To Die For Read Free Page A

up and down, nodding to himself.
    ‘I seen you fight a coupla times.’
    I grabbed a towel and started drying myself. My head hurt. My head always hurt. It was just one of those things. I didn’t need someone to make it worse.
    ‘You got a great left,’ he said. ‘I never seen a jab with so much behind it. And you can take punishment, I’ll give you that.’ He hesitated, looked down at his crushed cheroot like it was an old friend he’d lost. ‘But you’re old.’
    Everyone was telling me that. The doctors, the other fighters, the crowds.
    ‘You’re too slow for these kids,’ he said. ‘They’re running all over you.’ He held out his hand. I looked at it. It was small and sweaty. ‘My name’s Kendall. Dave Kendall. Ever heard of me?’
    I hadn’t heard of him, but didn’t say so. When he got tired of holding his hand in the air he pulled it in and used it to scratch his ear.
    ‘I used to fight. Crystal Kendall. Crystal on account of my glass jaw.’
    I still hadn’t heard of him.
    He glanced at his watch. It was an expensive watch. Or maybe it was a good fake. He looked like the kind of person who’d try and con someone with a dodgy watch. Maybe he’d got confused and sold it to himself.
    ‘Look, I gotta get over to Deptford in a coupla hours, but I’m free till then. Fancy a pint?’
    I was waiting for the pitch. I was bored of him. He smelled of hair oil and cheroots. He moved too much.
    ‘Don’t talk much, do you?’ he said. ‘That’s all right. I don’t need a talker. Look, I’m not trying to con you or nothing.’
    I started dressing. Kendall backed away from the lockers, giving me room. He scratched his ear again.
    ‘Look, you’re getting seven shades of shit knocked out of you, what, once, twice a week? How long you gonna be able to do that? How would you like another job?’
    He pulled a cheroot from a pack in his coat pocket. He lit it, blew out some smoke and said, ‘A decent fucking job.’
    I sat down. My head throbbed. My eyes stung. My ribs were trying to unhinge themselves and run away. Even my hair hurt.
    Eight years later and he seemed to have kept his promise. A decent job, decent money. Easy. All I had to do was wait for him to call.
    I didn’t own a phone. There was a newsagent a couple of doors along and the owner there, bloke called Akram, would take the call for me. He’d come up with a message, then I’d go see Kendall or phone him back from a public phone. Akram was also my landlord. He owned three buildings along the road. I had an arrangement with him: he paid all the bills and I gave him the cash. Nothing was in my name. Recently, I’d moved flats to a smaller, single-bedroom place. I’d done this because some of Akram’s old relatives had come over from Pakistan, and Akram, who was paying their living costs, wanted them to live as cheaply as possible and because his old grandmother couldn’t manage stairs so well.
    The attic flat needed updating, as estate agents would say. The putty around the edges of the single-pane windows was cracked and falling away, and cold air leaked in. In summer, the flat would probably be hot. In February it was fucking cold. The previous owner – an old man who smoked roll-ups and wheezed more each day climbing the four flights of stairs – had never had money to spend on things like a new cooker or a coat of paint. It didn’t matter. The flat was far away from other people, which was fine by me. I didn’t plan on holding many dinner parties.
    I sat in all day Monday. Nobody called.
    On Tuesday, I went to my local gym, an old-fashioned boxing place called Murray’s which smelled of sweat and menthol and rubbing oil. I was on nodding terms with the punters there, but I hardly ever talked to them. Sometimes one of the old-timers would have a word about boxing, but that was about it. I stood by myself, pounding the heavy bag, trying to ignore the glances I got from the others, the change in mood. There was less banter when