The Sister(33)

They shook hands.

‘We’re going to need your first name for the application,’ he said, taking a form from the clipboard on the chair next to him. ‘Fill that in, then we’ll get started.’

There was a time when he only allowed proper fighters to train in his gym, but he’d relaxed the rules in recent years because he couldn’t afford to turn money away. Among the usual array were various non-combatants: nightclub doormen, friends of fighters, wayward kids and the occasional policeman.

The boy in the ring was a middleweight prospect. Even though he was only sixteen years old, Taylor was sure he could take an ABA title and turn pro in a few years. There were always two, or three, sparring partners lined up ready for him.

Miller watched from ringside with interest until Taylor said, ‘Don’t stand there gawping, go and see Terry and he’ll get you started.’

The warm up routine was a basic lesson in stance, and a demonstration of bag work, followed by skipping. Twenty minutes later, he’d built up a sweat and Terry started him on the pads. Miller bobbed around in front of him, picking off the moving targets with ease. Terry moved faster, becoming more and more nimble on his feet, boots squeaking as he shuffled and turned, switching direction, making the pads harder to hit. Miller stuck to him closer than a shadow, catching the padded targets at will, with either hand.

Taylor, delivering coaching points to his boy in the ring, found his attention drawn by the blur of movement and the thwack of leather against leather, as the newcomer’s gloves repeatedly struck home. ‘Terry, send him over,’ he called out.





‘You said on the form you hadn’t boxed before, son,’ Taylor said.

‘I haven’t,’ he said.

Taylor gave him a sceptical look. ‘Are you sure? What do you reckon, Terry?’

‘If he hasn’t, then I’m a Chinaman.’

Taylor scratched the back of his head. He couldn’t think why the boy would deny it, but then he didn’t seem to want them to know his Christian name either. Taylor was puzzled. Let’s see how you handle yourself in the ring, eh?

‘Are you up for sparring, boy?’

‘I’m ready,’ he said.

‘Let’s get you gloved-up. Do you have a gum shield with you?’

‘No, we’re only sparring. I won’t need it.’

Terry raised his eyebrows.

Taylor leaned forward and whispered to his protégé, ‘Don’t take it easy on him.’

Thomas, who stood watching with each of his gloved hands resting on the top rope, stuck out his gum shield, a bored expression on his face.

As he slipped through the ropes onto the canvas, Taylor said, ‘No shame in it, boy. Just nod to me if he hurts you and I’ll stop it, all right?’ Moving back, he clapped his hands and said, ‘Box.’

Carney came straight at him, arms pumping out a variety of punches. Working behind a ramrod, stiff left jab, he hooked, crossed and attacked.

Switched off from all conscious thought as his grandfather had taught him, he bobbed and slipped everything Carney threw at him. Only movement mattered; he closely defended and countered. Pure instinct took over. The countdown buzzer kicked in; Carney finished strong, it was all he could do to stay out of trouble; he flicked his eyes up at the clock – two seconds to go. Carney connected with a body shot which staggered him. Although he made it to the corner, the punch caused a delayed reaction. A full half minute later, he stumbled as it folded him at the waist.

Taylor called out, ‘Next!’ With a note of self-satisfaction in his voice, he said, ‘He’s been perfecting that shot for weeks, killer isn’t it?’ Miller nodded with a pained smile.

He only had himself to blame for allowing his concentration to waver.



In the showers afterwards, Carney approached with Taylor, who asked him for his real name.

A puzzled look crossed his face. ‘It’s exactly as I wrote on the form.’

‘Why did you tell me you'd never boxed before? Thomas could barely lay a glove on you. You’re not a ringer are you, son?’ Taylor was priest-like, inviting confession.

‘I used to spar with my grandfather when I was a kid about ten years ago. That doesn’t count as boxing, does it?’

Taylor rubbed his eye. ‘He must have been some kind of trainer, your granddad. Why won’t you say what your first name is, son?’ He held the application form out in front of him. Pointing to the entry by the first name, he said, ‘You don’t expect me to believe your name is just Miller, do you?’

‘I told you when I first walked in that my name’s Miller. I don’t want to be called Mickey, or Tommy, or anything else. I just want to be called Miller, end of story.’





Chapter 25



Two and a half years later, a few days after his nineteenth birthday, Miller was walking home in a vicious rainstorm in the early hours. In the future, he’d remember this night many times. The memory, when it started, was monochrome.

The drab greyness of the rain and its incessant hiss deflated him, and he pinched his face against it, eyes reduced to slits and though the insides of his pockets were damp, he dug his hands further in, looking to warm them.

A car drew up alongside. The passenger door swung open. Leaning across with his face peering up at him was his old form master, Kirk. ‘Get in, I’ll drop you off.’