The Sister(32)

‘Sort it out like men,’ Taylor told them as he stood between the opponents, ‘now shake hands.’ Carney refused.

‘Box,’ Taylor said, stepping out of the way.

Thomas came forward, unafraid. His opponent poked his tongue out, mocking him. The boy stung him with a jab to the mouth, bloodying his lips.

Gerard wiped blood from his mouth onto the back of his forearm and staring at it in disbelief, his face became a mask of rage.

Is this where the expression seeing red comes from? Taylor thought.

The man exploded, striking out in anger, catching the boy high on the shoulder, hard enough to spin him half way round. Another shot deflected by his glove; a further one glanced off the top of Thomas’s head, catching him as he bobbed under it. Thomas cut loose with a rapid, left, right, left combination. It lacked the power to trouble his opponent.

Gerard began to relish the prospect of teaching the kid a lesson. He threw a few more energy sapping punches, but couldn’t nail him with a clean shot. Then he did something dirty. In the instant that Taylor looked at the clock on the wall, he butted the boy full on the nose. Thomas dropped to one knee, holding his face.

Terry yelled, ‘Mickey – he’s just f*ckin’ nutted him!’

It took two men to restrain Mrs Carney from getting into the ring. Gerard knew he’d gone too far, and he held his arms out away from his sides, exposing the palms of his gloves as he muttered a half-apology.

A few of the men watching started turning hostile, muttering threats. One mounted the apron and tried to get into the ring to get at Gerard.

Terry pulled him back, calming him. ‘Leave it, Roy, we’ll not be having a free-for-all. See that look on Mickey’s face? He’s not going to let that lie.’

Gerard’s cronies, sensing perhaps that they could become targets for the other men’s anger, began backing away towards the exit.

With the situation on the verge of getting out of hand, Thomas made it to his feet and advanced unsteadily in Gerard’s direction. Taylor stood blocking him. ‘You’ve had enough, son.’

Carney wobbled; his eyes rolled, one arm hung by his side. Slowly, his legs buckled, and he dipped into a collapsing pirouette. As Taylor reached to catch him, he sprang back to life. Ducking under Taylor’s arm, he kicked his assailant in the balls and as Gerard doubled forward, the kid brought his head down sharply with both hands, to meet the force of his upcoming knee. Gerard, stunned for a second, stood bolt upright on his feet. Carney administered the coup de grace: a footballer’s head butt delivered – because he was so much shorter – from below, straight into his teeth, felling him. His mother led the cheers from the group of men around the ring.

At the hospital afterwards, when Thomas received stitches to the jagged wound in his forehead, a broken tooth fell from his torn flesh onto the floor. The two-inch scar didn’t bother him. He wore it with pride.





Miller’s school days passed by in a blur and he left without a clear idea of what to do with his life. He followed Kirk’s advice almost to the letter, and it helped lead him out of the trough of guilt and self-loathing he’d slipped into. Still shy, but more outgoing than his other persona, he set about toughening himself up, taking long, cross-country runs. The solitude and peace were good for him. Out there in the wilds, he tuned in to nature. He learned to anticipate the birds that flew up, disturbed by his approach. He taught himself to listen, as well as to see. Slewing along undercover unseen, a grass snake announced itself with a pungent discharge, reminding him of the importance of smells.

As he ran, he shadowboxed, snatching at flies in the air. The day I catch one, I’m joining the boxing club.





A couple of days later, he found himself opening the street door into the gym one of his friends had recommended. Oddly enough, the smell hit him first; the stale odour of toil, sweat and boot leather, which he’d later discover was partly the tang of well-used gloves. No wonder they call it a stable of boxers, he thought.

Halfway up the stairs, someone opened the upper door and the sounds of the gym came alive. He could hear trainers coaxing more effort out of their fighters and the sound of skipping ropes, swishing through the air faster than the eye could see and the squeak of boots scuffing against wooden floors, grunts of effort, the pounding of heavy bags and the staccato drumming of a half dozen speedballs. The atmosphere buzzed with vitality.

Once inside, he approached the nearest instructor, a pug-faced man with a flattened nose-bone. ‘Is Mickey here?’ he asked.

Turning his head towards him, the man looked him over and then pointed to the ring in the far corner. ‘That’s him, over there.’ Waving an arm in the air to attract the other man’s attention, he called out, ‘Hey, Mickey, newbie to see you!’

Mickey glanced up and beckoned him over. With his hands on his hips and a grubby white towel draped around his neck, he looked like a cornerman from another era.

‘What’s your name, son?’

‘It’s Miller.’

‘What’s your first name?’ he said, looking at him intently.

‘It’s just Miller,’ he said, his face deadpan.

A glint of amusement flashed in the trainer’s flinty eyes, and he wiped his hand on the leg of his grey tracksuit and offering it, introduced himself. ‘Mickey Taylor.’