As the bout began, I felt strange sitting there with the knowledge that only I, Sneddon and Bert Soutar had: that Kirkcaldy was stepping into the ring with a time bomb ticking away in his chest. I watched him move fluidly and without effort, just as he had the last twice I had seen him fight — without a hint of any deficit of stamina. It was not the most exhilarating of fights. Schmidtke seemed to be pacing himself, and both boxers were out-fighting, each keeping his opponent at a distance and weighing up any potential strategic weakness. It was not Schmidtke’s usual style and the second round was as uninspiring as the first. Both fighters seemed over-cautious and unwilling to open up.
When the third round went the same way, I could sense my fellow spectators becoming restless. I could understand why Kirkcaldy was circumspect about launching any kind of energy-sapping onslaught, but I couldn’t see why Schmidtke was holding back. Unless Schmidtke’s thinking was that if it ended up going the distance, there was always the tendency for a split decision to go the title-holder’s way.
But, there again, there was always the chance that Kirkcaldy had come to an arrangement that would allow him to end his career with a championship belt.
It was in the eighth round that I guessed I had been wrong. The German came out of his corner with the same tentativeness as in the previous rounds. His head low and defence tight.
It was the simplest of errors: Kirkcaldy swung an uncharacteristically loose right. It wasn’t so much that Kirkcaldy telegraphed the hook, as announced it with a gold-edged invitation complete with the times for carriages. The German answered the RSVP with an arcing hook that hurt me just to watch it connect. It lifted Kirkcaldy off his feet and he shoulder-slammed the canvas. Half of the spectators, including Jock Ferguson, leapt to their feet and there was a deafening explosion of shouts. The referee backed the German towards his corner with a hand to the chest and started counting out Kirkcaldy. The Scotsman shook the crap out of his head and stood up swiftly, bouncing on the balls of his feet and nodding to the ref. Once you’d kissed canvas, if you wanted to avoid a technical knock-out, you had instantly to convince the referee that you were okay, usually with an overdone display of bright athleticism. The ref backed Kirkcaldy into a neutral corner and checked his eyes before retaking the centre of the ring and indicating, with a gesture like drawing curtains, for the fighters to come together and recommence the match.
The German’s massive shoulders dipped and rose as he came out of his corner. There was a new energy in them. Kirkcaldy tried to outflank every new attack, but the German just kept driving him into the ropes, raining in vicious hooks.
I could see it now: Kirkcaldy’s face was pale, almost white, the lividity of the bruises around his eyes stark against his whiter skin. He launched an attack to drive Schmidtke back, but the German stood planted, rooted to the canvas, his bulky arms working like pistons, driving one blow after another into Kirkcaldy’s body.
Again it was clumsy. Schmidtke caught Kirkcaldy a legal hair’s breadth above the belt. Kirkcaldy dropped his elbows, bringing his guard down. Two successive jabs to his face, followed by a vicious, ugly bolo punch stunned the Scotsman. Then Schmidtke made his delivery. The dazed Kirkcaldy was probably the only person in the auditorium who didn’t see it coming: every single ounce of Schmidtke’s weight behind a roundhouse right that seemed to take an age to connect. But it did. Right on the side of Kirkcaldy’s jaw and the Scotsman went limp and crashed into the canvas. The German had his hands above his head grinning a gumshield grin and jumping on the spot before the referee had finished his count.
Everybody was on their feet, shouting, cheering and some booing now: less with hurt nationalistic pride and more with suspicion that they had just been witness to amateur dramatics instead of professional boxing.
I stood too, but I wasn’t applauding. I was watching the referee, Uncle Bert Soutar, and a fat, middle-aged man in a dinner suit and with a leather Gladstone bag crouched over Kirkcaldy. Even the German had stopped his triumphal dance.
The noise of the crowd was still deafening, but I felt as if a curtain had been pulled between me and them; as if I was the only person really seeing what was happening in the ring.
‘Christ… he’s dead…’ I said, my voice so drowned out by the crowd that I barely heard it myself.
‘Waddya say?’ Dex Devereaux shouted, still clapping, leaning in towards me.
I still watched the scene in the ring. Bert Soutar and the doctor were now helping Kirkcaldy to his feet. Kirkcaldy nodded vaguely to them, and Schmidtke, with a relief I could feel four rows back, embraced his defeated opponent. Kirkcaldy was helped from the ring to the cheers and jeers of the spectators.
After the fight, Dex Devereaux, Jock Ferguson and I made our way to the exits. I had hoped to talk to Willie Sneddon, but I’d lost sight of him. My guess was that he would not be a happy bunny. No matter what other schemes Kirkcaldy had come up with and cooperated with, he had cost Sneddon money. Costing Sneddon money was not something it was advisable for anyone to do. I did see Tony the Pole though. I excused myself from Ferguson and Devereaux for a moment.
‘Whaddya say? Whaddya hear Tony?’ I said smiling.
Tony didn’t smile back. ‘Iz a fugging dizgraze, Lennogs,’ he said gloomily, ignoring our traditional greeting. ‘A load ov fugging bollogs. Whit vaz zat like?’
‘Not a good night for you, Tony?’
‘Ziz fuggin carry-on haz cost me a fugging vortune.’
‘I suppose none of the local bookies will be happy with this result.’
‘Naw? You’d be zurprized, Lennogs. Not everythink iz vat it zeems. Zere’s at leazd vone baztart iz goin’ home happy.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, almost yelling to be heard. But Tony the Pole had been collared by a punter energetically waving a betting slip.
‘Azk Jack Collins aboot zat. Aye… you go an’ azk Jack Collins…’ Tony called, before turning his attention back to his punter. I left him to it and rejoined my guests.
I took Ferguson and Devereaux to the Horsehead Bar. It was well past closing time and Ferguson made a point of finding interesting something far off and down the street while I gave my coded knock. There were as many as twenty regulars inside the pub. Big Bob was on the bar.
‘We’re not looking for waiters, Lennox,’ he said, grinning inanely and taking in our dinner suits and black ties. ‘What’ll you be having then?’
‘You know Inspector Ferguson, don’t you Bob?’ I asked.
Bob eyed Ferguson and sighed. ‘On the house, obviously.’
I indicated a quiet table in the corner for Ferguson and Devereaux to take their drinks over.
‘For fuck’s sake, Lennox,’ said Bob when they were out of earshot. ‘Who the fuck you going to bring next… the chief constable?’
‘I wouldn’t do that, Bob. I always take him to the Saracen’s Sword
… classier joint. Anyway, I thought this was the night-shift canteen for the City of Glasgow Police.’
‘Aye, a dozen or so bluebottles who think their uniform entitles them to limitless free fucking beer. If I start on the management ranks it’ll be handouts as well and I’ll be truly fucked.’
‘Don’t worry, Bob,’ I said. ‘Ferguson is a straight copper.’
‘Aye? They’re the ones you’ve got to watch.’
Ain’t that the truth, I thought, as I took my drink and joined Devereaux and Ferguson in the corner.
‘So,’ said Devereaux. ‘What did you think of the fight?’
‘I really thought our boy would have given that kraut bastard a run for his money,’ said Ferguson. ‘But it was a bit of a walkover in the end.’
‘You?’ Devereaux nodded in my direction. ‘What did you think, Lennox?
I shrugged. ‘You never can tell with these things.’
‘Really?’ said Devereaux. ‘I think someone could tell the way that fight was going to turn out.’