Widows

Still rubbing his head, Andrews raised his eyebrows and turned to look at Resnick. ‘Maybe Boxer’s working for Dolly? He did visit her house a couple of times.’

Resnick was stunned. ‘What an idiotic suggestion,’ he snapped.

Fuller frowned at Andrews. ‘There’s no way an old woman who spends all her time between the hairdressers and a bunch of nuns would be employing old lags like Boxer Davis.’

‘Will you shut up, the pair of you! Fuller, drive down to Soho. I wanna have a look round for Boxer Davis and if he’s there we’ll nick him.’

‘But it’s almost midnight,’ Fuller exclaimed.

‘Then we’re more likely to find him, aren’t we? These old lags aren’t tucked up by nine like you prissy bunch.’

Fuller and Andrews exchanged a glance; then Fuller pulled away and headed toward Soho.

Boxer returned to his run-down bedsit with his fish and chips and, for the third time, counted out the money Dolly had given him. He was tickled pink as he stacked it up in neat piles on his bed. Dolly had told him that Harry was still lying low and that felt it best that Boxer did the same and got out of town for a couple of weeks. Dolly had given Boxer the address of a nice B & B in the countryside and said she’d drop round some more cash before he went. Harry would contact him at the B & B when the time was right. Boxer had fallen for all of this — hook, line and sinker.

Picking up a faded, unframed photograph of himself and his son from the bedside table, Boxer looked at it for a moment. The little boy was perched on his dad’s shoulders, waving at the camera. Boxer rubbed his flat nose. His little fella must be about eight by now. He shook his head, annoyed with himself that he couldn’t even remember his own son’s age, and wondered if he should track down his ex-wife, Ruby, so he could see his beautiful little boy. She’d be proud he was still on the wagon, he thought, and his boy might even look up to him in his new suit and shiny shoes.

Boxer carefully propped the photo up against the bedside lamp; apart from missing his son he felt good, damned good. He shook his head and chuckled at the thought of his old friend and boss, Harry Rawlins, pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes. He stuffed a handful of cold, soggy chips into his mouth, but they tasted awful now, so he spat them back into the paper wrapping, scrunched it up and chucked it into the already overflowing waste basket. He surveyed the battered, dirty room. ‘What a shit hole...’ he muttered, but then he brightened. Things were about to change for the better. Harry Rawlins would see that he had a decent place to move into and he’d pay him well.

‘I’m on the up, my son,’ Boxer said to the photo of his boy. ‘I’d like to take you with me. I hope you let me try.’ Easing his huge frame into a tattered and worn armchair, he closed his eyes and thought about Harry. He could see him clear as day, as if he was in the room, standing tall in front of him.

The first time Boxer met Harry Rawlins, it had been ringside at a boxing night in York Hall, Bethnal Green. Boxer had been just about to step under the ropes and into the ring when he felt a tug on his robe. Looking round, he saw a young man with a cigar clamped in his mouth.

‘I’m Harry Rawlins,’ he’d said. ‘And there’s a grand riding on you tonight, me old son, so knock him out and I’ll see you right with two hundred.’

The fight was over in the third round and Harry was true to his word. He was an honorable thief, thought Boxer, and that’s what he always loved about him — you knew where you stood.

A loud knock on the door interrupted Boxer’s trip down memory lane and his eyes sprang open. He could hear puffing and panting outside his door.

‘Eh, Boxer! You in? Boxer open up, ya hear me?’

Boxer stayed silent. It was Fran, Fran the ten-ton landlady — the huge, over made-up, foul-breathed Frances Welland. When he was on the booze and really drunk, he vaguely recalled her coming onto him and, much to his regret, he had had sex with her. He was glad that he couldn’t actually remember the sex, but he could remember waking up and seeing her next to him in bed. He knew she wanted a repeat performance, but he was equally determined to ignore her.

The doorknob rattled. ‘Boxer! I know you’re in there. You’ve got a visitor — open the door!’

Boxer reluctantly hauled himself to his feet and unlocked the door. The visitor was hidden behind Fran’s huge body, so Boxer couldn’t see who it was until he stepped forward. Boxer’s face lit up with a big smile.

‘Eddie Rawlins — my old mate! Come in, come in.’

Boxer dragged Eddie inside his room and shut the door in Fran’s face with a grin. He always smiled at her; he didn’t want her to throw him out.

Going over to the tiny kitchen space in the corner of the bedsit, Boxer put the kettle on. ‘It’s great to see you, Eddie. I can’t offer you much I’m afraid, but I always got tea.’