The Long Glasgow Kiss

It was the simplest of errors: Kirkcaldy swung an uncharacteristically loose right. It wasn’t so much that Kirkcaldy telegraphed the hook, as announced it with a gold-edged invitation complete with the times for carriages. The German answered the RSVP with an arcing hook that hurt me just to watch it connect. It lifted Kirkcaldy off his feet and he shoulder-slammed the canvas. Half of the spectators, including Jock Ferguson, leapt to their feet and there was a deafening explosion of shouts. The referee backed the German towards his corner with a hand to the chest and started counting out Kirkcaldy. The Scotsman shook the crap out of his head and stood up swiftly, bouncing on the balls of his feet and nodding to the ref. Once you’d kissed canvas, if you wanted to avoid a technical knock-out, you had instantly to convince the referee that you were okay, usually with an overdone display of bright athleticism. The ref backed Kirkcaldy into a neutral corner and checked his eyes before retaking the centre of the ring and indicating, with a gesture like drawing curtains, for the fighters to come together and recommence the match.

The German’s massive shoulders dipped and rose as he came out of his corner. There was a new energy in them. Kirkcaldy tried to outflank every new attack, but the German just kept driving him into the ropes, raining in vicious hooks.

I could see it now: Kirkcaldy’s face was pale, almost white, the lividity of the bruises around his eyes stark against his whiter skin. He launched an attack to drive Schmidtke back, but the German stood planted, rooted to the canvas, his bulky arms working like pistons, driving one blow after another into Kirkcaldy’s body.

Again it was clumsy. Schmidtke caught Kirkcaldy a legal hair’s breadth above the belt. Kirkcaldy dropped his elbows, bringing his guard down. Two successive jabs to his face, followed by a vicious, ugly bolo punch stunned the Scotsman. Then Schmidtke made his delivery. The dazed Kirkcaldy was probably the only person in the auditorium who didn’t see it coming: every single ounce of Schmidtke’s weight behind a roundhouse right that seemed to take an age to connect. But it did. Right on the side of Kirkcaldy’s jaw and the Scotsman went limp and crashed into the canvas. The German had his hands above his head grinning a gumshield grin and jumping on the spot before the referee had finished his count.

Everybody was on their feet, shouting, cheering and some booing now: less with hurt nationalistic pride and more with suspicion that they had just been witness to amateur dramatics instead of professional boxing.

I stood too, but I wasn’t applauding. I was watching the referee, Uncle Bert Soutar, and a fat, middle-aged man in a dinner suit and with a leather Gladstone bag crouched over Kirkcaldy. Even the German had stopped his triumphal dance.

The noise of the crowd was still deafening, but I felt as if a curtain had been pulled between me and them; as if I was the only person really seeing what was happening in the ring.

‘Christ … he’s dead …’ I said, my voice so drowned out by the crowd that I barely heard it myself.

‘Waddya say?’ Dex Devereaux shouted, still clapping, leaning in towards me.

I still watched the scene in the ring. Bert Soutar and the doctor were now helping Kirkcaldy to his feet. Kirkcaldy nodded vaguely to them, and Schmidtke, with a relief I could feel four rows back, embraced his defeated opponent. Kirkcaldy was helped from the ring to the cheers and jeers of the spectators.

After the fight, Dex Devereaux, Jock Ferguson and I made our way to the exits. I had hoped to talk to Willie Sneddon, but I’d lost sight of him. My guess was that he would not be a happy bunny. No matter what other schemes Kirkcaldy had come up with and cooperated with, he had cost Sneddon money. Costing Sneddon money was not something it was advisable for anyone to do. I did see Tony the Pole though. I excused myself from Ferguson and Devereaux for a moment.

‘Whaddya say? Whaddya hear Tony?’ I said smiling.

Tony didn’t smile back. ‘Iz a fugging dizgraze, Lennogs,’ he said gloomily, ignoring our traditional greeting. ‘A load ov fugging bollogs. Whit vaz zat like?’

‘Not a good night for you, Tony?’

‘Ziz fuggin carry-on haz cost me a fugging vortune.’

‘I suppose none of the local bookies will be happy with this result.’

‘Naw? You’d be zurprized, Lennogs. Not everythink iz vat it zeems. Zere’s at leazd vone baztart iz goin’ home happy.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, almost yelling to be heard. But Tony the Pole had been collared by a punter energetically waving a betting slip.

‘Azk Jack Collins aboot zat. Aye … you go an’ azk Jack Collins …’ Tony called, before turning his attention back to his punter. I left him to it and rejoined my guests.