The Fighter Read online

  “Is that right?”

  “Aye.”

  “But what about…?”

  “About what, Jimmy. Something’s bothering you, eh?”

  He took a long swig of his can. The beer was doing most of the talking, but I could see he had to get whatever it was off his chest.

  “You’re one of them Paras, eh? The same as the ones who shot all them Catholics in the back over in Ireland. How does yer old Dad feel about that, Des?”

  I was a young lad, and yes, maybe a little naïve, but I’d sat down with my father, long before choosing the Parachute Regiment. To me, they were the guys who made it to the sharp end before anyone else. The first to be deployed. They were where the action was, and that was exactly where I wanted to be.

  I looked at Jimmy, a skinny angry young man, scraping a wage, living around junkies, waiting for Friday so he could blow half his pay-packet in the pubs and clubs in town. He was me, without the Army, and I wanted to tell him that, show him that, but I didn’t have the words back then.

  “He’s proud of me, Jimmy,” I said. “You know my old man. He’s of Irish blood and he’s more Catholic than the Pope himself, but he’s still proud. All he wants is for us boys to have a better life than he had. He’s never been one for the politics of it all. Neither should you be.”

  “So yer happy to do the Englishman’s bidding? Is that it?” said Jimmy, face screwed up, anger seeping into his tone.

  I lay down my drink and found my coat. “Like you said, Jimmy, we’ve been pals a long time, and I reckon I’d like it to stay that way. We’ve both had a good night and a good drink. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Jimmy stood. “Aww, don’t be daft now Des, eh? I’m sorry, I didnea mean to piss yer off. Sit back down. I’ve made a spare bed up fer ye.”

  I grabbed the door handle and turned it. “Another time, pal,” I said.

  * * *

  Over two years later, I attended the funeral of James McFee, killed in action during the Falklands conflict, a war I missed due to applying for selection for 22 SAS. By that time, our family home was almost empty, Ann and I were married and living in quarters and all but one of my brothers had found love and moved on. My father wasn’t in the best of health, but still wanted to hear all about my escapades, even those across the water, which got me to thinking about my old pal, Jimmy.

  The day after James was laid to rest, against my better judgement, I decided to try and look up John James McCreery.

  I drove my beloved Cortina back to Possilpark and pulled up outside Jimmy’s building. It seemed that the area had fallen even further from its fine pedestal and now reminded me of some of the areas I’d patrolled in Belfast. It certainly felt as dangerous.

  On this occasion, not only did the lift contain all the evidence of heroin use, it also held an emaciated young woman, who smelled worse than she looked.

  “Blow ye fer a ten bag,” she slurred, as the doors mercifully opened.

  Jimmy’s flat door was ajar, and I tentatively pushed it wide open and called his name. There didn’t appear to be any furniture in the living room. Gone were the two comfy chairs, the big old TV and VCR. All that I could see, was a filthy mattress pushed into one corner of the room, a few takeaway boxes and what was definitely drug paraphernalia.

  “Jimmy?” I called again, wary that I may be classed as an unwelcome visitor.

  There was the sound of movement, slow and stuttering; finally, a wee girl staggered from the bedroom.

  She was no more than seventeen, a kid. There was no mistaking that had she been in better condition, she would have been a bonny wee thing. Unfortunately she was equally as skinny as the girl in the lift, with long straight dirty blonde hair that fell to her elbows. Dark rings sat beneath her ice blue eyes. Her full lips were cracked dry and bleeding. There were large black bruises around her thighs, and she had track marks on her pitifully thin arms. All she wore was a once pink t shirt and a pair of tiny white panties.

  “What de ye want, pal?” she said, her eyes screwed up against the daylight.

  “I’m looking for Jimmy McCreery, hen. Is he here?”

  The girl blew out her cheeks, staggered and sat on the floor with a thump. Once down there, she immediately began to rummage through bits of tinfoil. “Ye ain’t got any brown on ye, have ye?” she said picking at the stinking carpet with a bitten fingernail.

  “It’s Jimmy I’m after hen, I told ye.”

  She looked up at me all doe eyed. “Well, no offence, but Jimmy’s always got gear sweetheart, so I figured… “

  “That I would too?”

  “Yeah, suppose. But he don’t stay here anymore. He’s big time now. Got one o’ them new apartments in town.”

  I nodded and turned to leave.

  “Ye couldnea sort us out, eh?” asked the girl.

  I threw her a packet of fags. “Best I can do,” I said.

  She blew air down her nose. “Thanks fer nothin’.”

  Once back in the sunshine, I noticed that my shiny Ford had company, in the form of two young lads. One leaning against the driver’s door, the second sitting on the edge of the bonnet.

  “Away ye go, boys,” I said, pleasantly enough. “Dinnea be scratching my paint now.”

  Neither moved.

  “What’s yer business with Jimmy McCreery?” said the lad at the driver’s side.

  Obviously the Possilpark jungle drums had been beating whilst I had my chat with the wee girl upstairs.

  “Whatever it is,” I snapped. “It’s none of yours. Now fuck off away from my car son.”

  The pair remained stubbornly still.

  I reckoned that both lads were in their late teens, just a couple or three years younger than me. They sported straggly long hair and wore denim jackets with the sleeves rolled up, as was the fashion of the day. As I reached the boy with the mouth, I grabbed at his hair with my left hand and gave him an almighty slap across his cheek with my right. Now, quite often, a slap is far more effective than a punch. It gets your point across, no danger, yet leaves you room for manoeuvre should you need to increase the pressure.

  Holding the boy by his neck, I pushed him against my motor and squeezed. Then I quickly patted him down, after all, no one wants sticking with a blade on your weekend off. His mate must have thought I looked preoccupied and started towards us. I gave him a look, shook my head and he thought better of it.

  The boy I held made a few choking noises and began to turn the colour of a ripened plum. My point made, I released him, and he fell to his knees coughing and snotting between expletives.

  “I want to speak to Jimmy,” I said, finding my spare pack of Embassy and lighting one. “We’re old pals. He used to live in these flats here, and he wouldn’t take too kindly to you two eejits, messing with his best mate’s motor.”

  “What’s ye name?” croaked the kid, lifting himself upright.

  “Cogan,” I said. “Des Cogan. Me and Jimmy go way back.”

  The boy that had stayed out of arm’s reach stepped forward nervously. “We can take you to him, if ye want, pal… fer a tenner like.”

  * * *

  Jimmy had definitely gone up in the world. Gone was the poky Possilpark three roomed number. Oh yeah, bye bye shitsville, and say hello to millionaires row. Well, maybe not quite that, but moving in the right direction. My pair of now very helpful entrepreneurs took me to a very nice three bed penthouse flat on Great Western Road, Kelvinside.

  With a fiver and my second pack of Embassy in their pockets the lads wandered off, no doubt looking for the best way to spend their ill-gotten gains.

  I stood at Jimmy’s door and knocked. It took a while, but finally he answered. He looked flustered, was red faced and sweating. “Fuck’s sake,” he spat. “Can’t a man have a wee bit of peace, I told yees…”

  Then he recognised me.

&nb
sp; “Well, fuck me, if it isn’t my old pal, Cogan.” His face lit up with a beaming smile and he grabbed me in a hug. Once released, I took a better look at him. “You look well, pal,” I said.

  “I am son, very well indeed… hey come on in.”

  Jimmy turned and walked down his hallway. He spoke with his back to me as I followed. “How the fuck did ye find us?”

  “Oh, I asked around. You seem to have celebrity status back in Possilpark.”

  He turned and beamed again. “You know what they say, pal, if ye cannea beat ‘em…”

  A door opened to my left and a very attractive blonde appeared wearing very expensive underwear, killer heels, and nothing else. I instantly realised why Jimmy was red faced and not happy to be answering his door.

  Before the woman could speak, Jimmy snarled at her. “Put some fucking clothes on. Have you no respect. Can’t you see we have a guest?”

  Jimmy’s mood swung from angry young man to perfect host with each sentence. No sooner was the girl out of sight that his beaming smile returned, as if nothing had ever bothered him. This had always been the case when dealing with my old mate. Sublime one minute, ridiculous the next.

  “Sit down, Des, come on. Take the weight off. My God, how long has it been, eh? Must be over a year?”

  “Over two, pal.”

  “And what brings ye home. Some leave I take it.”

  “A funeral, actually. Remember that last night we spoke, and I told you about James McFee, my brother Tom’s pal?”

  Jimmy looked a little blank but nodded anyway.

  “Well it was his funeral, I came for. He was killed in the Falklands, at Tumbledown.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “And fer what, eh? So that Maggie can stay in power, that’s why. Take everyone’s mind off how shite things really are.”

  I managed a smile. “Like I said to ye the last time we met, Jim. I don’t go in for the politics of it. I just do my job.” I looked around the luxurious room. “And you seem to be doing just fine, I reckon.”

  He shrugged as if his newfound wealth was of no importance.

  “And what exactly is it that ye do now, Des? You still jumping out of planes?”

  I couldn’t exactly say too much about selection, so I kept my counsel. “I get to travel about a bit. Should be off to the Far East after Christmas, Jungle training, nine weeks.”

  “Fuck that, pal. Oh no, all them creepy crawlies in yer boots, no way, not fer me. I’m best where I am.” Jimmy frowned and turned his attention to the still missing blonde.

  “Chantelle! When ye finally find the right fucking dress, can ye bring me and my pal here a couple of beers, eh?”

  I shook my head and lowered my voice. “Look, Jimmy, I didnea mean to drop in on ye so unexpected like. Maybe I should just get on my toes and we can reconvene when it suits ye better?”

  “It suits me just fine, the now, pal. Dinnea be worrying about the girl. She gets paid by the hour.”

  I raised my brows at that one. “Ye mean she’s a prossie?”

  Jimmy shrugged. “She’s a dancer at my club in town. She’s just earning a little bit of spending money on the side, eh?”

  As if on cue, Chantelle teetered in on those same impossibly high heels carrying a tray that contained two glasses of what appeared to be lager. I took one, sipped at it and eyed the woman appreciatively. She was indeed a fine looking girl. “Thanks,” I said.

  “My pleasure,” purred Chantelle. She turned to Jimmy. “You still want me to hang around Jim? Or should I go home, and ye can see to yer company?”

  Jimmy turned down the corners of his mouth, checked what appeared to be a Rolex watch, and then looked at me.

  “You like Indian food, pal?” he asked.

  “Aye, I certainly do,” I offered.

  He stood, rummaged in his jeans pocket and pulled out a wad of notes bigger than I’d ever seen in my life. “There y’go hen,” he said, handing the girl what looked to be several hundred pounds. “You go buy yourself something nice, eh? I’ll see ye at the club later.”

  Chantelle squealed like a spoilt child and gave Jimmy a big hug. Moments later, she was gone. Jimmy gave me another satisfied look. “Worth every penny, mate.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said. “Nice you can afford it.”

  “Aye, well I can, so it’s ne bother, eh? Give me a minute to get a shower and we’ll have a run into the city. I know a great place. Best curry in town, pal.”

  I sat on Jimmy’s oxblood leather Chesterfield sofa and took in a bit more of the opulent lounge. It all looked pretty tasteful to the young Cogan. After all, I’d lived in very meagre surroundings until my seventeenth birthday and the last three years had been a mixture of barrack room life and more recently, army married quarters, none of which could hold a candle to the lavishness of Jimmy McCreery’s living space.

  In 1982, I commanded the grand sum of fifteen quid a day. I figured I’d just seen Jimmy hand the lovely Chantelle somewhere in the region of four hundred pounds, a month of my wages. Of course, I know what you’re thinking, you’re of a mind that Jimmy had turned to drug dealing for a living. Well, the truth was, I was still young and a little too carefree to be that bothered. Tours of Northern Ireland had seen me grow up very quickly, but the danger you faced on patrol as a young man, also made you a little reckless in your downtime. I was at a very perilous point in my life. As a young, super-fit, highly trained Trooper, I felt almost invincible.

  I’d also learned that married life was not all a bed of roses. Anne and I had been arguing a lot. But despite the rows, when I was away on tour, I longed to be home. However, when I was home, I couldnea wait to get the nod fer the next trip over the water. With Aptitude Phase under my belt, I knew I was headed for some turbulent times in the marital home. I was also fully aware that the boys in the Regiment had a rather shorter life expectancy than the average Para. So, with all that in mind, ye just have to forgive my young and stupid self. I reckoned that if one of my oldest and dearest friends wanted to buy me a curry and a pint or two, I didnea give a fuck where he got his money from.

  Jimmy stepped back into the room pulling on a smart blue jacket. We’d always been of similar size and build, but I did notice some striking physical differences had occurred. He was now a good stone heavier than me, not that he was fat, just his body hadn’t been put through the same things as mine the last months. Particularly the final days of Aptitude Phase, Test Week. When I look back, I wondered just how anyone could go through the demands of such a gruelling assessment. The final tests consisted of five marches of twenty k plus. Each were conducted on consecutive days so that by the time you got to the last endurance march, you were already on your knees. They upped the weights you carried too, from eighteen kilos on the first tab, to twenty seven kilos on the final ‘long drag.’ This ultimate endurance test is sixty four kilometres long, in any weather the Beacons can throw at you, and must be completed in twenty hours. With sixty pounds of kit in your Bergan plus water, food and a rifle, it was just about the hardest thing I could imagine, yet here I was, I’d done it and was ready for the jungle.

  Jimmy may have been a few pounds heavier, but there was no hint of the blue Scottish tinge about him. His skin was tanned from a recent holiday or from one of those new-fangled sunbeds everyone was crowing about. In fact he was the epitome of health. I figured that if indeed Jimmy had become a young entrepreneurial drug dealer, he obviously wasn’t indulging in his own product.

  Another difference was our respective haircuts. Mine was a very unfashionable number one crew, whereas Jimmy had a glossy mullet that he stood combing in the mirror.

  “Where we going?” I asked him.

  “The Shenaz on Granville Street, ye ever been?”

  “No, pal. Ye never ate curry in our house. Jeezo, my Dad would have thrown you out the door. He thought he was cosmopolitan having English sausage ra
ther than square slice.”

  Jimmy had a giggle at that. “Aye, I remember that night when ye came home fe the chippy with curry sauce on ye supper and he had a wee fit.”

  I felt a smile on my face. It was good to talk about my old man.

  “Ye right there, pal. I had to stand out in the yard to eat it…. In the pissing rain too.” I stretched my arms above my head. “No, my liking fer Indian food came fe a pal in the Army. We had this boy in my barracks, Abhi. He was a Sikh, massive bloke, built like a brick shithouse and brave as a lion. Fuckin’ nutter. He used to bring stuff back that his Mam had cooked fe him. He got me hooked. King prawns, lamb tikka… tell ye what, pal, my stomach’s rumbling.”

  “Let’s get off then,” said Jimmy fixing his hair one last time. “I’ll call us a cab.”

  “I’ve me motor downstairs, Jim, no worries.”

  He pulled his face at that. “Aww, I was hoping we could have a wee drink or three… D’ya have to be back or somethin’?

  I shook my head. “Naw, I’ve another day yet.”

  “Well then, what’s up with ye? Ye can crash here no bother,” he pointed. “And I promise I won’t spoil the party this time.”

  I looked into Jimmy’s face. He smiled at me and I knew it was genuine. “Tell yer what, it’s great to see ye, pal,” he said.

  * * *

  The black cab dropped us at the Shenaz. It was one of the oldest Indian restaurants in Glasgow, first opened in the mid-sixties. As I stepped inside, the wonderful aromas wafting from the kitchen made my mouth water. The one thing about tabbing twenty kilometres a day is, you are always starving hungry, and as we were ushered to a window table, I already knew what I wanted to eat.

  Three pints of Stella Artois and a mountain of excellent food later, Jimmy and I had covered most of what had happened to him since that fateful night at The Barras.

  Jimmy had done a foreigner for this guy, Pete James. A face I only vaguely knew but who had a reputation as a coke head and gambler. Jimmy had fixed Pete’s motor for him, but he couldn’t pay. In the end Jim went round to Pete’s gaff with the intention of giving him a slap. Instead he took a kilo of cannabis resin as payment.