it fall back in place, shaking his hands to get rid of the muck, and moves forward, heading for a converted factory unit that houses an old friend’s boxing club.
Inside, the gym buzzes with activity. Fighters go through their rituals under the supervision of coaches, three of the four rings full of sparring trios or duets working on pads. Around a cluster of heavy bags, office workers do boxing circuit training comprising bag work, sparring, and strength and conditioning exercises, to set them up for a desk-bound day.
Franco nods to his old pal Mickey Hopkins, who sits behind the reception desk, talking into a mobile phone. He receives an acknowledging wink in exchange. Then he begins stretching out, before working up a nice, satisfying rhythm on the speedball. One . . . two . . . three . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . He feels the righteous eyes of strong men glaring in stoic approval, some of whom he knows have danced with the devil and stepped back from the edge of the cliff. There are such men in gyms all over the world, including his local one in California. He likes being around them; most of them have the sense to know that the wisest of human beings are students, forever learning how to deal with life, continuously readjusting in the face of the shifting opportunities and threats it presents.
Frank Begbie wraps up his hands as Mickey Hopkins finishes his call, picking up some pads as he nods to the ring. The men climb through the ropes. It is all about breathing, and Franco draws in an even pull, expelling as he launches each punch combo, shouted out by Mickey, into the silver dot on the trainer’s pads. — Double jab, cross, left hook, double right hook, left uppercut, jab . . .
Franco finds himself in that glorious tempo, which opens up into trancendence, as some onlookers stop their ownactivity to acknowledge the dance the men are undertaking. After the session he is sweating and blowing hard, and he lets his breathing slow, become regular. Sitting around with some of the boys, he is careful not to ask questions about Anton Miller, content to let people volunteer information. Whether they are Miller’s friends or foes, they have to live with him in this town. The overall impression he garners is of a genuine respect for the young man, as well as an obvious fear. These qualities would make him very dangerous to Tyrone.
Mickey and some of the boys take him to lunch, roast chicken at a nearby cafe, and they catch up over old times. It strikes him that the men present around the table have been keeping him at arm’s length for years, and are now welcoming him into the ‘he used to be a bam but he’s alright now’ club. He realises that they all discovered how to obtain membership to that fraternity years ago, and, conversely, how long it has taken him. For the first time since he stepped off the plane, he feels at ease back in his home city.
When he returns to Murrayfield later that afternoon, Frank picks up the phone on the sideboard and dials Melanie’s number. He longs to be in Santa Barbara with her, dawn sweeping through their bedroom windows, her sleeping naked on her stomach, hair magnesium in the sunlight, the room cooled by Pacific air. He feels a bit self-conscious as Elspeth is sitting on the couch drinking gin and watching daytime TV. It goes to voicemail, and Frank tries to explain the situation with the Tesco phone, before the beep goes, cutting off his message. Elspeth looks sour, and he wonders if heshould have asked her first about making a long-distance call. Some folk could be funny about that sort of thing. So Franco sits in the chair opposite her, and they exchange some banalities. Then he looks at a picture of the boys on the sideboard, in their matching maroon Hearts tops. — Good lads, he offers.
— Aye, never had any problems wi them at all . . . Elspeth says, then hesitates. Franco knows that she is thinking of his kids, perhaps realising it might not have been the best
Inside, the gym buzzes with activity. Fighters go through their rituals under the supervision of coaches, three of the four rings full of sparring trios or duets working on pads. Around a cluster of heavy bags, office workers do boxing circuit training comprising bag work, sparring, and strength and conditioning exercises, to set them up for a desk-bound day.
Franco nods to his old pal Mickey Hopkins, who sits behind the reception desk, talking into a mobile phone. He receives an acknowledging wink in exchange. Then he begins stretching out, before working up a nice, satisfying rhythm on the speedball. One . . . two . . . three . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . He feels the righteous eyes of strong men glaring in stoic approval, some of whom he knows have danced with the devil and stepped back from the edge of the cliff. There are such men in gyms all over the world, including his local one in California. He likes being around them; most of them have the sense to know that the wisest of human beings are students, forever learning how to deal with life, continuously readjusting in the face of the shifting opportunities and threats it presents.
Frank Begbie wraps up his hands as Mickey Hopkins finishes his call, picking up some pads as he nods to the ring. The men climb through the ropes. It is all about breathing, and Franco draws in an even pull, expelling as he launches each punch combo, shouted out by Mickey, into the silver dot on the trainer’s pads. — Double jab, cross, left hook, double right hook, left uppercut, jab . . .
Franco finds himself in that glorious tempo, which opens up into trancendence, as some onlookers stop their ownactivity to acknowledge the dance the men are undertaking. After the session he is sweating and blowing hard, and he lets his breathing slow, become regular. Sitting around with some of the boys, he is careful not to ask questions about Anton Miller, content to let people volunteer information. Whether they are Miller’s friends or foes, they have to live with him in this town. The overall impression he garners is of a genuine respect for the young man, as well as an obvious fear. These qualities would make him very dangerous to Tyrone.
Mickey and some of the boys take him to lunch, roast chicken at a nearby cafe, and they catch up over old times. It strikes him that the men present around the table have been keeping him at arm’s length for years, and are now welcoming him into the ‘he used to be a bam but he’s alright now’ club. He realises that they all discovered how to obtain membership to that fraternity years ago, and, conversely, how long it has taken him. For the first time since he stepped off the plane, he feels at ease back in his home city.
When he returns to Murrayfield later that afternoon, Frank picks up the phone on the sideboard and dials Melanie’s number. He longs to be in Santa Barbara with her, dawn sweeping through their bedroom windows, her sleeping naked on her stomach, hair magnesium in the sunlight, the room cooled by Pacific air. He feels a bit self-conscious as Elspeth is sitting on the couch drinking gin and watching daytime TV. It goes to voicemail, and Frank tries to explain the situation with the Tesco phone, before the beep goes, cutting off his message. Elspeth looks sour, and he wonders if heshould have asked her first about making a long-distance call. Some folk could be funny about that sort of thing. So Franco sits in the chair opposite her, and they exchange some banalities. Then he looks at a picture of the boys on the sideboard, in their matching maroon Hearts tops. — Good lads, he offers.
— Aye, never had any problems wi them at all . . . Elspeth says, then hesitates. Franco knows that she is thinking of his kids, perhaps realising it might not have been the best
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