John the Revelator by Peter Murphy Read Free Book Online Page B

said.
    Jamey’s eyebrows arched.
    â€˜What’s that?’
    It was something my mother was in the habit of saying, in the important tone of voice she reserved for quotations. I repeated it and Jamey nodded.
    â€˜Why did you move up here anyway?’ I said.
    â€˜Ollie. The special school is much better than the one in Ballo. Smaller classes.’
    â€˜Why is he in a special school? He seems fine to me.’
    â€˜I know. The kid’s sharper than I am. It’s one of Dee’s ... things. She seems to think he needs special attention. Whatever. I didn’t mind moving. Ballo was boring, man. Nothing but housing estates.’
    He caught sight of something over my shoulder. His face froze and he spoke in a low voice, barely moving his lips.
    â€˜Don’t look, John, but some old bird is staring holes in you through the window.’
    Slowly I eased around in my seat. There was a woman there, sure enough. A tall woman in a wool-knit cap. Mrs Nagle. She averted her eyes and moved off, pushing one of those shopping bags on wheels. Jamey watched her go.
    â€˜Who was that nosebag?’
    â€˜Oh, just the old woman who lived in the woods,’ I said. ‘A weela weela waile.’
    Jamey gathered his papers and put them into his schoolbag. As he got up, he slid a large manila envelope across the table. I picked it up and peered inside.
    â€˜What’s this?’
    â€˜One of my stories. Don’t read it now. Wait till I’m out the door.’
    He shouldered his bag and left, sharp as a blade in his three-piece suit.
    The envelope contained a number of A4 sheets, handwritten and photocopied. I counted out my change and ordered a cup of tea and read through the story.
    Â 
The Grace of God
by Jamey Corboy
    Â 
The two o’clock extraction cancelled, so Maurice went back to his book about the Ali-Foreman fight in Zaire. When was that? 1972? ‘74? He could remember watching it through fuzzy reception on the black-and-white television set in the kitchen of their old bungalow. It was a tradition, staying up with his dad until the early hours to watch the big fights, the Rumble in the Jungle, the Thriller in Manilla, the Olympics, the sad travesty of Ali versus Spinks.
Maurice lived for boxing. He was barely out of short trousers when he joined the local club, St Anthony’s. They said he was a natural. The old man was proud of him. Not only could he take punishment as well as dish it out, but he loved to train too, the roadwork, the thud of the bag, the smack of the pads, the
slappeta-dappeta
of the overhead ball, the smell of sweat and leather gloves.
But what he saw one afternoon in Ballo changed everything, left him so shook he never climbed inside a boxing ring again. When his father quizzed him about it, he just clammed up. Said he was done fighting and no more about it.
His mother made no secret of her relief. She’d been a bag of nerves ever since a local boy collapsed and died after a bout in Balinbagin. Fifteen years old. What was the chap’s name? He couldn’t remember. The post-mortem revealed some sort of blood clot on the brain that probably would’ve done him in sooner or later, but you couldn’t tell that to all the concerned parents and protestors who wrote to the papers and lobbied the council about it. As a result, all the amateur clubs in the county came under pressure to make protective gear compulsory.
Like most of the boys, Maurice hated those big bulky headguards. He’d worn them during sparring matches and it felt like trying to fight while wearing a crash helmet. The club’s mentors could only shrug and say they didn’t like it either, but what could they do? The tourney that day in Ballo was one of the last where the boys were allowed to go bare-headed.
The venue was a draughty old school hall. By the time the St Anthony’s contingent arrived Maurice still wasn’t assured of a match, so he tried to relax and watch