For Everything a Reason
Read For Everything a Reason Online
Authors: Paul Cave
FOR EVERYTHING A REASON
PAUL
CAVE
2QT LIMITED (PUBLISHING)
Copyright © 2009 Paul Cave
The right of
Paul
Cave
to be identified as the
author
of this work has been
asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This
book is sold subject to the condition that no part of this book is to be
reproduced, in any shape or form. Or by way of trade, stored in a retrieval
system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in
any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser, without prior permission of the copyright holder.
Cover design Hilary Pitt
Images sourced by
Shutterstock.com
For Ellie.
'Seeing you smile is like
being hit by lightning.'
Love Dad.
Contents:
Chapter
One
Madison
Square
Garden
was packed to the rafters with thousands of spectators baying for
blood. Some were standing out of their seats, tossing abuse or empty soda cups
towards the centre of the arena. Others remained seated, though their wish to
see pain and suffering was just as burning. A small contingent sat near the
centre of the arena, with shoulders hunched and nervous eyes watching as the
large crowd headed towards lunacy. The whole stadium felt as if it was about to
ignite, hatred and hostility fashioning themselves into real chemical
components, the combination of the two forming a deadly explosive cocktail. A
dozen or so stewards watched on anxiously, positioning themselves among the frenzied
mob, praying the aggression would end soon.
Joseph Ruebins
stood in the heart of the maelstrom, sweat dripping from his brow, lungs
filling themselves to capacity. Across the boxing ring another tower of a man
ambled his way over to a corner, and then sat heavily on an undersized stool.
Instantly he was swamped by three of his corner-men: a trainer, a cut-man, and
an unfortunate soul there to catch mouthfuls of spit in a small bucket.
“What are you
waiting for, Kid? A written invitation?” a grizzled voice snarled.
Joseph Ruebins
turned towards the speaker. His coach, Eugene Profit, a small old ex-pro,
shoved all of Joseph’s 200 pounds down onto his stool with surprising ease.
“What the hell
are you doing out there? Sleeping?” Profit asked.
“Huh?” Joseph
gasped, barely able to draw breath. His mouth was full of stringy spittle and
thick plastic. Profit reached up and ripped the plastic gumshield free, almost
taking the top row of Joseph’s teeth with it.
“Water!”
Profit demanded.
A spray bottle
appeared between them. Profit took it and began to pump. Now both sweat and
water covered Joseph’s face, turning his features into a spotted mask of ebony.
He dropped his head to allow the water to cascade over his head. A peppering of
black and greying hair dotted his shaven scalp. He leaned back against the
padded corner and reigned in his breathing.
“The guy’s got
a slab of granite for a chin,” Joseph said. For such an imposing size his voice
was barely above a whisper.
Profit
snapped: “You’re fighting like a goddamn amateur.”
Joseph shook
his head defensively. “No. He’s really tough.”
“Bullshit!”
“Hey, there
are four rounds left. Why don’t
you
give it a try?” He held out his
gloved hands and pushed them into the old coach’s chest, leaving two red smears
of his opponent’s blood. Joseph himself was untouched – not a single bruise or
cut, nor even the slightest graze, marked his dark skin.
Profit snarled
out a rosary of expletives and pushed Joseph’s gloves away. “Listen, Kid. I
ain’t a fool. Something’s happening here that you ain’t telling me.”
Joseph opened
his mouth to tell him all was fine, but closed it again without saying a single
word. What could he say? That he was done fighting? At thirty-eight he was well
past his best. His waistline had lost some its shape, degenerating from an
impressive six-pack of muscle into a soft roll of flesh. The flamboyant shorts
he wore, with the embroidered words: Joe
‘The Jaw-Breaker’
Ruebins, were
three inches too high, and almost touched his nipples when he sat down. He was
still a formidable size, but the once youthful body of lean muscle had been
replaced by a tired middle-aged physique that had seen better years. His biceps
were the only remnants of his earlier days, two solid lumps of steel, which
endowed him with the strength of a crazed bull.
In truth he
could have ended this fight within the first two rounds. But for what reason? A
shot at the title? To become World Champion!
Joseph Ruebins
had already decided that tonight he would retire. This was his last fight. His swan
song. He’d been fighting since he was eighteen – six years as an amateur,
fourteen as a pro. Twenty long years of pain and sacrifice were more than
enough for any one man to suffer through. Now, the only thing that drove Joseph
on was the thought of his family. His wife Marianna and their son Jake sat at
the ringside, enduring it with him.
Joseph chanced
a look over at the boy, tipped forwards on his chair, focused totally on his
father. One of his small hands clasped his mother’s, as much for her sake as
for his, the other clenched into a tight fist. The tirade of foul language
seemed to wash off him, unable to stick, so close to the protection of his
father. Jake grinned as he caught his father’s gaze: A huge toothy grin. He was
small for his age, barely over four feet and already seven years old. He was
handsome to be sure; his smile, a brilliant burst of sunshine, which never
failed to warm Joseph’s heart – even now, when it seemed the entire world was
baying for his blood.
Jake’s grin
widened. He shook his fist and then jabbed it upwards above his head. “Man of
Steel,” he mouthed.
Joseph nodded.
Four weeks
earlier, he and Jake had been shooting hoops at the side of the house. Jake was
beside himself, already three baskets up on his father, and more to come. It
was the middle of winter and they’d first had to shovel all the snow away. They
were dressed in hats, scarves and thick overcoats. Joseph was lunging and
sliding about like a demented fool, giving Jake all the advantage.
Halfway
through the game, Marianna returned home, parking their modest
Sedan
in front of the garage. She beeped
the horn and offered them a wave. Joseph paused to wave back, while his son
scooted around him to score yet another basket. Five-One. Marianna laughed, and
Joseph made a huge show of disappointment. Activating the garage door, Marianna
found the winter tools piled untidily at the entrance. She climbed out of the
car, asking Joseph to park it in the garage and reminding them both to clean
up.
“Okay,
sweetheart,” Joseph said.
They returned
to their game, working up large appetites and enjoying the afternoon sun. Just
before Jake scored the winning basket, the ball slipped from his small fingers
and bounced over by the car. Joseph dashed after it, swinging his arms about
like a crazed bear. Then, unexpectedly, his foot slipped on a patch of ice. The
swinging of his arms was now for real as he windmilled towards the hood of the
Sedan
. What stopped him was the edge of
the open garage door. He clattered into it head-on, shaking the whole structure
down to its foundations.
“Dad! Dad!”
Jake called, finding his father stunned.
“I’m okay,”
Joseph reassured him, his head spinning.
Seeing that
his father was okay, Jake then burst into a fit of laughter. “Silly Dad!”
Joseph prodded
the egg that had begun to grow from his forehead. Just a heck of a swelling,
nothing too serious.
“Stupid!
Stupid!” Jake teased.
Joseph
laughed, too, relieved it was only bump, embarrassed by the fall, yet amused by
his son’s enjoyment.
Jake fell
quiet. His gaze turned upwards. The garage door had not only taken the full
impact of his father’s head, but it had also bent right down the middle. A
distinctive crease ran from front to back. The door had come off second best.
Jake looked at his father through astounded eyes. Then he tore off, yelling,
“Mom! Mom! Dad’s really Superman!”
Now,
remembering the battered door, Joseph and Jake stared at each other, the
unfriendly world around them instantly gone. Once again, Jake punched his fist
upwards, as if the gesture could launch him up to the roof of the Garden.
“Man of
Steel,” Jake mouthed again.
“Listen, kid,
if you don’t do something soon, then we’ll both have us a new ass to crap out
of,” Profit warned, bringing Joseph back to the moment and the crowd reaching
fever-pitch, just as the ninth round readied to begin. “They’ll tear us a new
one for sure.”
Joseph nodded.
If only for the sake of his wife and Jake, he couldn’t allow this to go on much
longer. He opened his mouth and allowed a long spray of water to quench his
thirst.
“Okay,” Joseph
said, “what do you suggest?”
Profit grinned
maliciously. “Knock his block off!”
Joseph shook
his head in slight amusement. Profit would be getting twenty-five percent of
his purse. Not a bad payday for someone of such limited instruction.
“Guess I’ll do
just that,” he said, climbing off his stool.
The timekeeper
bellowed, “Corners, ten seconds!”
Profit stepped
through the ropes. He snatched the gumshield from one of the other corner-men
and jammed it in Joseph’s mouth. “Remember the plan. Knock his block off!”
Joseph began
to shake the stiffness from his legs, kicking them out, readying himself for
the next three minutes. At the opposite side of the ring, his opponent stood on
unsteady legs. His face was bloodied and swollen, a result of Joseph’s sticking
left jab. A deep cut had opened up just above the right eyebrow. Now that his
corner-men had applied adrenaline, the wound had stopped bleeding, leaving
instead an open, raw tear.
Eddie Wolfe –
The
Warrior from Queens
– looked as if someone had beaten him with a baseball
bat. The curly, once-auburn hair on his chest was now a deep shade of crimson.
His previously white shorts had turned pink, blood and sweat mixing to form a
blossoming stain. His arms looked too heavy to carry, as if the padding in his
gloves had been replaced by iron or lead. And now, such an advantage as
horseshoe-lined gloves would be the only realistic way of Eddie Wolfe
dispatching his opponent. The last thing keeping him upright, Joseph figured,
was the baying of the crowd and the fear of failure. In all, he looked like a
man who’d just collided with a Mack truck.
“Seconds out.
Round nine!” called the timekeeper.
Joseph moved
away from his corner, raising his arms high in a defensive position. Eddie Wolfe
reluctantly stepped forward, looking like a man heading towards the gallows.
They met in the centre of the ring, two mythological Titans doomed to do
battle.
Joseph circled
to his left. Even though his opponent had offered little to worry about, Joseph
was still wary of the Warrior’s left hook – a single punch that had served
Eddie Wolfe throughout his long career, but had had little effect so far
tonight. A shrewd and seasoned fighter, Joseph was the master craftsman, able
to dictate the natural flow of the fight to his advantage. Like a lumbering
giant, Eddie Wolfe followed Joseph around the ring.
Joseph threw a
left jab. The punch knocked the Warrior’s head back and a gout of fresh blood
burst from his flattened nose. A collective gasp rolled in from the back of the
stands to the front. Joseph leaned in, jabbing his opponent in the stomach. In
an almost comical display, Eddie Wolfe folded in on himself, his arms shooting
out together and the air exploding from his lungs with an audible whoosh.
Sensing that his opponent had weakened, Joseph stepped forward, intent on
delivering a crushing right cross to the chin. However, as he moved in for the
kill, the unthinkable happened.
Joseph blinked
and the huge arena went dark. He paused, his arm pulled back, waiting to be
released. Then his gloved right hand began to drop. His right leg went
instantly numb, as if it had been cut off just below the hip. He staggered,
still in darkness, and then fell to his knees.
Eddie Wolfe
looked up, drawing air into his lungs, as a deep and sickening ache spread
across his bruised solar plexus. He shook his head in an attempt to clear the
fog. Through his swollen eyes, he looked upon his opponent’s fist, about to
land the killer punch. In a sudden shifting of fates, Joe
‘The Jaw-breaker’
Ruebins stopped. The right side of his face collapsed, turning his mouth into a
macabre slash. Then, as if an invisible punch had landed against the left side
of his head, he fell sideways, tottered for a second and collapsed to his
knees. Seizing the moment,
The
Warrior from Queens
sent a
crashing hook to the side of Joseph’s head.
Eddie watched,
as in a twitching helpless heap, Joseph fell to the canvas. And, in the next
second, the crowd around him launched itself into a savage frenzy.