Frank hurried across. Had he bothered to find out who Kathleen truly was, had he looked into whatever had rocked her life, he might not have had to rush around like a headless chicken saving his own skin from the police and the black-clad unknowns.
Pointless crying over spilt milk. But it was high time he used his thinking as a weapon. He should ask his coach for a word of advice and find Kathleen’s killer.
Frank stopped opposite a dark lane. The club’s squat building loomed at the other end. Frank looked around. A woman hurried along the other side of the road, wrapping her coat around herself. A car passed by, blinding Frank with its headlights. He covered his face and turned away. It started drizzling again. Frank’s stare followed the receding car. He made sure the woman had already gone a long way without looking back at him and entered the lane.
Max’s Boxing Club had two means of access: the main entrance, by walking around the north side of the building and knocking on the tatty front door, or through the back door, by borrowing the key from its hiding place and approaching the club from the lane. Frank chose the one that seemed more familiar and logical in his situation.
He found the key where it had always been, in a groove behind the drainpipe. Frank lingered thinking whether turning up without notice was a good thing to do. It could well be that his former coach had paid Memoria a visit or two and had long forgotten his best disciple.
He shook his head and shoved the key into the keyhole in a heavy steel door. Even if Max weren’t around, he could use a night’s sleep. Then in the morning he’d decide what to do next, lock the door, replace the key and leave.
The lock clanged. Frank pulled the handle and dived into the dark opening. He was about to bolt the door when the ceiling lamps went on. A baseball bat hit his forearm before smashing into the wall, breaking off a large chunk of plaster.
Frank turned round and pressed his elbows to his sides. His left arm, aiming for the attacker’s chin, stopped in mid-air.
“Shelby?” his assailant breathed out as he took another swing with the bat. Max’s face, distorted with anger, betrayed amazement quickly replaced with concentration. He lowered the bat.
“It’s me,” Frank looked into his eyes. “My thinking weapon told me to come and see you. Could we have a word? Then you can either help me or call the police.”
Chapter Six. The Mentor
The locker room was the warmest place in the whole club. Frank sat on a bench next to an oil heater and drank the tea made by his coach. Max distrusted coffee and always made his own tea adding his own secret choice of herbs.
Lockers lined the walls. Frank’s wet raincoat hung on an open locker door opposite Max. The coach sat on a bench next to Frank’s. He still looked fit and strong in his shabby cotton tracksuit. He lowered his gray crew-cut head as he listened to Frank, examining the dead Kathleen’s posted device.
“That’s it, basically,” Frank helped himself to some hot tea and glanced at his coach. “I’ve got nothing else to tell you. That’s all I know.”
Max put the device down onto the bench. He removed his glasses and rubbed his swollen eyes.
“I see,” he glanced through the open door into the dimly-lit gym and nodded. “I need to make a phone call.” He rose and motioned Frank to remain seated. “One phone call. You wait here. I’ll be back and we’ll talk about it.”
He left the locker room. Frank sipped the tea and felt the hem of his raincoat. Still wet. Most of all he’d love to lie down on the bench, wrap himself in something warm and fall asleep for a few hours at least. He gave the bench a longing look, forced himself up and did a few bends and flexes to get the blood going.
His left side and shoulder echoed with pain. He had to admit he’d got a good whack in the ribs in the post office. Plus the old arm injury had manifested itself when he’d grabbed at the train’s safety bar trying not to fall onto the subway tracks. Frank rubbed his wrist and flexed his hand. His shaking fingers, hurting and strained, refused to obey.
Never mind. He’d have to ask his coach for something to bandage it with, that’s all. No bones broken, and a couple of sprains he could deal with.
He walked into the gym. The wind bellowed through cracks in the window frames despite the thick curtains covering them. The light from the locker room fell on part of the boxing ring, a few gym machines and punch bags hanging on chains from the ceiling. To the left of the ring, a closed door led to the coach’s room. There, Max kept his trophies and champion’s belts. The room was wallpapered with the pictures of his students.
Hand on the boxing ring rope, Frank walked along the ring. He walked past the punch bag, hit it once or twice and stopped, eyeing the machines with regret. It had been over twenty years since he’d first entered the club’s locker room and met his coach.
The gym grew lighter. Frank turned around. Max closed the door and walked toward him.
“I’ve arranged for an expert to come and have a look at this thingy of yours,” Max said walking around the ring. “He’s on his way. In the meantime,” the coach pulled up his track pants and sank onto a gym machine bench, “I need to tell you something about your father, the war and myself.”
Frank’s drowsiness was gone. He forgot about his sprained arm and sat on the floor, resting his back against the apron of the boxing ring, his hands on his knees.
“His name was James Shelby,” the coach started, looking Frank in the eye. “He was with Bellville’s army. Oh yes, he fought against us, your Dad did. But that’s none of your fault. And once the war was over and done with, James took the migrants’ side. Campaigning for their rights, he was, and he did it good.”
His words came as a complete surprise. Frank had no idea Dad had been a migrant himself. He’d died from old war wounds a mere month before Frank was born. Max couldn’t have met Dad during the war, but his job at General Hopper’s HQ reconnaissance unit — training saboteurs and venturing on rather successful missions — allowed him to glimpse into things. Max must have been good otherwise Hopper’s men would have never overpowered Bellville’s.
Frank’s mother, wary that her husband’s past could hurt her boy’s future, had one day brought the nine-year-old boy to Max’s and told him their story. In return, Max promised that he’d grow a man out of the Shelby boy without letting anyone know whose son he was.
Max had kept his word. He had a good memory for the war and a lot of respect for his enemies. Frank had started his training. He’d inherited his father’s competitive nature and wanted to excel at everything he tried. And excelled he had.
Once again, his coach removed his glasses, pretending to wipe the already clean lenses. Giving his story the time to sink in.
“Now the important bit,” Max put his glasses back on and continued.
He didn’t sound like himself. Frank had never seen his usually reserved coach so excited. But now the subject was too delicate and too dangerous for comfort: apparently, everyone’s duty to visit Memoria hadn’t been an immediate post-war decision. It had taken the President ten years to introduce obligatory memory cleanups as he’d decided to put an end to the migrants’ unwillingness to reject their past.
The only category of population allowed to preserve their memories were Hopper’s veterans, indispensable in case of a reserve call-up. The rest of the population was offered the easy choice between either preserving their agonizing memories or acquiring citizenship. This was when the color-tagging had come about: blue, green and orange bracelet lights.
Although migrants were also obliged to wear the bracelets, theirs came with neither citizenship nor electronic banking access. Their bracelets were basic tracking tools. Their rights and movements restricted, migrants were driven together into camps where they were watched like some pre-war criminal convicts had been by means of radio collars.