Warbird by Mark Batey

Author:Mark Batey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Clink Street Publishing
Published: 2022-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

— 15 —

Assault and battery

Tonight was the night, Bob Cracknell told himself. Wednesday night, 20 March. His night. Harry had told him that the big German had approved it.

Bob had spent the past month – ever since the last film society meeting – making plans, observing his prey. She hadn’t noticed him, he was sure of it. And he was ready, with all his notes memorised, he really was. If not now, when?

Bob had been born into a fairground family. Aged ten, after his mam died, he worked full-time for his father, a travelling showman. From March, throughout the eight-month season, they pitched their carousel and swingboats for a week at a time at fairs from coast to coast. He loved the sights, sounds, smells of a hectic fairground, the intoxicating blend of delight and trepidation on the punters’ faces.

This was his way of life until, one winter, his father developed a cough that clung to his chest until it squeezed the life out of him. At fifteen, Bob found himself alone and angry, grieving for his dad. The following season, he sold the carousel and swingboats, but kept the old man’s van and the little caravan it towed, which had been their home these last five years. He heard that one of the old-time boxers working in Sharkey’s Boxing Booth was retiring and he badgered Gerry Sharkey into take him on as a new pugilist.

“Marquis of Queensberry rules,” Gerry had stressed. “And don’t punch the locals too hard, we want them to come back. Spot any raw talent, I’ll cut you in if they turn pro!”

For a dozen years, Bob took on all comers in Sharkey’s boxing ring. He found that he fervently disliked his challengers and enjoyed thumping them with impunity. Most who fancied their chances ended up on their backs within two rounds, and he earned the moniker ‘Crusher Cracknell’. The wider his reputation spread, the fiercer the opponents who showed up. It was in Bognor Regis that, eventually, he suffered the worst pounding. When he slumped to the canvas, his battered nose was all but flat and his right eye so badly damaged that he had practically no sight in it.

Crusher’s career was over. He retired from boxing and put to practical use the knowledge gained over the years maintaining his dad’s van by joining Swanson’s garage in the east end of his home town, Newcastle.

He kept an eye on the lads hired to operate the fuel pumps and wipe the windscreens, and he ensured that the forecourt was tidy. He repaired cars and vans, large and small, sending the contented owners into the little office to settle up. Every financial transaction was in the hands of the proprietor, Maurice Swanson, who worked around the clock. He was in the office when Bob arrived early in the morning, and he was there when Bob left in the evening.

Last Monday, everything changed. Maurice had told Bob out of the blue, with no apparent regret or emotion, that the business was going bust.

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