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Chapter 8

I grabbed Bernie by the arm and hurried him to the chapel gateway. ‘Kennedy and Robinson are going “around the back”. It should be a good one.’

Bernie pulled his arm away angrily. ‘Fuck off, John. I’m fed up watching fight after fight. I must have seen twenty fights over the past three months and nothing has changed. We’re still getting thumped by the others. If you want to watch it, go ahead – but count me out. I’m going for a smoke.’

I watched Bernie walk away until he disappeared into one of the brick porches that led into the recreation room. I felt slightly disappointed that he no longer had the same enthusiasm for watching and learning about fighting. I was as keen as ever and spent a great deal of my time in the locker room, practising moves I had witnessed in some of the fights. Bernie sometimes came with me and I enjoyed testing which of us could head-butt a steel locker door the quickest. I usually won and prided myself that I could head-butt the door and follow it up with a low kick while still keeping perfect balance. I was now trying to master a third move: after the low kick I would jump slightly backwards and grab a weighted money belt out of the back of my trousers and swing it ferociously downwards. I had nearly mastered this but I was far from happy with my present speed. I needed a lot more practice.

Going ‘around the back’ for a fight was the crème de la crème of violence. It meant that the two protagonists were taking their disagreement out of sight of the Brothers and masters to a place where they wouldn’t be stopped. There would be a winner. Somebody could really get hurt. I had been in Vincent’s for six months and this was the first time two people had opted for ‘around the back’. I would have to be very careful when sneaking out of the yard as I would be taking as much risk as the combatants. If I was seen by any of the staff I would be accused of trying to abscond and duly punished. I would also be in deep trouble if Kennedy or Robinson saw me spying on them. These fights were private, no audience allowed. I knew the risks but my obsession to learn about fighting spurred me onwards.

I crept unobserved into the chapel, quickly making my way into the vestry. My heart was thumping as I tried the vestry door that led into the small graveyard at the rear of the chapel. It slid open easily and I squeezed myself into the small porch, closing the door quietly behind me. I stood quietly, listening for any sounds, until I was certain nobody was following me. Satisfied I was alone, I sprinted to the three-foot-high cemetery wall and dived over it, landing in a crumpled heap on the grass of the playing field. I skinned my elbow on a hidden stone in the grass and cursed silently under my breath. After a brief inspection of the damage done by the stone, I belly-crawled my way along the base of the wall in the direction of the small yard at the rear of the carpenter’s shop. This was where the fight was due to take place. I hoped I was in time to witness it.

As I drew near to the yard I could hear sounds of a struggle coming from its confines. I crept forward, closer, closer, until I thought I was near enough to look for an aperture to spy on the proceedings. Luck was on my side. Right next to the place where I was kneeling was a tiny gap in the brickwork that gave a complete, unobstructed view of the entire yard. As soon as I looked through the gap I knew that I was witnessing something nasty. I instinctively drew away to shut out the vision, but like a magnet my eyes were drawn back.

Kennedy was sixteen years old, a tall, good-looking lad, with blond hair and dark blue eyes. He had been in Vincent’s for two years and was rated quite highly. He could definitely look after himself. Robinson was also sixteen years old. He was short and stocky with a swarthy complexion. It was whispered that he was a gyppo, but nobody really knew and nobody fancied asking.

Kennedy was hurt, his face a mask of blood. He had been slashed twice across his left cheek with a razor blade that Robinson was brandishing in his right hand. Both cuts would need stitching and the blood was still streaming off his chin and down the front of his clothes. I watched with awe and admiration as he ripped off his bloody shirt and wrapped it around his left forearm. He was going to use his arm as a shield and the shirt would stop the blade penetrating his skin. He showed no fear – even though he must have been in a lot of pain.

He reached into his waistband and pulled out a grey sock. I didn’t know what he had in the sock but I guessed it was a large stone or a chunk of lead from the metalwork shop. He walked slowly towards Robinson, swaying slowly from left to right, his left arm out in front of him, ready to protect him from any further slashes from the blade. Robinson backed away slowly. His movements appeared exaggerated as he feinted left and then right, seeking out a weakness in Kennedy’s guard, hoping to find an unprotected spot to slash at. Kennedy kept coming slowly forward. His eyes were riveted to the movement of the hand with the blade in it. He was manoeuvring himself in close enough to use the weighted sock.

Suddenly, with blinding speed, Kennedy jumped forward and swung the sock in a vicious downward arc. Robinson tried to snatch his arm backwards, out of danger, but it was too late; the weighted sock hit his hand with a sickening thud. I clearly heard the sound of the wrist bone snapping. The second swing of the sock caught Robinson on the side of his face. He was unconscious before he hit the floor. Kennedy walked over to where Robinson was lying motionless and kicked him twice in his unprotected face. He then ran to the far end of the yard, climbed over the wall and disappeared from my sight. Robinson was still motionless on the ground when I left the scene and scampered back to the vestry.