Quintin Jardine - Wearing Purple

The Eldon Square shopping centre housed some pretty impressive stores, but the place was made for me when I found a branch of Slater Menswear, master tailor by appointment to the glitterati of Glasgow. I took it as a sign from someone, and bought a new red bow tie for my first ever television appearance. Somehow, it seemed to steady the nerves which were gathering in my stomach.

The taxi which was to take Jan to the Metro Centre dropped me at the Arena dead on twelve noon. I could see at once that the roadies had been hard at work. The GWA logo seemed to shout at the city from its position on the wall above the main entrance, flanked by huge likenesses of Darius and Liam.

With the bag containing my dinner jacket and trousers slung over my shoulder, I stepped into the hall, after showing my staff pass to the security men, who were on guard already. Inside, all the temporary seating had been put in place, much of it set out on floor space which on other occasions was used by the city’s basketball and ice hockey teams.

Since I had left the place, four lighting towers had been built, one in each corner of the arena. I looked around and saw television cameras at three fixed points and a fourth, a remote, fixed on a long boom. Above the wrestlers’ entrance to the Arena, curtained off at the top of the ramp, the roadies had erected a huge TV screen, from which a still image of The Behemoth snarled down at the empty hall.

‘Not bad, huh?’ It was a gentle voice, one I hadn’t heard before. ‘Sometimes he even scares me.’

In civvies, without the battle-dress and the white leather scrum cap, even Jerry Gradi’s voice seemed to be different. He was wearing a blue suit, beautifully cut from a sort of shiny material, which I guessed had not come off the peg at Ralph Slater’s, and patent leather shoes. He was clean shaven and his ginger hair was neatly groomed, so neatly that he could have been taken for a television presenter — okay, a huge television presenter.

‘I didn’t think you were on this week,’ I said, genuinely surprised to see him.

He grinned at me. ‘I’m not. I got a hamstring tweak, so all I’m doin’ is yelling from the sidelines on video.’

‘But Everett said you were on kids’ TV this morning.’

‘So I was, but my slot was done by nine-thirty. I was gonna stay in London for the day, but I changed my mind. They drove me to the airport and I caught a flight. Looks like you and I beat the rest of the guys here.

‘You all set for your first night?’ he asked.

‘Just about.’ I paused. ‘What happens this afternoon? Everett said there would be a run-through.’

‘That’s right,’ Jerry nodded. ‘A dress rehearsal, so that we can get the TV angles right.The guys and gals will go through the whole show, minus the high impact moves.’

‘Why do you miss those out?’

‘We never take a chance on someone gettin’ hurt just before the show. Even if it is unlikely. Our guys are careful.’

He looked at me. ‘This may sound odd to you, but career-wise the worst thing a wrestler can do is to hurt another wrestler. Word gets around, and he becomes a bad risk. I known guys could only get work in Japan, because they were too dangerous.’

‘Is there anyone in GWA you don’t like working with?’

The big man considered my question at some length. ‘Rockette split my head open once with that guitar prop of his. It’s made to give on impact, but he caught me with the edge of the damn thing. I had woids with him after, and he’s been careful since.’ I grinned at the thought of what those ‘woids’ might have been.

‘There’s the Irish guy, I suppose. Everything he does is on the limit. Daze and I would can him, only he’s the best goddamn flier either of us have ever seen.’

I must have looked puzzled again, for he explained. ‘In this sport, your body dictates your style. The big guys, like me and the British Bulldog, and Hogan and Big Andre, some of us might have one or two off-the-ground moves, but mostly we go for power — piledrivers, bodyslams, that sort of thing. The smaller, lighter guys like Matthews, and Snuka, and Savage, they go for more acrobatic stuff. Matthews can fly two thirds of the way across the ring off that top rope.

‘I never worked with him yet. When we do we’ll try a move where he flies that far and I catch him. If it works it’ll be great. If not, one of us could get hurt.’

‘What about Everett?’ I asked. ‘I suppose he’s a power man.’

Jerry Gradi chuckled. ‘You really got a lot to learn about this business. Daze can do everything. He’s the best ever. . and he never hurt another wrestler in his life.’

I almost said ‘Until last night’, but decided that I’d let someone else tell him that, so that word couldn’t get back to Matthews that I’d been boasting about popping him one.

Just then, the big double doors, behind us, crashed open, and a buzz of sound invaded the hall. The Irishman was at the front of the crowd of performers as they made their way into the auditorium, each carrying a hold-all containing, I supposed, their ring gear. He headed directly for me. I looked around to make sure that my new friend The Behemoth was still there.

Matthews stopped, his face a couple of feet from mine. I was pleased to see that his nose was slightly swollen; I hoped I’d broken it. ‘Daze said I should apologise,’ he said. ‘So I apologise. Let’s forget it, okay?’

I looked at him, straight in the eye. ‘You apologise to my wife, Liam. Then we’ll see what’s to be forgotten. Okay?’

Unsmiling, he nodded, then turned and headed for the changing rooms.

Jerry Gradi watched him go. ‘Looks like someone slugged that bastard at last,’ he grunted. A huge grin broke out on his face as he saw my embarrassment. ‘You?’

‘Shh!’ I urged him. ‘He might hear you.’

Still chuckling, the gigantic Gradi headed up the aisle towards Everett, who had arrived with Diane by his side. I stuck a thumb through the strap of my suit-bag and followed Matthews, to change into my working clothes.

There were several dressing rooms at the side of the arena. One had been signed ‘Ladies’. I found a door marked ‘Officials’, guessed it might mean me, and stepped inside. A bench ran the full length of one tiled wall, with a row of lockers facing it. The sign on the door had obviously meant nothing, for I spotted Darius Hencke — not difficult, since he was nearly seven feet tall — among a crowd of half-naked wrestlers. There was a spare peg beside him.

‘You ready for action?’ I asked him casually.

‘You want me fix Liam for you?’ he asked, with a grin.

‘Could you? Like for real?’

‘Sure, in two seconds maybe. But only if I could catch him. He’s very fast, very agile.’

‘This stunt you’re doing this afternoon. How dangerous is it?’

The big German looked down at me. ‘You try it, you’d break your focking neck. Even if you could pluck up courage to make jump, you’d never land right. Liam and me, we’re good. We know what we can do and we go through with it, full throttle. It’ll be great finish.’

As he spoke, I noticed a big black bruise just above the elbow of his tattooed right arm (wrestlers are crazy about tattoos). ‘How did you do that?’

‘In practice. My arm catch the outside of the barrier. That not happen again.’

I was impressed by his confidence. I was pleased too, by the way he was talking to me, like one of the GWA family; as, of course, I was. I changed into my announcer’s gear, and fastened my new bow tie around my neck. . okay, I admit it. It was a clip-on job.

I checked myself in the mirror. Yes, I looked the part; but just to curb my growing confidence my old friend the hamster began to run around in my stomach once more.