Danny shook his head like he had water in his ears. “If you ain’t serving, I’ll wait upstairs.”
Albert watched Danny go. The boy was a different person. Patsy had not said that Danny had changed so much. Then again, Albert remembered that Patsy hadn’t seen him for a few months.
He was deeply concerned. He wanted to help put back the sparkle in Danny’s dead eyes. But how?
Entering the empty boxing gym was like opening a door to memories. Danny sat at the ringside, shaking and thinking. He regretted talking to Albert the way he had, but it was too late now. How was Patsy going react to the order of “all systems go” from Cohen? Patsy knew full well that Danny was out of shape and struggling.
“Albert said you were here,” said Patsy, regarding him from the door of the gym.
Danny rubbed his eyes. “Cohen’s fixed the Livermore fight for a couple of months’ time.”
“I thought it was never going to happen.”
“I think I did too.”
“So are you gonna shape up?” Patsy said, his eyes hard. “Pull yourself together, train hard?”
“I’m gonna try,” said Danny, nodding. “I’m gonna try.”
“Tomorrow at ten?”
“Tomorrow at ten.”
Patsy shut himself in his office as Danny went down the stairs again. Lenny was at the bar.
“Now where have you been?” Lenny shouted, coming over to Danny to shake his hand. “Such a long time! Good to see you, Danny, you lost a little weight. Hey man, you got cold hands. Cold hands, warm heart.”
“Warm heart?” Danny said wearily. “Not at the moment. See you around, Lenny.” And he nodded a goodbye to Albert and left.
The Livermore weigh-in was a week before the fight. Danny caught the train to Manchester along with his entourage: Patsy, Costa and Cohen. Instead of his customary tracksuit, Patsy had a grey tweed suit on and, with a nod to Ireland, a green tie. Danny had got ready with Wendy’s words in his head: to be a champ, you have to look like a champ. So he was wearing a Prince of Wales check suit and an open-neck sky-blue shirt. Costa and Cohen were immaculate as usual, in mohair.
As the train rumbled north, the excitement and nerves began making themselves felt. Danny took a few vitamins to steady himself. Costa, full of the white powder, never stopped talking.
“You take a break, a holiday, when you win this fight, Danny. Go to my house in Cyprus. You don’t have to worry about the Turkish trouble, you and the family will be happy and safe.”
Danny just nodded.
He looked out the window as the train passed towns he had never heard of. He looked at the back gardens and houses alongside the track and wondered what the people inside did, what their lives were like, what secrets lay behind their back doors.
Costa kept on talking. “We’re getting a lot of famous people at the club these days. One night we thought Frank Sinatra was coming but he didn’t.”
Danny tried to look like he was listening to Costa’s endless chat. His mood swings had been getting worse lately, along with the hot and cold sweats that accompanied them. He could be happy and then, in a second, depressed and short-tempered. Wendy had suffered the changes like a saint to begin with, making excuses for Danny that he was anxious and nervous about the big fight on the horizon. Not any more.
Danny didn’t want to think about Wendy.
The train finally pulled into Piccadilly station.
“Why is it called Piccadilly?” asked Danny, rousing himself. “Piccadilly is in London.”
“They’re copy cats,” was Patsy’s view.
“So where we off to, Jack?” asked Danny as Cohen hailed a taxi.
“Same place as the fight,” said Cohen. “Free Trade Hall.”
Patsy launched into a local history of boxing as they drove through the strange, wet streets of Manchester.
“Boxing in the late fifties was in the doldrums here in Manchester. But thanks to fighters like Billy Livermore, nowadays it’s become quite a force. Loads of boxing cubs up here are actively engaging the kids.”
“As far as I’m concerned, anything north of Manchester is whippets, strange accents and flat caps,” said Costa.
Since leaving the amateur circuit and joining the professionals, Danny had noticed the changes in the venues, with personal dressing rooms and facilities laid on. Free Trade Hall was no different. Security men were at hand, and everyone seemed so full of respect that it bordered on servility.
Danny sat on a bench in the changing room, staring at the coat hooks on the cream-painted wall. Patsy was checking up on the gym equipment for Danny’s pre-warm-up for the fight, now just a few days away.
“It’s strange without Albert, ain’t it Pat?” Danny said to the medicine ball in Patsy’s hands.
“Yeah, a bit,” said Patsy. “But we’ll cope.”
“A lot of things have changed ain’t they?”
Patsy didn’t answer.
Outside the door, Danny heard the rumble and mumble of the folk filling the auditorium.
“There are hundreds of people out there to watch the weigh-in and we’re stuck in this room, hidden like we’re prisoners,” he said. “Do you reckon that’s a part of fame and fortune? You lose your freedom?”
Costa put his head round the door before Patsy could answer.
“Ready champ?”
Danny’s reflexes felt as sharp as a razor, his mind was racing, and he felt anger pulsing through him. The vitamins he’d taken on the train were clearly taking effect.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, Tommy,” he said.
Costa patted him on the shoulder. “The place is packed, Danny. Wait till you see it.”
The update was meant as a positive, but was not what Danny wanted to hear. The reality of the situation – hundreds of people, press, photographers and the like – released a case of serious nerves and paranoia. Danny’s hands were suddenly ice cold with terror.
The Master of Ceremonies’ voice rattled through the tannoy.
“Ladies and gentlemen! From London, a rising star in the boxing world, Danny Watson!”
With a shove from Patsy, Danny stumbled into the spotlights. Unlike at the Dragon weigh-in, he heard cheers. This time, Danny had support and a following. As he passed through the crowd accompanied by security men, there were handshakes, pats on the back and goodwill wishes. Danny had been out of the ring for a long time, and folks were pleased to see him back.
Danny reached the podium as a fanfare heralded the entrance of Livermore. The reaction of the crowd was close to boiling point now. The welcome Danny had received was dwarfed by the cheers and applause that greeted Livermore. Manchester born and bred, he could do no wrong in his home town.
Danny watched as Livermore and his entourage made their way to the podium. Livermore was a powerful-looking man, the son of a West Indian father and a Lancashire girl. Climbing on to the podium, he raised his arms in the air as if he had already won the fight.
Livermore was a different proposition to the Dragon. Walking over, he shook Danny’s hand and raised Danny’s arm with his. There was even some warmth in his eyes.
Danny was a little taken aback. It was usual that there was respect between fighters, even before a fight, but it was rarely shown. Livermore’s friendly reaction felt a little weird.
The men weighed in. Both were inside the weight limit. They took their seats to answer questions from the press. Danny hated this bit, but knew it was all part of the game.
“Danny, your rise has been almost meteoric. There has been some talk that your last fight against Reece ‘the Dragon’ Davies was too easy. What do you think your prospects against Billy Livermore will be?”
This felt a little tricky, given that Danny was sitting next to Livermore. He decided to be modest.
“Billy’s a good fighter, I know that,” he answered. “But I intend to give it my best shot.”
“Billy, you have a good record and are probably just one fight away from a title fight. Will winning the fight open the door to a title shot?”