Short Story Competition 2017

2nd Prize – Samantha Wilcox with:

Something Like Hope

They say Vinnie Silvas worked with some of the greatest boxing champs in the world, but you don’t believe it because no one from this town ever went anywhere or did anything and if they did, they sure as hell wouldn’t come back. Vinnie’s boxing club is a battered warehouse on the edge of town and you ride up there after school, drop your bike down by some stinging nettles and cigarette butts. You hesitate. You don’t have to do this, says a little voice inside your head. But the voice is wrong. You do have to do this. It’s the only way.

Pushing aside the rusty metal door, the room opens up before you, it smells of rubber, sweat and something else, something you think might just be hope. There are two lads sparring in the ring and some other lads lifting weights and punching red and blue bags suspended from the ceiling. Vinnie is in the office reading a newspaper. He looks like the kind of guy who has spent too much time in the sun. His bronzed skin is wrinkled and leathery. His grey hair, thick with gel, is swept back over the top of his head and he is wearing a tracksuit and a chunky gold wrist watch, a half smoked cigarette hangs limply from his lips.

You stand in the open doorway. He ignores you. You knock.

‘Yeah,’ he says, without looking up.

‘I wanna learn to box,’ you say.

‘Boxing lesson are ten pounds per half hour.’

‘I don’t have any money,’ you say and you’re about to continue but then Vinnie looks up at you and it’s as if all the air in the room has been sucked into an invisible vacuum.

‘Well, then you’re not gonna get any lessons are ya?’ he says, taking the cigarette from his mouth, he waves you off and a small lump of ash falls to the floor, ‘come back when you have some money, kid.’

You don’t move. You’re not stupid, you knew it would go this way so you carry on with what you rehearsed. ‘I could clean. I’m real good at cleaning. I could clean your club every day after school and I don’t want paying. I’ll clean every day after school and you can give me one lesson a week as payment, maybe two, that’s fair isn’t it?’ Your words come out fast, tumbling over each other in a heap. You look around, shrug your shoulders, smile a little bit, ‘place sure could use a clean,’ you say.

‘Are you saying my place is dirty?’

‘No I didn’t mean... I just,’ you look down at the floor and you can hear Vinnie chuckling.

‘How old are you kid?’

‘Eleven and a half.’

‘Alright, you do one weeks cleaning for me and then we’ll see, ok?’

When you get home your mum is in the kitchen sat at the table. She sips from a mug that has the words That’s Life written on the side in big, black lettering. She’s flicking through the pages of a magazine and she’s still wearing her dressing gown. Her hair is un-brushed and she looks tired, really tired.

‘Where have you been?’ she asks, not looking up.

You open the fridge and reach for the milk, ‘the boxing club,’ you say.

‘Why?’

‘I’m gonna learn to box,’ you say.

‘No,’ she says, shaking her head, ‘I don’t want you going there.’

She closes the magazine and you can see she’s already made up her mind, but that doesn’t stop you. You argue with her, you tell her that you have to go, but she keeps shaking her head. She says no. She says in future you’re to come straight home from school. She’s shouting and you’re shouting and then you slam the fridge door. Just like your father does. She flinches. You try pleading instead. You tell her that you have to go…you have to…because…well…because…you just do.

Eventually with her voice barely above a whisper, she says, ‘ok, whatever.’

For the next week every evening after school you ride your bike up to the club. You sweep and mop the floors. You rinse and fill water bottles, wipe down the punch bags and clean the boxing paddles until Friday comes and Vinnie leads you into the ring.

‘Aright kid, show us your stance.’

You stand with your fists up. Vinnie looks at you, chuckles and shakes his head, ‘are you gonna fight like that?’

You nod, but you’re uncertain.

‘You’ll be knocked on your backside before you know what’s hit you,’ he starts to walk in a circle around you, ‘put your feet diagonal, distribute your weight evenly, elbows down, hands up.’

A few of the lads come over to watch. Vinnie continues barking orders at you, ‘dominant hand needs to be at the back.’

He waits.

You don’t move.

‘I said, put your dominate hand back.’

You stay where you are. He whistles through his teeth, ‘you’re a southpaw, that figures.’

‘Southpaws should be drowned at birth,’ says someone and everyone laughs. Vinnie slowly turns to look at them. They all go quiet. He turns back to you, ‘put your head behind your fists, put your chin down, you wanna be peaking out over those fists got it?’

You nod. Vinnie rolls up his sleeves, holds up his palms and stoops so he is more your height. He nods at you and with your left fist you punch his right hand. It feels weak and barely makes an impact.

‘Exhale when you punch. Move fast. Try again.’

You do as he says, it works better. You do it again and again and again. Vinnie nods and you start to believe this might actually work.

Over the next few weeks the routine is the same. Every evening after school you clean the club and on Fridays, Vinnie teaches you. You worry about being a Southpaw but Vinnie tells you it gives you the edge and over time you get better, but it’s not enough. You know it’s not enough. You need an opponent. You ask Vinnie if you can spar against one of the other lads.

‘No chance,’ he says

‘But why?’ you ask.

‘Because you’re too small and they’re too big. You need to wait until you’ve grown a bit.’

You’re not stupid. You know you’re not big enough just yet, but the point is you will be soon and when you are, well, you need to know how to fight. You need to practice. Practice against someone real.

Which is why, on Monday morning, you march right over to where Stevie Miller and his gang are standing. Stevie Miller is a bully. A fourteen year old lad with a shaved head and bruised knuckles, looks more like a pitbull than a boy. Once, when you were new, he pushed you over in the hall for no good reason and there was that time when someone called the school and told them there was a bomb hidden in the gym. Everyone knew it was Miller but when the police came and started asking questions, nobody said a word, nobody except Lewis Buckle. Miller was suspended for a while but then he came back like nothing had ever happened, Lewis Buckle, on the other hand, was never seen again. There were rumours of course (concrete boots, buried alive, acid bath) but no one really knows what happened to Buckle. The point is, Miller is best avoided at all costs and usually you stay out of his way. Until today that is. Today you’re going to bring him down.

He is standing with his back to you. He is a good foot taller than you but you go right ahead and tap him on the shoulder.

He turns.

You stand just like Vinnie taught you. Miller looks you up and down and laughs.

‘I think he wants a fight,’ says one of Miller’s mates. They all form a circle around the two of you. Some other kids wander over to watch. Miller clenches his right fist, ‘Well, c’mon then,’ he says.

You work to control your breathing. He swings his arm back, goes to hit you but you see it coming and dodge out of the way. You pivot, and then jab several times before landing a punch, right on the button just like Vinnie taught you. Miller scrunches up his face and makes a noise like a wounded dog, he lashes out, his fists flying about manically until one lands right on your chin. You feel yourself wobble backwards and the pain, the pain is something else, severe and as sudden as the slamming of a door. It hurts. It really, really hurts. You look around, wonder if it’s too late to leg it, but you can’t let him beat you, if he beats you it is over. So you take a deep breath, swing around, punch him again, feel the impact of bone on bone and this time Miller’s eyes are rolling up, he sways this way and that way and then, in slow motion, he falls to the floor with a thud. Behind you someone cheers. Miller is on the floor, out for the count. Your chin and your fist hurt but it doesn’t matter because you can feel something, like pleasure or victory and then there’s something else, something inside, a feeling that’s not so good.

But you don’t have time to think about this because there’s more shouting, a teacher is walking towards you, he grabs you by the collar and before you know it you’re in Simpson’s office waiting for your mum to come and collect you. When she arrives she is wearing heavy make-up and a plain blue dress. She looks at you briefly and then listens to Simpson, ‘caught fighting,’ he says, ‘knocked the other boy out,’ he says and you try hard not to smile, but then she looks at you and something about that look makes your gut contract. All the way home, in the car, she doesn’t say a word, she stares straight ahead, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tight all the blood has drained from her knuckles. You should say something. You should tell her, tell her now, but you can’t find the words so you don’t say anything. You stare out of the window and the world rushes on by like it has somewhere important to be.

Later, you spend the evening in your room looking at boxing videos on the internet. You find a clip and press play, two boxers, one in red shorts, one in blue shorts, start warming up.

You hear the door slam downstairs. He’s home.

On screen the boxers step and move around each other.

You hear your father walk into the kitchen, open the fridge, slam it shut.

Blue shorts throws a punch, he misses.

Your father starts to walk up the stairs, his footsteps sound like a long and slow drum beat.

Red shorts shifts to the right and then jab, jab punch. The crowd cheers.

You hear muffled shouts from your parent’s room.

The boxers are clinching, the ref steps in, pulls them apart.

On and on it goes, the same stuff every night. Him shouting. Her crying. And then…

Red shorts with a left hook. You turn the volume up on the laptop, the crowd are going wild, the referee is counting, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five…

And then it stops.

After a time you know it’s safe to go to the bathroom, but just to be sure you creep along the hallway, stopping just outside their door. You hear the slow rhythm of his snores and you think you can still hear her crying. You lean your head up against the door and you whisper one word. Soon. Soon, you will be big and strong enough. Soon, you’ll be able to take him on. Soon, he won’t know what’s hit him.

About the Author

Sam studied for a degree in English Literature at The Open University and graduated in 2015 with First Class honours. Since then she has had the time to take her writing more seriously and her work has appeared in a number of online and print publications. She loves to write poetry and short stories and is currently working on a novel.