Free Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) by Lee Cooper

tip-toed down stairs into the kitchen for some breakfast, having that feeling you get when you’re a child doing something wrong, but in your head, you reassure yourself it’s right.
      I left the house heading straight for the bus stop, catching the 7.45 to Kingswells. The cover story required me to leave early.
    I was really psyched-up for the fight and it reflected in my eagerness to get to the bus stop, itching to get between the ropes and have it over and done with.
      The usual thoughts circulated my head leading up to a fight. Who was he? Will he be tough? Will he hit hard? Where’s he from? None of that mattered, really, I only told myself not to be second best, don’t be the mug that loses, be the one who takes home the candy.
      The journey to Tim’s took about forty minutes. He stayed in a really clean, established area, but his house wasn’t up to much. Junk and pieces of scrap scattered around the garden. The gate hanging off, the aerial cables flying around the air in the wind.
      Tim’s house stuck out from the others and not in a good way. I knocked on the door, expecting the inside to be as rough round the edges as him.
      “Joe, come in, make yourself at home.”
      “Alright, Tim. What’s the crack?”
      “Am fine, lad. Have a seat, I’m just cooking some grub. Hungry?”
      “Eh aye, I could eat again. I’ll need the energy for the night, I suppose.”
      Strolling into his living room, I had to slow my steps. The expression ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’ came to mind. Outside might have looked like a mess, but inside was something out of an edition of Tatler.
      Absolutely spotless, expensive-looking black leather reclining sofa, big fifty inch-flat screen TV, an exquisite looking marble-topped bar built in the corner, with a stock of expensive malts.
  The guy definitely had style. His house looked the exact opposite of him. Strolling around with torn-up clothes, bad hair, never clean shaven, yet drives an expensive Mercedes Benz and lives in an immaculate house.
      Something didn’t quite add up here. After a couple minutes I got bored and wandered through to the kitchen. Just as nice as the living room, heavily tiled floor, spotless white cupboards with shiny black work surfaces. All the mod cons, from a mains-powered tin-opener, to the huge free-standing Aga.
      “Nice pad. No offence, but I wasn’t expecting it, judging by the outside.”
      “Aye, she’s not bad, lot o’ cash in here. Just had a good security system installed. Never know what cunt’s scoping out your house.” His spindly arms lay on his hips, proud of his smart thinking. “Making the outside look like a dump, the less chance anybody thinks the inside will be any better.” He was quite a contradiction, and thought outside the box.
      “Where’s the wife and twins? I was looking forward to meeting ‘em.”
      “Dawn took them out for the day, a kid’s party or something at the other side o’ town, then she’ll probably head for the shops to spend my wages. You just missed her.”
      “Spill the beans ’en? How can you afford all this stuff?”
      “Hard work, mate.”
      “Come on, I won’t tell.”
      “A deal here, a deal there.” I knew exactly what he meant. The local Del Boy, he hadn’t worked an honest day in his life. Having a scrap business in his name was just a front, even though he dabbled in it to cover his arse.
      His house was packed full of dodgy goods. I didn’t need him to tell me otherwise. Anything that was stolen from somewhere, ended up in his pad.
      “So, what time’s kick-off the night? When’s the weigh-in?”
      “It starts around sevenish. There’s no weigh-in at these types of shows.” I frowned, an alarm-bell going off in my head.
      “What do you mean, no weigh-in? It’s a boxin’ show, is it no’?”
      “Well, it is a boxing show, but…it's unlicensed.” As he said that, he waited for my reaction.
      “Fuckin’