Alex Gray: Glasgow Kiss

The Argo had been built to try to relieve some of the social problems of Drumchapel’s youth, namely giving them somewhere to go and something to do. And it had been successful to varying degrees. Wee girls in pigtails and leotards regularly tapped their way from the baby class right through to senior level, some even going on to the famous dance school at Knightswood Academy. But it was their boxing club that had gained most prestige over the years. Several Scottish champions had learned their skills at the Argo under the fierce eye of Dave Savage, himself a former gold medallist.

Kyle Kerrigan aimed a series of jabs at the punchbag suspended from the ceiling. Around him the lads were sweating, some doing star-jumps, others press-ups, a few like him were battering their demons out against the solid leather bags.

‘Change!’ Dave yelled out and the boys moved around the hall, star-jumpers taking their turn at the bags, others stifling a groan of relief as they stood upright. The smell of sweat lingered in the air as Kyle ignored Dave’s command and kept his eye focused on the bag. Jab. Jab-jab. Jab-jab-jab. His hands flew out in a rhythm, his eyes narrowing as if the dark blue bag was indeed an opponent to be watched and feared. At fifteen, Kyle was one of the older boys in the boxing club. Most of the lads were twelve or thirteen, wiry wee fellows and whippet-thin. Kyle had been just like them, devoted to the sport and ambitious as hell, not understanding why so many of the big boys who were really, really good had drifted away from the twice-weekly training.

‘Girls!’ he’d heard Dave snort in disgust when some of the dads had been talking. He supposed it could be, though he’d never let his friendship with Julie affect his sport. Some of the older lads were winching right enough, but it was more than that. James and Tam, his older brothers, had mocked his loyalty to the boxing club.

‘Away an’ rin roon that hall. Much good it’ll dae ye!’ Tam had spat at him earlier that evening. ‘Cannae say I ever needed tae learn tae fight,’ he’d added with a grin that had made James laugh.

‘Tam could pit the heid in tae onybody roon here. Nae fancy footwork fur him, eh, Tam?’

Kyle had picked up his gym bag and left, their taunts ringing in his ears. Maybe that’s why some of the older lads had given up; it wasn’t cool any more to go down the Argo when your nights could be filled with the sorts of stuff Tam and James got up to. Tam Kerrigan was number one dealer round their bit and James looked set to follow in their older brother’s footsteps. Not that James wasn’t clever. He’d managed to find an apprenticeship with his pal’s father who was a master joiner, and that was a good sort of trade to follow. Joiners were dead well paid, James had boasted when he’d told them he was leaving school. But money didn’t last long in Jamesey’s pockets and Tam’s preferred trade was much more lucrative.

Kyle aimed his punches at the bag. One for James. One for Tam.

‘Change!’ Dave commanded and he glanced over his shoulder at a star-jumper eyeing up his punchbag. Reluctantly Kyle let his arms fall to his sides and he moved away to let the boy have his turn.

Standing against the cream-painted brick wall, Kyle Kerrigan watched the boys go through their paces. Most of them wore jogging pants and T-shirts, some revealing their affiliation to a particular football club, something that could give away their religious upbringing. But such things were ignored inside the Argo. Sectarianism had no place here. You were a boxer first and left any of that stuff outside. Saint Columba’s boys mixed happily with the Proddy boys on Mondays and Thursdays; what their teams did the rest of the week was immaterial. Besides, these lads were all keen on the boxing. Footie wasn’t their first love.

He watched as Dave put on a head guard that matched his dark red boxing gloves and beckoned one of the smaller boys into the ring. The lad had the same determined expression on his face as they all had when facing an opponent: tight, screwed-up brow, mouth firmly shut, teeth clamped against a gum shield. (Dave was always going on about keeping your mouth shut so your jaw didn’t get broken.) Kyle saw the boy’s feet drag one way and the other as Dave put him through his paces, correcting his footwork, making him jab, keeping him coming at the big man who put himself up as a human punchbag for all these aspiring boxers.

Kyle’s eyes wandered across to Gordon Simpson. At seventeen, Gordie was the oldest boy in the club and had had the most fights. A tall, thin lad with a buzz cut above his pale face, Gordie always looked as if he’d come out of the Bar-L, as Barlinnie was affectionately known to Glaswegians. But it was no prison pallor; Gordon suffered from a funny kind of skin disorder and couldn’t stay in the sun without masses of special cream on. This past summer must’ve been a nightmare for him, Kyle thought; day after day of scorching hot sun. He’d gone up the park with his pals, laid on the grass, mucked about with a football, his own skin turning a continental shade of brown. He’d felt funny when some of the lassies he recognised from his class at school had shouted out insults at him that were really compliments in disguise.

‘Right. Kyle. Gordon.’ Dave waved his gloved hands in the air and someone set the clock back to zero.

Gordie gave a weak grin as he faced the younger boy. He might be older and taller but everyone knew that Kyle Kerrigan was the one with the makings of a true champion.

As Kyle approached, fists bunched, eyes straight ahead, he could sense the other lads and their fathers gathered around to watch as if it was something a bit special. Balancing on the balls of his feet, Kyle threw the first punch and saw Gordie’s head jerk to the side, but not before his glove made contact. He would not hurt him but he’d make sure that his jabs went home, keeping his own guard and not letting Gordie near him.

The three-minute bell sounded and the boys tapped each other’s gloves then ducked under the ropes.

Kyle nodded to the coach who gave him a grin of approval. Dave wasn’t given to praising his lads, but you knew when he was pleased. The boys moved out of the way so the older men could dismantle the ring and put it away till the next training night.

Outside, the dusk was growing and Kyle was grateful for the slight cool on his skin as he turned out of Halgreen Road towards his own bit. School began tomorrow. He shrugged. It wasn’t so bad and he’d see his mates again. Muirpark was somewhere to pass the time till he could be back here. Kyle cast a backward glance at the Argo, its door scabbed where generations of wee neds had kicked it. Tucked in amongst the rows of houses, it looked shabby and run down but each time Kyle Kerrigan arrived at that familiar entrance it was like he was coming home.

T he squeezing sensation in his head came back stronger this time and he slumped into the armchair, feeling its metal frame bite through the thin cotton covering. He shifted a bit until his back moulded against the seat cushion. If he just sat still for a minute, took a few deep breaths, it would pass. It usually did. Eyes closed, he let himself drift, let the feeling overwhelm him. Morphing into gossamer, he floated: insubstantial, light and bright . .

Outside the buzz-saw sound of garden machinery cut through the pale threads that kept him dangling up above the chair, and brought him crashing down again. He opened his eyes, head thumping now, examining his surroundings. The room he was in should have been so familiar. The furniture hadn’t changed since he’d left; it was the same mismatch of rubbish that he’d known all his life. A flicker in his brain made him see how things had been the day she had moved in. That had been a summer’s day too, sunshine spilling into the room making everything seem bright and gaudy. Even the tired brown armchairs could have been described as russet, he supposed. The wallpaper was still the same brown-and-cream pattern of overlapping loops (whose repetitions he’d counted over and over again), the dingy white lampshade still hanging at a rakish angle. He’d never bothered trying to fix it. She had seen the place as a temporary stopping-off point, nothing more.