‘He wanted you,’ says Paulo, faking a right, throwing a left.
I miss it, but only just. ‘And what’d you say?’
“I told him I wasn’t your fuckin’ secretary and he should find you his fuckin’ self.’
I smile, but it gets knocked off my face with another quick left. It connects, hard. I grab a few steps and back away. Paulo meant that one.
‘Why d’you think he was sniffing about?’ he says.
‘You know what the fuckin’ busies are like, especially the likes of Donkey. Once a con, always a con. You must’ve had your fair share.’
‘Yeah, but not without reason. What you been doing, Cal?’
‘I’ve been busy.’ Another duck, bob, smack in the head with Paulo’s right. That one makes me dizzy; I have to shake it out. Takes me a second.
‘Then it’s to do with Morris,’ he says, punctuating it with another blow to the side of my face.
I back off again. Shake my head clear. Fuck’s sake.
‘I’m not working for Morris.’
‘What was Mo doing in here the other morning, then?’
‘I didn’t take that job.’
‘So there was a job.’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t take it.’ I get my vision back, hold up my gloves.
‘Good lad,’ says Paulo. He one-twos, batters some air.
Telegraphs his right and I sneak in with mine. My glove connects with his ribs, a decent shot, but he absorbs it. ‘You wouldn’t bottle it and not tell me, would you?’ he says.
I hunker, dodge. He doesn’t even try. I feel like a ponce.
‘What you getting at, mate?’
He lunges once my gloves part, lands two heavy blows in quick succession to my midriff, follows up with a corker to my mouth. The tooth goes into overdrive.
‘Fuckin’ hell,’ I say, putting one glove to my cheek. ‘Hang fire, Paulo.’
He doesn’t. Paulo dips to my left and winds me with a deep blow to the gut. I crease, feel bile burning in my throat. Down to my knees with a thump and water in my eyes. I wheeze like a dying dog.
Can’t catch my breath. I look up at him and my head’s gone light. He’s swirling in a mist. I blink a few times and hot water leaks down the sides of my face. My mouth hangs open.
The tooth doesn’t hurt so much if there’s air running around it.
Paulo has stopped moving. Standing there, staring at me.
‘You know what I did after I got out of the ring, Cal?’ he says. “I bounced. I worked the doors. Sometimes I worked the doors up Cheetham Hill and nearly got fuckin’ shot doing it.
So I tried the city, right?’
I nod, because I can’t find the breath to say anything.
“I worked seven nights a week, doubles on the weekend.
Got so’s I couldn’t look at a fuckin’ beer, ‘cause I knew what it did. It made lads bolshy. And I was doing the only thing I know how to do. Fight. Or break up fights by knocking heads.
Most of the time it was pretty much the same thing.’
I whistle out a slow breath through my nose. Stare at the canvas. I can see drops of blood and wonder where it’s coming from. Probably my nose. I’m a captive audience, just the way he wants it.
‘The money was shit and the work was shittier. Then one night, Morris Tiernan comes up to me and he says do I want to work for him. Nothing harsh, like, but he needs a bloke who can handle himself. And I’m like, nah, that’s alright, don’t worry about it, I’m fine, right? You listening?’
My tongue goes to the tooth. It waggles in the gum. A copper taste. I pull myself to my feet and wipe a trail of bloody snot across the back of my glove. Paulo’s staring at me like he’s waiting on an answer, so I give him one: ‘Yeah, I’m listening.’
He smacks his gloves. ‘C’mon then.’
“I think I’m about done for the day, mate. My tooth’s killing me.’
Paulo launches a quick left at my shoulder. I’m thrown off balance, one foot back to steady myself.
‘We’re not finished yet, Cal,’ he says.
“I mean it, Paulo. I’ve had enough.’
‘Not yet,’ he says. There’s a weird glint in his eye. I’ve seen it before, normally when he’s bawling out one of the kids for throwing a dirty punch or giving him shit about why they haven’t attended the club. ‘I’m telling a story here, Cal. And we’re finished when I say we’re finished.’
‘Paulo, I’ve heard this story.’
“I know you have. But somewhere along the line you missed the point of it’
He wants to play hard, fine. Fuck him. I sidestep as he lunges. One of his punches hits my chest. I land a strong glove on the side of his head. Paulo shakes it off. I try another. He punches my wrist.
‘So I tell Morris Tiernan where to go, right?’ he says. “I tell him I’m not interested. And that should’ve been it, am I right?’ He holds out one glove to me. I try to hit it, but he whips his hand away in time. ‘You’d think he’d get the message. But no, he sends a lad round to keep asking.
And this lad, he won’t take no for an answer either. So he starts on with the lip, starts on with the “stupid fuckin’ cunt” bit.’
I try to back up, but Paulo bears down. ‘What’s your point, Paulo?’
‘The point, Callum, is that Morris Tiernan doesn’t stop at one visit. Which means when Mo doesn’t turn up here the next day and neither do you, I get to thinking. And I don’t like what I come up with.’
‘Paulo ‘
‘You took the fuckin’ job,’ he says. Straight out with it, deadpan.
I stand still, arms by my sides. He winds down. I can’t look at him. I stare at his feet.
Well?’ he says.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘Yeah, what?’
I look up at him, feeling like one of those lads of his. ‘Yeah, I took the job.’
His jaw clenches, but he tries to look calm. He nods slowly, then breathes out. Says, ‘That’s what I thought.’
I shrug. “I had to, mate.’
‘Nah, you’re alright,’ he says. His eyes have glazed over.
When he speaks, it’s like he’s reading it off a cue card: ‘You think you should do this, you think you should risk another five-stretch, you go ahead and do it. You were good to keep it out of here. But you finish this off quick. This is the last time.
I hear you’re working full-time for the man, I’ll cut you off.
You play favourites and you’ll find yourself out in the cold.’
‘I get it.’
He looks at me, frowns. There’s a brief flare, then back to glass. ‘Nah, mate. I don’t think you get it at all. That’s the fuckin’ problem.’
Your prison number is given to keep track of your property, files and paperwork. It remains the same even if you move to another prison. It should be written on any letters addressed to you.
I didn’t get any post, didn’t want any. Who was going to write to me? Declan? Nah, he was busy getting himself fucked up. Word going round was that Dec had developed a taste for downers. Besides, I told him not to visit. Told my mam the same thing. My uncle Kenny told me I’d brought shame on the family. I told him to go fuck himself.
You have a weekly allowance of 2 pounds 50 pence 10 pounds or 15 pounds based on your privilege level. Smoking is not allowed in visits areas.
Exercise is thirty minutes to an hour, depending on weather and category.
Rules and regulations, the twenty-three bang-up when a knife went from the kitchen or a tool from the workshop.
Locked in and pacing the cell, wanting to look like a jungle cat, but ending up like a stray dog. Afterwards, the
