Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

They moved into Jack’s office, and Ed asked when they would like his boy brought round. Murphy flicked his gloves and said he’d work out first thing in the morning, around ten o’clock. ‘

Ed met with Sir Charles at the Pelican Club, and they ate a big fry-up together. A boxing match was taking place while they ate, npt that Ed paid any attention.

‘He’s a champ, and ‘e’s flash, must ‘ave made a lot of money on the Irish circuits, his face looks unmarked and he’s got fists the size of shovels. I wonder if we’re not pushin’ our lad too fast.’

Sir Charles picked at his steak and seemed more concerned with his tomato than with anything Ed had told him. Ed sighed and tapped Sir Charles on the arm to draw his attention to the entrance. Murphy, his camelhair coat and hat taken from him, stood at the grill-room bar. ‘There ‘e is now, sir, look at ‘im, and ‘e’s got the confidence of Jove himself

They watched as Murphy shook hands with a group of well-dressed City gents and was shown to a table.

They made a great fuss of him, and many eyes were turned towards the ringside table where he sat.

The Pelican Club was half-full of regulars, and a strange bunch they were, a mixture of toffs and betting men. Titles rubbed shoulders with gamblers, bookies and sportsmen and, thankfully, there was not a woman in sight. The club was very much a man’s world, reverberating with loud laughter and men calling to each other between the booths and tables.

‘Man’s a heavy drinker, by the look of it, and likes the social scene, wouldn’t you say? Our boy’ll take him, he’s not our worry, old chap, take a look at the title holder.’

Ed looked around and leant across the table, ‘He here, is ‘e? I can’t see ‘im?’

Sir Charles pushed his plate away and signalled to a waiter, and at the same time he told Ed rather curtly that the champ was under wraps until the main bout, as it should be, he was not even in London.

‘You just make sure Freedom knows what to do. I want him under wraps until I give the word, let Murphy think he’s simply a sparring partner.’

Sir Charles tossed money to the waiter to hand to the boys in the ring. Some toffs came over to the table and Ed knew he was dismissed. He got up and put his hand in his pocket as a gesture, knowing the bill was taken care of.

If Ed Meadows had ever thought Freedom was in any way difficult to control, poor O’Keefe had his hands full with Murphy. He had remained at the Pelican Club all afternoon, drinking. Eventually O’Keefe had poured him into a taxi and taken him back to the hotel, and after a few hours of rest Murphy was up again and raring to go. Fresh as a daisy now, he wanted to see the sights of London. No amount of persuasion from O’Keefe would keep the boxer resting. In exasperation he looked at Murphy prancing around the room in his evening suit, looking for his dancing pumps.

‘For God’s sake, you’re supposed to be getting ready for the British title bout, you’re not here to sightsee, and what you getting all fancied up for?’

Murphy beamed. ‘Bejasus, I’ve got three weeks to get one night out of me system, an’ I give you me word I’ll not touch a drop after tonight, now come on man, let’s get going.’

Poor O’Keefe was dragged off to the Hammersmith Palais to hear the Dixieland Jazz Band. Murphy beamed with delight, he clapped and sang along, ‘Do-wack-a-do, boop-a-doop …’ He was up doing the Black Bottom with a woman O’Keefe had first thought to be an old lady with white hair, but when she turned round he saw that it was the new ash-blonde colour, not white but silver. Murphy wouldn’t come off the dance floor and O’Keefe sat subdued and wretched. At least he was exercising, even if it was the Black Bottom.

Ed pushed open the privy door, still buttoning up his trousers. His morning ritual had been disturbed by loud, childish sobs … Freedom was standing in the yard with a small, ragged boy, who was clutching a rotting, dead pigeon to his chest.

‘Go on, gerrout of it or I’ll tan yer hide.’ Freedom frowned at Ed and gently eased the dead bird from the little boy’s hands.

‘It was me pet, I’ve tried everyfink ter make ‘im eat.’ Freedom sat back on his haunches with the little corpse in his hands. The maggots were eating its eyes out, but Freedom stroked the bird’s head gently. ‘I tell thee what, I’ll take him with me, maybe I’ll have him right as rain.’

From within the crumbling house a woman called for ‘Will’, and the child ran off. Ed cringed with distaste.

‘You’ll get disease from that, chuck it in the canal, and never mind talkin’ wiv the kids, you’ll ‘ave ‘em hangin’ round yer neck … an’ get a move on, you’re meeting Murphy today.’

Pat Murphy showered and O’Keefe rubbed him down, then gave him a heavy massage.

‘My God, I couldn’t believe my eyes, she was a dragon, boy, woke up next to a dragon, must have been near sixty, why d’you let me do it?’

O’Keefe thumped Murphy’s back, hard. It wasn’t for want of trying to prize his champion away from the woman. He’d almost got a back-hander as Murphy, drunk as a lord, insisted the woman was Gloria Swanson. Soon Murphy was togged up and waiting, ready, in the gym. He was doing pressups in a corner while two young lads watched in awe. Then he worked out on the weights, sweating, easing up his muscles. His body was very powerful, and he stood six-foot-two in his leather-soled boxing boots. Ed reckoned he was at least half a stone, maybe more, heavier than Freedom.

O’Keefe noticed the big fella immediately and crossed over to Ed, jerking his thumb in Freedom’s direction.

‘This the lad, is it? He’s a big’un all right, let’s hope he’ll be able to give him a work out, he certainly needs one. Pat, Pat, come on, into the ring with you.’

Murphy danced his way towards the ring, and couldn’t keep still while O’Keefe put on his gloves. He inserted his gumshield and put his leather head-protector on, then Murphy began punching the sides of the iring. Freedom stepped into the ring, gloves tied, gumshield in, and his leather helmet strapped on. The two worked well, Freedom giving Murphy a run for his money. He also took a number of punches, and pulled back on his punches a little, and was stopped as Murphy spat out his shield.

‘Bejasus, what they got here, a ballroom dancer? Can’t you do anything better than this punk?’

Ed gave Freedom a tiny hooded nod, he could push a bit more. The men started again, this time Freedom was feeling Murphy’s punches, fending them off, but they were like iron, the man had a lot of power behind him. Freedom stepped up his punching, gave a good body blow, only to be encouraged by Murphy himself.

‘Thatta boy, come on, get your pecker up, come on, gimme a run for my money.’

O’Keefe nodded to Freedom, then talked out of the side of his mouth to Ed. ‘Your lad’s got promise, nice mover, needs to train up the power behind his punch but he’s got promise, you’re right.’

Throughout the bout Freedom was using his right fist, never giving his left space, he defended, defended, very rarely pushing Murphy. Murphy dominated the centre of the ring, moving Freedom around, on him, after him, and he didn’t pull some of his punches. At the end they were both sweating profusely and Murphy threw in the towel, he wanted to rest. Ed could have swiped Freedom, he just stood in the centre of the ring, unsure what to do next.

‘For Chrissakes, man,’ he whispered, ‘look like yer out of bloody breath, heave yer chest up an’ down a bit!’

The following day’s sparring match was a little tougher. Murphy was working now, and not playing around. Freedom didn’t have to act, he had his work cut out trying to fend off the body punches. Murphy concentrated on the body, even after the bout he went and worked on the punchbag for a further hour.