Read Online Don't Get Me Wrong by Marianne Kavanagh - Free Book Online Page B

his question was incredibly stupid. “Because she likes them.”
    She looked down at Harry with what she hoped was a slightly patronizing expression. But somehow it all went wrong. He stared back, and there was a long and embarrassing pause. Her superiority dissolved into a kind of panic.
    Oh, I wish he’d just leave me alone, she thought, turning away to unpack the shopping.
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    The brick wall was covered with graffiti—great circular shapes, like commas, in blue and white, covering fat red letters that spelt out STUK . It had been the same for years, thought Harry. But getting more and more faded. Maybe the artist didn’t use his spray cans under the arches anymore.
    Tommy’s Gym was hidden on the outskirts of Brixton beneath the suburban railway line that ran into Victoria Station. It wasn’t a secret. All the locals knew it was there. But if you were a stranger to the area, you’d be unlikely to run across it by mistake. From the street, it looked like some kind of shabby warehouse. The windows, with wire-mesh glass, were so high up that you couldn’t see inside at all. In the old days, when Harry first came with Killian, the Dubliner with dreadlocks, you had to knock to be let in. Now you punched in a code. Five nine eight one. Easy to remember. Eva’s birthday.
    Sweat, leather, rubber, dust—to Harry, Tommy’s Gym smelt like home. Ever since that first afternoon—when he’d been handed a skipping rope by a man with gold teeth and skin so minutely tattooed that he shone a kind of luminous blue—Harry knew he belonged. He’d arrived a thin, angry eighteen-year-old. Now, at the age of twenty-six, he was fit, muscular, and in control. He loved everything about boxing—the footwork, the speed of punches, the tactics, the adrenaline. In the ring, his black hair in wet curls, his heart pumping blood, Harry felt on top of the world. Later, he’d find the bruises—black bashes up his forearms, purple patches on his ribs. But at the time, in the thick of it—landing a sequence of jab, cross, uppercut—he felt properly alive.
    You don’t get much time off as a banker. Especially when you’re an associate with ambition. But Harry tried to make it to the gym as often as he could. Leon, who owned it, let him train whenever he wanted—early in the morning before he went to work, or late at night when most of the City slept.
    It might have made more sense to find a gym near his flat.Or somewhere in Nunhead. But Harry never did. Boxing was Tommy’s Gym. This was where he wanted to be.
    Leon liked Harry. It wasn’t just because Harry paid his membership subs on time. Or even because he’d been coming for so long that he seemed like part of the family. Leon liked Harry because Harry knew by instinct who needed help.
    It was easy to get into trouble in this part of southeast London. You could go down the wrong road and end up with all your exits barred. Boxing gave you discipline. It showed you another way.
    But it was hard to take the first step. Harry, watchful, seemed to know when to say nothing and when to intervene. It wasn’t much. Just the odd word. But a thirteen-year-old with a shaved head and hard eyes might look up and see the expression of friendly interest on Harry’s face and feel, somehow, that he was in the right place. He’d start training hard. He’d work on his core fitness, his coordination, his stamina. Heart racing, stopping to draw breath, he’d look across the gym and see Harry smiling encouragement. Much later, in the ring, landing a sequence of punches, he’d glance past his opponent and see Harry frowning with concentration, following his every move.
    He would watch Harry box—see the intensity of his expression, the accuracy of his blows. He would measure Harry with his eyes. He would see someone determined. Calm. Able to take care of himself.
    Not