The Boxer's Dreams of Love Page 14

‘Eddie, what the fuck are you still doing here? Down in the kitchens, now.’

  CHAPTER 22

  The gun jams. A woman called Linda Nothing pleasant about the Pleasance. The peasants streamed out of a concert by a piss-poor band that would frighten nobody with their jinglejangle borrowed melodies. He was the last to leave and he waited for a moment under the canopy. His night off and he had wasted it on this. He had waited here once before, taking shelter from the rain and that phone call had come. And Zinny had followed through on his promise. Eddie could understand no matter how hard it was to take. And she’d been alive when he’d made that call, his daughter had been alive. So what now? Frankie didn’t fit the picture at all.

  It wasn’t raining tonight, the passers-by moved with slow serenity and gave him no second glance. His ears were still ringing from the cacophony of the mediocre band.

  The band. Edie’s band. If they could have been described as that. Maybe she was with them. Tommy would know, wouldn’t he? Everything was ‘maybe’ with Eddie. He saw them in a dismal dining-hall, playing to half-alive funeral attendees with aids in their ears. The place didn’t matter, or even the band, as long as she could stand up there. So she swapped suburban Scottish squalor with Eddie for a last road trip. He wanted to believe that.

  The theatre lights were turned off. Eddie saw the motorbike across the road. Engine idling, two people on board. It happened too quickly for him to react, to accept that it was happening to him. The bike moved with stealth speed to the edge of the pavement. The passenger jumped off and pushed Eddie back against the theatre wall. Held his neck with one hand and pushed the barrel of a gun into the side of his head. Eddie saw no face but his own distorted reflection in the visor of the helmet.

  The click of the hammer. Eddie closed his eyes. And nothing. The gun had jammed. Or at least Eddie had hoped that’s what had happened. The grip on his neck loosened and Eddie seized that fragment of a second to push the man away. The gun fell to the ground and as his attacker scrambled to retrieve it, Eddie pulled his helmet off. The man underneath was not a man at all. Even in the dead light Eddie saw the scared rabbit eyes of a teenager. He uttered a shriek as he looked into the grim face above him, his task a failure, and the roar of the motorbike in his ears as his partner left him for dead.

  The opponent on the floor, features twisted in a grimace of fear, his hands and arms up, trying to shield himself from the expected blows. Not a man and now not even a kid, he was a child, terrified, one minute playing cowboys in his back garden and the next, here, now, in the dark, cold real world of this Edinburgh night, alone, shivering, and what he wouldn’t give for someone to wake him up from this nightmare, for his mother to call him inside. Eddie had his fists pumped, armed, ready, standing like a vulture over dead useless meat… Stop.

  Eddie looked down on a mirrored pavement and saw his father’s face reflected in his own. Steel hatred in the whiskered face, stone words in the whiskey mouth and then the blows did rain down on the boy. Stop. He heard sirens. He looked up and saw the gaping mouths of the unpaying audience who stood, wanted to run, wanted to help, wanted to see blood. In the corner of his eye the metallic sheen on the gun barrel pointing away from them. Pick it up, don’t pick it up, either way you lose. You always lose, Eddie. So he stepped away, from the kid, the gun, the beckoning sirens and the fearful contemptuous faces of the faceless witnesses across the street. Witnesses.

  He walked quickly away, he had done no wrong, had left the kid alone and hoped the kid had the sense to leave the scene as quick. And take the gun with him. And take the gun with him. Eddie figured he was far enough away to slow down to normal pace. He looked around for a bar, fast-food restaurant, anything, anywhere to sit, let the sweat recede, the tide of anxiety abate a little. Chicken Diner it was creatively called, at least he knew what he could get. He sat in a tight plastic red chair, looked down at a plate of processed meat that he could barely touch. He drank some of the cola and that on its own was enough to make his stomach heave. But at least his heart had slowed down.

  He could see the waitress tidying up, fixing chairs, fixing her hair, yawning, and constantly looking at him, the last customer in the bright lonely place, where he somehow had eaten everything. Police cars had come and gone, up and down the road and none had stopped outside. Maybe they were outside the house, maybe Harding was getting the phone call right now. Maybe not. If the kid had scrambled to his feet, grabbed the gun and disappeared into the night. If the witnesses had contracted the common disease of not wanting to get involved. If it was too dark outside the theatre for the cameras to pick up anything. Eddie was glad, not for the first time, that he looked like a thousand others.

  If.

  ~ What a night off, he thought. He ordered another of whatever the hell it was called and stayed perched high on the stool. Music screamed at him from another part of the huge bar. This was a tourist bar, noisy, expensive, loud, endless, with tunnel after tunnel to get to the filthy toilets. It was quarter after two, now ten past three as he waded out onto the street. He should have been drunk, normally would have been. He wanted a taxi but forced himself to walk the three miles home. Home, was that what it was? He waited on the corner of his road, inspecting the dark house. No cars outside, no sign of anyone waiting. Had they meant to kill him, scare him? It had happened too quickly for him to be afraid, all the fear had been in his young assailant’s face. That poor little fucker, his life was wasted whichever way he turned.

  All around the house, inside and out, was quiet. He took the bag from the bottom of the wardrobe. Spread the cash between his body and his few clothes. Felt the letter still in its rightful place. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t lost it by now. God had a reason for it obviously. Packed, ready to go, go back, forward, all the same. It would never end. Surely everybody’s life was not like this. He waited at the kitchen table, ate two stale biscuits from a tin and stale water from the tap. He waited for the light, a new dawn, same as all the other ones.

  He walked to Waverly and waited for the first train of the day. Nobody waiting for him. He ate a full breakfast in a dusty dive and heard the whistle for his time to go. He sat opposite a gothic student who looked like she’d never seen this time of day before. She crawled into the corner of her seat and did her best to ignore him. He watched her fall asleep and followed her on down.

  It was only an hour to Stirling and he crawled from the carriage as if he’d slept for a week. This was a whole new world, serene, sunlit, hilly streets and the nicest hotel he’d ever been in. He could afford a few nights and even dagger looks from the orange-tanned girl on reception couldn’t dent his relief at being able to stop and rest in such a place.

  He closed the door. Locked the door. Checked it twice more to make sure. He dropped his bag on the ground and let himself fall on the large white bed. A soft linen world beckoned him down and he let himself fall. Wanted desperately to sleep for ten, twelve hours but he knew it wouldn’t happen. After a few minutes he was almost there but just when he was on the edge he came back, his mind found a second gear. The shrill stabbing phone beside the bed brought him to his feet in an instant. It was reception, welcoming him, asking was everything alright, everything in the room to his satisfaction. He’d barely been in it for two minutes, how could he have possibly formed an opinion?

  He said everything was fine. He took off his shoes, his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled the letter out. He looked at it briefly before laying it down on the sideboard, beside the room service menu which caught his attention. Looking at it made him ravenous and he could have tried everything. It was then that he realized how early it was. Later.

  Rest, Eddie, for God’s sake rest.

  He stripped, let his clothes fall and walked naked to the bathroom. He passed a full length mirror on the way and stopped to study the strange curious form that was in front of him. Bulkier now but still muscular, early signs of middle-age spread but not enough to concern him. He kept himself in shape although he often w
ondered why. It hadn’t helped much recently, hadn’t prevented his journey here, his presence here, to this gilded, goldwrapped prison. Bruises all healed form his last outing in the ring. Just scars, scabs, permanent penances for sins committed. He was turning on the shower when he noticed the bath behind him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a bath. As a child most likely, bowing, bending under his mother’s scaly hands on a Saturday night.

  The languid liquid cast a dizzy warm spell over him. He was close to sleep again, his head against the hard tile wall. A fog of languor filled the room. A towel around his waist, he felt cold back in the bedroom. He gathered up his clothes, folded them and laid them on the second bed. He turned on the plasma TV and settled back on the bed. Shivering, he found a robe in the wardrobe and felt like a king as he settled back to watch a film noir where everything, everybody, was etched in vivid black and white. It may have been dark, dangerous but it was clear, dividing lines were clearly marked, morals, ethics, writ large for all to see. He turned the volume down and picked up the menu again. He ordered a steak sandwich and a pint of beer. Felt guilty the minute he put the phone down. For no good reason he knew but he still felt it. He couldn’t relax until the food arrived and he’d tipped the waiter a two pound coin. Finally alone, he locked the door again, sat at the table by the window and devoured his food. Immersed himself in the black and white world again.

  Full, warm, sated for now. He closed the heavy curtains and tuned off the TV. Took off the robe and slipped under the cool covers. No problem sleeping now.

  Eddie stayed in the room for almost forty-eight hours. Room service food, hours of bad television and beautiful sleep. He dreamt of that film noir world, where he wore a fedora hat and carried a gun. And everything was clear and simple there. The more he slept, the more he wanted to sleep. The more he slept the less he thought.

  He ventured out in the third day, walked around the busy, braveheart town. He visited the Wallace monument in a dreary drizzle that managed to soak him to the core. He stood on top of the edifice and could see nothing. There was nothing to do but retrace his steps back down again. He kept seeing vague shapes in the mist ahead. They never became clear, he never reached them. He heard voices behind, they carried, echoed in the fog, one moment they whispered in his ear, the next they were in the clouds above.

  He sipped tar coffee in the tiny café beside the museum shop and took out the miniature replica of Wallace’s famous sword. It was about four inches long and he had a sudden surreal image of creeping up on Stephen Zinny in a neon alley and slipping the blade though his skin, then watching him slide off it. This blade couldn’t cut melted butter but he supposed it could be a letter opener. Jesus. He’d left the letter in the hotel room, he could see it now, envisaged the maid curiously holding it up to the light as she went round her daily chores.

  In the death wake of a mid-afternoon when all hotels seem gravestone silent and all the staff are asleep somewhere, Eddie slid the blade along the opening of the letter. Lifted the flap carefully as if it might contain a bomb. But he already knew what the contents were. The contents had been moved from one envelope to another. He took the single folded sheet out and carried it to the armchair by the window. This wasn’t the time, it was never the time. No need to read it all, not today, no hurry. He turned on the TV for some background distraction. The background became foreground and he left the sheet of paper folded. He searched the stations in vain for another black and white movie. He looked at his watch and realized it was a little late in the afternoon. It was all quiz shows, game shows, shows of desperation, hosts of hosts showing blinding white teeth while trying to hide their utter boredom. The phone beside the bed bleated out and he rushed to answer it, if only to stop that awful noise.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I have a call for you, Mr. Brogan.’

  Inhaled a scared breath and waited. Which one would it be now? Not

  Edie, not Frankie, all gone now, the snake voice of Mr. Zinny himself maybe. ‘Hello?’ Nothing. Not even a breath from the other end. It wasn’t a bad line, or a wrong number, or the ghosts of his imagination. Why was he still holding the phone to his ear two minutes later? He finally put it down. He went to the door, looked through the spy hole, locked it, locked it, locked. A winner on the game show playing in the background. All the money in the world won’t help you, man. Eddie looked behind at the room, thought he could see all manner of changes, subtle signs of burglary. He checked his bag, found all the remains of his money in all the places he had left it. He thought of asking reception if they could trace the call, or even just tell him if it was a man or a woman.

  a woman… Edie? He had pushed her so far from his mind in recent weeks that pulling her back took everything he had. Through all their long breaks apart over the years he had learned, had to, to put her away in a mental box for those periods when she was away. Didn’t forget her, just put her away, like hanging a piece of favourite clothing in the wardrobe. Think about her return, not her absence, that’s what the secret was. In the aftermath of everything that had happened, after the deluge of absurdity that had been his life in recent weeks, he had a choice. He could go insane or he could default to his natural setting when she wasn’t there. When Edie wasn’t there. Even thinking her name was dangerous.

  Stirling night, daylight gone, quiet gone, it was now all noise, the sound of engine roars from nearby estates and throaty, violent music from copious caverns buried in basements. Less than sterling service in The Highland Bellows where the food took so long to arrive that all trace of moisture had long since disappeared. The glass bounced on the table if he left it down too long. Through the gap in the plywood door he saw the edge of the stage in the room next door where a punk band played parlor games with their audience’s musical tastes. He could see the base player’s sneakered feet shuffle like a goalkeeper on the bouncing bounding floor. Little melody or at least it had been forgotten in the passion play of untethered youthful energy.

  Eddie realized she must have been sitting there for some time before he noticed her. She had been at the bar, a brandy glass full of ice and green liquid. Now he looked around, tired beyond measure of the music from next door, and she was beside him. Green drink on the table, her arms folded, she had bleached blond teenage curls falling across her face, and the body of a forty year old. Black lashes blinked with furious rapidity and they turned his way as he looked at her.

  ‘Some fucking racket.’ He thought that’s what she said. Her accent came from the hidden valleys and with the next door noise it was difficult to be certain.

  ‘It is a bit much,’ said Eddie with gentlemanly politeness. She smiled at him and he saw Sarah closing the shop across the road at night, saw himself moving in her direction, no thought in his head. He wanted to turn the other way.

  Eddie supposed that all men, from the first to the last, poor to the rich, beautiful to ugly, eventually caught the attention of a woman whether they wanted it or not. All the mirrors had presented the same image all his life and still he protested to himself that the reflection was unkind, unreal. All men dreamed of love, all couldn’t believe when it arrived, all lost it through uncertainty, through carelessness. All the times he had found someone, he struggled to understand why it was happening to him. He could never hang on to it because he doubted. Himself not her, and selfdoubt turns beauty ugly.

  Linda Patterson, with that impenetrable accent, had one night a month to herself. She came to town from the terminal tedium of home and visited a different place. In search of distraction, noise, life, change. She didn’t come for love. She didn’t dye her hair or blacken her eyes for the boys in the bars. She left the three young boys with her sister and came to town for herself, for an evening with herself. The Highland Bellows was her roll of the dice tonight and she found herself a quiet seat beside a man who looked lost in himself.

  She took him to a quieter bar down the street. There were red candles on the rickety tables and elderly couples in silent conve
rsation.

  ‘I like your accent,’ said Linda. ‘Can’t understand some of what you say but I like it.’ She said these things with no intention behind them. She had desire for anything else other than what it was. This was her one night in town, her one time alone, she was utterly open, honest, no self-pity in her directness. She drank Grenadine and asked for honesty in return.

  ‘You’re staying at the Highlands? Jesus, well for some, eh?’

  ‘Just for a few days. Not the kind of place I’d normally stay in, believe me.’

  ‘So, you’re on holiday or something?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean? You are or you aren’t, which one is it?’

  ‘Then, no, I’m not on holiday.’ He’d spent his life protecting himself, holding his hands up, expecting the blow, waiting for the hit. Even from her.

  ‘And where is home?’

  ‘I’ve been living in Edinburgh for the last few months but I’m from Dublin originally. Probably where I’ll head back to.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘At the moment I wash dishes in a hotel kitchen. A hotel far removed from the one I’m staying in at the moment.’

  ‘So you’re just taking a break from all of that? Treating yourself?’

  ‘I guess that’s what I’m doing.’

  ‘We’re a long time dead, Eddie. Enjoy your few days. I get one night a month, if I’m lucky. I’ll wake up in the morning and this will have been a dream. A dream with a sore head. And their screaming will bring back to reality. That’s the way it is.’

  ‘And where is he?’

  ‘’He?’ He is a long way away. I don’t even think of him anywhere. I have no feelings about him at all.’

  ‘And there’s nobody else.’

  ‘You think I come in here, in places like this, to find that?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. But maybe you do. Believe in that?’