. Quinn watched with interest. Shaw still had all the moves, and he clearly kept himself in shape. What struck him most of all was the sense of calm he projected, in contrast to the younger fighter.

Shaw stood ready. He reflected on how he’d created this opportunity for himself. He only had to show his face in front of the Flynns, he knew they'd call him out, knowing he’d have no choice but to fight. Like many a boxer before him, he believed he could go on winning forever.

Fighting was in his blood. You’ll still be picking fights in the graveyard, his granny used to say to the old man. Hmmph. The old man. The fighting kept him out of a lot of trouble. It channelled his propensity for violence and acted as a penance for his wicked ways. Every blow he took a punishment, a point scored for those he’d done wrong to. Apart from settling the score, he hated the Flynns with a vengeance. The younger boys had taken the piss out of him when he was growing up, because of his stutter. He guessed he always knew he’d get a big payday out of it in the future. It was a long time coming, but it was here now.

The stewards struggled to keep the masses back as they surged forward, expecting blood. With the fight moments away, Shaw fired himself up, shuffling and jabbing at the air in a state of adrenaline-fuelled, heightened awareness; a high-octane burst would be on him as soon as the bell went.

His opponent, at only half his age, looked powerful. He was impossibly broad with short arms. They touched fists. ‘Short arms’ came out swinging. Fists hooking; left first and then right, his short black hair already wet from the pre-fight warm up, shed beads of sweat with each jerky movement.

Faster than the older man had expected, he took a step back and measured him. Flynn’s eyes were little black stones that betrayed no emotion. He reminded Shaw of a shark.

So far he’d kept out of range, skipping away, leaning back, arms loose but up in front of him. Shaw didn’t like to waste energy. A lazy jab brought Flynn in fast underneath, both fists tearing through the air, knowing at any second he’d connect, and then it would be goodnight Vienna for the Boiler man, who himself slipped a punch, ducked under, half twisting, leaning over from the waist, he whipped a wicked left hook into the ribs just below where Flynn’s elbow had been. Wincing, he faltered and drove a shot through the middle into empty air as Shaw circled left, switched to southpaw, jabbing with his right. Flynn deflected, ducked under and caught another vicious left in exactly the same spot. The crowd exhaled as one. Ooooh!

Tanner pushed forward. Brooks pulled him back.

Flynn, more cautious this time, couldn’t read Shaw, who seemed to be looking off at a point in the distance, unconcerned. He took his chance. Flynn jabbed, doubling it up. Shaw parried the punches with his gloves and then quick as a flash, a left, again downstairs, and a crunching right, down over the top contorted Flynn’s face. He was out before he touched the ground.

Tanner had hoped to pick up a towel or something Shaw had used. Maybe even get in close for an autograph, a photo with his arm around him, anything that could yield some DNA material. Shaw took his T-shirt off to wipe his face. That’s it – throw it to the crowd! He willed him to do it, but he tucked it into his belt, and as he did, Tanner caught a glimpse of the buckle. Suddenly they – the crowd surged forward, sweeping the undercover policeman almost off his feet, almost into touching distance.

In the pandemonium that followed, he and Brooks were separated. He feared for his life. With the stewards overrun, fighting broke out all around them. In the melee, Shaw floored two or three would be attackers. Somebody fired a shotgun. Everything stopped. A loud voice boomed. ‘That’s enough! Go home boys.’

The stewards took up positions once more. The crowd began to disperse.

When Brooks found him, he laughed. ‘You’re as white as a sheet! You okay, Quinn?’