Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

‘Well, what you think, can you take him?’

Freedom mulled the question over for what seemed to Ed to be a very long time, then he said he didn’t know. He didn’t think Murphy was giving full power, he was holding back. The next spar Freedom would push a few punches, but Murphy had one hell of a right hook.

‘But he opens up, I’ve been watchin’ ‘im, he goes to a format, right upper, right upper, an’ then he’s comin’ in with a body left, but he double swings and in comes that right hook. You got to get into that opening, he’s wide open for a moment each time.’

Freedom raised his eyes to heaven, shook his head. ‘Ed, what you think I bin trying to do, mun, he’s a dancer too, you know, light on his feet for his weight.’

Ed shoved his stubby finger into Freedom’s chest, said that he, Freedom, was twice the mover, and lighter.

‘I’m lighter, Ed, that’s for sure, I’d say by about sixteen pounds.’

Jack came out of his office and went over to O’Keefe. He had a list of reporters requesting permission to photograph the Irish champion. He also had a lot of press photographs of the titleholder from the morning paper’s sports edition. On the back page, Micky Morgan stood with his fists up. Unlike Murphy, his face showed war wounds, a flattened nose, crumpled ears. His eyes were slightly puffy, eyes that glared out of the newspaper.

‘Eh, Murphy, wanna see how Micky’s lookin’ lately? Not good, that Scotch fella really gave him a going-over, see?’

Murphy took the paper and stared at the glowering man, adding up on his fingers how many weeks had gone by since Micky’s last bout. ‘He was cut, wasn’t he? Right eye? Lemme see now … I’d calculate the lad’s only just got nice, clean, fresh skin over this right eye, what you say, boss? Oi, O’Keefe, what you say, doesn’t look too dangerous to me?’

O’Keefe didn’t even cross the room, he was winding bandages into rolls, concentrating on them. ‘He’s a real fighter, Pat, and he’s hungry, they had a good “take” on the Scottish bout. I wouldn’t think that eye worries him one jot, man’s a boxer, know what I mean? That opponent was good, and dirty, thumb in the eye round one, he was also very handy with his head. Micky took him out in round five, they say the fella’s still not sure what hit him. Mickey was a stoker on board HMS Junnsanta, word is ‘the shovel’s still attached to his hand.’

Through O’Keefe’s slow assessment of his next opponent, Murphy stood with his arms folded. As O’Keefe wound down and finished rolling the bandages, Murphy turned to the assembled room.

‘That’s what I like to hear, man giving his boxer confidence, right, thanks a lot, an’ where’s that gyppo? You hear him? Tomorrow, son, put a bit of energy into it, Jack, you get the press up here, I’ll give ‘em something to write about, and, O’Keefe, I’ll have that stoker running.’

O’Keefe looked over to Ed and gave him a wink, then he went to Murphy and cuffed him over the head, flung an arm round his shoulder and said he loved him. ‘Now you’re talking, Pat, talking like a winner.’ Freedom picked up his kitbag. He had not said more than a few words to Murphy or his trainer. He liked them both, liked them a lot. He was silent on the journey home on the crowded tram. He liked to sit up front on the open deck. He wore a cloth cap pulled down and a woollen scarf, his jacket collar turned up. Ed wondered what he was thinking, but he never could tell, it unnerved him.

The following morning the gym was crowded with reporters hanging around with their big cameras and tripods. They were setting up by the side of the ring. Jack, dressed in his Sunday suit, brought out all the old photographs of himself, but no one was interested.

O’Keefe had to restrain Murphy from wearing his best velvet shorts, telling him they should be kept for the fight. He couldn’t, however, stop him wearing his new, hand-stitched, monogrammed robe. He was there, flaunting himself, swashbuckling up and down the gym, and he had the reporters roaring with laughter as he posed and danced about. Ed looked over to his two lads, who were standing at the far end of the gym. They looked uneasy and nervous, and he made his way over to them.

‘Where in God’s name is he?’

Ed threw up his hands, Freedom had gone to the toilet, what a time to go! All the press gathered and where was their man? On the throne. ‘He gloved up?’

Freedom was standing in the dirty, broken-down toilet. His coat was round his shoulders, gloves on, and he was leaning against the brick wall. His eyes were closed and he was talking quiedy to himself. ‘Doing this for you, Evie, I get through this then it’s the title, and you’ll have all the dresses and hats you want, this is for you, Evie, I’m doing this for you.’

Ed sighed with relief when Freedom entered the gym, no one paying him any attention. Murphy was up in the ring, posing, swinging on the ropes, and yelling for Freedom to join him. ‘I’m not wearing me helmet, man, I want me face to be seen in all its beauty.’

As Freedom stepped into the ring, Murphy pranced over and gave him a wink. ‘Right, son, don’t hold back, let’s give ‘em a show, get your face in the press with me, all right?’

The room was set up, all the cameras in position, and O’Keefe stepped into the ring, spouting a few words about this being just a taster for the championship. Freedom’s name was not even mentioned, he sat in the corner while his two lads massaged his shoulders. Murphy was pounding the air, and was led into his corner for his gumshield to be fitted.

The bell sounded, and everyone in the room focused their attention on the ring. Murphy came out hunched and ready for the attack, gave Freedom a good pounding, flashy punching, and even while he was doing it he was still talking. ‘Oh, wait ‘til they see me in the papers, me mother’ll throw a fit, me lovely face on every stand.’

Murphy’s face altered as he felt a punch hit home hard, and diis time he didn’t mess around, he went back at Freedom, his eyes never leaving Freedom’s face. Murphy was amused, he’d seen that look, so the boy wanted to make a show of himself, did he? Well now, he would have the lesson of his life.

The whole room picked up the new atmosphere in the ring — suddenly it wasn’t a game. Ed could feel his right leg shaking all by itself, and he swallowed and looked at O’Keefe. The last thing he wanted was for him to step into the ring and stop the sparring match.

A murmur ran around the gym, people moved closer in, the cameras flashed. Ed was saying a silent prayer, over and over he was willing Freedom to find that break, that break in Murphy’s defence. Murphy had Freedom up against the ropes, gave him a good left jab and was about to come in with a right, left, and his famous right, when he felt as if his stomach had been blown out. The punches came one after the other, three times the force of Freedom’s punches in their previous sparring matches. Murphy couldn’t believe it was happening, he gave back everything he had and his fists seemed to glance off the lad, eyes to eyes, the blue twinkle had gone, and the last thing Murphy remembered was the blackness, the blackness of those eyes staring into him, expressionless, masked, in a set, impassive face.

The room went silent as Murphy crashed, unconscious, to the canvas. Then the place was in an uproar, the reporters clamouring, fighting to get into the ring, shouting for the name, the boxer’s name. Ed gave the signal and the two lads grabbed Freedom and hauled him to the ringside. Freedom shoved them aside and pushed his way through the men gathered around the still unconscious Murphy. Ed was shouting, ‘Freedom Stubbs, his name is Freedom Stubbs.’ It was the name that went with the first face Murphy saw as he came round. O’Keefe was hemmed in by reporters already asking if his man would still fight. O’Keefe ignored them and tried to get to Murphy.