Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

‘You rate him, do you Ed? What weight’s he carryin’?’

Ed shrugged, although he knew Freedom’s weight down to the last ounce, muttered that he was around twelve, thirteen stone, so he’d have to be in the heavyweight class.

‘That’s my trouble, see Jack, I don’t want ‘im to go into a professional bout yet, ‘e’s not ready, what I’m after is — until I’ve ‘ad time to work on ‘im, just for a few shillings, lad’s gotta eat, know what I mean — I was wonderin’ if you could see to a couple of sparrin’ matches, anyone comin’ in fer a big bout around his weight. You got a match ahead? One suitable, eh?’

Ed knew exactly which bout was due — it was Murphy, the Irish Heavyweight Champion, coming to fight the present holder of the British title. Jack scratched his head and then drummed his fingers on a page of his book. ‘There is the Murphy crowd comin’ in, but they’ll be bringing their own spar. Doubt if they’ll want a bum an’ mouth round before the big bout. ‘E’s an Irish bog fighter, an’ he’s takin’ on Sam Gold’s boy. It’s a big bout, Ed, whoever gets through will have a crack at the world title, take on Dempsey ‘imself.’

Ed homed in on Jack, Murphy would be perfect. ‘You got it all up ‘ere, Jack, always said that, we can see how the lad fares with a champ, we’ll know for sure what we got or what we ‘aven’t, you’ll set it up then?’

Jack stubbed his cigar out, had another good look over Freedom and then nodded. As Freedom and Ed left, Jack wasn’t sure if he’d been given the bum’s rush himself. But then it had been his idea, so he asked the operator to put a call through to Ireland.

Ed skipped along the pavement, clapping his hands. ‘The old bugger fell for it, hook, line an’ sinker.’

Freedom strolled along beside him, still not knowing what the hell was going on.

‘Look, son, we got you a sparring bout with the Irish titleholder, he’s comin’ over for a crack at the British title, right? British Heavyweight, now then, you show what you can do and ‘is Lordship’s gonna make sure the press‘11 be there, with me?’

Freedom still hadn’t cottoned on, and Ed began to think that his prize didn’t have much ‘upstairs’. ‘This is your fight, you ain’t gonna spar, you’re gonna box ‘im right outta the ring.’

Freedom was dubious, it was a short cut, but somehow it didn’t seem right to him. It was dirty. Ed snapped at him that it was life, that was all, and the best fighter would win, who knows, the Irish fighter might wipe Freedom out.

‘Don’t you think for one minute Murphy’s a push-over, he’s a fighter, and ‘e’s desperate to get that title, you any idea how much Dempsey took at the gate last fight, one million dollars, mate, one friggin’ million dollars!’

After crossing town to Tower Bridge, Freedom and Ed took a bus over the bridge to the dockland area. Freedom trailed after Ed as he walked down squalid streets, up alleys, until they arrived at a small, two-up, two-down house which was squashed into a seedy row of identical houses, the street alive with noisy children.

Ed led Freedom along the passage into a small back room with two cot beds. It was a far cry from The Grange. ‘Right, lad, dump yer bags, toilet’s out in the yard, an’ by the stink of the place the drains is clogged up. Still, maybe we won’t be here for long, eh?’

Freedom stared around the squalid room, at the cracked window, grey with dirt, that looked straight out on to a high brick wall.

Unperturbed as ever, Ed was checking the blankets for bedbugs. He whistled, full of energy, and talked nineteen to the dozen. He told Freedom to unpack, but Freedom had only the clothes he stood up in and his training gear.

‘I’ll be two minutes, gotta ring ‘is Lordship, tell ‘im we’re settled, like, then we’ll get us some dinner … put yer feet up, get as much rest as yer can, want you fit for Murphy, eh?’

Left alone, Freedom sat down on his bed. He didn’t open his bag, or even check the bed for bugs. He simply sat, hands cupped loosely in front of him. When Ed returned almost an hour later, Freedom was in exactly the same position.

‘Right, Murphy’s comin’ into town, you’re to meet him tomorrow. I’ll fill you in on how you behave. These bog Irish need a bit of handlin’, and you are going ter give a performance … but you save the best for the press, are you wiv me? … like an actor? Yer know, rehearsin’, savin’ hisself for the opening night … Freedom? You listened to a word I said?’

‘What happens if he don’t want me to spar?’

‘Leave that to me. It’s sorted, now get off yer backside, I’m starvin’ ‘ungry.’

Ed pulled open the door and turned back, hesitating, then went to Freedom and gave him a hug, ‘Eh, this place ain’t much, I know that, but give us time? Best nobody knows nuffink about yer, understand? Sir Charles, he knows what he’s doing.’

Freedom gave him that half-smile of his. ‘Thing is, Ed, I don’t think there’s room in here for His Lordship …’

Ed cuffed him one, but didn’t laugh. ‘There’s them an’ us, that’s life … now get a move on or I’ll ‘ave shockin’ wind.’

Pat Murphy looked far from ‘bog Irish’. He was wearing a long, camelhair coat with a velvet collar, and a black felt hat, a satin band around the crown. He wore a carnation in his buttonhole and carried a silver-topped walking stick. Ed slithered around the edge of the room, wanting to get a good look at the Irish champion without him knowing. Two men, equally well dressed, stood beside Murphy, and he towered over them. His huge chest under the tailored suit and overcoat looked a lot wider than Freedom’s.

Murphy was posing for a photograph, the photographer hidden under a black cloth.

‘Mr Murphy, could you please hold that pose, thank you sir, and now would it be permissible to have one of you on your own for the Evening Chronicle?’

Murphy smiled as his two men departed to lean against the ropes. He wore a fine leather glove on his right hand, in which he also held its mate, leaving his bare left hand to rest on the ropes. Ed could see a heavy diamond ring on his little finger. More disconcerting was the size of the man’s fists — they were like spades.

‘Come on then, man, let’s be done with this, the bars are open.’ Murphy held his pose, his white teeth gleaming in a frozen smile. He was an exceptionally handsome man and his face bore little or no sign of his boxing career. His nose was straight, his hair, thick, black and curly, hid his ears so Ed could not see if they bore tell-tale marks. Murphy’s eyes were small and china-blue, and they twinkled as he spoke in his thick Irish brogue.

Jack gave the photographer his marching orders, and was about to join Murphy when he spotted Ed. Murphy gave Ed no more than a cursory glance as he moved with his two men towards Jack’s office.

‘This is Ed Meadows, he’s got a good sparring partner for you, Pat.’

Murphy turned to Ed and gave him his full attention. His twinkly eyes went icy-cold as he gave Ed the once-over.

‘Well, they better get him over here, I’ll be needing work outs before the match, your lad good, is he?’

At that point Murphy’s trainer, O’Keefe, laughed and said that his boy needed the very best, and it was lucky they had offered a sparring partner as their own had been put into hospital the night before they left. Murphy looked at Ed.

‘I never meant it, stray punch, poor man went down like a lead balloon, and that’s just how I intend to put the champ down, isn’t that right, Paddy?’

Paddy O’Keefe nodded, raised his fist and punched the padded, camelhair shoulders of Murphy’s coat.

‘Oi, watch out for the coat, it’s pure camelhair, this, have you ever felt such soft material, Jack, go on now, have a feel, is it not like a baby’s arse?’