Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) (26 page)

Chapter 63

Pre-Fight:

  Bitterly cold, alone in Tim’s car facing the river, I used the next hour to channel my fear, control the flow of nerves flooding through me. The idea of my own death unwilling to leave my thoughts. Even the music in my ears couldn’t control it.

  Tim left me in the car as he travelled down the tunnel, reassuring him I’d make my own way. Cars came, parked and punters entered the shed. Every face on the island came to witness history.

  Reclined back in the seat, I felt a tingle in me, a presence. Hearing a door close, I shifted in my seat and gazed over my shoulder, catching the sight of an enormous man, ripped jeans and a long, plain black t-shirt hanging loose due to his heavily-muscled upper body. As he ducked his head under the door he paused, waited for a few seconds and turning lazily around, catching my stare from the rear window. There, I felt an indescribable connection to him. His accomplice also took a glance. The loathsome, inhuman look from the giant burned into my core. 

 
We both knew we were destined to meet on this cold November night.

 
Thirty minutes left, before I would take the walk of death. Ignoring the events of that day and remembering my reasons to complete this journey. Removing the stab of doubt. Reminiscing everything in life that turned me into the monstrous man I’d become. Every ounce of pain from my childhood. The eternal feeling of grief, loss and regret from my Mother’s suicide. The knife in my friend’s back, the need to reunite with my kids, my need to feel the touch of Katie’s addictive skin.

  One more piece of the puzzle to complete before taking the walk down the tunnel.

A text informing Magill of the venue.

Sinking deeper in thought, I filled my thoughts with demons, letting that other part of me make it way to the surface

  I was ready, time to take the walk. Getting out the car, gulping a large swill of water, I removed my jumper and t-shirt in the freezing night. Beefed up, body filled with rage, I no longer felt the cold.

 
Racks of redundant electrical cables stretched down the left side of the long, grim passageway, the fluorescing lights casting a shadow on my ‘roided bulk, muscles pumped full of the blood. A fearless walk, with breath filling my lungs, expanding my chest up and down in a bottled anger. The echo of each step in the two-metre wide tunnel, heightened. My eyes fixed ahead, burning with passion, focusing on what’s in front of me, in a trance, snarling. With no idea what would happen, I could only hope fate had a plan. Hearing the clatter of voices, I was almost there.

   A glare of white light entered the tunnel in the distance, a gateway to my future. Turning into an alcove passageway, boring into a well-lit basement, purpose in my stride. Ambling to the middle of the room, bare-chested, the chatter phased out, my presence duly noted.

 
Eight round concrete towers, designed to hold up the old, abandoned office building, situated

around the rectangular basement perfectly. The crowd scattered around the outside, leaving the stage in the middle, the area dirty and grey, light shining down onto the canvas. I walked straight to the left side where Tim and Mr Dean stood, The Reaper at the other side of the room. I didn’t have to look, I knew he was there, I could feel him.

  “Joe.” Mr Dean uttered, his way of saying hello. I only had one question.

  “Has the gun deal gone down, yet?”

  “No, midnight.” He walked away from me, tinted- glasses on, nodding to me in good luck.

  “You look pumped, mate. Drink some water.” Tim handed me the water and I gulped it down, dry from the dusty atmosphere and anticipation. I avoided looking in his eyes, he’d have the same concerned look, as always.

  The audience moved to the sides of the room in line with the pillars, leaving The Reaper and me standing opposite. I kept my back to him.

  Personal bets around the crypt in progress, with thousands soaring from pockets of the criminals. The room filled with thugs and gangsters.

  The Govan Gang, wearing the usual ned uniform of expensive shell-suits and trainers that will never see inside a gym, grouped with the dangerous independent gangster, Bobby Munroe.

 
The coloured West London Ghetto Gang stood opposite the Liverpool Rouge Riders. Jack Gallagher stood with his son Jimmy in the shadow of The Reaper.

  Bull made the journey with Toby, and kept the company of Mr Dean and Lukas. Sixty other spectators rounded a room full of talent Magill would be pleased to lock up.

  I couldn’t allow the nerves, or the uncontrollable fear lurking under the surface, get hold. I would keep it there for just a little longer. The build-up of rage from the past month, all too noticeable in my face. Trying to keep the anxiety at bay wasn’t easy, like an itch you couldn’t scratch. Taking in some more water.

  “Joe, whatever happens here…I just want you to know I’ll do right by your kids.” His words didn’t help me, changed my thought pattern for a minute.

  “Let’s not speak about that.” Knowing it was getting closer, I felt the need to turn, catch the proper sight of my foe on a seat, his square head sunk into his chest, going through the same ritual as me, zoning out everyday life. His head lifted and his six foot three frame with it, off the seat. A heavy-lidded stare at me, he slipped his t-shirt off and removed his jeans, chucking them on the ground, leaving him standing with black shorts.

  Joe Gallagher and his crew watched as the rest of the room sized him up. His massive stature was threatening, but I just smiled grimly, my eyes staring. Shaved head at the sides, with a short layer on the top, wide cheek bones combined with his frame, added to the look of a wild Barbarian.

  I saw nothing in his eyes, nothing but a rotten hatred.

  Have I made a mistake? Would this be the end of me? Running out of time. “You’re a fucking warrior, Joe. Rip this fucking cunt’s head off.” Those words were my own, no pep-talks needed from anyone else tonight. The rage resurfaced to the top, as the pain of my past resurfaced.

  That past dies tonight…

Chapter 64

The Beginning Of The End:

  Standing in this run-down, retired shipyard building on the banks of the Clyde, a desolate part of Glasgow, staring down at the palms of my shaking hands, wondering what my fists had turned me into. Wondering how I let things escalate so far.

  Across from me, was a beast like no other I had seen before, a modern day Barbarian, only interested in seeing me defeated, lying in a puddle of my own blood and piss. A man that had no mercy and had destroyed everyone he stood across from. That gave him the reputation of being the hardest man with two fists in the country.

  The nonchalant look from his eye to mine as he stared me down across the circle of thugs and gangsters was one I had never seen, no sign of weakness. Instead, a fire of hatred for life hidden beneath his intimidating eyes. The doubts were racing around my head like never before, where will I be after this is all over? Will I get through this?

  But there was no time to dwell, I had to stay focused on the task at hand, or I’d be lifted off this cold, concrete floor in a body-bag.

  It was the money, or so I kept telling myself, but to be truthful, I was hooked on the game. The buzz of the crowd, the feeling of tearing your opponent apart, the pure adrenaline you get when you start exchanging blows, the sight of your foe lying on the floor in front of you, partially paralyzed. The cash that’s handed to you after you are victorious.

  The countdown was on. Five minutes to go.

  There was going to be a duel between two warriors that no one in this crowd of peasants had seen before, and a battle no one in this room will forget. My hands began to feel clammy with sweat and my legs started to shake with a temporary fear. All this was hidden on the inside, but, on the outside, the only feeling that was projected from my face and pumped-up frame, was the need to see The Reaper broken down. In pain. Bloodied and bruised and begging for his life.

  I was the main man. The top dog. He was just some cunt in the way of me becoming the hardest in the country. I had come too far, gave up everything. Lost the love of my life and my two kids, to let this degenerate Liverpool faggot beat me.

  Time was ticking and I could smell his blood already, picturing it, me smashing his head off the cold concrete floor. He gave me another stare from across the room. He looked as pumped as I did, standing a few inches taller than me, every bit of his body had muscle rippling out. His arms were bulging, his stomach, body and back were ripped to shreds, with a set of traps on him that made seeing his neck difficult.

  That physique and look of hatred in his eyes made him look spine chillingly evil. His two sidekicks looked like they were giving him his last pep talk. That wouldn’t help him, no pep-talk was going to stop me fucking him up and sending him in a taxi to the morgue.

  I took my eyes off his and turned my back on him to give myself a final word, as I pondered the memory of my recently dead mate.

  It went quiet as a morgue, like they were waiting for the start of a hundred metre race. Everybody knew what they were about to witness, they knew history in the underworld was about to happen. I briefly felt a shiver up my spine and the strangest feeling like I’d been here before. Or, was this my destiny?  

  A shout of a minute to go. This was it. The time had come to dethrone this cunt and separate his head from his body. My heart beating like a mad man. The adrenaline kicked into overdrive. The blood pumping through my veins. The fear racing through me, making my breath heavier in anger and in anticipation of the first exchange of fists.

  Tim, one of a few friends I had left that didn’t fear me, turned and fixed his stare on me. “You fucking ready for this, Joe?”

  “Born ready, friend.”

  “Last-man-standing, no fucking mercy, or you’ll be a dead man.”

  “There will be none!” I replied with no sign of remorse in my voice.

  “No guts! No glory!” Tim shouted.

  “Let’s get the show on the road.” The so-called ref between me and The Reaper shouted.

  Tim took a step back, still looking me in the eye with terrible anxiety written all over his face, as if this could be the last time we exchange words.

  I turned around, started to walk towards The Reaper, leaving all doubt behind, ready to fight for everything. The Reaper locked eyes with me, both watching each other like a couple of wounded warriors.

We met in the middle.

Chapter 65

The Reaper:

  There wasn’t the usual facing-out process. His Goliath frame towered over me, his weight around 115kg. His hands hovered under his chin like bare-knuckle boxers do, left hand lower and hung out. Standing square-on wasn't the best boxing tactic, but his size more than made up for it, and he knew his deadly trade. His biceps bulged as his arms squashed together.

  No bobbing up and down on his toes, he just plodded his hulking frame around, casting his shadow over me. Leaning most of his weight over his front foot, a left-jab from his bare knuckles struck my jaw. Taking it without flinching, I replied with my own jab that he parried down with his left, exposing my face to his right hand counter, with his twisted knuckle protruding down, planting one on the top of my lips.

  The fear was gripping a hold of me more than ever, admitting to myself I was apprehensive for the first time in this game.

  Shaking the last attack off, he shadowed my evasive movements, patient and obviously loving every second of hunting me down. It’s what he lived for, that bullish nature made losing not an option for him.

  I moved around on the balls of my feet, racking my brain to devise a strategy to overcome this brute.

  With the next opportunity, I threw a four-punch combo, ending in a left-hook flashing across his face. He felt it for sure, as I returned to the back foot. Fear still gripping me, not willing to stand toe-to-toe.

  He came back in seconds, closed the gap, cutting off my movement, forcing me back against a concrete pillar. Without hesitation, his shovel-like left hand pinned my forehead to the concrete, elbowing me across the face in a hook-like style.

  With nowhere to go but down, the first round was over.

  Rising with a stunned look, I could hear the sick, baying crowd cheer at the first sight of my destruction.  

  The Reaper waited in the middle.

  “What the fuck was that?” Tim removed my gum-shield and handed me some water. “Fuck sake man, get under his skin, rough him up, punch him in the fuckin’ throat, use your brain, and don’t play his game. Make your own rules.” He was right, I had to change the rules, fight my own fight.

  “Time, gentlemen.”

  The glare of the floodlights set up at height around the room, shone down on his vast shoulder caps, making the daunting task of facing fists harder. He only knew how to take a man apart, that was his life, whatever he went through as a child made him this way.

  Soon as I walked out he was on my case, dropping me made him envisage the end closer than expected.

  Starting the next round with more ferocity, he now had his business-head on. Approached me with more purpose, letting punches fly across my eye-line. Trying to grab me at any opportunity to restrict my shuffling around. Using my upper-body to bob and weave into empty space, where I could avoid his fists, hearing him hiss in annoyance and disgust as I refused to play his game.

  After a few minutes of this, I needed to keep The Reaper thinking. Remembering Tim’s words, not to fight his fight.

  While shuffling around the dusty ground, I decided to keep him confused, change tactics. Planting my feet in front of his towering frame, l let the punches go, head and body in coordination, knuckle clattering against his heavily-muscled torso, fists rebounding from the bone of his chin, as he took impact after impact.

  We stood together exchanging heavy combos. It was no use for me, he reverted to his dirty tactics. Push-kicking me in my guts, catapulting me back three metres.

   Aggravated, I waited for him to approach with his next move. In the middle of the floor, we came to blows again. Now square-on, the frustration starting to build. A punch flew toward my nose, I jerked back my head, avoiding the connection by a hairline, whiplashed a head-butt onto his chin, skull to bone, and it stunned him. A rapid low-kick behind his knee made him dip, followed by a right-hook across his chin that made his knee buckle.

  Round over. I returned to Tim leaving The Reaper groveling on the floor. The air of shock whispered through the basement. Once again he rose and stood under the light.

  “That’s fuckin’ better, now you're awake! He’s going to be pissed off now.” He was right, I had to bend or break the rules.

  Jack Gallagher sat still, cocksure, legs crossed, admiring his man in action. Mr Dean looked on coolly, like he knew something Gallagher didn’t.

 
“Time.”

  My enraged state replaced some of the fear. Reaper was human, after all. His eyes had the same narrow squint, seeming like he didn’t have emotions, didn’t suffer pain. His workmanlike style came plodding across, before I got two metres away from Tim.

  Straight away, heated blows were exchanged. Aiming punches at his head, popping my knuckles off his forehead and jaw, while keeping my body compact to avoid his assault, looking for that goodnight punch.

  A brief pause found me with Reaper's hands clenching my traps, his knee dug four rapid thuds into my gut, and then he tossed me to the ground like a rag-doll. Winded, I gasped for breath, sprung to my feet, wary of his ground-attack and returned to my man Tim.  This man had no concept of a fair fight.

“Fuck me Joe! Don’t stand still man, don’t give him a fuckin’ inch, mate.” His finger tapped my forehead, hard.

The next round started as quick as the last

  Coming to blows again right in front of Mr Dean, in the middle of the room. Reaper’s hands the size of slabs of steaks, my head an easy target. Following each other’s combos around the floor. Breathing heavier, I struggled to deal with his size and constant pressure.

  Standard left-jab, then his right hand thudded into my eye-sockets, temporarily blinding me. A blow to my left rib, sickening me, my head dipped to hip level, the last place I needed to be with this killer looming over me. Wildly throwing a downward hook across my temple, his four knuckles like a hammer blow, temporarily losing the use of my legs, hitting the floor, rapidly rolling across the dirt ridden ground, my body collecting pieces of stone and dirt as he kicked me with his boot.

  Enraged with myself, I stood.

  “Ribs?” Tim asked in concern.

    I nodded my head, signaling for water. My mouth dried up, the pace of the battle draining.

  “You can have this cunt, you've dropped him once, do it again.” Filled with a fresh determination, I returned to eyeball the beast as he stood waiting for me, the same impassive stare.

  “Time, gentlemen.”

  My temper began to unravel, I wanted this cunt decapitated in the quickest way possible. Now we both had the same brutal mind-set.

  Approaching him with my hands down, he threw the same, vicious stiff jab. Me slipping it, then coiling a right-hook across his head, switched my left leg across the front of his body, thudding an uppercut into the base of his chin, pinging his head into the air, then sunk my knuckles into his lips, tearing them open.

  The first flow of blood. I didn’t stop there, clenching my fist tight, a left then a right-hook slammed across his jaw, loud slaps rebounded through the room as I made contact. He was hurt, I now had to punish him before he recovered.

  Stunned, a full-power, low kick bent his knee, bringing his head down level. I head-butted him again, this time into his teeth, then stabbed my knee into his solar plexus. Slumped to the floor, it should have meant the round was over.

  Taking a deep gasp of air made him choke, spitting out a mixture of blood and teeth at my feet. Lifting his Barbarian head up to me, a new found fury lurked in his eyeballs.

  The hesitation of glaring at his collection of broken teeth, could’ve been spent pounding his face in. Re-screwing my boxing brain on, swinging my right-hook from my ear, The Reaper knew what was on the way, ducking under, evading my hook and using his right leg to stand. Three right hands rebounded off my nose, falling over onto my forearm, then kicked in the ribs by his size fourteen boot.

  Looking up at his black shorts, muscle sculpted around his calves and thighs, I felt like a midget. He hacked up the blood in his airways, then spat it over my body, bringing with it fragments of teeth.

  Standing over me, he sneered in disrespect as if I was nobody. The Reaper took his usual stance in the middle, leaking from his lips and mouth. The crowd exchanging bets on each round, noise reaching a crescendo as they cheered The Reaper. He didn’t care, though.

  “Time.”

  My face ached with bone-to-bone impact, stomach and ribs in agony, the reality of the fight taking hold of me, rather than the adrenaline. The ‘roids were helping, flooding my muscles with the blood and needed rage. The Reaper, full of the same drug, knew how much men like us needed it.

  He wouldn’t stop until I was dead, or he could no longer breathe, simple as that. My face oozed with pent-up fury. Blood from our lips ran down our chins, eyes bruised and bodies drenched in sweat. Tim rehydrating me, while I burned stares across the room, showing I wasn't to be intimidated.

  By the time the next round started, I was in the place I needed to be. The place that feels no pain, the place where demons lie, awaiting their wakening. I could now blank the crowd, tunnel-vision like, I had to show this cunt who the real beast was.

  He waited for me on his spot, this time head-first into the assault, but I was gathering anger, fueled by thoughts in putting this fucker down.

  Sticking my head in front of him, mauling punches from side-to-side on his face, the thud of each impact reverberating up my arms. Then, it happened. For the first time, I saw his body language change. A look dawned of frustration. That was a turning-point.

  After pounding on his head, I bolted body-shots into his ribs, all my body-weight twisting into each strike, howling in blind rage from the depths of my soul with each blow. Dipping his weight down with the force of my attack, leaning into my body to stop the onslaught.

  Stepping back willingly, his weight falling, pouncing a right uppercut into his already fat, burst lip. An unrelenting thirty second surge of savageness. Filled with fury, my heart beating fast with the impact of a church bell, the cold night forgotten, as the sweat ran off my hair, merging with my own flow of blood.

  Looking shaken, continuing my assault, a massive right-hook ricocheted against his chin. This was it. Swaying from his shoulders down, I saw my opportunity. Using my left hand to hold the back of his monstrous traps, gripping tight, stabbing the pointed knuckles of my right hand into his windpipe.

  Collapsing onto both knees, he dropped to his side in panic. Holding his throat with both shovel hands, gasping for that intake of breath. With less than a minute to rise, roles reversed, I chose to stand over him, admiring my own work. Thirty seconds left, the strength flowed from his body. The alarm in his face unrecognizable.

  I noticed disbelief on Gallagher’s face as he rose from his seat, never having witnessed The Reaper suffer so much. Mr Dean’s body language only changed as his hands came out his duffle-coat pockets. Ten seconds left to stand, the relief evident, Reaper was able to suck in air. Devastated, he raised from the ground. What do I have to do to stop this monster?

  “Time.”

  This was my chance to finish it. Still recovering, his body and brain registering the lack of oxygen. His eyes still held the look of surprise and shock. Ignoring all caution, swiftly moving back into the depths of Hell, my right hand tensed, winding up to end it. The Reaper coming to life, or maybe surviving on instinct, used the momentum of my stride to crash his fist into my face, like a wrecking-ball smashing into a building. 

  I could barely stand, strength drained, stuttering to the left like a drunk searching for a perch to lean on, I ended up on the ground in the shadow of the London Ghetto Gang. All senses abandoned me, crawling on the floor like a child, searching for an exit, a gate to the other side. Forty seconds passed before my vision returned, when I glimpsed Tim mouthing words, gesturing for me to stand. The Reaper came into sight then I knew, knew I had to stand. Couldn’t let myself down, my Dad down. “On your feet, Joe”. A shout of ten seconds from the timekeeper. Somehow my brain got a message to my legs to stand.

“Time.”

  Rising, I saw the colossal force of the Barbarian charge right at me. I only had instinct left, my brain unable to relay messages to my body. Still confused, almost concussed, The Reaper saw me weak again, saw his money and his glory there for the taking.

  My mouth dry, legs unsettled, head battered and beaten with blood flowing from my freshly cut left eye, the next assault on the way. His every stride forward pounded in my ears, almost seeing him in slow-motion. Quietened, the audience could smell the end. Fate was about to be sealed, he suspected I was finished.

  Remembering what my Father said. “You could be the best boy, but you’re too weak!”  Roaring in a horrific rage, The Reaper threw punches like a pinball machine. Tucking my elbows into my ribs, folding my arms over my head, I took his barrage of violence. Trying to strike anywhere he could, still grunting like an animal with every blow. With my wrists touching my temples, leaving a gap between my guard exposed, again he used his right elbow, in an upwards motion to the base of my nose, the impact cracking and crunching the cartilage and bone.