Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

Taffy had heard of Sir Charles, the ‘gent of boxing’ — everyone on the circuit had — but to think he was coming up here to this godforsaken place was beyond Taffy’s comprehension. Roberts could see him hesitate, understood why, and put his arm around Taffy’s shoulders. ‘Wipe him out, Taffy, that’s what you’re here for. The lad’s got the press writin’ about him, because of those murders. You drop him on the canvas and it’ll be you they’ll be writin’ about, and next stop it’ll be the belt. That’s what you’ve dreamed of, isn’t it?’

Taffy had more than dreamed of it — it was his one goal in life. They saw him straighten up, clench his fists, and they knew they’d have the fight they wanted.

As if on cue, the roar of a car’s engine coughing its way up the hillside heralded the arrival of Sir Charles himself. He pulled on the brake and looked around the pit, shaking his head. He’d certainly been in some out-of-way places looking for fighters, but never halfway up a mountain before.

‘Gor blimey, guy, you sure they’re not bringing the dogs up ‘ere, don’t look like a boxin’ match to me.’ Ed sniffed and hugged his coat closer. ‘Bloody cold fer Easter, ain’t it?’

As debonair as ever, Sir Charles seemed entirely unruffled by his long journey. He opened his brandy flask and drained it. Already he could see the line growing at the entrance, and below them men were heading up the mountainside in force. He passed his flask to his valet who nipped round to the boot of the car to refill it. The men crowding around were uncouth, shouting and carrying beer bottles.

‘I think, sir, if you don’t mind, I will stay inside the vehicle. I’m sure someone will try to remove your cases.’

Sir Charles laughed, then pushed his way through the crowds to look over the ring. He was pleased to note that there was no sign of the wretched man Beshaley. It would be difficult to miss that loud checked suit.

The crowds cleared a path for Sir Charles and nudged each other, nodding to ‘the toff’. Sir Charles gave Taffy a courteous nod. Taffy watched him and grunted, he’d give him his money’s worth.

Freedom sat in the wagon, his bound fists ready, arguing with Jesse. Freedom was angry that he was still around, having told him to leave days ago. But Jesse had disobeyed and returned for the fight. Jesse grinned, he would steal a few wallets tonight, and one from the gent in the big motorcar. Not that he mentioned it to Freedom, he just said they needed all the hands the camp could provide — and anyway the law had left the village. The crowds were bigger than expected and the takings had to be counted. Jesse rubbed his hands with glee — money, money.

Twice a boy from the entrance came with a sack of coins, tipped them into a box and rushed out again.

‘Where’s Rawnie, Jesse, I told you to keep her out of this.’

Jesse opened the flap of the wagon and hopped down, reassuring Freedom that Rawnie was safe, back at the camp. No one but their own had seen them return, there was nothing to fear. Freedom sighed. Jesse was a madman, he knew it, to kill the boy here in the village, in the picture house, was an act of utter madness. The police had searched every wagon, every trailer, and Freedom knew it would not end there. The law would follow them from town to town, searching, questioning. He clenched his fists, the fight far from his thoughts, preoccupied with Jesse and Rawnie. She had changed profoundly since that night at Cardiff, not that anyone could blame her after what she had been through. Freedom had detected a cold hardness in her, she would no longer come near him, curl up beside him. If anything, she would turn away if she saw him.

Rawnie and Jesse were inseparable, as if they had secrets between them, their eyes constantly gliding to each other’s, giving sly, soft giggles, their hands entwined. Freedom found them unnerving when they were together. True, he had tracked the boys down for Jesse, but then he had stepped aside because, as Jesse said, it was no longer his business. It was Jesse who was exacting vengeance. He had tried to reason with Jesse and the results had caused friction within the camps. Freedom chose to move on, and joined up with various other bands. Some whispered it was because he was scared, others murmured that it was Freedom’s name that was connected to the revenge killings and it was right that he should protect himself.

The Easter fair was a big money-earner for the travellers, and as there was a fight going they sent for Freedom to rejoin them. That was the only reason he was here, but it had angered him when Rawnie and Jesse appeared. He watched Jesse through the flap. He strutted around the makeshift ring, arrogant, cocksure, and the miners stepped aside. Behind his back Freedom saw them give the sign of the fist. Freedom knew the signs, and was sure there would be more than one fight tonight.

The miners already outnumbered the gypsies by ten to one, and a restless murmur was growing as they began to take their seats. It was gone six o’clock, and still the fight had not begun. The referee jumped up into the wagon, a pleasant-faced man from Glamorgan who had refereed many bouts between the gypsies and the miners. ‘Now lad, keep it clean, I want no head-buttin’ and no kicks, any punches below the belt an’ I’ll disqualify you. Make it a good fight, there’s someone out there from the professional circuits watchin’, so don’t let’s make a monkey of this, understand me?’

Freedom smiled, nodded briefly and asked if the ref. was giving the same lecture to the miner — any head-butting usually came from that side, not the gyppos. The referee checked Freedom’s fists and gloves, and spoke a few words to the young lads with his bucket and stool.

‘Thirteen rounds, lads, three minutes per round. When the bell goes you get into the ring, and not before.’

The crowd was now very restless, and torches were lit to illuminate the arena. The beer was being swilled down, and a couple of men who had brought a crate of beer were doing a fair trade selling bottles. It was home-brewed, tasted like stewed apples, and had a hell of a kick to it, but no one minded, they were getting thirsty. from shouting for the match to begin.

Hugh read the newspaper cuttings about the killings in Cardiff. Gladys was distraught, and angry.

‘She knows something, Hugh. All this time she’s known something and not said a word to anyone. When was she in Cardiff? Remember that time she went away and came back here like she’d seen someone die? It’s the same time, Hugh, look, read for yourself.’

Like an omen, the roar of the crowds echoed down from Devil’s Pit.

Evelyne was surprised to see Hugh when he burst in through the back door.

‘Hello, Da, I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’

Hugh threw her big overcoat on to the kitchen table, then dragged the newspaper cuttings out of his pocket. He waved them in front of her nose. ‘Come on, out with it, gel, what’s all this? An’ don’t tell me it’s just morbid curiosity, there’s more to this than meets the eye, isn’t there? And by God I want it, all of it! Poor Gladys is at her wits’ end. This Freedom fella’s fighting up at Devil’s Pit right now, an’ if he’s the one murdered our poor Willie …’

Evelyne let rip. ‘ “Our…?” What do you mean, “Our”? That little bugger wasn’t ours, Da, he wasn’t worth the worry we all had, he had it coming to him!’

Hugh stared in horror as she faced him, arms folded, with such a look of fury on her face he was astounded. He threw the papers at her. ‘The lad had his throat cut by those vermin and that’s all you can say about it, he had it coming to him? What kind of woman are you?’

Evelyne turned away from him and he walked out, slamming the door so hard the house shook. Why hadn’t she told Hugh the whole story, why hadn’t she told him now? She knew it was because of Gladys, and she felt guilty. She went up to her room and from the window she could see Hugh and Gladys running up the road. If she cut across the fields as fast as she could and up the other side of the mountain, she could get to Freedom before them.