The Boxer's Dreams of Love Page 6

  So she started. Unaccompanied, didn’t wait for the others, no instructions, let them remember and if they didn’t, well, she may die up here but she’d die singing something she believed in.

  The world was turning, the room spinning, counting the money she started to feel faint. Champagne always made her feel sick. Worth it though. She put the money back in the envelope, buried it under her clothes in the bag that was always packed and ready to go. Scotty had found someone tonight, she could hear them in the other room. Sometimes thought it might be her although she’d never let it happen. Thank God they were leaving in the morning, out of this fallen tinsel town.

  Morning. Well, mid-morning, closer to lunch and she was the first one there. A fleeting idea that they’d abandoned her. The garbled voice of the station announcer. She tried to concentrate on the book again. Tried and failed, she took out her phone and rang Eddie.

  All the money in the world

  In his head, a dream, where was it coming from? He reached out but she was gone before he could speak. He threw the phone across the room. A knock on the door, a soft broken accent, apologies, the door being opened, he glimpsed a tiny dark face and then it disappeared, leaving him in peace.

  A train ran through his head. He sat on the bed, on the toilet, knelt by the toilet, under the shower, opened the window, drank water from the complimentary bottles, drank it all and still that train kept coming, rumbling, roaring, almost upon him, bearing down on him.

  The dining room was being prepared for lunch, breakfast long since over but they took pity on him and gave him something. He forced it down, washed down with a gallon of coffee. Then it really started to kick in and postcard memories of yesterday floated in.

  Manny… shiny shoes resting on the bar rail… stories of the golden days back in the ring where are you staying, Eddie? You in need of money?

  The room was different now. Beyond the fact that the cleaner had been back. Bathed in noon day light. Crisp clean sheets, white perfumed bathroom, gentle breeze through an open window clearing the air. His clothes folded. His bag neatly placed where such items were supposed to go. His heart was beating faster and he didn’t know why. Checked his own pockets, found the wallet, cash, not too much. Because the real money was in his clothes, in his bag, carefully concealed. Didn’t want to carry it around with him.

  It was all there, thank God. His mobile rang. Noise, static, voices far away.

  ‘Edie?’ He moved to all parts of the room, didn’t make any difference. Was she on a train? He stood by the window, pulled back the curtains and looked out into summer, everything still bright, people walked more slowly, enjoying the rare warmth. There was still nothing to hear. He gave up and looked bleakly down at the car park, the road beyond, he stretched to see the river, the main part of the city just beyond. There. On the corner, partly obscured. He was certain, almost. The shoes. Too clean, shiny, sharp. Manny.

  Edie was on a train. Where had she told him she was heading? Blackpool? Some other town. No, she was excited about this place. Never been. Even asked Eddie to come with her and she never did that. Part of the deal with her. Not so much a deal as a sacrifice on Eddie’s part. She toured alone, or at least without someone she was involved with. They would get in the way. It was only weeks at a time, not months or years. Eddie used to think he could live with that.

  He started packing, didn’t take him long as he was always halfway there. Took the letter out, replaced it, next to his skin. He took the money, all of the money, put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He went back to the window. No sign of Manny on the corner. Maybe he’d never been there.

  He was in the back of the taxi when he remembered. Edinburgh. The driver was more than happy to go the airport rather than the station. Fuck the rules, the agreement between them. They hardly ever spoke on the phone. Always something getting in the way. He’d surprise her, show her. She, they, could afford to stop for a while.

  Airport, crowded, bright, chrome, loud, signs ever changing, everywhere and still you couldn’t find what you were looking for. All the sheep looked lost in the field, waiting for someone to show them the way. He could head to Dublin or wait for ten hours in Cork. He decided to wait. Waiting meant hours in uncomfortable chairs, stares from unruly children, security guards scrutinizing the single bead of sweat on your forehead, bad food, expensive. He tried to phone her again and then remembered he was supposed to be surprising her. He had to transfer some of the money into his bag. He felt like a criminal, was a criminal in a certain light.

  All the time in the world. To think. To think all the wrong things. Things you’ve done, should have, shouldn’t have. He kept one hand on the bag at all times, the other kept checking his wallet and all the time he felt the letter against his skin. The letter. Maybe he’d show it to her.

  Just a couple of hours to go. He should have known, seen it coming. All the things he’d noticed, everything that had been out of place, out of kilter. Almost there and the screen announces that the plane is delayed. He wanted to sleep but knew he shouldn’t. He’d always been the same, passenger in a car, plane, whatever, no matter how tired he had to stay awake. Just in case something happened. He wanted to see it coming.

  Eddie was wide awake and still didn’t see it coming. It was there right in front of him. Sitting right across from him, a man so ordinary that he might as well have been invisible. Difficult to describe that which has no interesting characteristics. His clothes were clean, worn, worn all the time most likely. Hair, face all mousy, beige, bleached of life, of passion, all the things that give a man character. If the sun came out this man slipped back

  Boxer’s Dreams of Love into the shadow. If the room got too noisy he covered his ears, preferring the silence. He’d lived in a household of chaos and hostility and noise. The noise of anger, hatred even, certainly no love, so when he finally escaped from that house he craved and found silence and peace. Such things only came in abundance by being alone. Derek Murphy, what a name, perfect for a man to hide behind, could be anyone anywhere, no threat, engendering no feeling at all in those that came across his path. So dull they couldn’t invent a nickname for him. So one night, in drunken desperation, his employer, Manny Redmond, had simply called him Derek Derek. Nowhere to go after that.

  Eddie looked at, through, past Derek Derek, to the point where he could almost see the fabric in the back of the chair. Eddie ached with frustration, leg muscles beginning to seize. He needed exercise. He took his bag and wandered through the concourse, slowing briefing at a magazine stand, past coffee stands, headed for the bathroom to take a piss he didn’t really need.

  In the white room he listened in vain to the voice on the tannoy. No mention of his flight. He washed his hands, his face, pushed water through his hair. Behind him people came and went. One minute he was there and the next he was gone. Now he was back again. Derek Derek almost cast no reflection, his personality so pale and unalluring. No threat. They stood side by side drying their hands and Eddie reached for his bag on the shelf where he’d left it. It was so sudden and abrupt that the pain took minutes to arrive. He fell against the sink, felt his shoulder catch the sharp edge, felt the dagger of pain in his cheek.

  Somebody was helping him to his feet. Through bloodshot eyes he saw the Japanese face, alien words and then he was gone. Eddie had to sit in the cubicle. He felt exhausted, ashamed, shaking. Not just slow to react, he hadn’t reacted at all. Counted out and the ring was empty, the seats were empty, all gone home. One punch and he’d gone down, down. No scrambling for the ropes, no mesmeric rise from the floor, no standing against the wave, he’d lain down and hadn’t the strength. In the shame, in this tiny cramped space he heard his flight being called.

  The white room was empty. The bag was there alright. Open, on the floor, his clothes scattered like ashes around it. He knew, he didn’t have to look, it was gone. He checked his jacket, nothing there but his ticket and a few notes. That’s all. He felt the letter against his skin as he hurried for
the plane.

  No time at all left now, they cast cold glances as they checked his ticket and rushed him to his seat.

  The rush, the roar, the running noise in his head, his stomach lifting with the plane. Back against the seat, eyes closed tight and this time he let himself sleep.

  all the time in the world, all the money in the world… no more.

  Last words in his head before his mind shut. Voice in his head, soft plain soothing pilot’s voice.

  Edinburgh edinbu…

  CHAPTER 11

  Edinburgh Black dusted stone, dark even in the blind sun of midday nailed down like a carpet of sins. Edinburgh. Raking leaves at this time of year, she wondered where they came from. In the shop window, Rankin, his new book, she’d read most of his old ones. He was Edinburgh, Scotland, that sound, voice, soft velvet tones covering hard concrete thoughts and deeds. No time now though, looked at her watch, she was late. Her phone rang but it was buried in her bag and she didn’t have the time.

  She thought she was already in the basement but there was yet another flight of stairs downwards. How far underground could they go? In every other city they went up, higher, but not here. They were already waiting for her. There was barely enough room on the stage for all of them.

  ‘Okay, Edie, you ready?’ She’d hardly taken her coat off. She looked for somewhere to put it, placed it on the back of the chair. She felt the clogging dust at the back of her throat, knew the voice could only be troubled.

  ‘So this is the big time, is it?’ Her words floated away, unanswered, up the stairs and out into the welcome air and light.

  ‘Edie, we’re tight on time here. Sorry but can we just get on with it?’

  ‘Jesus,’ she whispered, hoping she was heard.

  She was back outside the shop but she was too late. The skinny latte kid was already putting the shutters down.

  ‘Edie?’

  It was Rob. Rob? Talked only with his keyboards, soft, manicured hands. A beard that never quite grew up. He can actually speak?

  ‘Hi Rob. Following me?’

  He blushed, she could swear he did.

  ‘Just goin’ in the same direction I guess.’

  ‘I guess,’ intoned Edie trying to see how deep his shade of red would go.

  ‘Have you eaten yet?’ ‘No. I don’t know anywhere good, and cheap. You?’ ‘Follow me.’

  And she did.

  Rose Street rain washing the piss and spilled wine and beer down the cobble drains to the cellars below. They couldn’t hear themselves speak. Rob kept shouting then giving up. Edie smiled, shook her head. Finally the music stopped. That sudden silence was a Grand Canyon between them.

  ‘It’s crap, isn’t it?’ said Rob. ‘No, it’s fine,’ said Edie. ‘Food’s alright and we can hear ourselves talk.’

  ‘I don’t mean that. I mean us – the band.’

  ‘We’re not a band, Rob. There’s you, the others I mean and then there’s me.’

  ‘But you’re the best of us.’

  Same hotel, three doors down so what did it matter? It was nothing more than a kiss. He was too desperate, she could taste the uncertainty in his mouth. Was this what they all wanted?

  ‘I’ll head back.’

  ‘Probably a good idea, Rob.’

  He sat by the open window, cool breeze blowing in, looking about

  twelve. Nothing more would happen, he knew that. The fact he was here with her at all and not with them should have told her something. He’d said it already, hadn’t he? Not a band.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, still not moving.

  ‘That’s okay,’ she said, not sure what he was thanking her for. ‘It’s a shitty venue, isn’t it?’ He laughed.

  ‘Not what I thought Edinburgh would be like. Never thought I’d want

  to go back to Brighton.’ On friendly terms they parted. She locked the door after him, closed the window, put on the TV. Above, below her, the hotel creaked and groaned, walking, shouting, the bar next door, drunken sex, the city of Rankin all in one charged place. She wished she had bought the book now. Always dreamed of reading his books in the city itself. Here she was, near the Royal Mile, near narrow laneways too dark and ancient to be anything but the fictional fields of ferocious violence. Anything could be hidden in there. She turned everything off but her mind kept playing tricks. She could feel Rob’s mouth on hers and she was in no hurry to banish the memory. Tenderness beneath the tension. Would it happen again? She couldn’t dismiss the idea.

  A pleasant thought brought her some peace. She slipped away. Edie. Born in Newcastle, small and given up for dead, a fighter though and what a pair of lungs on her. Born Sandra, born to a mother with

  Boxer’s Dreams of Love

  psoriasis, no father in sight. Away, break away. Change the name. Edie, after a delta singer that nobody remembered anymore. She heard this song in a shop one day. Asked the guy what was playing and it was Edie Johnson from Johnson Mississippi. That was good enough for her. Away. Clubs, pubs, crowds of every shape, every shade of apathy, fighting her way until she made it here. This bed, here, this hotel, alone. Eddie god knows where. She’d lost him for sure and wasn’t certain if it wasn’t for the best. Still fighting, the band was starting to splinter at the edges. And then?

  A hammer at the door, almost away, her dreams carrying her away. She leapt from the bed, the hammering was real. What the fuck?

  ‘Yes? Who is it?’

  No spy hole. Just the pounding. Put her ear to the door, thought she heard laughing. Now she was angry, beyond tired. Fuck this. What time was it anyway? She pulled the door open. Two kids, maybe, drunk, skunks, one ginger, one blonde, both clinging to each other. They drew back at the sight of her, of her long t-shirt and nothing else. They clearly saw the fire in her eyes.

  ‘Hey – sorry – ’

  ‘What?’

  They looked down the corridor. Floundered on their feet, dancing the unconscious shuffle, looking back at her with their child’s eyes.

  ‘Sorry – wrong – we got the—’

  ‘The wrong fucking room.’ Edie moved towards them, they flinched back, looking, laughing, catching a glimpse of what lay beneath her shirt.

  She could swear it was still them she heard forty minutes, an hour, two hours later, outside, down below, laughing, crashing. She turned the TV louder, louder to drown them out, causing her head to throb, thinking of her voice, she dreamed it was gone, opened her mouth on the tiny stage to the tiny crowd and it was gone, nothing came out. The dawn light was creeping under the crepe curtains when she realized the TV was still on. She’d slept obviously, maybe for a couple of hours. Something anyway. At least she didn’t have to get up early. There was quiet at last, birdsong somewhere close. She didn’t mind that.

  She crept down to the breakfast room, hoping none of the others would be up, knowing they wouldn’t be. She was the only one in the dining room and one quick look at the décor and the food and the waitress was enough to convince her why she was the only guest in the room. The room moved at a whole different speed to the rest of the world. White nascent napkins that sucked back time. Then she appeared, this wizened wise woman with powder on her face where make-up should have been. Edie ordered toast and coffee, thinking they couldn’t go far wrong with that. They could. Diamond hard bread and butter that direct contact with the sun couldn’t melt. She thought of leaving a note under the guys’ doors. Don’t go in the dining room. Finished before the waitress could return she changed her plan of going back to her room and sleeping until early afternoon. She had to escape this musty musky ancient breathless air.

  This was Edinburgh. Razor sharp early morning light – everything crisp, faces, voices, bricks blackened by the black breaths of cars, carriages, streets rising and falling then turning down impossibly narrow lanes. Café near the castle, black blinding coffee and soda bread with melted butter, the reflection of a mirror across the street right in her eyes as she sat at the window basking in the glow. Blissfully tired, the
day stretched eternally ahead, the gig seemed weeks, months away.

  She lifted her hand to block out the sun, pedestrians just shadows, and the song came into her head. She’d start with it tonight, try and lift the gloom of their gloomy surroundings. Murmur, hum, a whisper from God in her head, the words following the melody. Yeah, she’d start with that…when the day dawns bright and true, the world turns my thoughts to you…

  CHAPTER 12

  A phone call Good a place as any. His head was ready for take-off, on the runway, about to lift clear from his body. Put a hand up to block out the sun. A woman brushed past him as she came out of the café. He decided it was as good a place as any to die. Find a dark corner, dark coffee and let it end right there.

  He could only get a seat by the window, the previous customer’s unfinished coffee still there, smell still lingering. And something else, a perfume, trace of a familiar scent. The smudge of lipstick on the edge of the cup. He always hated it when his spot wasn’t clean, liked to feel this place was just for him and nobody else. A woman had been here. The woman who had brushed past him on the way out. Why was he thinking about her? A young girl came and cleaned, relieving his restless mind and head, all traces of the woman disappearing. He wanted to sleep for days but the thought of the bed he’d spent the previous night in sent shock waves through his brain. He’d sworn things had been crawling over him all night. He’d lifted the sheets that morning, found no insects.