Chapter 11
AXEL – ‘THE FIGHTER’
Twenty-Seven Years Ago…
The first punch lands before I even see it coming.
One minute, I’m trading knock-off merch by the cages; the next, some meathead twice my size is shoving me hard enough to send me to the gravel.
‘Stay off my turf,’ he spits, and that’s it: I see red.
No one pushes me around any more. Not since school.
Not since Crusty O’Reilly, headmaster-turned-ballbuster dragged me and Dad into his shitty office to talk about ‘behavioural issues’ and ‘petty theft’, ‘expulsion’ and ‘the authorities’.
Dad pretending to care, shaking the old man’s hand while his jaw ticked with fury because the ‘confiscated gear’ I’d been flogging round the yard was his gear.
I can still hear him in the car after: You think I work my arse off for you to piss it away, you little runt?
Well fuck dad, fuck Crusty, and fuck this guy.
I launch back at him with everything I’ve got. Fists, knees, teeth. Another kid appears, trying to pin me down, but I throw him off. Now there’s a whole crowd gathering: shouting, jeering, egging us on.
He’s heavier, but I’m faster, angrier.
I get him to the floor. And I don’t stop until he’s still.
The noise cuts out. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
I glance up, ears ringing, breath ragged.
And that’s when I see him.
Dad.
Arms folded. Eyes gleaming.
For a second, my stomach flips, waiting for the usual: the snarl, the slap, the what the fuck have you done now? But instead, he laughs. A slow, mean sound that makes my balls shrivel up into my body. He walks over and everyone backs away.
‘’Bout time you grew a spine,’ he says, kicking my gear across the gravel. ‘Pick that up. You’re coming with me.’
‘Where?’
‘You’ll see.’
The lock-up stinks of oil and blood, sweat and beer. Bare bulbs hang low over the cracked concrete. Chains rattle in the draught. Men crowd around a makeshift ring, shouting, waving notes.
Dad pushes me through the circle. ‘My boy’ll fight!’
They turn and sneer.
Like they’re ever gonna let me fight.
I’m thirteen and skinny, more bone than muscle.
But out comes the money, crumpled fivers and tenners, shouts of odds and names I don’t know.
I spy the other lad across the way. He’s older, bigger, smirking at me like I’m a joke.
Dad’s hand lands on my shoulder and I jump. ‘Don’t you embarrass me, boy.’
The bell clangs – a lump of pipe against metal – and I’m shoved in.
He comes at me fast, no time to breathe. A fist to my ribs, another to my cheek. I taste blood, stumble, swing wild and miss. My dazed gaze finds Dad. He’s smirking too. And something ugly snaps loose inside me.
I hit back and it lands. Once. Twice. Harder. Faster. The lad fades but I don’t. I keep going. I see him, Dad. I see my life, the chaos. And I don’t stop. Not until someone drags me off.
The room erupts. Notes pass from hand to hand. Men slap Dad’s back. He’s grinning, hands on my shoulders, shaking me like I’ve scored the winning goal.
‘Did you see that?’ he shouts, yanking my fist to the rafters. ‘That’s my boy!’
The crowd’s cheer crashes through me, hot and dizzy. My chest heaves, my teeth rattle inside my skull. And there it is: the look on Dad’s face I thought I’d never see.
He’s proud. For the first time in my life, he’s proud.
And I hate myself for how good it feels.
But I know I’m gonna chase this feeling with everything I’ve got.
Power. Control. Me, always on top.