Musclebound (21 page)

I didn’t stop, but the sight of those flash wheels brought me down for a moment – made me remember all the stuff I hadn’t thought about since Keif said, ‘When you step in that ring.’

And I was sad ‘cos I wished Simone was with us. She’s only little so she could of squeezed into the back seat.

I said, ‘I wish Simone was here.’

And for a change Keif said nothing. I wondered if he was getting butterflies.

‘You nervous?’ I said.

‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Yeah. Nah. Shit.’

‘Whatever you do,’ I said, ‘even if you fuck up something awful – do it like you mean it.’

‘Eh?’

‘Like, don’t dither. Don’t look unsure. If you screw up, don’t be a joke – be a joker. The crowd won’t mind that. But they’ll eat you alive if you fart around half-hearted.’

‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘You really ease my mind.’

‘Same goes for Pete Carver. He’ll do what you let him do.’

‘Great,’ Keif said, ‘now I feel peachy about every little thing, or what.’

We drove on. Keif still wasn’t mouthing off and that worried me.

I said, ‘This Mohammed character.’

‘What?’

‘What did he do?’

‘Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,’ Keif said. ‘No one laid a glove on him till he got old and slow. He just dance around going, “I’m so pretty …” What you laughing at?’

‘You ain’t going to stand in the ring going “I’m so pretty”?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s just what I’m going to do.’

‘You going to do it like you mean it?’

‘That the hard part.’

‘You won’t get away with it ‘less you mean it.’

‘Why you laughing?’

“Cos you’re dithering.’

‘That’s funny?’

‘Yeah. You’re so bleeding cocksure in private. You got to be the same in the ring.’

‘I wonder how he did it,’ Keif said. ‘I never thought about it before. Guy gets up in the ring, in front of all them people, TV, film cameras and shit. And he say, “I’m so pretty.” He wasn’t born in England,
that
for sure.’

‘Was he pretty?’

‘When he was young.’

‘Well that’s it, then. Being pretty’s the hard part. Saying so’s a piece of cake.’

‘Yeah, but the guy was such a showman – he’d of said it even if he looked like your dog, Ramses. And they’d of all believed him.’

‘See?’

‘See what?’

‘You got to mean it.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say to make him feel brave so we didn’t talk for the rest of the drive.

When we got to the Ladywell Baths Keif sat in the car like he
didn’t want to get out. Me, I’d of been out, up those steps and into the dressing-room faster than a buttered pig. But he sat there stone moody.

He said, ‘Nah, Mohammed Ali definitely didn’t go to school in Brixton.’

Nerves, see. Who’d of thought it – cocksure Keif with a case of the collywobbles. I could of fallen over laughing, but there was one last thing he had to do for me. He had to go to the box office and buy me a ticket. I couldn’t mong around in the foyer with the crowd and the ushers and bouncers ‘cos I’d be recognised. I couldn’t go in till the house lights went down for the second half.

I’ve got a routine – it’s what I always do in the dressing-room before I go on. But I didn’t have no dressing-room ’cos I wasn’t supposed to be there. I had to find somewhere else close by.

I dumped the Yugo a couple of streets away from the Ladywell Baths and walked back.

Round the back and sides of the building there’s emergency exits and stage doors and stuff. It’s a big old place, but if you put your ear to one of the doors and listen careful you can hear the sound of the crowd when something exciting happens. You can hear this muffled roar. You can’t hear the details but you can hear enough to know there’s lots and lots of people having a fine old time and going ape.

It made my heart bounce. I was in the dark and cold and they was all in the heat and light. But I was going in. I was. No matter Mr Deeds said, ‘You’re barred.’ No matter them heavyweights said I was a loser. No matter Harsh wouldn’t help me. This time I was going in – back where I belong.

But I couldn’t hang around getting cold and stiff. I crossed the road and went into the pub opposite. I ordered a pint of bitter.

You think I’m going to get shellacked. You think I ain’t got the spine to make my comeback without a snort of Dutch courage? Do you? Eh? Well, you think wrong. Mr Deeds is wrong, Gruff’s wrong, Pete Carver’s wrong, Phil’s wrong, Harsh is wrong, Ma’s wrong, the Enemy’s wrong. And
you’re
wrong. You’re all fucking wrong.

I took one mouthful, just to wet my whistle. Then I left the
glass on the bar and went to the ladies’ bog. So there! You don’t know me at all, do you?

The ladies’ bog was empty, but I wouldn’t of cared if it wasn’t. I took off my combat jacket and hung it on the hand-drier. I started stretching. It’s my routine – like Harsh taught me in the days when he used to tell me useful things. Starting from the feet up. Lean into the wall for your Achilles tendons and calves, squat down for your groin, three positions. Then up for your quads. I was ‘specially careful with my back – I spent a lot of time on stretch and contraction exercises. And it felt OK. Not one hundred per cent, but OK. I went all the way up from my feet to my head and neck. And then I went back down from my neck to my feet.

Then I washed my face, hands and armpits with the pub’s scented soap. When I was ready I put my jacket back on and combed my hair. I checked the mirror.

‘Lookin’ bad,’ I said. ‘Cos I am the Villain, and it’s my job to look bad and mean.

I went back into the bar. The saloon-bar window overlooked the front of the Ladywell Baths. There were people, mainly men, out on the steps smoking fags and drinking beer. It was the interval. They were all togged up against the cold but they looked like they was having a good time.

I pressed my nose against the window and watched and waited. I was waiting for them to go inside. Then I’d know the second half was beginning.

The time came. The blokes tossed back the last of their beer. They trod on their fag-ends. The women collected the kids who were playing on the steps. They straggled inside. My breath was coming so hot and fast it fogged the window.

Just as I was turning to leave I saw someone I knew running up the steps. Simone? With a bloke? At least I thought it was Simone. I hoped it was Simone. But by the time I’d wiped the fog off the window she’d disappeared inside.

That’d be the cherry on my hot-fudge sundae if she was there to see my comeback. That’d be what I always dreamed of – her in
the crowd, me in the ring and everyone going ooh-ah and shouting my name. That’d show her who to look up to, and it wouldn’t be God Greg. It’d be me, Eva Wylie, the London Lassassin.

I couldn’t wait no longer. I left the pub and raced across the road, up the steps and into the Ladywell Baths.

Oh
yeah
– it was a sight for sore eyes. I walked into the hall, and there below me was the ring shining like the moon reflected in a dark pond. See, in the Ladywell Baths you got the audience on all four sides of the ring. So when you’re in the ring, fighting, you’re slap-bang in the middle.

Harsh was on – like I might of expected, ‘cos Mr Deeds always puts him on first thing after the interval. It’s when the crowd is filtering back from the bar, and only the purists are taking any notice. Harsh is very pure. He’s what they call a wrestler’s wrestler. He’s strong, he’s graceful and he’s got all the clever moves. He used to be my hero, but when I went to him for help he told me to use a toothbrush. So he ain’t my hero no more.

And he ain’t the crowd’s hero neither. I used to think they was all twatocks for not ’preciating him, but now I see it’s his own silly fault. He don’t do nothing for them – he don’t make it exciting. It’s like he’s doing it all for a video called
Wrestling – How To Do It Right
. It’s a boring video.

I was sitting at the back and I could hardly watch him. He made me feel sad and I was too twitchy to feel sad. You got to be able to sit still to enjoy feeling sad, and I couldn’t sit still. I wanted Harsh off. I never thought I’d want that, but it’s true. I wanted Harsh gone, out the way, so that Keif could come in.

It was Harsh’s last fight in England so they gave him his full time and his win. The MC announced he was retiring. The crowd clapped, Harsh bowed. And then he just walked away, so that was that. Nobody really cared, and that was his own silly fault too, ‘cos he didn’t seem to care much neither. Well, what d’you expect from a guy who thinks more about a sodding toothbrush than a fighter?

Then the MC announced that there was a change to the printed
programme. My heart was in my mouth. What if Keif and Mr Deeds had a row, and Mr Deeds barred Keif? And suddenly I knew it didn’t fucking matter – whoever came on next, Keif or not, was going to get
me
in his face. It didn’t matter. I should of done it months ago.

The MC said, ‘Next up is a great South London favourite, local boy, twice heavyweight champion, Pete “Carve ‘em” Carver.’

Big roar from the crowd.

The MC said, ‘Pete’s got a new opponent tonight – all the way from Trinidad and Tobago – you don’t know him yet, but you will – put your hands together for … er … Mohammed Wily.’

The crowd clapped a bit, but not much – they was saving the skin on their palms for Pete.

I was expecting some music – every fighter’s got to have a signature tune, like mine was ‘Satisfaction’. But there wasn’t any music. Instead the roving spotlight picked up Keif coming through the stage door, wearing a white satin dressing-gown. He was sort of bopping. He seemed to be saying something, but you couldn’t hear what it was. Silly fart.

I cupped my hands round my mouth and bellowed, ‘LOUDER! SPEAK UP’.

He looked my way but he was dazzled by the spot. People started laughing and that seemed to gee him up.

He took a huge, deep breath and went, ‘Hey, boom, b-b-boom, bibbley-bee-bibbley bee, bah-bibbley bee.’ He was giving himself a beat, and some of the audience closest to him started to clap in time. That geed him up more. I could see him start to grin.

He bopped down the aisle, going, ‘Bibbley-bee, Mohammed Wil-ee – Mohammed Wily – that’s who I
am —
come in like a lion – won’t go out like no
lamb –
bah-boom-bah – I’m the greatest, the lat
est
, the pretty-est – if you don’t b’lieve I the
fittest—
you better be wearin’ yer bulletproof
vest
— yeah, yer bulletproof vest.’

Some of the little kids got out of their seats and followed Keif down the aisle, going, ‘Bah-boom,’ and clapping their hands. And that was good. It made other people look and laugh.

By the time Keif got to ringside he’d run out of things to say, so he went, ‘Bah-boombastic – I fantastic – got arms like elastic’ But he couldn’t think of anything to rhyme with elastic, so he climbed into the ring and bounced and bopped.

It wasn’t a bad entrance for a bloke with no music.

The MC was looking quite surprised. He went, ‘Boom-boom – ladies and gentlemen – Mohammed, er, Wily – boom-boom.’ And some of the people in the front row yelled, ‘Boom-boom’ back at him. Keif was looking shellshocked, but he was laughing too.

It was all drowned out when Pete’s music came on. Pete don’t like no one else snatching his headlines, so I could just see him making the bloke on the sound-desk turn his music up real loud.

He kept everyone waiting a minute, till they was all clapping to
his
music, and then he came hurtling out of the stage door and down the aisle with his red and yellow striped cape streaming out behind. Everyone roared.

I got to admit he looked good. He doesn’t do nothing fancy – all he does is grab you by the throat and say, ‘Look at me!’ And you do. You can’t help yourself.

Of course I hate his guts. He’s got big enough guts to hate. He ain’t a heavyweight – he’s an overweight. And he’s a lot older than Keif. But no one was looking at Keif. They was all looking at Pete, which was what Pete wanted.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the MC shouted. ‘I give you … Pete “Carve ‘em”
Carver!’

Pete vaulted into the ring. He brushed Keif out the way and took a circuit, stopping here and there to lean out over the ropes and talk to his fans.

Keif just stood there like a dog with no bone. Soppy bugger – he should of nicked the microphone out of the MC’s hand and done another rap. That’s what I’d of done. I wouldn’t of just stood there and let Pete take advantage.

Keif was wearing red boots and under his dressing-gown he had on white satin boxer’s shorts with red go-fast stripes down
the seams. He looked good when he took his robe off, but he should of made a big production out of it.

When Pete took off his cape he waved it like a banner and flung it so it sailed out of the ring to one of the bouncers. That’s the way to do it, little Keifee – look and learn, boy, look and learn.

And when they did that palaver about meeting in the middle with the referee, Pete bellied up to Keif, already doing that gut-barging stuff the crowd loves. So the ref was giving his falls, submissions, knock-out, fair-fight speech while Pete was pushing Keif back towards his corner.

I had to laugh. You could see as clear as day who was top dog. Pete was Ramses and Keif wasn’t even Lineker – he was Milo and he didn’t have enough smarts to run away.

Well, he did, sort of. When the fight began Keif was for sure using his feet. He was dancing out of arm’s reach in a circle around Pete. And you could see he wished he had his boxing gloves on, ‘cos he kept his hands up and every now and then he’d touch his knuckles together.

But that ain’t wrestling. The crowd started in – shouting for action. Pete was keeping himself low, shuffling, arms swinging wide, reaching for contact. But Keif dodged in and out and showed how fast, he was. Which was pretty fast, I got to admit. Fast, but no fun.

I got up from my seat in the back row and started down towards the ring. I was taking it easy, just a row at a time. I didn’t want anyone to see me coming. Yet.

The crowd was getting frustrated. No one goes out on a freezing night and pays good money for a ticket to see one big guy dance around another big guy who can’t catch him.